#(or something to that affect this was a while back)

[rawme-price]

do you do cat reader...

Yknow that thing cats do where they rub their face then whole body along something??? Yeah well that but with cat!reader

For a normal cat hybrid its a cute quirk, a way to show deep affections for someone. For you, a strong as fuck war hardened soldier? Its a death penalty lol.

Seriously, you put ur whole weight into it at the most innoprotune times. Soap is mid bite? Ur pressing ur face into his neck so hard he falls off his chair. Gaz is walking down the halls with a bag of chips? Nope, hes pressed against the wall while u happily purr, chips crushed in the bag. Price is in a video call with laswell? Ur nuzzling against his back and shoving him off screen, much to laswells amusement.

Ghost is the only one who can really survive the strength of ur nuzzling, and that's bc hes a big cat!hybrid. He grumples and purrs at u when you press against him, only shifting slightly to adjust his balance. Bc he doesnt really complain abt the rough treatment u tend to nuzzle him the most, which soon evolves into taking cat naps together. But if you *both* get the urge to nuzzle one of the others? Dead. Two wholeass cat hybrids are an unstoppable force that will stop at nothing to get cuddles, no matter whete their victim is lol.

[leriexoxo]

Built For Ruin

Roommate! Leeknow x Reader

Tags: slow burn, thigh kink, filthy smut, roommates to lovers, thigh riding, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, dom minho, work out teasing, overstimulation, accidental voyeurism

Word count: 4.8k

Summary: Living with Lee Know was fine… until his thighs became a problem. Now he’s working out shirtless in the living room, stealing your shampoo, and daring you with every smirk. You try to ignore it—until you walk in on him wet, naked, and waiting. And when he tells you to ride his thigh? Yeah. You don’t say no.

A/N: This fic was requested by @ihrtlix ❤️ Enjoy!

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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Living with Lee Know was supposed to be chill. Strict chore schedule, shared Spotify rotation, and an unspoken rule: no feelings, no flirting, and definitely no walking around in nothing but boxers and that godforsaken muscle tee that showed everything.

And yet, there you were — biting into a peach on a lazy Tuesday morning, trying not to stare as he squatted to grab his protein powder from the bottom cabinet. Every flex of his thighs tested your willpower.

You told yourself not to look. You always told yourself. But Minho’s body betrayed every attempt at restraint. Lean everywhere except where it mattered. His arms were carved and precise, his waist trim, but his thighs? Thick like sin. Each step he took, every crouch, every stretch of fabric over hardened muscle taunted your self-control.

And he wasn’t oblivious.

He caught you sometimes — the beat of silence before you answered a question, the way your eyes dropped before darting away, the breath you held when he stretched too close on the couch. You’d swear he smirked once. Maybe twice. But he never said a word.

There were only the silences. Lingering, heavy, and charged. Accidental brushes of skin. The way his leg sometimes pressed against yours during movie nights. Close. Too close.

Still, you told yourself you were safe. That it didn’t mean anything.

Until the moment that shattered everything.

You’d come home late, annoyed, exhausted, half-ready to collapse. The apartment was quiet — lights low, faint music bleeding from behind the bathroom door. You heard the water shut off. Then a towel. A rustle.

The bathroom door cracked open before you could escape.

And there he was.

Wet. Bare. Steam curling around him like smoke. His hair stuck to his forehead, water dripping down the sharp lines of his collarbones. A white towel sat slung low on his hips, teasing just above the dangerous. His chest glistened under the hallway light, and his thighs—Jesus, those thighs—were pure destruction. Wide. Solid. Veined. They flexed with every slow, lazy step as he towel-dried his hair, and then… he looked up.

Right at you.

“Hey,” he said, like he didn’t look like every bad decision you’d ever fantasized about. Like his towel wasn’t a single twitch away from wrecking your entire nervous system.

“You good?”

You nodded. Lie. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

His eyes held yours a beat too long. Something shifted in his expression. Calculated. Curious. Knowing.

Then he tilted his head — just slightly — and let the towel dip a little lower on his hips.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

Your throat tightened. Your pulse throbbed in your ears. You tried to look away, but it was too late.

His gaze dipped down, tracking over your legs, the death grip of your hands at your sides, the way your breath had gone shallow. He looked back up — and smirked.

“Been doing a lot of leg day lately,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “Figured it was time someone noticed.”

You couldn’t move. The hallway felt too small. Too hot. And he stood too close.

That’s when it hit you. He’d known. All this time. Every stolen glance, every bitten lip, every time you pretended not to be affected while memorizing the shape of his body like scripture — he’d known.

And the worst part? He was enjoying it.

Minho stepped past you then, slow and deliberate. His bare shoulder brushed yours, sending sparks down your spine. His mouth passed close to your ear.

“If you like ’em so much… don’t be shy.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you?

You stood frozen. Drenched in heat.

Stunned.

—-

You tried to shake it off. That moment in the hallway — the wet skin, the low towel, the smirk like he’d just cracked your entire code — it replayed in your head on loop. And the worst part? He acted normal afterward. As if he hadn’t just stripped you bare without laying a single finger on you.

For the next few days, he didn’t say a word. But his silence had weight. A hum. A presence.

You felt it when he brushed past you in the kitchen, lingering just a second longer than necessary. You felt it when he reached for the remote, arm grazing yours like it was an accident — it wasn’t. You felt it every time he walked around in those tiny black shorts that clung to his thighs like a second skin, like he wanted to be watched.

He never said it outright. He didn’t have to.

Minho knew. And he was playing with you.

Especially during movie night.

He stretched out across the couch like he owned it — one thigh propped high, the other bent casually, teasing a dangerous view beneath loose fabric. You sat at the opposite end, pretending to care about the screen, pretending not to notice the way he occasionally shifted — slow and deliberate, like a cat stretching in a sunbeam.

“You pressed?” he asked, voice smooth, eyes fixed on the movie.

“No.” You barely breathed the word.

“Then why are your legs crossed like that?”

You choked. “I always sit like this.”

“Mhm.” His lips curved into a smirk, but he didn’t look at you. “Cute.”

You turned back to the screen, ears burning, pulse hammering in places you didn’t want to admit. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. He already had you cornered.

And then came Saturday.

You’d just rolled out your yoga mat, hoping for some peace. A little mind-body disconnect. Something slow, something grounding. You wore leggings and a loose top, hair tied up, trying to focus on your breath. On your stretch. On not spiraling over the fact that your roommate had thighs that could suffocate you and the audacity to look good doing absolutely nothing.

You were two poses in when Minho walked in. Barefoot. Tank top. The same goddamn black shorts.

He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed a towel, tossed it on the floor, and dropped beside you — air shifting with the force of his presence.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Home workout,” he said, already rolling his neck like it was routine. “Leg day.”

Of course it was.

You watched him set up — no mat, no music, no distractions. Just him, kneeling, then rising into his first slow, steady squat.

And God help you.

His muscles flexed with every movement — taut and deliberate, as if he knew you were watching. And of course, you were. You tried not to be. You told yourself to focus on your breath, your pose, anything. But the sound of him exhaling, the tension in his quads, the way his thighs expanded and contracted under smooth skin — it was hypnotic.

At one point, you bent forward into a child’s pose and nearly whined. Not from the stretch — from the view.

“Something wrong?” he asked without turning.

“Nope,” you lied into your mat.

He chuckled low. “You’ve been holding that pose for a while.”

“I’m relaxing.”

“Are you sure?”

You sat up, flushed, glaring. “Why are you doing this here?”

“This is my house too.” He dropped into a deep lunge, one thigh slicing into the air like it knew it was being worshipped. “Besides, I thought you liked watching.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then. Full-on. No smirk this time. Just heat. Awareness.

“I mean,” he added, tilting his head, “you do a lot of staring for someone who’s just stretching.”

You opened your mouth. No words came.

Minho stood, grabbed his towel, and wiped his neck, gaze dragging down your body like he owned it.

“Let me know if I’m distracting you,” he said, already walking away. “Or don’t.”

His bedroom door shut.

You stared at the empty space he left behind, legs shaking — not from yoga.

And that was the thing about Minho. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.

He was building you to the edge. Slowly. Mercilessly.

One day at a time.

—-

You’d had it.

The teasing. The stretching. The slow, smug smirks like he knew exactly how to unravel you without ever laying a hand. Minho was a storm in stillness — walking around that apartment like his thighs weren’t destroying your concentration one flex at a time.

But today?

Today he stole your shampoo. The expensive one. The one you rationed like gold.

You noticed it gone right after your lukewarm shower. No bottle on the ledge. Not in the cabinet. Nowhere. And you knew — you knew — he’d taken it. Not because he needed it. Not because he ran out.

