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aggroindustrial · 11 days ago

Text

you shall never have to forgive me again

summary. Shauna had no intention to come back—not to her old neighborhood, not to Van’s clinic, and definitely not to you. But she finds herself haunted by old memories and people she once loved after a glitch leaves her shaken.

Maybe the city hasn't changed. Maybe she did. But maybe, there's still time for a second chance.

pairing. shauna shipman x fem!reader

word count. 7.7k

warnings. cyberpunk au, graphic violence, blood, mentions of drinking, mentions of drugs, body modifications, shauna's a merc so murder, like a thousand loona references i couldn't help it

fic note. this was so fun to write. if you're familiar with my other stuff, you know i tend to go for a gothic style of writing but ive always wanted to write a cyberpunk story and finally got to do it so i'm really happy with how it turned out. i made a glossary with all the terminology used so please check it out to read this the way it's meant to be read ^v^ hope you guys like it as much as i liked writing it. i'm definitely expanding the cyberjackets universe and no one will stop me <3

x: can you please write normal yellowjackets fanfiction?

me: no ❤️

click here to check out the glossary or just click on the underlined words as you read!!

The city never really slept. But up here—at the edge of Icarus, where buildings of chrome and glass kissed the clouds—it didn't even bother to pretend.

Everything shone so beautifully: polished, bulletproof windows of extremely overpriced restaurants, sky-trains slithering across rails in the air like snakes, artificial sunlight. Reflections everywhere, but none of them ever showed anything real.

Shauna moved through the crowd like smoke. A cap pulled low, coat zipped high enough to hide the seam where skin met steel along her collarbone. Her left arm twitched at the same time her targeting overlay pulsed across her vision. The augmentation had a mind of its own sometimes. Tonight, it was hungry.

Her target was some mid-tier corp executive. Nobody special. He was probably caught embezzling money or pissed someone off. It didn't matter. Shauna wasn't paid to ask why.

Just to make it quiet.

He walked exactly ten meters ahead, flanked by two rent-a-cops—the newest and most ridiculous scam on the market yet, according to Shauna—with obviously cheap cyberware and low-tier firmware. She could easily take them without breaking a sweat, if she had to.

Her optics flickered—one of the glitches she kept telling herself wasn't serious. White static, then a face. A flash from the past.

Shauna blinked and stopped walking for a second, causing someone to bump against her with a grunt of annoyance.

The overlay corrected itself. Just an advertisement for some product, a glossy hologram floating in the air.

She exhaled. Later. Think later.

The target dismissed his two companions and turned down a street, narrow and damp, with steam escaping from vents and pipes. The cameras in that zone had blind spots—intentional ones. You paid extra for that sort of “luxury”.

Shauna slipped into the alley behind him. Quiet, soft steps over humid concrete. Her heart should have been racing, but it wasn't. It never did anymore. She missed that kind of rush, sometimes.

The man paused by a dumpster, glancing around to check if anyone was following him. Shauna, two steps ahead, was already hiding in the shadows with practiced ease.

He tapped on a retinal scanner in the wall. Steel slid open, revealing a private entrance to a lounge.

He never made it inside.

One hand on his shoulder—her left, the augmented one—gripping so tightly that she heard the crack of a bone as she yanked him back.

He gasped, a terrified exhale.

“No screaming.” Shauna muttered near his ear as she pressed him against the wall. “It won't change anything.”

Her knife pierced the skin of his back easily. Even with an arsenal waiting back home, Shauna still preferred using her old knife. Way more practical and quieter than any smart gun.

The sound of blood gurgling from his lips reached Shauna's ears and she dug the knife deeper and twisted it slightly, until he went limp against her.

She let go of him. A muffled thud against the ground. A quiet end.

Shauna stood in silence a moment longer than necessary. Something familiar and cold settled in her chest. Not guilt, exactly. Just that old hollow sensation again. The one that never quite left.

Before the blood even had time to cool, she had already vanished into the darkness like she'd never been there at all.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The apartment greeted her like a stranger—silent and cold. Empty.

At least it was one of the nicer places in Devine. Living in Icarus was way too expensive, but at least she could afford something better than a hole in the wall in Eden, the lower city. Anything was better than the pest-ridden, shadow-choked ruins—where decay and rot bloomed under stairwells.

Shauna slid the lock shut behind her and tossed the blood-stained coat over a chair. The quiet hum of power conduits almost seemed to vibrate through the floor. Warm, clinical light illuminated the room, clashing with the bright neon glow from outside.

She set the knife on the sink and washed it in silence. Dried it with a towel she barely used. Shauna didn't spend much time in the apartment. It was too quiet for her liking—the silence allowed the thoughts she tried to ignore to come crawling back.

Her shoulder ached—phantom pain, where the crash had sheared through her bone and skin.

She remembered the smell of gasoline, burning plastic, and charred flesh everywhere. Screams of panic. The gut wrenching anxiety and fear taking over the second the cabin lost pressure.

Shauna didn't pass out like the others. She stayed awake through it all. Awake enough to remember dragging herself through the wreckage. Awake enough to remember hearing her own heartbeat slowing and to see flashes of her own memories.

She thought that was it for her. The end.

The Daedalus Paramedics arrived in time. With them, came choices��paperwork she barely remembered signing to consent for the augments, the changes in her life, pushing the people she loved away out of shame.

“It’ll make you stronger.” One of the cyberdocs said. “You're lucky to be alive.”

She felt anything but lucky. She felt like a ghost in a borrowed shell that could never belong to her.

Shauna sat down on the edge of the bed that barely creaked beneath her and she began running diagnostics on her arm. Her eyes focused on the ridges of the EMP threading running down the length of the dark steel prosthetic, gleaming unnaturally under the room's light.

It still felt unfamiliar.

It moved when she told it to, and responded to her neural impulses, like it should. But it never felt like hers. Nothing did anymore.

Shauna leaned back, her spine brushing against the cool wood of the headboard behind the bed. The diagnostics showed lines of clean, green data across her vision—integrity of joints, synapse responses, impulse lag. Everything was functioning perfectly. Of course it was. That was never the problem.

She blinked the overlay away and stared at the ceiling.

Outside, neon lights buzzed and flickered faintly through the window. Enormous billboards bleeding through the murky fog. A woman's artificial voice whispering through city-wide intercoms, reciting the nightly public announcements—price changes in premium medical care, weather alerts, a child that went missing years ago and probably won't be ever found.

Shauna shut the window off with a neural command.

She stood with a quiet sigh and crossed the apartment, fingers brushing against the edge of the countertop as she moved—an old habit from when she had terrible eyesight and needed to feel her way in the dark, before the cyberdocs replaced her organic eyes with Asclepius optics.

The steel fingers didn't register textures the same way, at least not without the haptics enabled. She kept them off most nights. The illusion of touch wasn’t comfort. Not to a ‘cog’ like her.

On the shelf above the sink sat an unopened bottle of whiskey and a photo frame turned face down, covered with dust.

She ignored the frame and picked up the whiskey, but set it back down after a second.

Instead, she opened the cabinet, took out a small orange bottle and uncapped it to grab two Double-X tabs. She placed them under her tongue. They melted quickly against her gums, leaving behind a bitter taste in her mouth. Just enough to push off sleep. Dreams weren't kind lately—hadn’t been since the crash.

The mirror caught her reflection—those cold, synthetic eyes that, no matter how much effort the cyberdocs put into replicating her organic pair, weren't the same.

The woman in it stared back at her—tired, hollowed, different. Sharp lines where softness used to be. Eyes glowing with an artificial blue glow. Her arm glinted, threading visible like veins.

Shauna clenched her jaw and decided to put her coat back on, pulling the collar high.

As if it could make her disappear, at least for a moment.

Then came a ping—soft, almost like a request. A message alert in the corner of her visual display. Encrypted, from a burner line.

Shauna considered ignoring it.

She didn't.

The message opened in a thin, sterile white font: Contract confirmed. Details incoming. High priority. Discreet.

No name. Just coordinates and a price.

Shauna stared at the message for a long moment before reaching for her knife and sliding it back into its sheath.

She closed the message. It was easier to move and get things done instead of standing still. Easier to disappear into motion than into memories. She didn't need to think. Not now, and maybe not ever.

Most of her days went like that; spend part of the day studying her targets and then head out. After she gets the job done, she comes back for her fill of Double-X, and leaves once more.

Sometimes, on rare nights when she didn't feel like she was dead on the inside, she'd go to Sahara to watch the street races. It reminded her of the old days, when she would go there with her friends.

Shauna moved through the apartment automatically, like someone folding back into armor. She clipped her belt into place, checked her knife again even though she'd already done it twice, and stuffed her cap into coat pocket. Each click and gesture smoothed the chaos in her mind. Not a routine—more of a spell to keep her brain busy.

She brought the coordinates up with a single blink.

Sector 18.6Y. A low-traffic corner in Eclipse, tucked between Devine and Eden. Not as secure as Icarus, but close enough for someone to have a little privacy. Real privacy. The kind that cost blood, sweat and favors.

Her boots squeaked against the pristine floor as she moved past the window and the lights outside caught her gaze again—flashes of acid green, violet, and static blue flickering through thick pollution. One of the billboards was half-glitched again. Someone had tagged it with red paint, shaped like wings, and the word “Purity!” scribbled messily under it. It was the third time in the month.

“Infinite Purity fuckers…” She muttered under her breath with a scoff.

She ignored the bad taste the sight left in her mouth and opened the door, stepping into the corridor and letting the door lock behind her with a soft hiss.

After taking the elevator to the building's garage, her feet took her straight to her beloved bike.

Slick black body with streaks of hot magenta. Built from scratch by her old friend Jackie. Years had passed, but it still worked as if it was brand new.

It would've been wiser to take a train to Sector 18.6Y, but Shauna didn't like slow rides. She'd never been a big fan of them.

She straddled the bike, slipped on a matching black helmet, and started the engine to leave the garage with a loud roaring sound.

Bright lights and gigantic holograms flickered all around her—ads, disinformation campaigns, news. The sight would've been beautiful, if it didn't sicken her already.

A frustrated groan left her lips when a light turned red, but she stopped anyway. She wasn't in the mood for a ticket or for spending the night at a Clean-Skin-controller checkpoint.

Her fingers drummed against the handlebars of the bike impatiently.

And then, for a second, her visual display flickered again. White noise across her vision. A fragment of someone cut through. A familiar voice, warm and real, years too late.

Shauna flinched at the sound.

She blinked hard. The glitch was gone.

It's just soul burn. Stop thinking about it. Shauna told herself, but the way her throat tightened said otherwise.

The rest of the ride to Eclipse was fast and relatively quiet. No police drones flying overhead, no random checkpoints, or Clean-Skins causing ruckus in the streets. Just the low, pleasant hum of her engine, the soft whir of electric cars, and the shimmer of neon across the visor of her helmet.

Shauna preferred it that way. Lonely, and motion without any friction to stop her.

Street lights flickered unevenly. Second-hand implant dealers lurked around street corners. Every alley breathed heat from hidden generators. People stared too long in that zone, and not exactly because they cared.

She took a sharp turn toward an unmarked street—if it could even be considered a street. The pavement gave way to exposed pipes and potholes deep enough to drown in. The reality overlays didn't reach this far. No beautifying filters. Just the rotting, harsh truth.

The GPS pinged as she neared Sector 18.6Y, a low chime in her right ear. She pulled up behind a broken vending unit covered in graffiti and cut the engine.

Fog curled over the ground like cigarette smoke. The distant sound of someone's drunk laughter echoed down the street, followed by the clatter of metal—perhaps a dumpster lid, or something else.

Shauna pulled her cap out of her pocket and slid off the bike to scan the area, her optics automatically filtering threats and tagging any passersby. It wasn’t paranoia. It was just a habit. Necessary for survival.

A narrow alley to her left. A broken neon Staff of Hermes blinking above an old clinic—“BioCare Options”. It looked like it hadn't been open in years. To her right, a body shop that had definitely seen better days.

The target was staying in the hotel right next to the body shop, according to the coordinates.

Shauna blinked a couple times to perform an enhanced scan of the area. Neon lime filled her vision, followed by a spot of vibrant red.

A message popped up in the corner of her visual display.

Apartment L12, fourth floor.

She took the back stairs instead of the elevator. It was quieter that way, and the chance of being pinged by a camera or spotted by a patrol was lower.

Mold had claimed the walls, rust everywhere, and the lights barely even worked.

Shauna climbed, slowly and quietly. When she reached the door to L12, she paused.

Her optics displayed the contract details.

Male, in his late 40s, spider tattoo under his right eye, stolen Asclepius spine implant. Recover neurochip, or neutralize. Preferably both.

Shauna's fingers curled around the hilt of her knife, ready and focused.

She knocked—once.

Nothing.

Then again, louder this time. Just a shuffling sound from the other side of the door, then silence.

“Delivery.” Her voice came out flat.

Another long pause, until the door creaked, just slightly. Shauna could see a face behind it; green eyes, patchy beard, and the tattoo under his eye.

He looked at Shauna like he already knew what was coming.

“I'm not expecting any packages.” He rasped, and tried to close the door again.

Shauna was faster. She pushed the door and forced it open with her left arm. The man stumbled back, crashing into the small TV, and Shauna stepped inside.

The room was dark, and stank of cheap beer and synthetic weed. Papers scattered all over the place, white powder lines on the coffee table, and a data pad blinking red on the bed.

The man reached behind him, trying to be discreet, but Shauna noticed.

“Don't.” She warned, jaw locked tightly.

He pointed the gun at her, anyway.

Shauna dodged the first bullet, and she heard it crackling with electricity as it flew past her. EMP rounds.

The second bullet managed to graze her steel shoulder, and tore through the leather coat.

Shauna's vision filled with static for a short second but she was on him before he could shoot again. Her knife caught the light, glinting menacingly before it found flesh.

He gasped and warm blood trickled down the blade, staining Shauna's gloved fingers.

Shauna knelt down, staring into the man's eyes as the life dimmed out of them slowly.

Then, her visual display flickered.

Suddenly, it wasn’t a dying man—it was you, bleeding out in her arms. Looking the same way you did years ago. Wearing that faded denim jacket, the one you never took off.

Her eyes widened in shock. She staggered back like the contact had burned her—because it had. Not his touch, but yours.

Your hand pressed against the knife wound in your stomach, trying to stop the bleeding, but failing to do so as more blood spurted out.

Shauna blinked several times—and found out just then that she was still able to produce tears—until the visual glitch disappeared, and the man was there again, instead of you.

Her hands trembled slightly as she stared down at the lifeless body, no longer twitching in agony. She knelt down again and found the port just below his neck.

Shauna connected the extractor, and his neurochip slid out with a small click, still warm.

Job done.

An alert popped up in her vision. Cyberware damaged. Please contact your trusted cyberdoc for a fix.

She stood in the middle of the room in silence, observing the blood pooling under her boots.

Shauna wasn't a stranger to glitches, but this one—it looked at her with almost human emotion. Bled in her arms.

It has never felt that real before.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Back in her apartment, Shauna sat on the floor beneath the dim overhead light, the bottle of whiskey she’d refused to open earlier now half gone. She hadn’t even bothered with a glass.

Next to it, an ashtray full of fresh cigarette butts, and a syringe filled with an electric blue liquid—Loop. Her fingers hovered over it, then pulled away.

A heavy sigh left her lips. She hated how close she’d come to needing it.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Shauna stood in front of the clinic's entrance awkwardly, helmet tucked under her arm.

The neon sign above the door buzzed faintly: VAN'S MODSHOP & REPAIR — Human ‘n Not. Someone had vandalized it, spray-painting over half the words in red, making it barely legible.

Her display blinked the same warning over and over: Cyberware damaged. Please contact your trusted cyberdoc.

She hadn't seen Van since before the crash.

Shauna remained rooted to the ground, a part of her wishing someone would come out and interrupt her thoughts. She could already picture the whole meeting: “Long time no see.” “You disappeared.” “You look different.”

She was about to turn around and leave, when the door opened on its own with a quiet hiss, followed by a gust of sterilized, cool air.

“Come in.” Came a voice from a speaker mounted to the wall, under a surveillance camera.

Shauna exhaled shakily and stepped inside with a small nod.

The place had changed.

It was a lot cleaner and brighter, but mismatched parts and old hardware still decorated the walls.

A wall-mounted screen flickered with old advertisements for outdated cyberware, and there was a potted plant in the corner, next to an empty desk, except for a photo frame—Van and their girlfriend, Taissa.

And then, her eyes found Van.

They were tinkering with an optical implant under a bright surgical lamp. Still wearing that worn blue soccer shirt under their lab coat, like they couldn't decide between looking like a mechanic and a medic.

Shauna stared at Van in silence, until they looked up.

“…I'll be damned.” They said, voice low but with that familiar mocking tone. “Look who finally crawled out of the void. The end of the world must be near.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

“I need a patch job and some work done.” Shauna said, keeping her voice neutral. “EMP bullets grazed my shoulder and it caused some visual glitches.”

Van’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a brief second, and their eyes scanned Shauna up and down, until their gaze landed on her left arm—the sharpness in their eyes softened.

Years ago, Shauna had vanished before any of her friends found out she had to get implants because of her injuries from the crash.

“You should've come sooner.” With a nod, Van gestured to the chair. “That kind of feedback means your left-side synapses are misfiring.”

“Didn't want to be seen.” Shauna muttered, settling into the chair. She wasn't sure if that statement was really the truth��she could've gone to any other cyberdoc, but deliberately chose to go to Van's.

“Didn't want to be seen.” They repeated, grabbing an assortment of tools. “But you came here, anyway.”

Van started the scan, blue light flashing over Shauna’s arm. The humming of old machinery and the AC filled the silence.

“Okay. I have to connect to your neurochip. It might feel like a small zap—” Shauna flinched when Van connected to her port. “Yep. Just like that. Sit still and relax.”

She didn't answer, and stared at the ceiling, instead.

“This is nice work.” Van said after a moment while still working on Shauna's arm. “Scarred really nicely. It's great that your body didn't reject it—that would've been terrible.”

“I guess.” Was all Shauna said, but she could feel the curiosity coming like waves from Van.

Silence took over again, but it didn't last very long.

“You must've seen something serious if it knocked you this hard.” They muttered, glancing up for a second, before turning back to the steel arm. “What did you see?”

Shauna hesitated, her fingers twitching in response.

“Holy shit. You saw her, didn't you?”

It seemed like Van knew her better than she remembered.

“How is she?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. “Have you seen her lately?”

“Whoa, chillax.” They laughed softly at the questions. “I have, actually. She's fine. Missed you like crazy for a long while, but she barely talks about you anymore.”

That left a weird sensation in Shauna's chest. Similar to the usual emptiness she felt in there, but deeper. Sharper. She flexed her hand once—trying to ground herself.

After the diagnostics finished and Van managed to patch the worst of the damage, Shauna stood up and tested her arm. No static or tremors.

Van handed her a small card. “This is top shelf steel, so I recommend not frying your links again, unless you're planning to swap it any time soon.”

She nodded and took the card, holding it between her fingers like it could vanish. “Thanks.” She muttered.

“For the patch, or not bringing the elephant in the room?” They raised an eyebrow.

“…Both.”

Van almost said something else—maybe a question, maybe a memory—but only flashed her a small, sad smile. “You don't have to show up bleeding to be welcome here, you know?”

She swallowed thickly and nodded wordlessly, then stepped out into the night.

Van stared at Shauna's retreating figure, watching her bike disappear through the traffic.

Immediately, they dialed a number with a neural command. “Holy shit, Tai. You're not going to believe who just left my clinic.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Shauna decided to head back to her apartment instead of taking another job. She sat on the floor of her living room, the half-empty whiskey bottle next to her.

All the lights were off. The glow from the city coming through the window was enough to illuminate the room. Soft pulses of pink and gold painted the walls.

Her coat was long forgotten on the floor, along with the rest of her gear—gloves, cap, and even her knife.

The skin where steel met flesh itched slightly—Van told her it would be a side effect after getting patched up. “Your nerves are firing up again.” They said, “Means the machinery is aware that you're still human.”

The thought was strange, but comforting.

Shauna opened her contact menu with a blink. The neural overlay appeared in front of her, floating in the dark of the room.

There it was. A name she hadn't seen in years. Still in her list.

Still untouched.

She hovered over it. Just a simple flick of her finger and she could send a message, reach out after so long. A small wave of static buzzed behind her eyes.

“Hey. I'm still alive.”

“Sorry for disappearing like that.”

“You probably hate me. I don't blame you.”

“I saw Van. They said you're doing fine.”

Every message she thought about sending sounded wrong. It would be like carving letters into cement—once it hardened, there would be no taking it back.

Her teeth caught her bottom lip and her hand twitched, before curling into a fist.

No. Not yet.

She stood and paced around the room. She couldn't stay still, her mind wouldn't let her. That was the reason why she didn't like being in her apartment—every breath sounded too loud, every second felt heavier than the last.

What would she even say if you met? What if you didn't want to see her? What if you hated her for what she had become?

She glanced down at her steel hand.

Everything was different now.

She sank back to the floor with a sigh, back against the wall, and stared at the window in front of her. Old memories began crashing down over her like waves—faces, voices, sweet moments, your laugh, that one time when you two sneaked out to go watch the drift races in Sahara, the stolen moment when she almost kissed you but chickened out at the last second.

The promise she didn't keep.

Shauna finally allowed herself to miss something—someone.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

That night, Shauna decided to sleep, at least for a couple hours.

A dream—fractured old memories, too vivid.

She saw her old self. Softer, happier, brighter. No steel in sight, just the version of herself that she still mourned sometimes.

You were there, too. Laughing so carelessly like you had no worries at all. Just two girls caught in something that felt like forever.

Then, the dream began glitching—the past and the present mixing, turning your face into static. Her reflection cracked into chrome. Her voice distorted, and laughter became tears.

Shauna jolted awake, gasping for air, heart hammering in her chest.

Sometimes, she forgot she still had one.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

A week had passed since her visit to Van's clinic. The itchy sensation in her arm was gone and things had gone back to normal—mostly.

She couldn't stop thinking about you.

Shauna hadn't planned to go near that part of Devine. Not really—or that's what she kept telling herself.

Her bike hummed as she pulled into a narrow alley behind Starlight's, an old rooftop noodle stall tucked in a corner of a building near the overpass. The place always smelled like oil, ginger, and booze, but that gave it a certain charm.

You used to come here together.

She parked and climbed the iron stairs, her boots clanking against the rusted metal. A few customers loitered by the edge of the rooftop, slurping noodles and watching the skyline. No one gave her a second glance. It helped ease her nerves a little.

The place hadn't changed much. Plastic chairs, flickering heat lamps, and decorative wind chimes made from cans and bottle caps.

Shauna picked the same corner table—the one you liked. Her helmet sat in her lap and her gloved fingers tapped against it softly.

She didn't order anything.

Instead, she watched the crowd—assessing them all first out of habit, and then searched for someone else.

No sign of you.

She was hoping to catch you there. Still, she stayed, willing to wait.

Minutes turned into almost an hour.

Her eyes were glued to the entrance, heart spiking every time someone new came up the stairs. But never you.

Finally, a server approached her table. “Hey. You alright? You've been sitting here a while.” The guy asked with a gentle, tired smile. “Are you not going to order anything?”

Shauna blinked out of her haze, as if surfacing from underwater. “I'm fine. Just waiting for someone.”

He only nodded and left, clearly unconvinced.

Shauna sighed and let her gaze fall down to the table. Someone had scratched a name into the metal—faded and barely legible. Her gloved thumb traced over it, just to feel something real under her touch. She'd activated the haptics with a sole purpose.

Your smile lingered in her mind, along with all the times you'd tease her about how bad the noodles were, even though you always finished the whole bowl and kept coming back at least twice every week.

The rooftop was still the same.

The city was still the same.

She wasn't, and that was the problem.

With a small sigh that let her defeat show, Shauna stood up and left. No last glance.

As she walked down the stairs, her hand brushed against the railing. For a second, she imagined she could still feel the warmth of your touch.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Shauna wasn't ready to head back just yet. Instead, she decided to take a walk around the street market, so the noise would keep her mind occupied.

The lights flickered with that familiar low, humming static, unique to the streets of Devine.

Her eyes glanced at a storefront she recognized immediately, even though it had been repainted. The neon sign above the glass read “Matthews' Cabinet of Curiosities” in a heliotrope glow. Warm, golden lights glowed inside.

The store belonged to Lottie's parents years ago, but she was sure it was hers now, since most of the ugly decorations were gone.

And then, she noticed you.

You stood behind the counter, chatting with a customer. A matching violet sweater, pushed up to your elbows, and your hair was slightly longer than Shauna remembered.

You smiled.

Not at her. Not for her. But it hit Shauna all the same.

She stood there frozen, while people bumped against her. No helmet, no armor to cover up with. Just herself—steel, skin, and everything in between. One foot set in the past, and the other stuck in place.

Her pulse spiked instantly.

Fuck, this was a mistake.

She should've left. She should've never gone there. But she stayed rooted to the ground. She watched you laugh at something the customer said, and then you handed him a paper bag with a small bow on top.

It wasn't how she'd pictured it. There was no dramatic score playing in the background, no Shakespearean meeting.

It was just… life. Peaceful, ongoing.

You had moved on without her.

Her heart stopped when you walked toward the window to fix something on a display, and your gaze lifted.

Did you see her? Did you recognize her?

She turned around before she could find out the answer. Her boots echoed on the wet concrete as she walked away fast—too fast that she was starting to feel dizzy.

Shauna didn't stop until she was streets away from the street market.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

She received a message from Van hours later.

“You’re not exactly invisible, steel girl. Maybe don’t stand outside a glass window like a stalker. She said you looked like a shark lurking.”

The embarrassment that hit Shauna when she read the text wasn't something she was prepared for.

Okay. So you did see her.

No big deal, right?

No. She had to play it cool. Nervousness wasn't a good look on her.

“Cool. Always wanted to be a shark.” She hit send, and immediately regretted it.

Wait—was that too cold? Too sarcastic? What if Van shows you the message? What if you think she hates you?

“She asked if you were okay. Said you looked lost.”

“Just text her, dude. It’s been years, Shauna. You nearly died. What else are you waiting for?”

She sighed and headed out to the fire escape, sitting down with her back against the wall, knees bent.

The skyline buzzed in the distance, a ripple of lights and electric smog, but she wasn't really looking at that.

Instead, she stared at the contact menu, flickering in her vision. Your name still sat there, glowing faintly. Still untouched.

The neural interface ticked in the corner of her eye, like it was mocking her.

CALL?

SEND MESSAGE?

She sighed again, jaw clenched tightly.

Her steel hand clicked softly as she flexed her fingers. She could take a bullet to the chest—a normal one, not EMP ones, clearly—and keep walking, but this? This was the kind of shit that made her bones tremble.

The cursor blinked in the message field as she bit her lip.

“Hey”

She deleted it immediately.

“Didn't expect to see you. Since when do you work at Lottie's?”

Too weird. Too much. Deleted again.

She groaned and dragged both of her hands down her face. Why was it so hard to just write a normal message? Much harder than any contract she'd ever taken.

Shauna thought about your eyes when they met hers, even if it was just for a second. You didn't look angry or disgusted, just surprised. Maybe a bit sad?

A soft gust of wind rattled the metal stairs beneath her. In the distance, a siren wailed. The city kept moving on, but she couldn't.

Her eyes drifted back to the CALL icon.

“Do it.” She whispered to herself. “You've survived worse. A text isn't going to kill you.”

But she didn't move.

What if you didn't pick up?

What if you did?

Her stomach twisted, and she rubbed her eyes. A small and bitter laugh left her lips at how pathetic she was.

Shauna stared at Van’s messages from earlier, the words stinging like a snake's bite.

Fuck it.

She clicked on the CALL icon.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

What the fuck am I doing?

Shauna's heart thudded loudly in her ears and panic took over her. She was about to hang up when your voice slipped through the static like one of those memory glitches.

“Hello?” Soft, a little unsure. But still unmistakably you.

She breathed shakily. Every line she'd practiced vanished from her mind. “…Hey.” Her voice sounded rough, like it struggled to come out of her throat.

There was a small pause. Shauna was sure that it had been a mistake, until you spoke again.

“Van said you might call.” You weren't mocking her. If anything, your voice sounded relieved. It comforted Shauna a little.

“Yeah.” She muttered, chuckling awkwardly. “Figured I'd get it over with before I chickened out.”

A small laugh came from the other end. “You almost did.” It wasn't a question. You still knew her, even after years of not talking.

Shauna let out a small breath through her nose. “Guess I'm predictable.” Her head leaned against the wall.

“Guess you're still stubborn.” You replied gently. There was no malice in your words—she could even hear the smile in your voice.

The silence that followed, surprisingly, wasn't awkward. Of course, it wasn't quite easy, either. It felt… delicate. Like a thin thread stretched between two points, barely hanging on.

Shauna stared at the skyline, but her mind was occupied with images of you.

“You look good.” She said before she could stop herself and instantly regretted it when the silence stretched again.

“So do you.” You said, and Shauna swore her heart stopped beating. “You look… strong. Just a little out of place standing right outside the window of the shop like a stray.”

“I didn't mean to—”

“I know.” You cut her off gently. “I just wasn't expecting to see you. It kinda caught me off guard. That's all.”

Shauna blinked, and nodded even though you couldn't see her. “Yeah. I didn't expect to see you, either.”

There was a small clinking sound from your end—like a mug being set down. She could picture you perfectly: behind the counter, hair a little messy, and sipping one of those herbal teas Lottie loves making.

“I almost came out to say hi.” You admitted softly, and it made Shauna's breath hitch.

“…Why didn't you?”

A pause.

“I blinked, and you were gone.”

The words felt like a slap across her face. She didn't want you to think that she stopped caring—she never did.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Shauna sighed. “But I was scared.”

It was the closest thing to a confession she’d allowed herself in years.

Suddenly, she thought about the past—all the moments you shared together, the unspoken tension that neither of you acknowledged directly, but knew it was there. All the times when you two almost crossed the line between friendship and something she never had the courage to admit out loud.

“You don't have to be.” Your voice was gentle, tender. Always so full of love. “I missed you.”

She hadn't prepared herself to hear anything like that. It felt like she'd been hit with lightning.

Shauna's throat tightened. She'd spent so, so long pretending that nothing really mattered anymore. That disappearing from everyone's lives was the noble thing to do. That she wasn't haunted by the sound of your laugh, the ghost of your smile, the shape of your silhouette hiding in every shadow.

But you missed her.

Just like that.

There was a long pause again. But this time, it felt different. A lot warmer. Like neither of you wanted to hang up just yet.

Shauna sighed, her steel hand curling around her knee. “Hey…” She started, then stopped. Her throat felt too dry for her liking.

You waited patiently. Like always.

“When you're done with your shift,” She continued, carefully, like she was walking on eggshells. “Do you wanna… go somewhere? Like a walk?”

Your lack of response almost made Shauna hang up the call. But then, you spoke again.

“Yeah.” You said, softly. “I'd really like that.”

Shauna closed her eyes. It felt like letting out a breath she'd been holding for years. “Okay.” She mumbled, and didn't stop the small smile that grew on her lips. “Cool. I'll… see you later, then.”