But because he wanted you to come find it.

You stepped into the hallway and glared in the direction of his room. Your skin was still damp, towel clutched around your body, hair dripping. You stood there for a beat, chest rising and falling, fury burning low in your gut.

He wanted a reaction?

Fine.

You stomped to his room, still wrapped in your towel, not even bothering to knock. The door wasn’t locked — of course it wasn’t. You shoved it open, ready to yell—And froze.

Minho stood in the middle of the room. Still wet from his own shower. Back turned. Steam clinging to his skin like a second layer. And nothing but a white towel barely clinging to his hips.

As if on cue — perfectly timed, like he waited for your entrance — he turned.

And let the towel drop.

Time stopped.

His body was a punch to the throat. Wet hair clinging to sharp cheekbones. Chest gleaming. Abs carved like marble. And lower—

You swallowed. Hard.

His thighs — God, his thighs — were the first thing your eyes betrayed you for. Taut, thick, glistening. Cut so sharp you could trace the line from hip to knee without ever catching your breath. But it was all of him — the dripping cocky smirk, the full exposure, the quiet daring in his stare — that made your brain stutter.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Minho didn’t flinch. He stood there, bare, relaxed, like he’d just walked out of a dream you hadn’t woken up from. His eyes dragged down your figure — towel, damp skin, flushed face — and he grinned.

“You looking for something?” he asked, voice low, sinful.

You blinked. “My shampoo.”

He stepped closer, slow and predatory. “Oh. Right. That.”

You didn’t back up. Couldn’t. Your feet stayed planted as he crossed the room, stopping just in front of you — close enough that steam radiated off his skin and into your lungs.

“I might’ve borrowed it,” he said, voice a little too innocent.

“You think?” Your voice cracked, betraying you.

He tilted his head. Smirked. “You could’ve waited.”

“You could’ve not stolen my stuff.”

“I was curious,” he murmured. “About what made you smell that good all the time.”

That shut you up. Your breath caught, throat dry.

Minho leaned in, not touching you, just hovering — warm and wet and lethal.

“Gotta say,” he whispered, “I didn’t think you’d walk in this fast. Barely gave me time to dress.”

“Minho…”

His eyes darkened. “Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

Because you snapped.

The air cracked between you — the tension finally slicing clean. Your towel loosened around your chest, breath ragged, fingers twitching like they didn’t know whether to slap him or touch everything. And Minho? He just watched you unravel, biting back a laugh, proud of every second it took to break you.

“You gonna stare all day…” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips, “…or finally show me what you’ve been thinking about when you look at my thighs like that?”

You’d never seen him like that before.

Sure, you’d imagined it. In flashes. In filth. Late at night, hand between your thighs, brain filled with the shape of him under those shorts. But nothing — nothing — prepared you for the real thing.

Minho stood there like a god carved in steam. Skin flushed, droplets running over muscle, thighs thick and flexed, cock hanging heavy between his legs, thick and half-hard — already waking up under your stunned gaze.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.

“Say something,” he said, amused by your wide eyes and gaping mouth.

But words had abandoned you. You were stuck — eyes tracking the lazy twitch of him, how he stood so relaxed in his naked glory, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And he did.

You took a step forward without meaning to, towel still clutched to your chest. Your fingers were trembling. Knees weak. He didn’t move, just watched you — eyes low, dark, waiting.

Another step.

Your towel slipped.

You felt it loosen, but your hands didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. It hit the floor in a soft thud, pooling around your feet like you’d given up the last of your defenses. You stood there — bare, breathless, burning — and he exhaled.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes dragging down your body like a slow lick.

Then, he moved.

Minho stepped in close — no warning, no question — and his hands found your waist, firm and sure. He guided you back two paces until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed. The room was spinning — or maybe it was just you. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything but the heat radiating off his skin and the way his eyes never left your face.

“You’ve been dying for this,” he whispered, voice low, rough with want.

You opened your mouth to argue, but then — his thigh slid between your legs.

Thick. Solid. Perfect.

You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

Minho grinned, smug and slow. “Yeah. Just like that.”

Your core pressed against him — bare skin to bare muscle — and it knocked the air from your lungs. The heat of him. The size of him. The position — obscene and grounding at the same time.

He bent slightly, mouth brushing your ear.

“Ride it.”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide.

“What?”

He tilted his hips forward just enough to press his thigh harder against your center, making your legs tremble.

“You heard me,” he murmured, turning you around and pulling you onto his legs to straddle him. “You’ve been eyeing them like a good girl with a filthy secret. So ride it. Let me feel how wet thinking about them made you.”

You whimpered. Actually whimpered.

And when your hips moved — instinctively, needily — his grip on your waist tightened.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Use me.”

You started slow, testing the friction, the give of muscle under your folds. It was too much. Not enough. Perfect. His skin was hot beneath you, slick from the shower, and your clit found pressure that made you jolt.

Minho watched you. Jaw tight, lip caught between teeth, cock now fully hard and pressed against your belly — untouched. He didn’t move. Didn’t thrust. Didn’t beg for more.

He just let you lose yourself.

Let you rub against him like you’d dreamed about.

Let you chase the high with heat building in your thighs and fire curling in your stomach.

“You look so fucking pretty when you’re desperate,” he muttered, hands sliding down to cup your ass, guiding your rhythm. “Wanna see you come just from this.”

Your head fell forward onto his shoulder, moaning into his skin as your hips sped up.

“Been teasing you for weeks,” he whispered, voice thick with pride. “This what you’ve been needing? My thigh between your legs? My voice telling you how fucking good you look dripping on me?”

Your answer was a broken gasp, your whole body trembling as slick coated his leg.

You didn’t mean to let it go this far.

You told yourself you had self control around him — that you’d stop before it got real.

But now you were riding his thigh, naked and soaked, fingers clinging to his shoulders like lifelines while your hips ground down in rhythmless, desperate circles. And Lee Know just watched you fall apart.

His cock pressed against your stomach, rock hard and untouched, but he didn’t move. Didn’t ask for more. He just let you rub yourself raw on the muscle you’d been obsessing over for weeks — strong, slick, made to ruin you.

“Minho,” you breathed, voice shaking. “I—what am I doing?”

He smirked against your cheek, hands gripping your waist like he owned it.

“You’re finally being honest,” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re doing exactly what you wanted to do every time you stared at my thighs like it’s breakfast”

You whimpered, your hips stuttering forward as your clit hit the perfect spot. Again. And again. And again.

“I-I shouldn’t—fuck, I shouldn’t be—”

��But you are,” he growled, flexing his thigh beneath you, making your entire body jolt. “Look at you. Dripping. Shaking. Moaning on my leg like a filthy little thing. And you’re not even touching yourself.”

You let out a broken sob of pleasure, nails digging into his back. Every word he said made it worse. Or better. You didn’t know anymore. Your mind was a haze of heat and friction and him.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” you gasped. “This is—Minho, this is insane—”

“But does it feel good?” His voice was all low thunder now. Fingers sliding up your spine, tracing every arch and tremble.

You nodded before you could stop yourself. “Yes. God. Yes.”

“Then keep going,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple. “Don’t stop now. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your hips moved on instinct, faster, harder — chasing the high building at the edge of your spine. The wet sound of your arousal on his skin filled the room. Your thighs burned, your stomach coiled, your whole body trembling from the friction, the pressure, the filth of it.

Minho tilted your chin up with two fingers, eyes blazing.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he asked, teasing and reverent all at once. “Riding my thigh like it’s the only thing that’ll make you feel better?”

You bit your lip, eyes glazed over. “I-I don’t think I can stop—”

He crushed his mouth to yours.

Hot. Hungry. Claiming.

You moaned into it, lips parting as he licked into you, deep and possessive. His hands roamed down, kneading your ass, guiding your rhythm as your body started to tremble harder.

His mouth broke from yours just enough to whisper against it:

“Then don’t stop. Come for me, baby. Soak me. Show me how badly you’ve wanted this.”

Your head fell back, gasping his name over and over, your climax rushing up like fire — fast, hot, blinding. Your hips stuttered, your thighs locked, and with one last grind, you shattered. Loud. Messy. Unapologetic.

You collapsed against him, trembling, your slick soaking his thigh.

And still, he held you.

Still hard. Still smirking. Still starving.

He dragged his mouth down your neck, voice ragged.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Your body was still trembling — thighs weak, breath shallow, clinging to Minho like you’d drown without him. You’d just come undone, hard and messy, riding his thigh like an addict in heat.

But he hadn’t even started.