A quiet chuckle from the other end—it made Shauna's heart skip a beat. “Bye, Shauna.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Shauna showed up ten minutes early.

She had circled the block twice on her bike, trying to calm her nerves. It didn't really help much.

After finding a nice parking spot, she stood near the alleyway next to the shop like she wasn't really waiting. Just… hanging around. Doing her best to look cool. Definitely not working.

The familiar scent of fried oil and cinnamon buns hung in the air from one of the nearby vendors. Somewhere behind her, a drone buzzed overhead, probably patrolling the area.

And then—your voice.

“Hey.”

Shauna jumped slightly at the sound, her heart skipping a beat. Her stomach twisted nervously when you smiled—this time, for her.

“Hi.” Her voice came out softer than she expected. It even surprised herself.

You gestured down the street with a small nod. “Wanna walk, then?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Shauna cleared her throat and tucked her hands into the pockets of her jacket—she made sure to pick her best-looking one, but they all looked the same, anyway.

You both fell into step easily enough, like Shauna hadn't spent years running away from everything. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable, but Shauna's shoulders were rigid despite trying her best to seem relaxed.

“I didn't think you'd say yes.” Shauna admitted softly, glancing at you for a short second, before looking away shyly.

You gazed at her curiously. “Why not?”

“I don't know.” She replied, not even knowing the answer herself. “I thought you wouldn't want to see me and or block my number.”

A small laugh left your lips and you stared at Shauna fondly. “That's not how I remember us.”

Shauna looked down at the ground, the corner of her lips twitching into something similar to a smile. “Me neither.”

Some of the shops were already closing down, making the streets feel a little quieter. Neon signs still flickered like stars trying to burn through the heavy pollution. She tried hard not to overthink the way your arms brushed every now and then.

“I still go to the drift races sometimes.” You said with a shrug. “Not as good as they used to be, though.”

Shauna’s chest tightened. She thought about all the times she’d gone back to Sahara herself, just to stand on the edge and remember.

She decided not to mention that.

“You do?” She asked instead. “Thought you forgot about that place.”

“I remember a lot of things.”

The comment felt like a punch in the gut, but Shauna nodded slowly.

Another pause.

“I thought about you.” You said, sighing, as you kicked a pebble absentmindedly. “A lot. Even after you left. Especially then.”

She stopped walking.

It wasn't dramatic, far from it. Just a quiet halt, like she had bumped into some invisible wall. Her eyes fixed on the empty street ahead, afraid to meet your gaze. Then, barely above a whisper:

“I thought about you every day. Even if I tried to force myself not to.” The words slipped out before she could stop herself, and her breath caught—her own mouth had betrayed her, but did it even matter anymore?

You turned toward her, blinking slowly. “Then why didn't you call?”

Your voice lacked accusation or anger. Instead, it was soft, understanding. Everything that Shauna felt she didn't deserve.

Her jaw tensed. She looked at the buildings, the sky, the pavement under her feet—anywhere but your face.

“Because I'm not who I used to be anymore.”

You took a step closer. “You're still you.”

And in that moment—just for a second—Shauna let herself believe it.

But then, her eyes caught the way her steel hand glinted under the street lights.

“You know that's not true.” Her eyebrows furrowed and she shook her head, a wave of feelings crashing over her. “How can you even say that? I'm just a scrap of metal at this point.

“Don't say that.” The way you stared at her made her heart ache, with something in your gaze that hurt worse than any wound—love.

Still there. Still for her.

“You don't know what I've done all these years.” Shauna muttered, glancing away.

You didn't ask. You didn't press.

You just stepped closer, slow and careful, like you were trying not to scare her off. “I don't need to know. I still know who you are.”

A dry, humorless laugh that sounded more like a scoff left her lips. “Yeah? Who's that?”

“You're the girl who let me borrow your literature books back in school because I couldn't afford mine.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “The one who helped me climb the scaffolding at Sahara to get a better view of the races even though it was banned. You always pretended not to care, but you remembered every single song I liked and made mixtapes for me. Labeled them with dumb, sweet names.”

Shauna's eyes stung. She shook her head again, but didn't step away. “That was a long time ago. Now everything's different.”

“That doesn't mean it wasn't real.”

She didn't say anything right away. The neon light caught in her eyes—not the same deep comforting brown from before, but still beautiful. “I'm scared.” She finally admitted. “Of getting close. Of ruining things again.”

You didn't look away. “Then we go slow.”

Shauna blinked, and her breath caught when she felt your hand brushing against hers—the steel one. “You'd want to?” She looked up.

“I've wanted to for years.” For a moment, you seemed to hesitate, but you continued. “I know you did, too.”

Something in Shauna's chest softened. A part of her had prepared for rejection—or even pity—but not this. Not this type of warmth.

She looked at you then—really looked. And in the middle of the half-lit quiet street, she nodded with a shaky sigh. ��Yeah.”

Just one word. But it felt like finally stepping off the ledge and finding solid ground under her feet.

You smiled—sweet and real. “Wanna keep walking now?”

Shauna only nodded.

So you did. Together, like nothing had ever broken between you two.

Tentatively, your hand reached for hers again slowly, fingers slipping between hers. “Is this okay?” You asked softly, while your thumb brushed over the artificial ridges of her knuckles.

She nodded again. She didn't trust herself to speak without breaking down.

As the two of you kept waking, your steps fell into sync, like they always used to years ago.

The city pulsed around you—distant sirens, flickering signs, the low humming sound from generators, a world still moving.

But for once, Shauna didn't feel like she was chasing the ghost of something she'd lost.

She glanced at your joined hands—warm skin against cold metal. For the first time in years, the contrast didn't feel like a reminder of everything she'd become.

It was just simple contact. The one thing she had craved for so long.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“So…” Your fingers tugged lightly at the fabric of her jacket as the two of you stood outside of your apartment.

Shauna had offered you a ride when you told her you had to get back home. You refused at first, because you still remembered how fast her bike was.

But one look at her kicked puppy face and you gave in.

“I didn't know you lived in Red Sun.” She tried her best not to freak out at the way you caressed her jacket. “I thought you still lived with your parents.”

You shook your head. “I moved out a while ago. Decided I liked it better here.”

She stared at you in silence for a moment. Her tongue had to wet her lips because of how nervous she felt.

“It was really nice seeing you again, Shauna.” You mumbled with a tiny smile. “I mean it. I had a lot of fun tonight.”

“Yeah. I enjoyed it, too.” Shauna replied with a low, raspy voice. Her eyes dropped down to glance at your lips and her face flushed instantly. “You should, uh… get inside already. It's getting cold.”

You chuckled softly and nodded. “Yeah.” Your hands let go of her jacket and she almost let out a sad sigh. “Let's go out again sometime?”

She blinked, surprised at the request.

“Yeah. Sure.” Shauna answered before you could take back your words. “We can grab dinner tomorrow, if you want.”

The smile on your lips became wider and you nodded. “Sounds perfect. I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

She was about to turn around to leave, when you leaned in to kiss her cheek.

Shauna didn't move, breathe, or think. She couldn't. When you pulled away, she met your eyes—filled with adoration and a hint of mischief—before you disappeared behind the door of your apartment.

Her hand lifted to touch the spot where you kissed her, and she smiled.

Not one of those lame half-smirks she always wore.

No, a real grin. Wide and warm. The first one in years.

#shauna shipman #shauna shipman x reader #shauna shipman x you #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you #cyberpunk au

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mlqueen89 · 4 months ago

Text

Five | Favour

I don't know what you've been told But time is running out, no need to take it slow I'm stepping to you toe-to-toe I should be scared, honey, maybe soBut I ain't worried 'bout it right now (right now)

I Ain’t Worried About by OneRepublic

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

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

warnings/triggers: smut in overall series, gambling (let me know if i missed any!)

word count: 10,315

summary: ellie tries to be human. jake comes along for the ride. rooster is rooster. and teak is an asshole.

A/N: capping off our chapter four, that accidentally became chapter 5 cause i can't write anything short to save my liiiife.

dropped a little hinty poo in the chapter banner if you're curious who teak was modeled after. hang onto your butts, cause there's something special (it's smut) in the next chapter.

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

Ellie was staring at the data, but she wasn’t really seeing it. The test results were all there—every fluctuation, every spike, every point of measurement leading right up to Hangman damn near breaking her system before it had a chance to breathe. She should’ve been combing through it, analyzing the weak points, figuring out what needed reinforcement, programming tweaks, writing out her adjustment report for the ground crew. She even entertained the idea of calling the update Anti-Cocky SOB Pilot Protocol, hidden somewhere in the code, a small little piece of nothing when someone who didn’t know code looked at it. Although programming an entire failsafe trigger around Hangman felt a little like overkill, a carefully masked line of code might satisfy the tiny petty part of her. Hell, she’d sure as hell get something out of it when it flashed across her screen the next time Hangman tried (and failed) to break her tech.

Instead, her thoughts kept circling back to Rooster’s words, to the way he’d defended Hangman like Ellie was the unreasonable one in this situation. Like she was the one who didn’t get it. Ellie respected Rooster in many ways, but she couldn’t get on board with being on the wrong side of this.

Simply put, Hangman hadn’t followed the parameters of testing. Hangman hadn’t respected her enough to run her test the way she needed it to be run. The train of thought made her pulse tick up, the heat of anger building inside her chest as she felt the muscles in her jaw tighten.

A quiet knock on the frame of her open door pulled her out of it, shifted the boiling pot off the burner and settled the simmering water that threatened to spill over the edge. When she looked up, Mav was leaning against the doorjamb, casually unbothered, his arms crossed over his chest. Despite his nonchalant appearance, Ellie clocked the familiar knowing expression set into his features. How long he had been standing there, watching her stew in her own thoughts, she couldn’t have been sure.

“Got a minute?” he asked, but he was already stepping into her office, his gait careful and slow as he approached.

Ellie nodded, closing out one of the screens, her hand trembling slightly as her heart, still coming down from the thought of the testing and the resulting conversation with Rooster, pounded heavily in her chest, before swiveling in her chair to face him. “If this is about today’s test results, I was just about to—”

Maverick pulled up a chair across from her, dragging it closer with a skip-stutter of the legs on tiled floor. “We can go over them. But that’s not why I’m here.”

She frowned slightly, waiting. In all the years she’d known Mav—Uncle Mav—she could count on one hand the few times she’d ever seen him serious, and it reminded her that his face could impart it.

“You seemed… distracted earlier,” Mav’s approach was as careful as it had been when he’d stepped into her office, tilting his head as he studied her, testing the waters. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not sure when you got so good at this,” Ellie waved her hand as if she were gathering up the essence of his presence, searching for the right word, “—relaxed dad vibe, Mav, it’s very—”

“Oklahoma.”

Ellie bit her lip, hard. Mav’s face remained stoic.

Fucking Oklahoma.

She should’ve seen that one coming.

Ellie exhaled sharply, dropping her head back against the chair.

The Oklahoma rule had started when she was a kid—probably around nine or ten if memory served—during one of the rare times Mav had been around for more than a few days at a time. They’d been in the backyard, her brand-new white sneakers covered in dirt, arms crossed tight as she glared up at him, stubborn and fuming after getting caught trying to sneak out past bedtime. She’d made it past her dad and her uncle Wolfman sharing a beer in the kitchen and her mom talking on the phone with the long cord stretched around the corner into the living room. She’d avoided the creaking stair halfway down the porch and was approaching her swing-set, bathed in the orange twilight when he’d stepped out from the shadowed spot on the porch. Maverick.

“Dad said I could swing.” Ellie announced, sure of herself when her Uncle Mav had asked if she should be in bed, glancing down at his watch.

“You really gonna lie to me, kid?” Mav had crouched down to her level, his eyes boring into hers, serious in a way she had never seen him before at that age. Her uncle Mav was the one who let her eat cookies after she’d brushed her teeth, her uncle Mav brought her cool rocks from the places he’d visited, her uncle Mav was not serious.

“No,” she’d said, but she’d been looking down at her toes, studying the largest fleck of half-dried dark brown mud across the top of her once pristinely white shoes. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, even as the silence stretched, and she almost wondered if he’d given up on the interrogation.

“That so?”

She had stood her ground, chin lifted when she realized that he was indeed as serious as a heart attack as her mom would say, until Mav narrowed his eyes and—without warning—broke the silence. “Oklahoma.”

It had meant nothing to her at the time. A random word, plucked from the sky. So random that she had waited, waited for his next words before she spoke again. “What?”

“Oklahoma,” he had repeated evenly, confident and sure as if it were the most obvious thing a person would say in the current situation. “Means you have to tell the truth. No lying, no dodging. Just straight answers.”

She had hesitated, sensing a trap, the kind adults set for kids who misbehaved. Santa will know you’re not actually sleeping. If you don’t eat carrots, you’ll go blind. Oklahoma means you have to tell the truth—or else.

“That’s not a real rule.”

“It is now. Wanna ask your old man?”

Ellie had yelped, reaching for Mav’s hand as he stood, pulling him back with a shake of her head, her tiny ponytail whipping around her face.

And just like that, it had stuck. Over the years, it became their unspoken pact. It had become so engrained in her, that even though it had been years since she’d seen Mav, the word evoked the same feelings, an almost Pavlovian response to spill her guts.

Now, sitting across from Mav in her office, Ellie pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Come on, kid,” Mav urged. “Out with it. Rules are rules.”

Ellie resisted the urge to throw it back at him, wasn’t he the one who didn’t like rules? Instead, Ellie exhaled slowly, reaching up to massage her temples for a beat before she finally relented. Going toe-to-stubborn-toe with Mav was a losing game.

Ellie exhaled through her nose. “I’m fine.”

Maverick didn’t look convinced. “Ellie.” His voice was softer now, more measured. “I saw the way you and Hangman went at it today. And then Rooster. Whatever’s going on there—don’t let it get in the way. Your work could make a lot of difference.”

Ellie bristled, could feel the prickle of reproach travel up her spine, seeping into her words before she could filer them into a measured tone. “It’s not getting in the way.”

Maverick gave her a look. “You sure about that?”

She sat up straighter, squared her shoulders. “I can do this, Mav.”

He nodded slowly, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I believe you. But I’ve seen what happens when you let personal feelings cloud your judgment. And I’ve been on the other side of it too.” His gaze flickered, just for a second, to the framed photo over her shoulder on the shelf, the one with Mav, and her dad, Wolfman, Iceman and Slider, and... Goose.

Goose, Mav’s old RIO; Goose, Rooster’s dad.

Ellie’s throat tightened and she felt the fight leave her.

Mav didn’t wait for her to say anything, his eyes back on her now as he continued. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove something. To yourself. To everyone else. And I know what it’s like to let that get in the way of what actually matters.”

Ellie swallowed. “This isn’t about proving myself...”

Maverick met her gaze, his brow raised. He didn’t need to say it this time.

“Okay, maybe I want to, just a little,” she admitted. It felt like the information was being prised from her strong grip. She just didn’t know who she wanted to prove herself to yet, or maybe she wasn’t ready to admit it. “But that’s not why I don’t tr—” Ellie paused, sorting her words out for a moment before she started again. “He didn’t follow the testing parameters, Mav. He didn’t just push the system—he pushed me. And we don’t have time to play games with some hotshot pilot who wants to see if he can break my work before it’s even ready for that kind of stress test.”

Maverick sat up, his hands sliding across his pant legs, taking a moment to study Ellie, watching her for a beat and then two before he spoke, leaning back in the chair. “Are you okay to continue? There’s no shame in bringing this back to the drawing board.”

Ellie met his gaze, steady and unwavering. If anyone but Mav had suggested it, she’d be all over them. “I’ve spent years working to get here. I lived on bases in Germany and Turkey and South Korea, working on this. I am not letting it all fall apart because I can’t get a handle on a few pilots. It’s ready. I’m ready.”