His cock still pulsed heavy against your belly. His mouth was wet from kissing you breathless. And his hands?

They moved.

He shifted with a low growl, gripping your waist as he guided you down to the mattress like you were made of glass and sin all at once. The sheets were cool under your back, a cruel contrast to the heat burning between your legs.

You barely had time to blink.

Minho knelt between your thighs — broad shoulders pushing them apart with no effort, gaze locked onto your soaked cunt like it was the prize at the end of a long, hard game he knew he’d win.

“You’re already a mess,” he muttered, voice dark with hunger. “And I haven’t even tasted you yet.”

Your breath hitched. “Minho—”

He dipped his head.

And devoured you.

No warning. No teasing.

Just full contact — lips wrapping around your clit, tongue sliding through your folds like he was starving and you were the only thing on the menu. You cried out, hips jerking, fists twisting in the sheets.

“Fuck—fuck—Minho—!”

He groaned into you, tongue fucking deeper, slower, filthier. The wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy echoed through the room, obscene and devastating. His grip on your thighs tightened, locking you open.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he rasped against your cunt. “And trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot.”

You were unraveling fast — overstimulated from before, nerves on fire, your body no longer yours. You reached down to push at his head, desperate for control, but he growled and slammed your hips back down.

“Don’t run,” he warned, eyes flicking up to yours. “You’re gonna take this.”

Then he flattened his tongue against your clit and sucked.

You sobbed.

Your body bucked, shaking, your thighs closing in on his head — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t care. He groaned low like your struggle turned him on more, mouth locked onto you with ruthless, perfect rhythm.

“Minho— I can’t— I’m gonna—!”

“Do it,” he said, voice muffled and filthy. “Come on my tongue, baby.”

You shattered again — harder, messier, wrecked. You screamed his name like a prayer as your back arched off the mattress, your entire body spasming under his mouth.

But he still didn’t stop.

He kept licking. Kept sucking. Pushing you higher again while you were still falling apart.

“Stop—stop—” you gasped, legs trembling. “I—please—I can’t—”

“Thought you wanted this,” he said, voice mocking but gentle. “Thought this was what you needed.”

“It is, but—fuck, Minho, I can’t take anymore—!”

His mouth left you with one last lick, and he rose over you — mouth shiny, hair wild, cock rock hard and leaking against his abs. He leaned in close, voice rough against your cheek.

“Then beg me for it.”

You blinked up at him — dazed, soaked, dizzy from pleasure.

“Minho, please—”

He smirked, hand sliding down your body, stroking your slick folds with two fingers, slow and teasing.

“Say it right.”

You whimpered, your hips chasing the contact. “Please. Please fuck me. I need it. I need you. I can’t take it anymore, Minho, please—”

He groaned like the sound of your begging was better than coming.

You didn’t even have time to breathe.

Minho lined himself up and pushed in slow — thick, stretching, perfect — and your gasp broke apart into a moan that could’ve shattered glass. He filled you inch by inch like he wanted you to feel everything — the shape of him, the weight, the stretch, the depth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so wet. I can feel how bad you wanted this—how long you’ve been holding back.”

You could barely nod. Could barely think.

He bottomed out with a low growl, hips flush against yours, his cock buried so deep it stole the breath from your lungs.

You were already shaking.

Already gone.

And he hadn’t even moved yet.

But then he did.

Minho pulled out halfway and slammed back in — hard enough to knock the air from your throat. You cried out, back arching, and his hand flew to your hip to hold you down.

“Oh my—Minho—”

“That’s it,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Take it.”

He set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward with precision — deep, fast, punishing. Your body jolted with every thrust, his skin slapping yours, his breath ragged against your ear.

“You begged for this,” he hissed, mouth at your neck. “Begged me to fuck you, to ruin you. So don’t tap out now, baby. You asked for this.”

You were babbling now — every filthy sound ripped from your throat as his cock hit every spot that made your vision blur.

“You’re so fucking deep,” you sobbed. “Minho, you’re—ahh—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can,” he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You’re taking me so well, squeezing me like your pussy was made for me.”

His words sent heat straight to your core, and your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, locking him in.

He grinned through a moan.

“Just like that. Keep holding me there. Don’t let me leave.”

You didn’t plan to.

Your body refused to let him go.

Minho leaned back just enough to watch you — eyes wild, sweat dripping, abs flexing as he pistoned into you with a force that made the headboard slam against the wall.

“You see this?” he panted. “See how cockdrunk you are already?”

You nodded, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I’m yours, Minho—fuck—I’m so yours.”

That broke something in him.

He grabbed your face, kissed you hard — messy, teeth clashing, tongues desperate — and drove into you like a man starved. Like he needed to mark every inch of you from the inside out.

Your orgasm built fast — unstoppable. The angle. The stretch. The way he owned your body like it was created for this moment.

“Minho, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he growled. “Come all over my cock. I want to feel you lose it.”

And you did.

Your body seized, core clenching around him in hot, wet pulses as you screamed his name into the sheets. Your climax tore through you, wrecking you from the inside out. You shook, legs trembling, sobbing with the release.

Minho kept going — chasing his own edge, fucking you through your high like he couldn’t stop. And when he came, it was with a low, broken groan — hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled himself completely.

He collapsed on top of you, breath ragged, heart pounding against your chest.

The room was silent, save for the sound of your bodies trying to remember how to breathe.

And then, with a smirk pressed against your neck, he whispered:

“Next time… you’re riding both thighs.”

—-

Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

Limbs tangled in sheets. Skin slick with sweat. Core still pulsing faintly where he’d broken you open and filled you up. Everything ached in that perfect way — the kind of ache that reminded you who made you fall apart.

Minho didn’t move for a while. His weight rested on you, warm and grounding, like he knew you needed it — or maybe like he did. You felt his breath fan softly against your neck, one hand tracing slow, lazy circles into your thigh that still trembled slightly.

Then he kissed your shoulder.

Slow. Soft. Sweet.

“You alive?” he murmured, voice low and half-laughing.

You huffed a breath, barely managing a reply. “Barely.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your face. You blinked up at him — dazed, flushed, completely undone. His grin was pure mischief, but his eyes? Still dark, still starved, but softer now. Like he’d already started memorizing this version of you.

“Well,” he said, brushing damp hair off your forehead, “remind me to steal your shampoo more often.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m literally your favorite person right now.”

“You literally just broke me.”

His laugh was low and smug. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You slapped his chest weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, smugness giving way to something gentler. His fingers interlaced with yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, quietly, you asked, “Was that… okay?”

He looked at you like you’d just asked if water was wet.

“Are you kidding?” he murmured. “I’ve wanted to ruin you like that since the day you moaned over my thighs during that dumb Pilates video.”

Your face flamed. “I did not moan.”

“You made a noise.”

“It was a stretch!”

“It was a whimper. From your soul.”

You tried to pull away. He held you tighter, laughing now, mouth pressed to your cheek.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“And you’re obsessed with my legs.”

“…Maybe.”

Minho kissed you again — slower this time. Deep, with no urgency. Just skin and breath and the slow, sinking warmth of someone who didn’t need to rush anymore.

“You’re staying in my bed tonight,” he whispered against your lips.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Nope.” He grinned. “You said it yourself, you’re mine now.”

You let out a breath, eyelids fluttering shut as you melted into his arms.

“Next time,” he added with a smirk, voice rough with leftover heat, “I’m making good on that thigh promise.”

Your stomach clenched.

You peeked up at him. “Both?”

He licked his lips, gaze flicking down your body again like he was already planning your undoing.

“Oh, baby…” he purred.

“That was just the beginning.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Heh babes, so my requests have racked up quite a bit and as promised i am gonna try to deliver all as much as possible! But for now, atleast till i clear the backlog; REQUESTS ARE CLOSED. Congratulations to Leeknow on his GUCCI Global Brand Ambassador deal!! This one’s for you baby!

A big thank you to all my readers for getting me to 2.1k followers (thats huge 🥹)

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @reignessance @jeonismm @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura @ocean-glacierblue

[luviestarz]

park sunghoon fic recs! part 3 ೀ

ೀ professor!sunghoon - @pompvdding

ೀ 𝜗𝜚   ॱ˖ 𝐴 𝐵𝑜𝑦 𝑊ℎ𝑜’𝑠 𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑑 - @lovhrin (sunghoon being your jacked and kind bf)

ೀ traditionally nontraditional | park sunghoon - @jayparked (newly married, you and your husband love creating your own...unique traditions)

ೀ BORN TO DIE ( ✦ ) SUNGHOON - @blairbliss (IN A NUTSHELL: a sniper assigned to eliminate a target, freezes as he realizes it’s his ex)

ೀ ── .✦ such a mess together - p. sunghoon - @purinfelix (the cute little girl you tutor is always going on about how you should date her smart, good-looking older brother, so why is your annoying, cocky classmate opening the door instead of her?)

ೀ force me and choke me till i pass out - p.sh - @hoonstqr (choking kink, slight degradation, backshots, spanking, unprotected sex)

ೀ * ˚ ✰    — ‘ KISS IT BETTER ’  p.sunghoon - @lhseungs (your boyfriend sunghoon walks in on you moaning his name while fucking yourself)

ೀ A REUNION TO REMEMBER - @jaylaxies (You last met Park Sunghoon when you were attending high school, more precisely, when he had gained enough courage to ask you out, not knowing that the most popular girl of the school was already taken by the senior who was equally as popular. Four years later, your batch decided to hold a reunion back in your town, where you meet Sunghoon again. Only, the problem is that he's hotter than ever and you can't, for the life of you, keep your eyes off him)

ೀ (   ➴ ) 𝖪𝖨𝖲𝖲 𝖧𝖨𝖬, 𝖭𝖮𝖳 𝖬𝖤! ♡ - @bambisnc (𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 .. 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌)

ೀ I LIKE ME BETTER ⭑ WHEN I'M WITH YOU - @callikari (to be young and in love is to cherish the moments. (like when sunghoon gets jealous for your affection))

ೀ •*⁀➷ 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧! - @heethera (you just moved into a new building, right across from three loud guys. two said sorry and the third couldn’t care less)

ೀ ( ✶ ) STEPBROTHER!SUNGHOON ⎯⎯ 🐑 - @hooniehon (masturbation non consented video taking his friends are pervs..)

ೀ jealousy - @sourkiki (explicit mature content, established relationship, dom! sunghoon x fem! reader, jealous! sunghoon, sunghoon's hella mean here, fingering, begging, edging)

ೀ making brownies with sunghoon - @urlovebot

ೀ riding sunghoon - @emisluvr (smut (18+ mdni!), riding, dirty talk. biceps kink, teasing)

ೀ Could you cry a lil' more? You look pretty... [P.SH] - @marsdql (fluff, sunghoon cant over how pretty you look when crying to him)

ೀ You’re Fired | psh - @tobiosbbyghorl

ೀ ECSTASY﹑park sunghoon - @doucious (𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝗂’𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌)

ೀ ──── YOU LIKE IT ❆ psh - @lovergirldotcom (stepcest, perv hoon, dubcon!)

ೀ change my mind - park sunghoon - @enh2pen

ೀ SLOW DOWN ㅤ★ PARK SUNGHOON - @itsminjify (𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂'𝗆 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌," 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒.")

ೀ smotherlove - @nephynes (For some stupid reason, you thought letting your boyfriend fuck your best friend would be harmless—a weirdly selfless gift, nothing more. But when it breaks something in you, Sunghoon starts playing dirtier than ever. He says he did it for you, but now he won’t let you forget who he belongs to—or who you belong to)

ೀ 이럼 안돼 don't touch, don't do it - @enjakey (A detective falls for his beautiful neighbour, a kind kindergarten teacher- only to discover she’s a drug holder hiding secrets in their swanky apartment building. But when love and loyalty clash, how far will he go to protect her… even if it means betraying the badge?)

ೀ Hoodie Thief | psh 🔞 - @tobiosbbyghorl (roommate!sunghoon x reader)

ೀ ⟢ once again - psh - @ki2rins (in which sunghoon try each and every way to win you back!)

ೀ 𝑳𝑫𝑹 (𝑳𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑫𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑹𝑜𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑠) - @flqwerjo (Men sucked, Real men sucked ── they don't know shit and only think about themselves. And as if the gods had heard you , you've found a website that sounded ridiculous enough not to click ── you just had to check it out. Build your own boyfriend ; they really meant it when they said that. So , for the fun of it ; you've built your own boyfriend and ordered him. What you didn't expect was for your Robotic 'Boyfriend' to gain self awareness and for you to fall for him)

ೀ Stubbles and Kisses - @youngheejay (Sunghoon x fem!reader [established relationship])

[seneon]

I have no idea if requests are open or not so forgive me if they’re closed but could I request like making out with the Saja boys and how that would go? If that’s too much then putting makeup on them🙏🙏

LIPS HIPS KISS ─── saja boys. suggestive. gn¡reader.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ JINU SAJA

making out with jinu feels like the end of the world. he's a good kisser. why wouldn't he be when he's at least four centuries old? he's had his fair share of experiences that he has learned from. soft lips, smooth skin, tantalising eyes. and his magical hands that has you melting beneath his touch.

jinu holds your face, the back of your neck, or wherever that he could keep you locked in your spot with absolutely no where to run. his lips moved against yours so softly at first— testing the waters. but when you reciprocated, it gets bolder and heated until he could feel both your bodies growing hot, pushing you so close to him you could feel his chest against yours and the growing arousal from below.

he's the type to make out with you after the mood is set, or whenever he needs reassurance. french kisses seemed to be his favourite. he loves the way your lips perfectly moulds against his. kisses like these often leads to comforting cuddles, not very often does it progress into something more heated. he likes keeping it romantic. but when it does get heated, his hands will be under your shirt or beneath your waistband by now.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ABBY SAJA

likes your hand all over his chest when you two make out. it's common to hold onto something to keep the connection going, isn't it? so he always wants your hand on him, roaming all over and feeling his muscles hardening under your touch. it sends fire straight to his core, making him breathe so very heavily into you.

abby heavily fancies rough kisses. ones where it's dominating, controlling, and guiding. this man leads every kiss and every single initiation. he wants to execute, not feel. never much of a feeler. abby only seek to please you and make you feel good. his kisses are a simple start.

while your hands are all over his chest, his hands in return are all over your hips and waist and under your shirt. touching and feeling your skin, simply by brushing his thumb against your hips is enough for him. abby will also make out with you literally anywhere. the underworld if you're a demon, social meetings, meet and greets, at the back lane, anywhere. he could never get enough of the taste of your sweet lips.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ROMANCE SAJA

make outs with romance always end up with his hands on your hips, guiding you to rock your hips against him. no kidding. no shit. no lies. his heavy breathing and the way he holds the back of your head contains a lot of affection, and you can tell by the way he always starts off cheesy and romantic.

but oh, how silly of you to think that sweet kisses couldn't develop into something such as grinding against the obvious arousal in his pants while you feel your own arousal build up. he's a big tease with it. always getting you all hot and bothered but never doing more than that. you know you get him all worked up as well. besides getting aroused sexually, you annoyance from the teasing also gets aroused.

that's okay though. romance likes it when you're all angry and taking control instead when he's became your thirteenth reason in this push and pull. if i hadn't made it obvious yet, he likes you sitting on his lap and looking up at you with that stupid smirk and devilishly handsome face. he's also the type to also nip at your bottom lip.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ BABY SAJA

super big fan of brushing your bottom lip before kissing you or even in the middle of kissing. that was your foreplay before sex, if we're speaking through incoherent metaphors. he finds your lips absolutely pleasing to touch or simply kiss. and suck. oh, how much he adores sucking and then licking your bottom lips. only bottom by the way.

baby is the type of man who wants to taste your whole mouth as if they're potent enough to cover the taste of spicy sauces. exploring your mouth is a normal thing when you make out with him, his hands cradling your cheek just as his thumb gently brushes against your lips.

often times tongues are involved, so there weren't any exceptions. in fact, tongues are a must. you can't even tell if he's teasing you or not. but it makes the kiss heated and to die for. after several minutes of making out, baby yearns to leave his marks on the skin of your neck. he goes down your collarbone, your chest, and your lower abdomen until he reaches his favourite place to kiss.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ MYSTERY SAJA

loud, noisy, and absolutely pathetic. not in a bad way, in a good way to signify to you that he enjoys making out with you. like the rest, mystery will heavily breath into you as he kisses you. only this time with him, this man will emit sounds from the depths of his throat which you swallow.

he whimpers when you touch him, whines when you pull away for air, moans when he himself gets rougher with the kisses. he's so touchy and needs you to touch and hold him. which shocks you, because mystery is so quiet that the thought of him being noisy during heated moments such as these could happen. not that you're complaining though.

him being a yearner makes you feel like a wobbly jelly. maybe even because you get to lead the kiss and do whatever you want to him. he's the type to crumble under one touch from you and become the pillow princess. you have mystery wrapped in your fingers and. he loves being in your chokehold. you might get a few bit marks on your lips with his much mystery digs his teeth into your lips by mistake and pure excitement though.

note. oops i went overboard with this one uhh yay! this one's for you, @skriblobz, happy early wedding day to you and rafayel LMFAOOO

© SENEON 2025 ♱ do not repost, alter, or translate.