Maverick nodded once, seemingly satisfied. Then he smirked, wry and wide, giving his head a slight shake. “You know, you remind me of someone.”

“Great. That’ll definitely get me a lot of bonus points with Admiral Simpson,” Ellie huffed a laugh. “Should I be worried?”

Mav’s shrug was easy, immediate, “probably.” His expression softened, turning into something more genuine. “Come on. Let’s go over those results. Figure out what we need to tweak to stick it to our hotshot pilots. I can chat with Hondo to make it happen if we need more resources.”

Ellie nodded; the smile that twisted her lips not easy to hide as she turned back to her screen. “I was actually thinking of programming a failsafe called ACSOBPP.”

“ACSOBPP?”

“Anti-Cocky S.O.B. Pilot Protocol.” Ellie smirked and from the corner of her eye, she could see Mav relax, the serious exterior fading away until a glimmer of Uncle Mav peeked through.

“I think Anti-Seresin Protocol might be more... succinct?”

Her responding snort had her shaking her head, and as she pulled up the data, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Mav saw through her quicker than she felt comfortable admitting.

Rooster: You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?

A picture of a glass of gin sitting on the hard top of a bar came through next.

Ellie: Maybe.

Rooster: That’s not a real answer.

Ellie: It’s the only one you’re getting.

Rooster: So that’s a yes.

Ellie huffed, tossing her phone onto the bed behind her as she turned back toward her open closet, wrapped in a towel, hair still slightly damp from the shower, chewing her thumbnail.

She’d firmly decided not to go to the Hard Deck tonight by the time she’d stepped in through the front door, her mind already drifting to the book on her nightstand she’d yet to pick up again since the flight back to San Fran. After the day she’d had, full of a dull, pulsing mix of nerves and rage, there was nothing she’d rather do at this moment than pack it in for the night, turn off her social meter and relax until she drifted into the oblivion of sleep.

She’d followed through the motions: climbing the stairs to the main living area, every step heavy; a quick wave to Yan who sang off-key to the music thumping through her earbuds as she spread peanut butter on a slice of toast in the kitchen and didn’t notice Ellie passing; trudging to her room down the hall, pausing only for a moment to straighten a crooked frame on the wall; stripping off her clothes and stepping into the shower in her ensuite and letting the water wash away the calcified stress.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing under the water but when she opened her eyes, the small room was fogged with steam, and her phone was buzzing with a text message on the window ledge near the shower. Rooster.

Now, she stood in front of her closet, mind slightly changed about going out, the book on her nightstand, forgotten again. It took her a minute to pull on a pair of jeans, a white tank top and the black leather jacket she’d had for as long as she could remember.

When she slipped out of her room, her hair mostly dried and a small bit of makeup dusting her features, Yan was no longer in the kitchen and the house was dim, save for the light over the stove.

“I know you’re not sneaking out the door in your ‘fuck me’ jacket.” Nic muttered lazily, her hair a nest as she blinked at the time on the stove display.

“No.” Ellie had responded too quickly, she knew because Nic’s eyes were on her, taking in the rest of her outfit, from ankle boot to the crown of her high ponytail.

Instinctively, Ellie tugged the black leather jacket tighter around her body, her arms folded across her chest. “It’s just a jacket, Nic.” She wanted to ignore the fact she hadn’t worn her vintage aviator jacket since, well—

Nic was shaking her head, mostly to herself, but Ellie knew which thoughts were running through her friend’s head, because she knew Nic’s as well as her own. This was the jacket that had made it through the college days of clubbing in downtown San Fran; this jacket had ended up on the floor of more than one bedroom; this jacket had been with them on their “girl’s trip” to Rome. This jacket was fun Ellie’s armour. This jacket had providence: the fuck me jacket. On the inside tag where the washing instructions had long faded away, Nic had once written an ‘F’ and an ‘M’.

“Does this, per chance, have anything to do with the fact you were sporting a serious love bite the day after my party?”

Ellie let out a dry laugh, incredulous, though she felt the heat creeping up the back of her neck. “Oh, definitely not.”

Bradley had said she needed to appear more ‘human’, and less Ned Leeds/Girl in the Chair to Spiderman; less Woman in the High Castle; more down to their level, accessible. She had to prove she wasn’t sent by SkyNet to systematically wipe them out. This was her white flag; the Christmas truce of 1914 (Ellie’s version). “I’m trying to be more... likeable?”

“Ok. Well, in that case...” Nic snorted as she grabbed the first glass from the cabinet she was reaching into and slotted it under the faucet. She filled it near to the top and drained half with noisy gulps before she continued. It was clear she didn’t believe Ellie as much as Ellie would have liked her to. “Tell Bradley it’s going to be on him if you get your spiky, impenetrable, stone heart broken by some hotshot pilot.”

This time, it was Ellie’s turn to snort. “Trust me, there’s a negative zero chance of that.”

And yet, Jake’s stupid, not not handsome face was there, in the back of her mind already fully formed, sipping on her coffee, the spark behind his green eyes alive. Quickly, the image shifted: his tall frame folded into the briefing chair this afternoon, toothpick pinched between his perfect teeth, his eyes dancing like he really got it when she spoke about her life’s work. Her stomach twisted, something all at once unpleasant and yet...not.

Then, the reminder of her tech screaming loud, red, flashing warnings as he pushed past the parameters she’d set filled her head. His voice in her ears, smooth, calm as he pushed that same work, she thought he’d admired moments before to the breaking point.

Ellie felt the prickle of irritation rising. Simultaneously, she felt the overwhelming urge to punch him waring with the impulse to reach out and touch the curve of his jaw, allow her fingers to ghost the place on his cheek where the dimples appeared when he smirked, satisfy the itch she felt to—nope. No. She tamped the stray thoughts down, swatted away the misty image of his perfect features until no trace remained. Shooed them back to the box in her mind with the flimsy tape and the warning stickers.

“Dude.” Nic’s eyebrow couldn’t possibly have arched higher on her forehead as she stared at Ellie, “be so fucking for real right now. Your eyes are glazing over.”

“What’s going on?” Yan’s bedroom door clicked shut softly as she pulled an earbud out and slid up to the kitchen island where Nic was standing.

“Oh, you know, Ell was just sneaking out the door like a hormonal teen in the ‘fuck me’, jacket.” Nic waved at Yan, offering the jar of Nutella she’d pulled out somewhere between Ellie’s eye-glazed thoughts and now. Nic reached into the drawer to her left to give Yan a clean spoon, her eyes never leaving Ellie.

“Woah—new development in the—?” Yan took the spoon and leaned on the counter, mirroring Nic’s posture, clinking her spoon with Nic’s expectantly outstretched one before she dug into the jar of hazelnut paste. Yan waggled her eyebrows at Ellie while Nic watched, casting her gaze between her two roommates, quietly gathering puzzle pieces. Ellie’s shoulders sagged.

“Wait, what thing? What new development?” Nic was already asking qualifying questions. She suddenly didn’t seem sleepy anymore.

Ellie rolled her eyes, readjusting the strap of her purse as she made a show of checking for her house key and her phone. “It’s a work thing, okay? No new developments on that thing we talked about that one time, ever.”

“Me thinks the lady doth protest too much,” Yan was doing her terrible impression of an English accent. The one that had her almost kicked out of a bar on New Year’s Eve a few years ago when she drunkenly tormented a poor man who had tried to ask her out.

“Is she seriously keeping secrets from me?” Nic turned to Yan, nodding her head in Ellie’s direction. “Are you keeping secrets from me, your oldest friend? Is it about a dick? Is it about multiple dicks?” Nic’s tone was rising, along with her excitement when she turned back to Ellie.

“I hate you both.” Ellie flipped them off (lovingly) before she turned away, but not too soon to miss the wink Nic threw her way.

“Love you, too, my emotionally messy, disconnected, babe.”

“Practice safe sex! Don’t do anything my grandma wouldn’t do!” Yan’s voice floated to her, down the stairs, as Ellie headed for the door.

Even before she stepped out fully and closed the door behind her with a little too much force, Nic and Yan burst into feverish, hushed conversation.

She imagined Nic was already texting Bradley while Yan filled her in.

Yeah, runnin’ down a dream that never would come to me, workin’ on a mystery, goin’ wherever it leads, runnin’ down a dream

By the time Ellie made it to the Hard Deck and stepped inside, it was buzzing.

The warmth of bodies, the scent of salt and beer, the sound of Tom Petty crooning over the speakers—it was all overwhelmingly familiar, in the way a tv show picked out the nostalgia of a vague moment and made it matter, expounded. Ellie knew she didn’t belong here and yet... it all pulled her in.

Ellie had spent enough of her childhood in bars like this to know the rhythm of them—the sticky floors, the low hum of conversation layered beneath bursts of laughter, the clink of bottles meeting wood. Her dad used to bring her along sometimes, settling her at a corner table with a soda, a colouring book and a cup with pieces of broken crayons while he swapped stories with old squadron buddies. She’d watch them, the way they filled a room with their presence, loud and unshakable, carrying the weight of the sky on their shoulders like it was nothing. Back then, she hadn’t realized how much of that weight had been left unspoken. Now, years later, standing in the Hard Deck, just on the fringe, she wondered if she had inherited more of it than she ever meant to.

When she pulled into the parking lot, the neon lights of the sign above the door, a neon jet flickering to resemble an evasive maneuver, the light that spilled out from the windows and door coaxed her inside. Just one drink. Just one chat. Just one hour. When she pulled it out, the phone lodged in the cup holder read back 8:47 PM. One hour.

It didn’t take long for her presence to be noticed.

“Rigsy!”

She barely had time to react before Rooster was there, his face lighting up in genuine surprise. He had a beer in one hand as he jabbed a finger into her shoulder, as if he wanted to make sure she was really there.

“You actually showed up,” his grin was easy, tinged by something Ellie could place as a look of victory. “Thought you were going to bail.”

Ellie laughed, shifting her weight onto one foot, her eyes scanning the crowd to look for other faces she might recognize. If she was going to be here, she wanted to make sure she was seen.

“Trust me, I almost did.” She left out the part where “almost did” meant that she had turned around two sets of traffic lights before she got here but had taken a wrong turn and had ended up back on the right path, somehow.

Rooster chuckled, nudging her shoulder with his. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t.” He nodded toward the bar at the center of the room before they started walking, “First round’s on me.”

Before she could answer, someone across the bar called his name, and Rooster turned toward them, already halfway through an apology. “Give me one minute, okay? Stay put.”

Ellie sighed, tugging at her jacket as she watched Rooster disappear into the crowd, before she approached the bar. She’d just reached a space in the line of chairs already occupied by some ground crew and a pilot or two when she heard it, the unmistakable drawl.

“Well, well, well.”

Ellie hated how she could feel her pulse uptick slightly, her suddenly racing heart telling her who it would be before she turned to look.

“As I live and breathe...”

Ellie turned just as Jake slipped in beside her, leaning against the bar, an insufferable half-smile playing at his lips. Yet, it churned her stomach in a way she didn’t want to give too much attention.

There was a clink of a glass on the bar and the scrape of coaster as he slid a drink toward her—whiskey, neat.

“For almost breaking your fancy tech,” he said, smirking as she frowned down into the glass of amber. “You’re welcome.”

Ellie’s laugh was dry, humourless, as she pushed the glass back toward him. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“C’mon, Rigby.” He nudged it right back in her direction. “You still sour about earlier?”

She leveled him with a look, but she could tell he was undeterred, watching her like he had her all figured out. “Not sure sour’s the right word...”

The ache in her jaw that persisted from this afternoon after she’d gone over the test flight data with Mav told her there was a stronger word to describe how she felt. She just hadn’t settled on it yet.

Jake took a slow sip rolling it over his tongue like he had all the time in the world. “Listen, I get it—you like control.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the light catch in it before leveling her with a knowing smirk. “But you can’t build a game-changer and expect us not to take it for a joyride.”

Ellie scoffed. “You mean break it?”

His grin only deepened, his eyes dancing as he took his time, tasted his whiskey and set it back down. “Test it.”

She let out a measured breath, trying not to let the annoyance coil too tightly inside her. “There were parameters, you just—” Ellie started, standing up straight now, her body turned toward him.

Despite telling herself she shouldn’t, she could feel the heat rising inside of her, almost beyond her control.

Instead, she stopped herself, taking one look at the peace offering on the bar before she grabbed it and took a swig. This was what he wanted, to get a rise out of her. If she was going to stay at the Hard Deck for longer than half a minute, she might as well have a bit of help.

“It wasn’t ready for a stress test.”

Jake’s lips twisted into something triumphant. “See, that right there—” he paused, pointing at her around the grip of the whiskey in his hand, “that’s why you need me.”

Ellie braced against the burn of the whiskey as she drained the last of the drink, her glass coming back down on the bar top. She was waving Penny over for another before she cleared her throat around the burn, “I don’t need you, Seresin.”

He chuckled, leaning against the bar now, offering a nod and smile to Penny as she slid another whiskey across to Ellie. “Sure you don’t. Keep telling yourself that if it helps you get off to sleep at night, Ace.”

Ellie shot him a sharp look, her green eyes locking onto his.

The air between them crackled—charged and unrelenting.

Somewhere across the bar, she felt Rooster’s gaze on them, like he was waiting to see who would break first.

But it wasn’t Rooster that put Ellie on edge.

The way Jake was watching her, like he saw her. Like he knew exactly what she was trying to do—what she was trying not to feel.

Ellie’s grip on her glass tightened. She would need to make some tactical adjustments, fortify her walls.

Jake tilted his head, considering her for a beat before he spoke again. “Listen, we can keep this up all night, or we can put this to bed.”

Ellie arched a brow as she studied Hangman. He lounged against the bar, his smirk just toeing the line between charming and insufferable.

“And by this you mean...?” She motioned between them, as if she dared him to put a name to it.

“A game.”

“Let me get this straight,” she said after a moment, fingers drumming lightly against the glass. “You think beating you at—” Ellie glanced around, spotting a few guys throwing darts and a group of others hanging around lazily at a pool table nearby.

“—pool.” Hangman supplied.

“You think my beating you at pool is going to settle things between us?”

Hangman grinned, like the answer was obvious.

“Seein’ as how you were practically fuming earlier about me pushing your tech. Thought I’d give you a shot at knocking me down a peg—publicly, no less. Even the score a little.” He leaned in, his voice smooth, assured. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid you can’t beat me.”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Not in my nature,” Hangman said easily, flashing that signature smug smile of his. “But hey, if you win, I’ll admit you’ve got me beat—at least in one thing.”

The laugh that escaped her lips was sharp, incredulous. Yet, she couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. “Not sure your ego is ready for me to wipe the floor with you.”

Jake let out an easy, unbothered laugh, shaking his head. “That’s a bold assumption, darlin’. I like it.”

Ellie paused for a moment, studying the way his lips curved, the dimples ghosting his cheeks. “What’s in it for you? You know, if by some miracle you manage to win?”

Jake took a deep, even breath, looking away as he took a steady sip before he turned back to her, almost too quickly, as if he’d already decided the stakes before Ellie had asked. Still, he played it off with a shrug, nonchalant. “Let’s say... you owe me a favour, just for the fun of it.”

Ellie arched a brow, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned against the edge of the bar. “A favour?” she repeated, slowly, not bothering to hide her skepticism. Somehow, she didn’t trust that owing Jake Seresin a favour was just for the fun of it. “That's frighteningly vague.”

Jake’s grin widened. Ellie imagined if Jake ever scratched out in his career as the top aviator in the Navy, he’d easily slip into the role of Salesman of the Year in perpetuity at some dusty used car lot somewhere between here and Nevada. “That’s the beauty of it. Leaves room for... creativity.”