[avengxrz]

the fool outranks the golden boy ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part one]

pairings: jake seresin x reader

word count: 18.2k (i'm sorry, i got carried away)

summary: you had it bad, like really bad for jake seresin. back in college, you did his homework, brought him coffee, smiled through humiliation like it meant something, fooled yourself into thinking he’d glance your way and actually see you. but he never did. not really. now, years later, you're standing in front of him again, not as the girl who worshipped the ground he walked on—but as the woman who outranks him. how the hell did the fool end up outranking the golden boy?

warnings: emotional manipulation, unresolved tension, slow burn, power imbalance (then reversal), humiliation, angst, college flashbacks, mild academic bullying, reader is hopelessly naive at first, jake is an asshole, later guilt, crying, confrontation, slap scene, reader character growth arc, mentions of absent family, found power, military setting, hangar tension, dagger squad chaos, and one (1) dangerously attractive commander with a grudge.

notes: ugh tumblr's word count limit is so unserious for a fic like this, like let me be dramatic in peace?? anyway this will be a three-part story because there's too much tension, pain, and ego to contain in just one post. if i disappear it's because i’m fighting the character limit and tumblr’s formatting demons. pray for me.

part two

masterlist

your callsign is rogue.

You had it bad.

The kind of bad that made your heart pick up speed just from the sound of his voice echoing down the hallway. The kind of bad that made you memorize his coffee order before he ever asked, the way he liked his breakfast tacos, the exact moment in the semester when he’d start asking for your notes in Social Studies—again. He was all sun and swagger, a boy carved from the sky with that easy smile and reckless charm, and you were twenty and stupid and floating somewhere just beneath his orbit, close enough to feel warm. Never close enough to matter.

Jake Seresin wasn’t just a crush. He was a curriculum.

And God, you studied. You showed up. You took mental notes on his laugh patterns and the way he tapped his pen when he was bored in class. You offered to “help” with his required literature essays, even though helping usually turned into you writing the entire thing while he sat back in his chair, arms crossed, watching you with that annoying little half-smirk like he knew. He always knew.

“You’re a lifesaver, sunshine,” he’d say, tossing you a grin like a bone. Sometimes he'd ruffle your hair, which made your stomach flip like it was some grand act of affection instead of thoughtless habit. Sometimes he’d sit a little too close when you were going over the assignment, smelling like cologne and peppermint gum, leaning over your shoulder as if he actually cared about the difference between metaphor and metonymy. He didn’t. But you still pointed it out, even circled it in a red pen for him.

And when he got a B+, he winked at you and said, “Told you I didn’t need that Shakespeare crap to fly jets.” You laughed. You always laughed. Like a fool.

You didn’t mind doing his work. You didn’t mind when he forgot your birthday but showed up to your dorm two weeks later with a Red Bull and a “my bad.” You didn’t even mind when he flirted with other girls right in front of you—because it didn’t mean anything. Not really. Not to him. But maybe, if you were patient, it could mean something someday.

You told yourself he was just bad at feelings. You told yourself he was focused on his career, that you were helping, supporting, part of his story. You told yourself that being near him was enough.

You lied a lot, back then. Especially to yourself.

You remembered the first time he called you kid. You had just pulled an all-nighter to finish his paper—some half-assed assignment about American foreign policy and its effect on colonial literature that he should’ve started a week ago. You handed it to him in the quad, tired but glowing, waiting for a thank you or maybe, just maybe, a hug. He barely looked up from his phone.

“Man, what would I do without you, kid?” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder like you were one of the guys. One of the boys. Not a girl who wore her prettiest sweater that day just in case he noticed. Not a girl who memorized his class schedule and purposely bumped into him outside his seminar. Just kid. You smiled anyway, too dizzy with hope to notice how sharp the word was, how much it stung under the surface.

And he never said your name. Not really. Not the way you said his when you whispered it into your pillow at night, soft like a secret. He called you sunshine when he needed a favor, professor when he didn’t feel like studying, kid when he was feeling lazy. It wasn’t cruel. Not technically. But it always made you feel a little smaller, a little sillier, a little more like a side character in your own goddamn story. And still, you held onto it like it meant something.

You remembered how he’d brag about you in front of his friends—“She’s basically a genius,” he’d say, draping an arm over your chair as you hunched over your laptop, typing his paper. “I swear, I just let her talk and I sound smarter by association.” They’d laugh. He’d laugh. And you? You’d blush so hard you thought your ears would catch fire. You told yourself he was proud of you.

You told yourself he noticed.

Once, at a party, someone asked if you two were dating. He choked on his beer and laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all night. “Nah,” he said, loud enough for everyone around the keg to hear. “She’s way too sweet. Like, book club sweet. I'm not trying to get lectured during pillow talk.”

You laughed too, even though something cracked inside your chest.

Later, when you were alone with him in the kitchen, trying not to let your hands shake while you poured soda over melting ice, you asked, “Do you really think I’m sweet?” And he’d leaned in, lazy and amused, eyes glinting with something sharp.

“You’re the sweetest thing I know,” he said. “That’s your problem.”

You thought that was romantic.

You thought he meant it like a compliment.

You started wearing makeup. Nothing major—just a little mascara, some tinted balm, a hint of blush you hoped made you look older, cooler, prettier. You weren’t the kind of girl Jake usually flirted with, the ones who wore crop tops to lecture and knew how to flip their hair without thinking. You studied in quiet corners, read poetry on your lunch breaks, always carried extra pens. But maybe, if you tried a little harder—if you looked a little more like them—he’d finally see you.

He noticed, too. Sort of.

“You do something different with your face?” he asked once, squinting at you while you handed over his notes. “Looks good. Less tired.”

Then he grabbed the papers and walked off, calling back, “Thanks, sunshine!” like he hadn’t just complimented you and insulted you in the same breath. You beamed. You held onto less tired like it meant beautiful. You told your roommate about it like it was proof—like it was progress.

You were always chasing crumbs. Always stretching moments into meaning. Like the time he offered you a ride home from the library when it started raining—windows down, music up, his hand drumming on the steering wheel.

You sat there soaking wet, trying not to stare at the way his jaw flexed when he laughed, trying not to fall deeper into whatever hole your heart had already dug.

At the stoplight, he glanced over and smirked. “Bet you never skip class, huh?”

You shrugged. “Not really. I like learning.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah, I can tell. You always look like you’re about to marry your textbooks.”

You laughed. Of course you laughed. “Better than marrying beer pong.”

He chuckled, and for a second, you thought—maybe this is flirting. Maybe he likes me back.

But then he said, “You’re cute when you try to be sassy.”

You turned your face toward the window so he wouldn’t see the way you smiled. Like a fool. Like someone who didn’t realize being cute to a boy like Jake Seresin meant safe. Non-threatening. Easy to dismiss.

You were the girl he called at midnight for notes and “quick favors.” The girl he brought to parties but never introduced. The girl who did his work and called it love. And still, you waited for something more. Still, you held your breath every time he looked at you a little too long, hoping he might finally see you the way you saw him.

But he never did. Not really.

It happened in the middle of a group study session—well, his group, not yours. You’d only shown up because he texted you last-minute, some vague “Hey, you around? Could use your genius brain again lol” and you’d said yes before even thinking. You always did.

The library table was cluttered with Red Bulls and half-finished equations. Jake was leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out, baseball cap tilted low.

He was arguing with one of his aviation buddies about flight dynamics or engine weight or some other thing you had no business understanding—but you listened anyway, like you always did. You’d learned the lingo just to keep up, tucked terms into your memory like you were training to speak his language.

At some point, his friend nodded toward you and asked, “Hey, who’s this again?”

Jake turned, eyes flicking lazily in your direction. His brows furrowed. Just for a second. Then—he laughed. “Uh—wait. Crap. Don’t tell me.”

Your heart dropped before you could stop it. Just a beat. Just long enough to hurt.

“You don’t know my name?” you asked, light and teasing. You even laughed a little, because that was the role you’d learned to play. Unbothered. Chill. The cool girl who didn’t take anything seriously. Not even her own heartbreak.

Jake scratched the back of his neck, sheepish but grinning. “I mean, you’re like my PoliSci girl, right? You’re always around with, like… books and that political stuff.”

You blinked. “Political science,” you corrected softly, still smiling, though it felt like something fragile was cracking beneath your ribs. “I’m majoring in political science. Pre-law track.”

He snapped his fingers, pointing. “Knew it. Knew you were smart.”

You already knew his major, of course—Aeronautical Engineering with a minor in Applied Physics. You knew his dream was to fly fighter jets for the Navy. You knew he hated public speaking but loved Top Gun. You knew he bit the inside of his cheek when he was stressed and that his middle name was Andrew. You even knew his sister’s birthday.

But he didn’t know your name.

Not really.

Still, when he leaned in and said, “You’re kind of my lifesaver, y’know?”—you smiled. You swallowed down the sting and tucked the compliment somewhere deep, let it sit heavy and warm in your chest like it meant more than it did.

You told yourself he was just bad with names. That he was tired. Distracted.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

And when he tossed you a Red Bull at the end of the night and said, “Thanks again, sunshine,” like a pat on the head, you caught it and held it like a gift.

Because it came from him.

You were always the nerdiest person in the room—and you didn’t mind. Not really. You liked it, actually. You liked being the one with too many pens, with color-coded tabs stuck out of every book, with highlighters in four different shades for four different types of arguments.

Your notebooks were immaculate. Your laptop desktop was a perfectly organized grid of folders labeled by subject, date, and citation style. You even had a separate folder for Jake’s assignments—though you’d never admit that out loud.

You quoted obscure political theorists in casual conversation, carried pocket-sized constitutions in your backpack like other people carried gum. You read op-eds for fun. You had a crush on Ruth Bader Ginsburg for three years. You were the kind of girl who got excited about office supplies. The kind of girl who said “actually” a lot and meant it.

Jake didn’t get it. Not really.

But he smiled when you went on tangents about legislation and voting trends and historical revolutions. That day in the library, you tried to explain your thesis about the ethics of surveillance in modern democracies, and he just blinked at you, lips pulled into that signature grin—handsome, golden, practiced. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s… intense,” he said, dragging the word out like it was both a compliment and a warning. “You actually like that stuff?”

You nodded, beaming. “I love it. I think it’s important—how we understand power and systems and history. You can’t just—separate law from people.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

Your smile faltered for half a second. Just a flicker. You covered it quickly with a laugh, pretending it didn’t sting, pretending he meant it in that teasing, affectionate way. He was smiling, after all. He called you his nerd once. That had to mean something, right?

“You’re lucky I’m a nerd,” you said lightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Otherwise you’d be failing social theory and citing Buzzfeed as a source.”

That made him laugh, real and sharp. For a moment, he looked at you like he almost saw something. Then it faded.

“Buzzfeed’s valid,” he said, winking. “They’ve got quizzes and everything.”

You laughed again. You always laughed. Even when it wasn’t funny. Even when the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, either.

Because maybe—just maybe—if you kept being useful, being sweet, being there, he’d learn to look closer. Maybe someday, he’d want to know your name before needing your notes. Maybe someday, that smile wouldn’t be so forced.

You didn’t usually celebrate your birthday. It felt silly, most years—too much attention, too many questions you didn’t want to answer. But this time felt different. You were turning twenty-one, and for once, you wanted to do something that made you happy. Not trendy. Not loud. Just… you.

So you invited Jake.

You kept it casual, like it was no big deal. You mentioned it after class one day while handing over another perfectly formatted draft of his group project—the one he was supposed to help with but hadn’t touched since the outline phase. “I’m doing something lowkey tonight,” you said, trying not to sound too hopeful. “If you’re not busy, you should come.”

He looked up from his phone, eyes still half-scanning whatever was on the screen. “Lowkey like what? Drinks? House party?”

You hesitated. “Kind of. You’ll see.”

He agreed. Mostly because you were finishing his semester-long presentation. Thirty percent of his grade. Not because he actually cared about the celebration part.

But that didn’t stop you from spending the entire afternoon setting everything up—balloons, cupcakes, a paper crown you wore mostly as a joke. You even put on a new sweater, the soft blue one that brought out your eyes. You checked your phone every few minutes until finally, finally, he texted: Here.

You met him outside, bouncing on your heels from nerves. He was wearing jeans and a fitted Henley, looking like he’d just walked off a recruitment poster. His eyes scanned the building behind you—a wide, beige facility with a ramp leading up to automatic glass doors.

“What is this?” he asked, already frowning.

You smiled, a little too wide. “The community center. It doubles as a retirement home. I volunteer here every weekend. We’re doing trivia and cupcakes with the residents tonight. I thought it’d be fun.”

He blinked. “Wait—you invited me to your birthday at an old folks’ home?”

You laughed, nervously. “They’re sweet. And they love meeting new people. Plus, trivia night gets competitive. It’s fun, I promise.”

Jake’s smile didn’t quite land. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking around like he was trying to find a way to back out. “Damn. I thought this was gonna be, like… a party.”

“It is a party,” you said, voice softer than before. “Just not that kind.”

He hesitated. For one awful second, you were sure he’d leave. But then he sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Lead the way, sunshine.”

You lit up, relief washing through you. You missed the way his shoulders slouched, the way his expression shifted once your back was turned. You didn’t see how bored he looked walking through the doors, how forced his laugh sounded when you introduced him to the residents. You were too busy beaming, too busy bringing out the cupcakes you made from scratch, too busy believing—just for one night—that he was here because he wanted to be.

You never realized he was only smiling because the project wasn’t finished yet.

He offered to walk you home.

Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because it was late and the air had turned crisp, and he still had a project with his name on it sitting in your backpack. Or maybe he was trying to be a gentleman, like he’d been raised right and remembered it sometimes. Either way, you didn’t argue. You just smiled, told him thanks, and fell into step beside him under the glow of sleepy streetlights.

The walk wasn’t long, but it felt longer than usual. You talked in small, tired bursts—about the trivia questions, about Ms. Evelyn’s obsession with Cary Grant, about how hard the cupcakes were to ice without making them look sad. Jake chuckled once or twice, but mostly he was quiet, thumbs tapping absentmindedly against his phone until he slid it back into his pocket.

When you reached your front porch, he paused.

The house was dark. Not lifeless, just… dim. Still. The kind of quiet that felt deeper than it should have. Like it had settled over the walls and stayed there.

“You sure someone’s home?” he asked, eyeing the unlit windows.

You nodded quickly, unlocking the door with shaking hands. “Yeah. They’re probably just in the back. Or asleep. My mom works nights sometimes—she’s a nurse. And my dad’s a lawyer, so he’s always in the study. I—I’m sure they’re inside.”

Jake didn’t say anything, but he looked at you a little too long.

“You can come in for a second,” you offered, trying to sound casual. “If you want.”

You barely had time to nudge the door open before it swung all the way with a burst of warm light—and your mom stood there in her scrubs, hair pulled back, eyes wide with worry.

“There you are!” she breathed, relief pouring out of her like a tide. “We’ve been waiting, sweetheart. You didn’t answer your phone.”

Behind her, your dad appeared, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses pushed into his hairline. “You’re late, bug,” he said gently, his voice firm but warm. “You said you'd be back before ten.”

“I—” You faltered. “I’m sorry, I just… I lost track of time.”

Your mom’s eyes shifted past you, landing on Jake. She blinked, smiled. “Oh! And who’s this?”

“This is… Jake,” you said, stepping aside awkwardly. “He’s a friend from school.”

Jake straightened. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Sir.”

Your parents exchanged one of those quiet, married glances. The kind that said more than words ever could.

“Well, come in, Jake,” your mom said brightly. “We’ve still got cake. And Oreo ice cream in the freezer.”

“And Bingo’s been howling for you,” your dad added, stepping back to let you both in.

Right on cue, tiny paws scrambled across the hardwood, and a golden-furred puppy bounded into view, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive. He skidded to a stop at your feet, yipping excitedly.

Jake blinked. “You have a dog?”

You scooped Bingo into your arms, pressing your cheek to his fur. “Yeah. He’s loud and a little bit dramatic, but… he’s mine.”

The house was warm. Bright. Alive. And for a second, Jake stood there like he didn’t know where to put his hands. Like he didn’t expect this from you—this quiet, glowing little life. No red Solo cups, no loud music, no drama. Just parents who cared. A puppy that missed you. And a birthday party that waited all night.

Jake stepped inside. Just barely. Like the warmth might spook him.

And you—still holding Bingo, still wearing your little paper crown—pretended not to notice that he looked like he didn’t belong.

Jake stepped further inside, hands tucked into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. Your mom disappeared into the kitchen with a cheerful hum—“Sit down, make yourselves at home, I’ll get the plates!”—and your dad wandered back toward the hallway, calling something about candles and the lighter drawer. It left you and Jake standing alone in the entryway, where the soft light spilled over hardwood floors and Bingo settled at your feet with a huff.