She knew how creative he was.

Exhaling in a noisy huff, Ellie was already shaking her head. “Right. And I’m just supposed to trust that whatever favour you come up with isn’t some underhanded ploy to stroke your own ego?”

“Guess you’re just gonna have to trust me then, won’t you?” Jake clicked his tongue, before he pressed a hand over his heart, “on my word as a good Southern gentleman. Or do you think so little of me?” His face was all mocked offense; if he had pearls, Ellie was sure he’d be clutching at them for effect.

Ellie snorted. “Oh, I think exactly the right amount of you.”

For a moment in time, standing in front of him, she forgot how angry he’d made her; how hot her face was as she stormed across the tarmac, a shark sensing blood in the water. Single-minded, ready to rip into him. It was so easy with him, she’d noticed, to slip into the fun and light banter that made her lose focus.

His chuckle was low, amused. “Well, since you’re worried, I’ll make it fair. If you win, I owe you a favour.”

Ellie exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back as she turned her whiskey glass between her fingers. Rooster’s words from earlier echoed in her mind— he’s testing you just as much as he’s testing the system. You want to keep him in check? Show him you can handle him. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, brushing him off with an eye roll, but now, with Jake standing in front of her, all cocky confidence and insufferable smirk, she felt the weight of the challenge settle in her chest.

She could handle him.

Wiping that smirk off his face would be worth it. Proving she could do this, that she could go toe-to-toe with Hangman and come out on top—that was worth it. And now, with the added twist of a wager—a favor to be cashed in—there was something even more intriguing about the game. Jake played to win, but so did she.

If she was going to be here, if she was going to put up with his nonsense, she might as well get something out of it.

She let the silence stretch just long enough to make him wonder before setting her drink down decisively and pushed off the bar, already making her way to the table.

“Alright, Hangman,” she called over her shoulder. “Let’s see if you’re as good with a pool cue as you are at running your mouth.”

When he reached the table, already moving to grab a cue stick, Jake’s grin was wolfish. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

Ellie was shrugging off her leather jacket and tossing it to a nearby stool, when Rooster returned with the beer he’d promised. She watched as he carefully took in the situation, looking for context clues for only a moment before he spoke up. “What are you doing?”

“I need more—” Ellie started, rolling her shoulders, and shaking her arms in wide, exaggerated movements, as if it were obvious, “—mobility.”

Rooster rolled his eyes, “I see that. I mean, what are you doing.” Ellie followed his gaze to Jake, who was lining up the triangle with laser focus.

When she caught herself staring for a beat too long, she turned back, a shrug on her shoulders, taking the bottle. “You told me to show him I could handle him, right?” Ellie motioned toward the table again as if her plan was clear.

Rooster narrowed his eyes, taking a slow pull of his drink as if he were mulling over his words. “Right. And how does playing pool with Hangman accomplish that?”

Ellie smirked over the rim of her bottle. “It’s a start, right?”

He let out a short huff, glancing toward the table where Jake was still lining up the racked balls with the kind of focus usually reserved for landing a jet on a pitching carrier deck. When Rooster turned back to Ellie, suspicion creeping into his expression, his voice was cautious, “what are the stakes?”

Ellie swirled the beer in her hand, feigning nonchalance. “Just a little wager. Not even that big of a deal.”

Rooster’s gaze sharpened. “Ellie,” he warned, stretching her name out like he already knew he wasn’t going to like the answer. “What did you bet?”

She shook her head, waving a hand dismissively, the picture of a kind of casual confidence she wasn’t sure she had a firm grip on. “When I win, he owes me a favour.”

Rooster nodded slowly, lips pursing. He looked like a mom listening to a kid’s genius plan to build a backyard rollercoaster—nothing but duct tape and optimism. Encouraging. Skeptical. “And if he wins?”

Ellie hesitated and when Rooster’s brows shot up, comically high, she knew she’d paused just a fraction too long.

“Ellie—”

“—I owe him a favour,” she admitted, finally meeting his gaze. Though, she suspected Rooster already guessed as much by the way he was looking at her right now, unblinking and gaze set at the 100-yard mode.

Rooster blinked after a stretch, then groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You really let Hangman name the stakes?”

“Relax, Rooster,” she said, bumping his arm lightly. “It’s just a game. Don’t be such a mother hen. I’m good at this.”

He looked at her like she had just announced she was about to arm-wrestle a shark; climb Everest without oxygen; walk barefoot across a floor littered with broken glass and rusty nails. “Yeah, except you know he’s gonna milk this for all it’s worth if he wins.”

Ellie exhaled—she’d already considered the possibility, contemplated that if she underestimated him and lost, the favour she owed Jake wouldn’t be one she’d like. Still, she shrugged it off. “Good thing I don’t plan on losing.”

Rooster muttered something under his breath about people who made reckless bets with smug pilots, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he clinked his beer bottle against hers. “Then you better wipe the floor with him.”

Ellie grinned. “That’s the idea.”

Rooster stepped up to the table as Jake removed the triangle, and disappeared from her line of vision, “if you’re breaking first, you’re going to want to—”

The sound of a new song, loud and tune distinctive started overhead and both she and Rooster paused to look up.

On the day I was born, the nurses all gathered 'round, and they gazed in wide wonder, at the joy they had found—

Jake stood at the jukebox, grinning like he’d just won a jackpot. A tap on the machine—his lucky charm—then he turned, locking onto Ellie as he strolled back.

The head nurse spoke up, Said, “Leave this one alone,” She could tell right away, That I was bad to the bone

“Really?” she scoffed, stepping up to grab a cue from the rack on the wall behind him before she rolled her eyes.

“Just setting the tone,” He took the Budweiser another pilot Ellie recognized as Lt. Javy “Coyote” Machado handed him and slowly took a sip, watching her steadily.

“Yeah? And what tone is that?”

Jake grinned, leaning a little closer like he was about to let her in on a secret. “That’s for you to decide.” He twisted his wrist, producing the cue ball and holding it out to her.

Rooster snorted across the table. “Jesus, Seresin.”

Coyote crossed his arms, smirking. “I got twenty bucks that says Hangman wins this one.”

“Just twenty?” Phoenix stepped up beside Rooster as Ellie plucked the ball from Jake’s hand. “Doesn’t sound like you have much faith in Bagman. I’ll put fifty on my new best friend embarrassing him.” Jake sucked his teeth as he picked up a cue of his own. “Trace, you wound me.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Anyone else want to bet against me?” At a nearby high-top, Fanboy snorted, shaking his head, and Bob half-raised his hand.

“You all really think she can take me?”

Phoenix was already handing the bill to Coyote. Bob shifted on his stool, pulling out his wallet. “I think she’s about to embarrass you, and I, for one, am here for it.”

Jake turned back to Ellie, leaning against his cue stick. “Alright then, Rigby. Let’s give the people what they want.”

“No time like the present.”

“Ladies first,” his smirk remained firmly in place.

Ellie’s eyebrow quirked momentarily before she took a steadying breath and placed the cue ball on the table. She took her time chalking her cue as she studied, already quietly calculating angles, but her mind drifted for a moment.

Wolfman had never let her win at anything, especially not pool. Neither had Slider or her dad.

Not once.

Between the three of them, she’d managed a grand total of two victories her entire life—one when Wolfman had been three drinks deep and too cocky for his own good, another when Slider had been too distracted trash-talking Mav to notice her creeping ahead.

It used to piss her off, losing over and over, until she started playing against other people and realized—oh. They’d been making her better. Pushing her. Every loss sharpening her instincts, every taunt stoking the fire in her belly.

She planted her feet and lined up the shot. A clean stroke sent the cue ball crashing into the rack. The triangle shattered, and a striped ball dropped into the side pocket. She shifted position and sank another.

Her next shot nudged a solid away from an easy pocket.

Offense and defense go hand in hand, little Neven, Slider used to say, knocking her perfectly lined-up shots out of play. Focus too much on scoring, and you’ll hand your opponent the game.

Jake let out a low whistle. But she saw it—the way his eyes flickered across the table, already calculating. A moment later, he lined up and sank two shots before missing his third.

He straightened, offering her a slow, knowing wink. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Ellie exhaled sharply through her nose. Not getting in my head, Seresin. She met his gaze, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Hangman.”

The second she bent at the waist, lining up her shot, she felt it—the shift in him.

Jake was moving around the table in a lazy orbit, slow and sure. She could feel his eyes on her and the heat creeping up her body. He’d clearly taken it as a personal challenge to wedge himself inside of her, any way he could.

It wasn’t innocent. She knew it. Just like she knew what he was doing every time he called her Ace, when he’d sipped her coffee without asking, locking eyes like he was daring her to stop him. He was playing a game only they knew, moving to a beat only they could feel.

As he approached, the brush of his gaze passed over her back where she could feel the gap between the hem of her tank, down the lines of her legs where her jeans hugged against her curves. She felt his gaze lingering somewhere decidedly publicly inappropriate before sliding back up. It was almost clinical, in that maddening way Ellie associated with him—assessing, measuring, like he was waiting to see if she’d react, waiting to see how far he could push her.

Yet knowing what he was doing didn’t stop her from having to fight the feelings he kicked up; a growing heat coiling low in her abdomen, the fuzzy feeling that licked at the edges of her reasoning thoughts of him filling her mind like confetti snowing down from the rafters of her subconscious.

Welcome to Masterclass, meet Jake Seresin. Today, he will be teaching you how to make your knees weak and think about his mouth way too much.

She took a breath, pushing the distraction aside, sweeping away the shredded paper littering her thoughts, focusing on the shot. Just her, the cue ball, and—

“Christ, Hangman, stop hovering. It’s cheating.”

Rooster’s voice cut through her barely collected concentration, scattering her thoughts like a strong wind against a pile of raked leaves.

Ellie let out a sharp exhale, straightening just as an argument kicked off to her left.

“Cheating? You think I’m using some kinda—what—telepathic distraction?” Jake scoffed, feigning offense as he leaned against his cue stick like he was above it all. “C’mon Rooster... have a bit of faith in your girl, here.”

Rooster wasn’t buying it. “You’re trying to distract her on purpose. It’s a cheap move.”

“Oh, please,” Jake snorted, rolling his eyes. “She’s not some rookie who’s gonna crack just ‘cause I happen to exist near the table.”

“Nah. You happen to exist near her, not just the table,” Fanboy cut in, joining the fray, shaking his head animatedly. He was stepping in close to Jake now, invading his personal space, before stepping back and pointedly repeating his close step, “See, there’s a huge difference. You're hovering like a damn vulture while she’s trying to get a read on the shot.”

Jake sighed as he leaned against his cue stick, but Ellie could hear the smile behind his voice, the look of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar passing over his face. “That’s slander.”

“It’s not slander if it’s accurate,” Rooster shot back.

“There’s no rule against existing around the table.” Coyote cut in, waving his hands from where he sat, “completely unbiased opinion, here.”

“Oh sure,” Phoenix scoffed, “it’s got nothing to do with the fact you bet a clean $150 on your buddy here?”

Ellie dragged a hand down her face, shaking her head, while the peanut gallery continued their debate over whether Hangman’s presence alone constituted cheating.

“You’re all giving me a headache,” she muttered, grabbing her beer, taking a sip and advantage of the well-timed break from her thoughts before shifting her focus back to the table.

Jake, undeterred, leaned in just a fraction, voice dropping low enough for only her to hear. “You know, Rigby,” he murmured, eyes still gleaming with mischief, “if I am a distraction... you could always return the favour.”

Over his words, Ellie could hear the argument ignited anew with Fanboy shouting “See!” and Coyote reaffirming, phone gripped in his hand, that there was not a rule on proximity between players.

Ellie didn’t look at him, instead she reset her stance, her gaze refocused on the shot, but she couldn’t fight the shiver that rolled through her. His chuckle told her he’d seen.

In response, she adjusted her shot quickly, pulled back—this time purposefully ramming her elbow into his ribs with enough force to make him grunt. She felt the slight recoil of his body, the subtle flinch, and the way his breath hitched for just a second before he recovered.

A smile threatened to crack her lips, but she bit it back, following through with her shot and sinking the striped ball into the far corner pocket without hesitation.

When she stood again, he was rubbing his ribs, a quiet laugh escaping him as he straightened. “Well,” he drawled. “Didn’t know we were playing dirty.”

Ellie smirked, slow and victorious. “Guess you’re learning something new about me, then. Let’s call it a tactical adjustment.”

The game had taken longer than Ellie had anticipated. She’d missed more shots than she cared to think about, but to her surprise, Jake wasn’t faring much better.

The bets had stopped rolling in closer to the middle of the game, but occasionally, someone dared to add to the pot.

Dutifully, Coyote announced the amount had hit $532. Since, there hadn’t been much chatter, just groans and murmurs when shots were taken and cheers when the person the gathered crowd bet to win sunk balls.

Early, Ellie had pulled ahead. Jake hadn’t let her keep the lead for long though. His smart aleck remarks had died down when he settled into the competitive nature between them, his brow furrowed as he lined up shots, so he resembled more of the man in the photo on his personnel file.

Jake’s eyes tracked her. He brushed against her arm—light, deliberate. The contact crackled.

Ellie swallowed. “You’re in my way, Hangman.”

He smirked, unbothered.

Now, Ellie stared down the eight ball as she lapped the table for a second time. The music played in the background as she took a slow breath, forcing herself to block out the noise of the bar.

One shot.

That’s all it would take.

One shot and she’d have him beat.

Halfway through her second pass she stopped, settling on the angle square in front of Jake. Rolling the chalk in her palm before she tipped it over the cue, Ellie let the practiced motion bring her an iota of calm before she moved into position.

In that moment, her eyes beginning to focus on the ball and the far pocket she wanted to send it into, Ellie felt the air shift, just slightly.

The scrape of a chair in the relatively quietened bar was easy to hear. Heavy boots on the floorboards. Then—

“Careful now, Rigby. Hate to see you choke when the stakes are high.”

Ellie’s grip tightened on the cue stick. She didn’t have to look up to recognize the voice—the easy drawl carried the kind of casual arrogance that made her skin crawl, barely veiled behind a Virginian twang.

She stood just in time to see Teak shoulder his way to the front of the crowd gathered around the table. He wasn’t looking at her, not directly—his attention drifting lazily around the bar, like he had only just now taken notice of the game, like he wasn’t deliberately disrupting her focus when she just about had the game in the bag.

“Course,” he added, finally flicking his gaze to Jake, who had taken up a relaxed posture near Coyote, arms folded across his chest. “I guess Hangman here don’t mind putting on a show. Get that pot nice and fat.”

Ellie could feel the stiffness in her shoulders. Teak’s words were light, almost offhanded, as if it were a second thought, but she could hear what was really being said beneath them. The implication that Jake was letting her think she could win just to make a spectacle.

Jake, to his credit, barely reacted. He let out a small, amused hum and tilted his head toward Teak. At his side, Coyote was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

“Appreciate the concern, Hughes,” Jake said easily, his response coming quickly. “But I gotta tell you—if I was throwing the game, I’d have done a better job losing.”

A few people in the crowd chuckled. Teak’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but he let out a short breath and pushed off from the high-top table he’d been leaning against.

“Ignore him,” Rooster shifted, his eyes sliding over to Teak for only a moment. If she were a boxer Ellie imagined that he might have pulled out a small stool, a dampened rag and patted her forehead, handing her a water bottle. “He’s looking to stir shit up.”

She was trying, but she could feel Teak’s smirk, the weight of his stare, waiting for the moment she’d fold, flinch. Teak was every high school bully with something to prove, someone to put down.

Ellie nodded at Rooster before turning back toward the table. Carefully, she set her stance. Blocked Teak out. Focused.

One shot.

She aimed. The eight ball caught the light overhead, and Ellie pulled her cue back. As the stick slid forward in her hand, smooth and sure, the cue ball cracked against the eight ball aimed for the corner pocket—

—and just nudged the edge of the pocket before rolling away.

A miss, by just a breadth.

The noise that followed was immediate. A mix of groans and murmurs, a few low whistles, some hisses. Someone muttered “damn” under their breath.

Ellie straightened; her eyes locked on the corner pocket where the ball had veered just off course by a fraction. She didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

She inhaled, slow and steady, forcing the heat of her frustration down before it could rise to the surface. Losing was part of the game. She’d learned to take it in stride, to tip her head and say good game like it didn’t matter, like it didn’t sink its teeth in and linger. But no matter how many times she’d lost before, she couldn’t remember the last time it felt like this.

Still, she wouldn’t give Teak the pleasure of showing it.

Jake stepped forward, lined up his shot, and sank it without hesitation—no mistake.

A clean win.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders loose, and this time, when his gaze found hers, there was only the quiet satisfaction of a victory earned.

Ellie met his eyes, then gave him a sharp nod, a tight smile. “Good game, Seresin.”

She turned and passed her cue to Rooster, then reached for the last sip of her beer. Only then did she let her fingers tighten slightly around the bottle, let herself take a steadying breath. She didn’t need to look at Teak. Didn’t need to see whatever smug amusement he was probably wearing like a second skin. Ellie would let him think what he wanted, btu she wouldn’t give him the reaction he was hoping for.

As Ellie set the empty bottle down, Phoenix clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Hell of a game, Rigby,” she said, giving her a small shake.

Bob nodded in agreement, offering her an encouraging smile, his large-framed glasses magnifying the sincerity in his eyes. “You had him sweating there for a second.”

Fanboy, always one to keep things light, grinned. “Pretty sure half the bar was rooting for you. Next time, make him work for it a little more, yeah?”

Ellie huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head before she turned back to Jake. “Guess that means I owe you a drink.”

Jake smirked, stepping aside to let her pass. “Careful now. I might start thinking you actually like me.”

Ellie didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply, just rolled her eyes and started toward the bar, weaving through the lingering crowd. It wasn’t until she reached the counter, resting her elbows on the polished wood, that she allowed herself to breathe.

She could feel it still—Teak’s words, the weight of his presence, the way they clung like a shadow even now.

But he wouldn’t see that. Not if she could help it.

Some of the crowd had drifted toward the pool tables, others toward the booths lining the far side of the room now that the game was over. Ellie waved at the bartender, signaling for two drinks before she leaned against the bar, her elbows braced against the polished wood.

She could still feel the annoyance blistering just under the surface. Not at losing—she could handle that—but at missing. At letting Teak get under her skin with only a few words, both said and unsaid.

She felt the brush of leather on her arm as someone moved to stand beside her and before she turned her head, she knew.

“Not going to lie. Thought you’d take off after that embarrassing miss,” Teak drawled, his tone smug. “Figured you’d be licking your wounds somewhere quiet.”

Ellie didn’t move to give him more space, accepting a glass of whiskey as Penny slid two across to her. “Still here. Guess that means I'm tougher than you thought.”

Some small, smug part of her wanted to tell Teak that he wasn’t as intimidating as he thought he was. She wanted to tell him that he wasn’t the first pilot to try to make her feel like she was an outsider, a woman in a man’s world. She wanted so badly to tell him that if he was trying to push her out, he’d have to try harder. Instead, she kept quiet, took a sip of her whiskey and bit the inside of her cheeks.

Teak huffed a laugh, leaning in, his elbow sliding across the bar to nudge hers, jostling the glass in her grip slightly. “Or maybe just too stubborn to take the hint.”

Ellie turned to face him before she could stop herself, leveling him with a stare. “That supposed to mean something?”

“Only that some people don’t know when they’re outmatched.” He gave her a smirk, his eyes flicking down, lingering just a beat too long and then finding their way back to lock onto hers. “But hey, I like that in a woman.”

Ellie’s fingers tightened around her glass, but she kept her expression neutral.

If ick were a person, she was certain it would be Teak.

“Good for you,” she said flatly, shaking her head as if trying to ask if his criteria for a woman he would be interested in was supposed to mean something to her.

Teak ignored the disinterest in her voice and pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, sliding it across the bar toward her.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Here, for the drink. Consider it a consolation prize.”

Ellie barely spared it a glance before pushing it back toward him stiffly. “I don’t take handouts. Thanks.”

Teak chuckled, slow and self-satisfied, before flicking the bill right back at her, the bill fluttered momentarily, landing on her forearm. “Keep it, sweetheart. I insist. Buy yourself something pretty. Might make losing a little easier to swallow.”

She had already turned to face Teak, her whole body shifting as her skin prickled, heart beat loud in her ears, before she knew what she was doing. She had just opened her mouth to speak when a firm clap landed on Teak’s shoulder.

Jake.

Ellie stared Teak down, unblinking as Jake shook Teak slightly, his vibe decidedly buddy-buddy. She hated to admit it, but his presence alone was a relief, a splash of cold water on a hot surface.

“Don’t think you’ll have much luck with Rigby, Hughes,” Jake said, his voice easy, like the set of his shoulders didn’t suggest he was already gearing up to yank Teak away from the bar by the scruff of his leather jacket. Jake’s eyes flicked up to catch Ellie’s and it was enough to shake her out of her murderous trance. “I’ve been tryin’ all week.”

Teak let out a laugh, though it sounded forced. “That right? Guess I’ll leave it to you then.” He slid away from the bar, tossing a glance between Ellie and Jake before he added, almost as an afterthought, a swipe. “Taming of the shrew and all that. Good luck, Seresin.”

She’d already turned back to the bar, sliding the second whiskey over to the spot Teak had vacated, when Jake slipped in beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

“Surprised you know enough about Shakespeare to reference it,” she said, only a murmur, mostly under her breath and into her glass.

Jake let out a low chuckle, tossing a look over his shoulder. “I don’t think he heard that, Ace,” he said, picking up his glass. “You’d better call him back over so he can take his insult like a man.”

Ellie shot him a dry look. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

After a beat of silence, Ellie pushed the crisp hundred-dollar bill toward him. “I think that’s yours,” she said.

Jake glanced at it, then at her, one brow ticking up. A slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“You trying to pay me off, Rigby?”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “Not a chance,” she said, then tilted her head, considering. “Besides, I think it’d take more than that to make you forget I owe you a favour now.”

Jake let out a small chuckle, taking the bill and, without hesitation, stuffed it straight into the tip jar behind the bar. The bartender, catching the movement, shot him a surprised look, but Jake just lifted his drink in acknowledgment.

Ellie rolled her eyes, lifting her own glass.

“Show-off,” she muttered, struggling to keep the smirk off her lips.

Jake grinned. “Always.”

After a beat, Jake broke the silence.

“Thought you were supposed to wipe the floor with me?”

“I think both you and I know that I would have.” Ellie raised her eyebrow at him, shaking her head. “If it wasn’t for Teak. You set something up with him earlier?”

Jake only shrugged, a smirk on his lips as he set his glass down. “Still won, you know.”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head as she stepped up to the bar. “I almost had you.”

Jake’s grin widened, slow and infuriating. “A win is a win. You know what they say about almosts—horseshoes and hand grenades, Rigby.”

Ellie shook her head, but she couldn’t quite stop the amused huff that slipped out. “You would say that.”

“Damn right, I would.”

She let her eyes flick over to the pool table, where her cue stick rested against the edge before Bob gathered it up and Phoenix set the table for a new game. “You got lucky. Next time, I’m not going to let you distract me.”

Jake lifted a brow, the waves of confidence that rolled off of him almost contagious. “Darlin’, if I distracted you, that sounds like a you problem.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, turning back toward the bar. “I think I’ll need another drink if I’m going to keep listening to all this trash-talk.”

Jake laughed, low and pleased, as she raised a hand to signal Penny—

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her jacket and without thinking, fished it out.

She barely glanced down before she saw the contact’s name, glowing stark against the dark screen.

Dad.

The name on the screen was small, unassuming. But it hit her like a gut punch.

The small ease she’d allowed herself—the quiet space she’d let herself slip into, without pressure, without expectancies, the one where she was just Ellie, and this was just a bar with co-workers—collapsed in an instant.

Reality came rushing back in, sharp-edged and relentless, filling the space where her ease had been like cold water flooding from a broken dam.

The music faded. The laughter blurred. The warmth of the Hard Deck, the press of bodies, the lingering, teasing glances from Hangman—all of it dimmed beneath the weight of that name.

Ellie let the call ring out, her eyes still stuck on the screen that blinked up at her from her hand. It rang twice more before the screen went dark. Her fingers curled subtly against the bar, a small anchor, a way to keep herself here instead of wherever that call wanted to pull her.

It wasn’t the first time she’d let it go to voicemail. Wouldn’t be the last.

She exhaled slowly, blinking hard, forcing herself to shake it off. But she had the sense that Jake noticed. His silence was enough to tell her as much.

That for all his cocky, easygoing bravado, he was sharper than most gave him credit for. That he saw something shift in her, saw the tension lock into place where ease had been just moments before.

But he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

The silence between them stretched, taut but unspoken. She could still feel the phone in her hand, the phantom weight of it even after she slipped it into her pocket.

She reached for her jacket, shaking it out, slipping it on with steady hands that she wasn’t sure felt as steady as they looked.

“Calling it a night?” Jake’s voice was light, but his gaze wasn’t.

She nodded, already stepping away. “Yeah. See you around, Hangman.”

She didn’t wait for his response.

Didn’t look back.

She just stepped out into the cool night air, inhaled deep, and let the door swing shut behind her—like that could keep the past from following her outside.

a/n: i have protective jake kink. ask me how much i fucking love him sticking it to teak subtly. also, i can't wait to write out the next few chapters. so so much planned.

if you love this series, reblog, comment, like!

tags: @hookslove1592 @mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @jbennsquared @dempy

@obsessed-fan-alert @djs8891 @lunatygerqueen @khouse712 @alipap3

@yuckosworld @marvelouslyme96 @luckyladycreator2 @lovelylndskies @cardi-bre91

@whatislovevavy @qutequeersstuff @tgmreader @writergirl28 @literal-tv-menace

@queenslandlover-93 @fantasyfootballchampion @marrianena

taglist if you want to be added/removed!

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jovial-thunder · 1 year ago

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Lancer Tactics devlog

I'm gonna try out posting my ~monthly devlog roundup here as well. These suckers are glorified changelogs with anecdotes and gifs galore. Let me know if this is something you like seeing show up on your dash?

Map Editor

Got units able to be placed/deleted/moved in the mission editor

Can paint/remove command zones in the editor

Can paint minecraft-like terrain blocks in the editor

Can paint/rotate multi-tile props in the editor

Can edit unit character sheets and portrait via the editor

3D maps

Did a bunch of art tests with 3D mech models, provided by GeneralChaos, which we ended up deciding not to go with to keep things simple.

To avoid the can of worms that is animation, we'd have to lean into a static "tabletop minatures" aesthetic which we decided is not a style we want to be stuck with. By sticking with 2D sprites, we avoid falling into a sort of uncanny valley; it's easier to get away with not animating a 2D sprite than it is for a 3D model.

We also experimented with 3D terrain. We decided to make a rule that the visual style for a piece of terrain should match its mechanical effect: obstructing terrain that you can't move through, such as rocks or buildings, will be in 3D, while non-obstructing terrain like trees will stick with 2D sprites.

Hooking up the 3D camera to follow events like movement and attacks did a LOT for making it starting to feel like it's cohering into an Actual Game™

Implemented cover! And an attack preview! Cover works by aiming a ray from the target to the originator (technically to and from each voxel of each, respectively, to handle size 2s shooting above size 1 cover) and tracking all the terrain blocks it hits (how we'll handle non-terrain hard cover TBD). I think I have it working according to Perijove's cover rules manual, but I'm sure there'll be edge cases to work out. This is a case where things are significantly simplified by working in squares instead of hexes; hexes have a lot more possible weird angles you have to deal with.

Re-added what I'm stubbornly calling Combat Popcorn; little bits of text that pop out when you use abilities and attacks.

UI & game screens

Added ability for the engine to show UI that's anchored to the game world via a little word bubble line but also stay on screen as the camera moves around.

Got word bubbles working; you can now write dialogue in the mission editor, hit playtest, and see it work in a mission! (it does actually translate correctly now; this gif is just from a bug I thought was funny)

Got ability effects mostly behaving appropriately again, including muzzle flashes. The easiest way to handle them ended up being NOT billboarding them so they always face the camera (like all other 2D sprites in the game); instead, I put them on a plane parallel with the ground and just spin them around the unit to point at wherever their target is.

Did some work ironing out our tooltip system. The standard in CRPGs these days is this kind of nested labyrinth of tooltops that you see in Baldur's Gate 3:

I Did Not Want to try and figure out how to wrangle that much UI, so we're instead opting to cap the nested tooltips at the second layer. You can lock a general tooltip for e.g. an action and then mouseover various items within that tooltip to get glossary definitions...

...and then instead of having those glossary tips be lockable/mouse-overable themselves, I collect all related terms to that glossary definition and let you tab through them.

Added skin overlay functionality to the portrait maker, enabling textures like scars, tattoos, stubble, and vitiligo to be applied to just the skin and not extend off into space.

Midway through writing this update, Carpenter sent me this gif of the randomization button working! There's a still a bunch of skintones/assets missing and a few are a bit janky, but it was exciting to start seeing the range of these lil freaks (affectionate) that this editor can create.

Mourning cloak license!

This is the one I'm probably most excited about: I did a bit of a content dive and implemented a basic character sheet + all Mourning Cloak traits and equipment. They don't have fancy graphics yet, but the weapons and systems can be added via the character sheet and used in-game.

It took a little under a day, including adding soon-to-be common mechanisms like bonus damage. This is great news in that it means the engine we've been building for so long in the abstract seems to do a great job in handling comprehensive actual game content, and that it looks like we've set ourselves up for success when it comes time to buckle down on churning that out.

I'm sure other licenses will come with unique difficulties (I fear the day it comes time to do the Mule Harness // Goblin CP) but I'm feeling good about it!

Vertical slice?

Taking a step back, the pressing question on my mind has been "when will we have a playable early access build?"

I was originally hoping for Feb/March, but what we've internally been referring to as the "3D cataclysm" has pushed everything back by at least three months, so the target for the first alpha build is now in May. So, ah, thanks for your patience! Seeing things come together, I've become more and more convinced that moving to 3D was the right call.

#lancer tactics #made with godot #godot 4 #indie game dev #game dev #lancer rpg #tactics rpg #indie dev #godot engine

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talenlee · 2 months ago

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Fluttering Groves

If you travel across the nations of Cobrin’Seil, in the forests that are a bit remote, away from the highways, places that get dark and stay that way long, you might find one of the settlements known as Fluttering Groves. Stories of the groves that reach back to the cities talk of places lit by luminous glowing fungi, houses built under their caps, or treehouses with large canvases for shared art, all peopled by delicate, pale coloured, glowing moth people, known by their gentle name, the Wheref.

Sometimes these stories mention stalwart defenders or powerful crafters in these communities, who look like they are made of silk and shell, long and rangy, with customised faces they shape themselves through crafting, and maybe even share their names, the Khess. Even then, sometimes in the Fluttering Groves, they can talk of the ooze people, the _Ozu, _slimes and goos that despite their liquid appearance, have their own distinct identities and love to talk, play, and create theatre.

Of course, many modern wizards and researchers think that Fluttering Groves sound _so _fancifully twee they’re probably exaggerated stories of unique encounters of single creatures, made into a shared storybook style space by bards trying to make places sound more interesting.