He glanced around, eyes catching on the walls.

It was impossible not to notice, really. The house wasn’t big, but it was full—every inch lined with framed moments of your life. Photos of you as a toddler with cake on your cheeks. You in a ballet costume, crooked tiara and scraped knees. School portraits from every year, perfectly lined up in a growing timeline of messy hair, braces, and bright smiles. A bulletin board near the staircase held your ribbons, certificates, a newspaper clipping from the high school debate team championship. Everything worn in but cared for—like none of it was ever forgotten.

“You’ve got… a lot of photos,” Jake murmured, blinking at one where you were holding a spelling bee trophy almost as big as your head.

You smiled sheepishly. “My mom’s kind of sentimental. She never takes anything down. Says the walls should feel like home.”

Jake nodded slowly. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

He moved further in, scanning the frames more closely. That’s when he noticed. Nestled between all the snapshots of you were other faces. Boys, mostly—some in college caps, others in football jerseys, one in what looked like a Marine uniform.

“Wait,” Jake said, frowning slightly. “You have siblings?”

You looked up from where you were peeling the plastic off a stack of paper plates. “Yeah. Three older brothers.”

Jake blinked again, like that didn’t quite compute. “Seriously? I figured you were an only child.”

You laughed. “Everyone does.”

His eyes lingered on a photo of you all together—probably one of the last ones before the goodbyes started. You were sandwiched between them, grinning up at the camera like you’d won the lottery. Your brothers were tall, broad-shouldered, each with the same warm brown eyes as your dad.

“That’s Ezra,” you said, pointing to the one in the navy blue hoodie. “He’s studying abroad right now. Germany, for architecture.”

Jake nodded, still staring.

“And that’s Micah and Levi. They both got scholarships out of state. One's in Oregon, the other's in New York. Music and robotics.”

Jake let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s some family.”

You shrugged, setting the plates down on the coffee table as Bingo pawed at your ankle. “Yeah. We’re all kind of doing our own thing now. But they always call. My mom makes sure of it.”

He looked around again, slower this time. And something in his expression softened—not quite guilt, not quite wonder, but something close. Like he was realizing just how much he didn’t know. Like he was starting to see that you weren’t just the quiet girl with good notes and a crush. You were a whole world. You always have been.

He’d just never asked to see it.

Dinner wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. Your mom set out spaghetti and meatballs, still warm in their glass dish, with garlic bread that made the kitchen smell like heaven. Your dad poured iced tea into mismatched mugs. The lights were cozy. The puppy circled under the table like he was part of the conversation, brushing up against Jake’s boots with little happy hops.

At first, Jake tried to excuse himself.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, already inching toward the door. “You’ve got family stuff, and I—”

But your dad clapped him on the shoulder before he could finish. “You’re already here, son. Might as well eat.”

Your mom chimed in without missing a beat. “Besides, it’s her birthday. You’re staying for cake.”

So he sat. And you sat beside him, still wearing your paper crown, cheeks flushed and puppy in your lap. You fed Bingo tiny bites of meatball under the table while your parents asked Jake polite questions—what he was studying, where he was from, if he liked flying. He answered all of them with that easy smile, but you could tell he was just a little stiff. A little too polite. Like he was waiting for the part where it got hard. Or loud. Or ugly.

It never came.

After dinner, your dad disappeared for a minute and came back with a cake—chocolate, thick with icing, “Happy Birthday Bug” scrawled in lopsided pink letters. A single candle stood in the center, already flickering.

“Make a wish,” your mom said, camera in hand.

You closed your eyes. Blew it out.

The room erupted in soft cheers and clapping, and Bingo barked once like he was part of the moment. You laughed, cheeks glowing. And then—click. Your mom snapped the photo.

“Wait, wait, let’s do one together,” she said. “C’mon, squeeze in.”

Jake shook his head, holding up his hands. “Oh, I’m good. Really.”

But your dad was already standing behind him, gently steering him back toward you. “You’re not getting out of this that easy. You're part of tonight, kid. Sit down.”

And before Jake could argue again, he was seated on the couch, sandwiched between you and your dad. Your mom was hovering over the phone camera, grinning wide. You were still holding Bingo, his paws tucked against your arm. The paper party hat tilted slightly on your head.

“Smile!” your mom called.

Jake did.

Sort of.

The camera clicked. Flash.

In that moment, something tightened in his chest—not panic, exactly. Just… something strange. Foreign. Like he’d been dropped into someone else’s memory. And now his face would live on your living room wall forever, next to spelling bees and ballet slippers and newspaper clippings.

He looked at you—arms full of puppy, crown still perched on your head, face soft with joy—and for the first time all night, he didn’t know what to say.

You told yourself it was fine.

That he was just… being a guy. Boys were like that with their friends—loud, teasing, a little reckless. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. He was just trying to keep face in front of them. It wasn’t about you. Not really.

You told yourself that the nickname still meant something. Sunshine. He didn’t call anyone else that. He could’ve called you nerd, or PoliSci girl, or just you. But he didn’t. He smiled—kind of—and said Sunshine, like it was a secret. Like it was something only the two of you shared.

That had to count for something.

You told yourself that if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t talk about you at all. That the fact he mentioned you meant you were on his mind. Even if it was just a joke, even if they laughed—he’d still said your name. Your story. Your cupcakes.

You told yourself that maybe he didn’t realize how it came off. Maybe he’d say something later. Apologize, or explain, or laugh it off and say, "You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?" Maybe he was just awkward. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he was afraid to like you out loud.

You repeated those maybes like they were prayers.

Because if you stopped for even one second—if you let yourself admit how small you’d felt standing in that circle, how cold your hands had gone, how fake your laugh sounded in your own ears—you’d have to face it.

You’d have to admit that he never really saw you. That you’d written a whole love story in your head and cast him as the lead without checking if he even wanted the part.

But you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

So you walked back across campus with your charger clutched to your chest and your phone buzzing in your pocket and your face still stretched in that practiced smile.

He likes me, you thought.

He just doesn’t know how to show it.

That night, you stared at your phone longer than you should have.

No text. No message. Not even a meme.

You weren’t expecting a love letter or anything. Just… something. A thank you. A hey, good to see you. Even a dumb joke about cupcakes or trivia or your little paper crown. Anything that said he remembered yesterday—that you weren’t just a background blur in his perfect little highlight reel.

But it stayed quiet. And that quiet felt louder than anything.

Still, you didn’t let it get to you. Not completely.

You told yourself he was busy. Labs and simulations and early flight rotations. He was tired. He probably passed out the moment he got home. You even convinced yourself he might be dreaming about you. That deep down, maybe, some part of him felt it too.

Because how could he not?

He’d let you into his orbit. He didn’t have to say yes to your birthday. Didn’t have to show up, or eat your mom’s spaghetti, or sit through trivia with Ms. Evelyn correcting his answers. He could’ve laughed it off. Ghosted. But he didn’t.

That had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

And sure—he’d made jokes. In front of his friends. Stupid, careless, sharp-edged jokes that made your chest twist and your smile freeze.

But that was just… fear. Right?

Boys were dumb when they liked someone. He didn’t want to look soft. That had to be it. He was protecting himself. You’d read about it, seen it in movies. The guy always jokes too much until he realizes he’s in too deep. Until he finally looks at the girl and sees her.

So maybe he just hadn’t looked hard enough yet.

You could wait a little longer.

You’d already waited this long.

And if it hurts a little more each day… well. That was just part of falling, wasn’t it?

The days passed slower after that.

You still saw him, of course. He was hard to miss—loud laugh echoing in the hallway, flight jacket slung over one shoulder, girls looking at him like he was some walking dream. And maybe he was. Just not yours.

But you told yourself that was okay.

Because when he passed you in the quad and tossed you a half-smile, your heart still jumped. And when he sat two rows behind you in general ed and tapped his pen against the desk like he had no idea you were listening to the rhythm, you still wrote poems about it in the margins of your notebook.

You’d learned how to survive on crumbs.

When he nodded at you in passing, it became a paragraph in your head. When he said your name—even just once—you replayed it like a song. You filled in the silences with dreams. Decorated the nothing with meaning. Let him live inside your chest without paying rent.

And it wasn’t like he was cruel. Not really. He still laughed when you said something funny. Still accepted your notes when he forgot his. Still leaned just close enough for you to imagine what it would be like if he did it on purpose.

You didn’t mind that he never texted first. You didn’t mind that you always reached out. You didn’t mind that he still didn’t know your favorite color, or your middle name, or what you wanted to be after graduation.

You told yourself he’d ask. Eventually.