The Groves’ people don’t really care what bards say about them. They’re happy going about their lives together. This article is an explanation of these three linked people, for a 4th edition D&D campaign setting. If you don’t play that system, there’s hopefully some transferable information you can use if the idea captures you.

For now? It’s three people, one childhood **as a pitch, and, honestly, trying to make something to impress my friend who’s an **_award winning writer _for her work on Caves of Qud.

Glossary Note: **_Conventionally, the term used in D&D for this mechanical package is race. This is the typical term, and in most conversations about this game system, the term you’re going to wind up using is race. For backwards compatibility and searchability, I am including this passage here. The term I use for this player option is **heritage._

The Ozu design presented here is mechanically identical to Fox’s Ozu from Square Fireballs and you should check out those feats. Her lore for the Ozu is a distinct, separate culture of weirdo outsiders that live and form unexplained. I think those Ozu make better transfers into other game worlds, but they aren’t for exploring the idea of a polyfurcated identity.

The Wheref

Shimmering gentle moth-folk who scatter magical dust.

## Wheref Heritage Traits **Average Height:** 116 – 127 cm (3’10” – 4’2”) **Average Weight:** 15 – 27 kg (35 – 60 lb.) **Ability Scores:** +2 Dexterity, +2 Strength or Charisma **Size:** Small **Speed:** 4 squares. Fly 6 squares (altitude limit 1). You cannot use this fly speed if you are carrying more than a normal load. **Vision:** Darkvision **Languages:** Common, Deep Speech. **Aberrant Existence: **Your “biology” lies outside the realm of nature. You have the aberrant origin and the beast subtype. **Momentum Flier:** Your flying is very flexible and fast, but it takes time to get up to speed. Whenever you are knocked prone, you are slowed until the end of your next turn. **Magical Secrets: **You can master and perform rituals of half your level, rounded down (minimum 1), with a key skill of Nature, as if you had the feat Ritual Caster. **Shimmering Dust:** You have the _Shimmering Dust _heritage power.

Shimmering DustWheref Heritage UtilityYou flutter your wings and send a scattering swirl of wing-dust around you, which gives you momentary health and obscures you from sight.EncounterMinor Action ✦ **Personal** **Effect:** You gain partial concealment until the end of your next turn, and you gain 5 temporary hit points. _Level 11: _10 temporary hit points. _Level 21:_ 15 temporary hit points.

The Wheref are humanoid moth-creatures, with four arms, legs, and wings, large expressive eyes, and antennae. They are capable of flight and tend to come from isolated cultural spaces, exploring the world beyond their boundaries, seeking some inscrutable want or new places to be. With a deep understanding of natural processes and ways to encourage growth and animal behaviour, the Wheref can be seen as mysterious ambassadors for exotic, ancient forests.

Play a Wheref if you want…

To play a charming, cute, flying monster-person who stands out in all cultures they enters.

To be constantly discovering new people in new places, thanks to your isolated cultural background.

To express a mystical, mysterious connection to nature that treats basic assumptions about cultures

Physical Qualities

The Wheref are humanoid moth-creatures. They are usually white, blue, or pale grey, but they have a variety of colours and patterns on their bodies and wings. Commonly, Wheref are fluffy, with much of their mass coming from expansive fluff around their forearms, feet, and neck. They have four arms, two predominant upper grasping arms, but they also have a smaller set of other arms tucked up against their body, which are usually weaker and lack strong grasping or wielding ability, but are used in sign languages, musical or artistic expression. Some Wheref train these arms and show surprising strength in combat, using pairs of arms as a single arm. Wheref bodies are surprisingly tough given their lightness and delicacy, and they have both bones and a resilient carapace that supports their body.

Wheref wings can fold up and withdraw against the body, almost disappearing against their back, based on the amount of fluid they maintain in their wings. They often take this to sleep in conventional places. Also, Wheref wings stiffen when surprised, because they have an impulse to fly off, which can sometimes make their emotions more obvious than they want, and tends towards the Wheref being regarded as unsubtle and open with their feelings. This can often be conflated with their understanding of natural magic, meaning people regard Wheref as fundamentally magical and attuned to feelings and nature.

Playing a Wheref

If you’re a Wheref, chances are strong you grew up in a grove where your needs for food were met by natural ritual magic, and needs for community were met with a varied group of people who mostly spend their time within that same grove. It’s a lifestyle some people consider idyllic, and you probably have a childhood experience that was mostly playful. Very likely, though, you found something missing from your community, whether excitement or education or a medical need, and you went out to explore the world in search of it.

You’re probably seen as naive and innocent, and are used to being treated as a bit childish by strangers, at least those who don’t react to a giant bug like they need a newspaper. This is also probably a bit silly, because you’re part of nature, and you are fully aware of the violence that nature can and does do.

Wherefs are perceived as…whimsical, charming, ethereal, unreal, naive, inherently magical.

**Example Names: **Bwiff, Flewt, Heiff, Thrum. Wheref names tend to be breathy and monosyllabic, but they don’t have to be.

The Ozu

Curious ooze folk whose biology defies explanation.

## Ozu Heritage Traits **Average Height:** 100 – 190cm (3’3” – 6’2”) **Average Weight:** 35 – 150kg (77 – 330lb.) **Ability Scores:** +2 Constitution, +2 Dexterity or Wisdom **Size:** Medium **Speed:** 5 squares **Vision:** Darkvision **Languages:** Common, Deep Speech. **Aberrant Existence:** Your “biology” lies outside the realm of nature. You have the aberrant origin and the ooze subtype. **Mutable Form: **Your physical form is, at best, a temporary confluence of matter. You suffer no penalty when squeezing, and you are considered both small and medium (whichever is most advantageous to you) at all times. **Rubbery Rebound: **You always take the minimum possible damage when falling. **Unnatural Resilience: **Your system is impenetrable to that which troubles ordinary creatures. You are immune to poisons and diseases inflicted by, or derived from, natural sources. Also, you can gain sustenance from any organic matter you can physically consume, whether or not it would normally be considered food. **Heritage Power:** You have the _damp impact_ heritage power.

Damp ImpactOzu Heritage PowerThe force of a terrible blow dissipates easily through your resilient rubbery form.**Encounter****Free Action **✦ **Personal** **Trigger: **You take damage**Effect:** Each die value included in the triggering damage is treated as result of 1. (This is true for all targets taking damage from the roll.)

Of all the sentient creatures yet known, few are as bizarre or ill-explained as the ozu. Spawned from an unknown source, their biology defies rational explanation as much as the mindless oozes they resemble. Their existence somehow both a disturbing accident and a granted wish, these solitary aberrations feel compelled to seek out company and exist, against all odds, as people.

Play an ozu if you want…

your physical form to be an ongoing negotiation.

to enjoy resilience that’s downright unnatural.

to be stared at by absolutely everyone.

Physical Qualities

Broadly speaking, an ozu is a mostly human-shaped creature that appears to be made entirely from some manner of slime. They lack any form of skeleton or internal organs, though most do have at least a suggestion of a face, and their bodies are highly mutable—able to squeeze and stretch with ease, extrude extra appendages at will, and “remodel” themselves around what might otherwise be permanent injuries. Beyond this, little is reliable; colour, texture, detail, opacity and even viscosity can all vary greatly between individuals. Some look like crude dough caricatures, some like perfect sculptures rendered in sparkling jelly, some like liquid rubber animated into the barest abstraction of a person.

Ozu do not age like natural creatures, and may have no inherent lifespan. Indeed, since they seem to lack reproductive biology, it seems that each one is a unique accident, gaining self-awareness only by circumstance. However, they do experience gradual long-term mutation of their physical form, slowly growing to resemble creatures around them, people they admire, or aesthetics they find appealing. Unlike their more temporary deformations, this happens slowly and without conscious effort, though it seems directly tied to the ozu’s desires and self-image; it can be said that an ozu’s physical form is a constant, subconscious conversation with their surroundings.

Most ozu continue to mutate for as long as they remain alive, though they often “rest” in a certain appearance for an extended amount of time. If they become truly content with their current state, they seem to find an equilibrium that prevents further mutation—at least until they change their mind.

Playing an Ozu

If you’re an Ozu, you consider yourself tough in a way that most people don’t even consider. You’re well-suited to exploring deep caverns and tight caves, and it’s very rare for you to ever consider yourself ‘stuck’ – even long periods in places you can’t easily escape are things you probably feel you can address with _enough _time exploring even the tiniest crooks and crevices.

Since you rarely feel properly trapped, and you tend to be patient, you’re probably considered very reckless in a lighthearted way. You probably have something that concerns you, but it’s more in the vein of social isolation or anxiety, rather than a material danger. It’s not uncommon for Ozu to become very attached to friends, and it may be for reasons of excitement or comfort. More than one great adventurer has considered an Ozu a rival only to realise the Ozu regularly returning to fight them was in the Ozu’s mind, a kind of friendship they enjoyed because it was exciting.

_**Ozu are perceived as… **_unnatural, resilient, incomprehensible, fearless, naive, loyal, curious, unsettling, easily distracted, friendly.

**Names: **Apple, Bolp, Dwill, Ump. P, D, and B are very common sounds for the Ozu to use in names, and K and S are less common.

The Khess

Sinuous, ghostly folk with chitinous, clawed bodies.

## Khess Heritage Traits **Average Height:** 187 – 223cm (6’2” – 7’4”) **Average Weight:** 108 – 136kg (240 – 300 lb.) **Ability Scores:** +2 Strength, +2 Constitution or Intelligence **Size:** Medium **Speed:** 7 squares **Vision:** Darkvision **Languages:** Common, Deep Speech. **Living Dead: **You are both living and undead. If a power has different effects on living creatures and undead creatures, you choose which effect applies to you. **Flexible Form: **The core of your body moves around, making it easy to protect it in motion. You get a +2 bonus to defenses against attacks of opportunity. **Restitched Shell: **You have one fewer healing surge than normal. You recover a healing surge after every short rest. **Necrotic Resistance: **You have necrotic resistance equal to 5 + one-half your level. **Unthread:** You have the _Unthread _heritage power.

UnthreadKhess Heritage UtilityYou are a composition of shells, soul, and silk tangling together to hold its form. You can spill yourself out and temporarily restructure your body into a convenient form that’s hard to attack and can move like a ghost.Encounter, PolymorphMinor Action ✦ **Personal****Effect:** You assume the form of ghostly ribbon until the start of your next turn. While in this form, you are insubstantial, can enter enemies’ squares without provoking opportunity attacks, and can squeeze through any opening large enough to permit a single thread.

The Khess appear to be humanoids made of connected pieces of something like bark or insect carapace, held together at the joints with threads and soft tissues. Usually dull grey, with glowing orange eyes and sometimes considered expressionless, the Khess consider themselves the vigilant guardians of the Fluttering Groves.

Play a Khess if you want…

To be large and menacing but very mobile.

To play with themes of being a haunting ghost.

To reconstruct yourself in response to new needs.

Physical Qualities

A term non-Khess often use to describe the Khess is marionette. Khess are composed of chitinous panels and shapes, held together with a soft silken form at all joints and edges, arranged in a (usually) humanoid shape, with two arms, two legs, and a head. Of course, this arrangement is non-permanent, and a Khess who concentrates or needs to can restructure their body to reach higher, or carry things more conveniently, or be more comfortable to fit in a particular space.

Most Khess are a dull grey or green, but colours like brown and purple are not uncommon. The silk that makes them up tends towards being grey or white, but it can also be a shiny, glistening black, or even sparkly eggshell colours. The Khess face usually has two eyes and a mouth, but that’s not fixed or given, and they may even restructure themselves so a different piece of their body becomes a face with a different structure depending on their mood or if they are recovering from damage.

A Khess is very much like a ghost that holds a body to it; it is not uncommon that Khess can reach out and touch things without using their hands or limbs, and the limb then trails behind that contact. A sight that unnerves many is when a Khess pulls something off a bench and then the hand comes up to grab the object held in mid-air.

Playing a Khess

If you are a Khess, you know that the world is a dangerous place, and that you are uniquely positioned to keep people safe within that. Khess are commonly seen as monsters guarding pagan or ancient sites, sometimes mistaken for tree spirits or some other mysterious things. You can solve problems, but the solution may be unnerving or difficult to engage with.

You _know _you can be fearsome; aside from Wheref and Ozu, most people find Khess threatening and don’t understand the ways the Khess can express care and kindness. That means that you may spend much of your time trying to talk to people and ensure they understand what it is you understand. This can be challenging with all the screaming people can do when you show what you are.

Khess are perceived as… monstrous, terrifying, ethereal, flexible, unrelatable.

**Example Names: **Khauv, Thaugh, Vhaun, Whausz. Khess names rarely repeat a consonant sound, and they do not commonly use F or R, and commonly extend sibilants when speaking Common.

The Trifurcate Identity

All heritages across Cobrin’Seil have traits that make them meaningfully and materially different from one another. Even the Orcs and Humans, cousins of blood, represent a range of different physical presentations and abilities. Elves have their intense tangle with natural magic, Eladrin their immaterial bodies and relationship to the Feywild, and so on. A heritage is not people of a physical location, but people who have been subjected to a large, culture-wide, uniquely isolating experience. It can be things like a demonic manipulation like the Tieflings, or elemental transformation like Kyranou’s Genasi, or the culture-wide downsizing of the Halflings. It can also be people of a materially different biology, like the Gnolls, Tjosen, and Dragonborn, who cannot nonmagically reproduce with others outside of their group.

The point is, that there is a _reason _a heritage is a heritage, and heritages can have wildly, materially different experiences of reality to others. For these three heritages, the Wheref, the Khess, and the Ozu, the experience they all share is that they are all, strictly speaking, the same people. Specifically, every Ozu, every Khess, and every Wheref is one of a set of each, and each of those were, at some point, the same person.

The lifespan of these creatures starts as a small black-and-yellow grub about the size of a goblin, though much heavier. These grubs are aware and have a language, but their ability to form and maintain memories is a little challenging. They can be seen in all communities of the Wheref, Khess and Ozu, and mostly do nothing but play with one another, eat, and sleep. At some point in the grub’s life, the grb finds a safe place to shelter, pulls detritus around it, then forms a hard shell around it out of fluids. In this shell, the grub breaks down into liquid, and reforms. After months of waiting, the chrysalis breaks apart, and a Wheref emerges, covered in fluid. That fluid coagulates and dries off the Wheref, forming into an Ozu, and the chrysalis itself forms and structures itself into a body, which is the Khess.

The three are all individuals, and they all share the memories of being the grub. Not only do they share memories of being that grub, and have individual reflections on those experiences. Most remarkable is that they can recognise other members of these heritages who were also grubs, meaning that childhood friends transform into small groupings.

Another detail is that it’s very rare (though not impossible) for any given grub to turn into a Wheref-Ozu-Khess grouping that share a single gender. Reproduction involves at least one of each heritage, from different grubs, but also, these reproduction processes fit multiple configurations. Sometimes the Khess bears eggs and carries them inside their body, sometimes the Wheref lays eggs on a high place leaf, and sometimes the Ozu forms a thick paste that forms into eggs over time. The majority of Ozu, Khess and Wheref do not reproduce at all, meaning that in any given community, the community is largely made up of cousins across multiple clutches of dozens of eggs at a time, and there seems to be a preference to find members of other enclaves to reproduce with.

This trifurcate experience creates strange experiences. After all, every Khess, Ozu, or Wheref shares not a childhood growing up with one another but growing up _as the same person _as them.

Conclusion

Art of these creatures would be great, but I can’t easily provide what I want in the time frame I have. If you want visuals for what these people are like, google ‘cute moth person,’ ‘cute slime person’ and ‘sexy creaking minecraft.’

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Cobrin'Seil #DnD 4e #dungeons and dragons #games

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peeterparkr · 1 year ago

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thus, with a kiss, i die| tom holland

PROLOGUE: the rivalry.

romeo & juliet modern au.

summary: the well known story of star-crossed lovers. Your local bar has two spots for bands, but only one spot for an opportunity to get a record deal. Your band, the Capulets and his band, the Montagues have been rivals long enough. But what happens after a night when you get to know their lead singer?

chapter summary: who are the great rivals at the Verona bar?

pairing: singer!tom holland x guitarrist!reder

warnings: swearing, alcohol mention

word count: 3k

this is literally romeo and juliet, it's one of my favorite stories, if you've read my other works you KNOW I love to quote it, and reference and eveyrhting. Anyway, this is my take on it. Modern world, hope you like it. I haven't written anything in ages so here goes.

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This is an unequivocally known story, a tale as old as time, of those of two star crossed lovers, who most likely lost their mind. Star-crossed lovers, they call them as if the stars were undeniably conspiring against them. Are the stars really against secret, illicit-feeling escapades of a young, naive love, so powerful and strong that it ends up in death?

Or were they too busy to help them out when everything went insane?

Shakespeare said it himself, didn’t he? ‘Violent delights have violent ends’. Perhaps the name and the reference itself doomed upon a foretold tragedy. Yet, here we are.

And it all comes back to a simple rivalry, and thus shall start like it always does. In a small bar named ‘Verona’, always playing live music, near a college. Nothing too unusual, nothing so fancy. With a small stage. Smoking blue and purple. With a wall full of old bottles, just to adorn. A small stage with a few vintage lights hanging from the ceiling, a worn out rug, and a neon light sign which read: ‘Don’t waste your love’.

Where people gathered to have a beer, or two in those small wooden tables, or perhaps in the green couch, nibbling on a few snacks while they listen to one of the two bands Verona offered.

Some liked the Capulets, an all female band. Some liked the Montagues, perhaps for the handsome lead singer. Some liked both. Some liked neither.

But Verona was the rivalry. The rivalry between the two bands was what made Verona an interesting place, or that’s what some people liked to pry upon, the well known story about two former friends, Monty and Billie ‘Cap’ who once fought almost to death and decided to each go their separate ways and declare themselves sworn enemies.

Things hadn’t been quite the same since. Each formed their own band in an act of revelry and had tried to crush the other. The Capulets were known for their soul-crushing lyrics, meanwhile the Montagues were known for their remarkably outstanding sounds. As said before, their lead singer was quite someone that moved crowds. Pleasing to the eye.

The Capulets had recently lost their main guitarist and a rumor of who would join had circulated. Monty was anxious to learn all about the new member. A war shall begin.

In all honesty, nobody really cared about them, but both were on the edge waiting for each other's next movement.

And in the end, they were young and naive with big wishes and hopes, with the same stupid dream that one day someone would walk in the night their gig was on and offer them the entire world.

It was funny, how they believed so much in Verona, just a small bar, that happened to have a few legends come from. A few people said great names like Billy Joel had once played there. Drunk folks are very unreliable narrators. But not quite the most unreliable.

Which brings us to two members of the Capulets, Georgia and Sam. The drummer and pianist, respectively. The first, a short haired, with a diverse set of earrings, a top tank and loose pants. A cigarette hung from the corner of her lips. The two of them were having a drink, knowing they would have to listen to the Montagues later, they needed some alcohol in their body to make sure they could stand the occasion.

Some of Montague’s crew had already arrived and were tuning in. They watched, amused. It was a fair Friday afternoon, and people were gathering already to have a beer and some chips.

“You know, we got the Saturday gig? ” Samantha said as she plaid with a half-full cold beer glass. Her style was more 70’s, big hair, big pants and striped shirt. “If we keep going like this we’re going to crush them.”

“I think we should actually crush them,” said Georgia, puffing her cigarette. “Get a whole ass piano and just dump it on them, cartoon style, y’know? Especially Tom. Gosh, I’d like to just get rid of his stupid British face. I might dislike him more than Monty.”

Sam shrugged. “That was a great move, you’ve got to admit that.”

“Aye, great move? Getting a pretty face just to get more audience, please,” Georgia rolled her eyes. “This should be about talent!”

Although she knew that half the girls there were just there to see Tom. Georgia only judged them slightly. Tom was most definitely the newest sweetheart. Curls, chocolate kind eyes, and Georgia supposed he was fit. Besides, a hopeless romantic, or so the girls would say only because he had an accent. Perhaps they all believed he was the next Hugh Grant.

“Perhaps Cap should bring in someone as beautiful, y’know? As bait.”

Georgia rolled her eyes once again. Although it didn’t sound as stupid. And perhaps that’s why Cap had decided to bring in someone as beautiful. Although the new member, Georgia knew, was naive and had a lot to learn, she could perhaps appeal more. And besides their looks, their talent to write, Georgia knew it was most likely to appeal to Paris, the young handsome bartender, the bar’s owner's protege, who could pitch in to have them more often.

But they were losing right now and they both knew it. How they’d manage to convince Princess Skylar to get them the next day was beyond them. Skylar was the bar owner, or at least she presented herself as so. Even though she was just a manager she basically owned the place. She gave out the slots as long as people were buying drinks. And lately the Montagues were bringing in more money.

Montgomery, ‘Monty’ had brought in Tom to be his new lead singer, and they’d been booking the Saturday gigs more often since. Perhaps bringing in a wider female demographic to Verona, buying pretty cocktails. Although, Georgia thought it could be now constructive for them since the male demographic had decreased and they tend to be the ones to drink more beer. Besides, one thing they could rely on was Tom having a girlfriend, so at least the girls would eventually have to give up and go back to the heart wrenching lyrics.

“Is it me or do they sound worse each day?” Wondered Sam as she heard a hard tune. Bea, her enemy, the Montague’s pianist was a fan of only key smashing. “Whenever I listen to them I just need to run to the bathroom and puke.”

“No, I think you should just puke on them,” Georgia said. “I’d be your number one fan.”

Abby, the Montague’s drummer, and Georgia’s number one enemy had overheard. Georgia said her technique lacked enthusiasm. While Abby said Georgia lacked any technique.

Both were wrong.

“Whatcha say?” Abby questioned. “Did y’all come here to learn?”

“Learn?” Sam stood up with her beer. “Learn how not to play, am I right Georgia?”

Sam wasn’t good with comebacks. Georgia pulled her back down.

Abby chuckled. “If you play like that then I won’t worry anymore.”

“Ah,” grinned Georgia raising her own drink, vodka soda. “So you are worried. Gotcha.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe you’re invited here.”

Ben, another member of the Montagues and the reason they had a new lead singer was nearby plugging in his instrument. Not as handsome as the others, people would say, but he was peaceful. “Let them be, Abby. They can be here.”

He often tried to ignore them, he was there for the music and the music only. He thanked Monty for giving him the chance to be there and disregarded the stupid rivalry. He was the bassist, and had become quite popular now that he was acquainted with Tom.

He didn’t like any trouble… unlike Theodora, another member of the Capulets who was with them at the bar but had been quiet enough. It was hilarious how they often were angered by the other’s presence and yet neither tried any other place to hang out.

Theodora searched for the trouble. Perhaps Theodora was the one to hate the most of the Montagues. All of them and especially their newest member. She was the scariest of the Capulets, impulsive and with probably some anger issues. She despised them, and wasn’t afraid to show it.

“Eh, for sure we can be here. It’s a bloody bar. But you could try and kick us out. Don’t be such a pussy, Ben Dover,” Theodora’s first statement was one to make heads turn.

Ben turned to look at her from his bass. “I’d rather not get tired, unlike you I care more about my music.”

“Why does it sound like a bunch of people farting then?” Asked Sam. Again, she wasn’t good at this.

But before he could even respond, Bea, the pianist had already begun the… fight, if you could call it one. Apparently the fart statement had been the one to bother her, funnily enough.

She’d stormed over, yelling and screaming nonsense. Raising her hands and giving them fingers.

Very classy.

Georgia and Sam had stood up to walk over to the stage. Bea had continued a rampage of all the cuss words she could think of and calling them out on their lack of talent and accusing them of coming here only to plagiarize their songs, to which Theodora kindly answered they couldn’t plagiarize a ‘pile of pure shit’ unless they went to the bathroom. Sam had continued with the fart insults.

Ben only stood there watching them and trying and failing to calm them down.

Soon, the other poor customers at the bar were involved in the fight, trying to incentivize the company. Some others were drunk enough to fight with them and others just enjoyed the show.

Billie, ‘Cap’, who had acquired the nickname from quite a young age, by making everyone call her ‘O’ cap’n my cap’n’ after making The Dead Poets Society her entire personality, had walked in along with her girlfriend, Clara. Cap was usually chill. A great leader, a great singer and a great friend. Unless, of course, you betray her. She’d been betrayed by Monty, whom she’d now nicknamed Slap-Dick.

“Christ.” Cap muttered as soon as she saw the scene. Part of her band only raised glasses, fingers and lame insults and she was sure she’d just seen a beer can fly by. “Angel,” she turned sweetly to Clara. “Will you please hold this?” As she handed over her purse.

“What for?” Clara questioned.

“Yes, I might need to throw some hands— oh, how interesting, see who just walked in, the scum himself, Slap-Dick,” she greeted.

Monty, one hand on his girlfriend’s, Maddie, waist, and one hand holding his guitar walked in. Cap scrunched her nose with disgust.

“The fuck are you doin’ here Cap’n Crunch,” Monty snapped. “It’s our gig tonight, please get your vulgar and uncivilized twats out.”

“I’m pretty sure your darling band if we can dare to call it that, was the one to start this,” Cap crossed her arms. Cap knew her own crew was not good at insulting. Although as she eyed Theodora she thought she may have been wrong in her initial statement. Still, she continued. “Your zoo is making all of this noise.”

“Oh! Fuckin—.” Monty laughed but thankfully was interrupted before he could say anything that would make the show even better.

“Stop!” Skylar had yelled, breaking a bottle against the wall as all the lights were turned off and the faint ambiance music stopped playing. She liked drama. “For fuck’s sake, stop!”

Everyone felt the air cold, paused in the middle of the argument. The lights were turned back on, completely, leaving nothing to the imagination. It was chaos, as if a hurricane had hit the entire bar. Theodora was holding Ben by his shirt, Bea was standing on a chair, Sam and Abby just stood in front of each other. The other drunken clients just stood there awkwardly. Standing ever so slightly less elegant.

“I’m so fucking done with this,” Skylar said. “Stop you assholes, this is the third time this month.” She made her way through the tables and snapped her fingers down twice at Bea, motioning for her to get down. “I don’t care about your stupid feud,” she continued as she snatched Theo’s hand off Ben. “ It's so stupid, you’re both terrible bands,” she said as she walked in between Sam and Abby, separating them as both fueled with rage. “If this doesn’t stop,” she said, taking Georgia’s drink now and taking a sip for her. “And I’m talking to you both now,” she turned to watch Cap and Monty. “I’m going to cut you off, deadass. Not one more gig for either. Do you understand?”

Both tried to complain.

“I said, do you understand?” Skylar was firm.

“Yes, princess,” Monty hissed the nickname. Montgomery Williams was exactly the guy you’d think of when you thought of a guy who formed a band and played the lead guitar. His dark hair fell to his eyebrows and his cheeks were sucked in enough for him to be considered handsome. He was often seen with a pair of dark jeans and a new band t-shirt. A cigarette was his trademark accessory. Bulked enough but, not really. And he was often accompanied by his newest pursuit, this time, Maddie, a girl whose clothes were probably bought too tight on purpose.

“Now, Capulets, please give me the pleasure of your kicking you out,” Skylar said

Montgomery smirked.

“No, no, Monty, don’t get your hopes up. They don’t play until tomorrow, so from now on whenever the other band is playing the rivals cannot step in here, otherwise I’ll fuck you up,” Skylar threatened.

“I wanted a beer,” Cap complained earning a deathly glare from Skylar. “Fine, princess!” She took a deep breath. “Caps, let’s go get wasted at my place!” She ordered and her mates followed after.

Skylar had her arms crossed at the entrance as they walked out and the members of the Montagues clapped. She rolled her eyes.

“‘Lright everyone, if anyone causes another disturbance I’ll—“

“Fuck us up,” Monty finished. He clapped his hands and pushed Skylar from her shoulders back to the bar. “Absolutely, no worries, Sky, we’re very civilized and we will give you the best show tonight. We’re classy!”

“Don’t touch me again,” was the last threat she gave before heading back to her office.

Monty gave her a fake smile and then turned to Ben. “The fuck happened?”

Ben made his way back to the stage as he was followed by the rest of the band. “Honestly, Georgia and Sam were just here chilling. Abby overheard them and wanted to snap at them, I tried to calm them down but Theodora, you know Theodora.”

“Insane bitch, yeah.”

“Theodora just snapped and then it’s a blur,” Ben explained.

“Fuckin’—“ Monty pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mkay, well. We can’t let them, you know, get on our nerves, that what they want, they want to get rid of us, no matter what, they don’t even care if they go down with us,” Monty said. “So, uh—yeah, especially now that Tom joined us they’re desperate.”

His band mates only nodded with agreement.

“And— where the hell is he?” Monty frowned, noticing just now that his lead singer was nowhere to be seen. “We play soon, that idiot,” he rubbed his face with stress. Although he loved to pride himself on being better than Cap, he was often found with insecurities because deep down he believed he wasn’t.

Monty was especially scared now that he knew Cap was going to present her secret weapon the very next day. Why they were given a Friday instead of a Saturday was scary for him. Who had they brought in?

Perhaps, the Tom furor was finally gone after a few weeks, considering that although more women were parading in Verona, they would soon be gone as soon as they found out Tom was not available and not willing to flirt with them. Even when Monty had encouraged it, the guy would just politely decline it.

And now, they had the Saturday gig. The most important gig, and although Friday was next in line, he knew that important people showed up on Saturdays. Not Fridays.

Though he didn’t blame it entirely on Tom’s reluctance to flirt. He knew Cap had pulled her cards right. And he knew it had something to do with Skylar. Had anyone slept with her? Or had they given her money? Had their songs penetrated Skylar’s walls?

Either way. They had to have their lead singer show up. He couldn’t hide his anxiety as he approached the microphones, tapping slightly on them to try them.

Ben coughed, watching him.

“Ben?” Monty’s eyes widened. “Where is he?”

“Look, I haven’t heard of him since the morning,” Ben explained.

Monty furrowed his eyebrows.

“He did text me he would be here, but.”

“But what?”

“Him and Rosie broke up so he might not be feeling well, he told me he was devastated. He told me he was getting a drink before.”

Monty heard the news. His lead singer had broken up and was devastated on a Friday night gig. Where they had to sing silly love songs and hard beats. Songs that would be ruined if not sung with the right emotion. Songs that could potentially be ruined if sung drunkenly.

But…

“Are you telling me that…” Monty approached the mic, tapping it to make sure everyone heard him. “Did I hear that right Ben?”

“Monty.” Ben shut his eyes closed.

“Did you just tell me our handsome, British, sweetheart, muscly lead singer is single now?” He questioned with a smirk knowing he’d gotten the attention.

“Monty.”

“Did you just tell me that?” Monty pushed. “Is Tom single?”

Ben shook his head annoyed. “Yes, Monty.”

Monty smirked as he turned to the crowd. “Ladies… and no, actually, just the ladies, you just heard it! Our lead singer is recently single so I will need all of you to give him a warm welcome when he’s here, he’s going to need a lot of love. Will you guys help me with it?”

And for now, he knew, he was back again at the race.

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#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #peter parker #peter parker x reader #tom holland au #romeo tom holland #romeo and juliet au #spiderman x reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland imagine #tom holland yes #twakid

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