He just needed time.

And in the meantime, you’d keep being there. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Because the version of him that lived in your mind was warm. Sweet. Quietly in love with you in ways he just didn’t know how to show.

You weren’t delusional.

You were just patient.

It started as a normal afternoon.

You were leaving the library, arms full of books for your midterm paper, when you saw them. Jake and a few of his friends, lounging by the steps near the student center, all wearing matching flight jackets and cocky grins. They looked like they belonged in a movie—golden, loud, untouchable.

You hesitated, heart kicking up. Part of you wanted to turn around, walk the long way back. But then Jake saw you.

He waved. Waved.

So you smiled—of course you did—and made your way over, hugging your books tighter to your chest.

“Hey,” you said softly.

One of the guys leaned in, smirking. “Hey, it’s sunshine. Jake’s academic lifeline.”

You laughed, unsure if it was a compliment. “Just trying to keep him from failing.”

Another one chimed in. “Man, if I had someone do my essays and bake me cookies, I’d put a ring on it.”

You flushed. “I—I don’t bake that often. Just that one time.”

“Oh right,” the first one said, snickering. “That birthday thing. With the old people.”

Jake laughed.

You looked at him—expecting maybe a smirk, maybe a hey, knock it off. But he just shook his head and chuckled like it was all harmless fun.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “She even made me wear a party hat. Took a picture and everything.”

“She’s like a golden retriever,” someone muttered. “Loyal as hell. Always shows up.”

Another voice added, “Bet she’d help you move apartments and knit you a thank-you sweater.”

They all laughed.

You laughed, too.

But it caught in your throat.

You tried to tell yourself it was just teasing. That this was what friends did. Banter. Jokes. He wasn’t mocking you. Not really. He wasn’t trying to hurt you.

But then Jake said, “She’s a sweetheart. Can’t get rid of her, even if I tried.”

And that—that—was the line.

It felt like someone poured ice water down your spine.

You smiled. You always smiled. But your grip tightened on your books, knuckles white. And you stepped back, just slightly. Enough that none of them noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

You weren’t the joke.

You couldn’t be.

You were the girl who helped. Who stayed. Who waited for the moment he’d finally wake up and see you.

You had to be.

Because if you weren’t…then what were you?

You left before they could say anything else.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. You just laughed, said something about needing to get back to your paper, and walked away while their laughter still echoed behind you. Your smile stayed on your face until you turned the corner, until they couldn’t see you anymore.

Then it dropped.

You sat on the bench outside the language building, books stacked beside you, and stared down at your hands like they didn’t belong to you. Like if you just sat still enough, long enough, none of it would be real.

He didn’t mean it. He was just being funny. You were sweet. That wasn’t a bad thing. Right?

You tried to remember the look on his face. Had it been cruel? Mocking? Or just… blank? Neutral?

No. No, he smiled. He laughed. That meant something. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He wouldn’t.

You remembered the party hat. The picture. The way his shoulder had touched yours when your dad pulled him into that family photo. The way your puppy had licked his wrist and made him laugh, really laugh, for the first time that night.

That version of him—the one who said thank you, who ate your mom’s cooking, who let himself exist in your quiet little world—he was real, too.

Wasn’t he?

You pulled your phone out of your bag and stared at your messages.

Still nothing.

No sorry about earlier. No they were just messing around. No I didn’t mean it like that.

Just silence.

You wondered how long you’d be willing to wait for the version of Jake in your head to speak up.

And more than that…you wondered if he ever would.

You didn’t cry.

Not right away.

Instead, you took the long way home. Past the engineering wing, past the old bookstore with the chipped awning, past the bench you used to sit at when you waited for Jake to finish class. You walked until the streetlamps turned on and the sky burned soft orange at the edges, and still—you didn’t cry.

Because crying meant something was real. And if you didn’t cry, maybe none of it was.

When you got home, your mom was in the kitchen, humming off-key and stirring something in a pot that smelled like tomato and thyme. She glanced over her shoulder when you walked in, eyes bright. “Hey, birthday girl.”

You smiled. Automatically. Like muscle memory. “Hey.”

She didn’t ask where you’d been. She never did. She trusted you too much to question things like that. Or maybe she just knew when not to press. There was something about mothers—they could feel sadness like a shift in the air, but they knew when to let you keep it close.

You dropped your bag by the door and went straight to your room. Bingo padded after you, tail wagging gently, like even he could sense that something inside you had gone quiet.

You sat on the edge of your bed, stared at the framed photo on your desk—the one from your party. You in your paper crown, Jake beside you, both of your parents smiling like the sun was trapped inside that little living room.

He looked stiff in the picture. Just slightly. Like he hadn’t quite figured out how to belong in the moment. But he was there. That had to count for something.

Didn’t it?

You whispered the same excuses into the silence you’d been chanting all week. He’s just scared. He’s not used to people like me. It’s easier to laugh than to feel.

But the words felt heavier now. Like stones on your tongue.

You looked at your phone again. Still nothing.

No missed calls. No messages. Not even a heart on the post your mom made with the picture.

You curled up beneath your blanket, arms around Bingo, his soft breath steady against your ribs.

And still—you didn’t cry.

But you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

Because something inside you was beginning to whisper the thing you didn’t want to hear. The thing you’d been fighting from the very start.

Maybe he never saw you at all.

You woke up before your alarm the next morning.

Not because of anything urgent. Just because your chest felt too full to sleep, like your body was quietly trying to tell you something your heart didn’t want to hear.

The sun was barely up, casting pale streaks across your ceiling. You stared at them for a while, tracing patterns with your eyes like they might spell out something worth holding onto.

Bingo was curled against your legs, warm and snoring gently. You didn’t move.

You thought about yesterday. About Jake’s voice, sharp with laughter. About the way his friends had looked at you like you were something between a novelty and a punchline. About the smile he wore when he called you loyal.

Like that was funny.

Like that was a flaw.

You told yourself again that he didn’t mean it. That he wasn’t cruel.

But the words weren’t sitting right anymore. They didn’t settle like they used to. They turned in your stomach, prickled at the corners of your thoughts.

Because deep down, you were starting to wonder if it wasn’t about him not knowing how to show it—if it was simply that he didn’t feel it in the first place.

He liked your help. He liked your notes. He liked the way you showed up, quietly, every time he needed something and never asked for anything in return.

But you? The you who stood outside that circle and laughed too late? The you who baked and wrote and stayed up fixing his grammar and believed—so foolishly believed—that one day he might just turn around and see you?

Maybe he didn’t like her at all.

And maybe he never would.

You pressed your face into the pillow and closed your eyes, breathing slow.

No tears. Not yet.

But you felt something shift—just the smallest crack in the glass.

The first fracture of goodbye.

It was a Thursday.

You’d spent the entire night helping Jake prep for his presentation. You’d practically rewritten half his slides, fixed his transitions, even printed out a stack of flashcards he never touched. You told yourself you didn’t mind. That this was what people did for each other. That he’d do the same for you, if things were reversed.

The event was packed. The auditorium buzzing with bodies—students, instructors, even a few recruiters from the nearby base. Everyone was dressed up, polished and bright. You found a seat near the back, clutching your notebook in your lap, stomach fluttering with nerves that weren’t even yours.

Jake looked good up there—confident, composed, all charm. He owned the stage with that easy smile of his, that flyboy arrogance that always made people lean in. He ran through his slides like he’d been born to do it. Sleek, effortless, golden.

Then someone asked a question.

A tricky one—about the ethical implications of drone use in modern airspace. Jake froze for just a beat. You knew the answer. You’d written a whole section on it for him. He just had to remember the notes. The phrasing.

Instead, he laughed.

“Well,” he said into the mic, smirking toward the crowd, “I’d have a real answer for you if my PoliSci tutor hadn’t been too busy planning bake sales this week.”

Laughter erupted.

Laughter.

You blinked.

It didn’t register at first. The way his voice curled around the word tutor. The way he didn’t look at you, but the whole room knew. Someone even turned around. Looked right at you. You could feel the eyes.

You sat there frozen. Still. Not breathing.

Because he could’ve said anything else. Could’ve deflected. Could’ve joked about the weather, or made something up. But instead, he chose you. To make the crowd laugh. To win back control.

He humiliated you. Publicly. On purpose.

You felt the heat rise in your chest—not warmth, not embarrassment. Something sharper. Something almost like anger, but drowned under the weight of disbelief.

Jake just kept going. Smooth. Unbothered. He didn’t even flinch.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because you had stayed up until two in the morning making sure he didn’t fall on his face.

Because you had believed—still believed—that somewhere underneath all of that confidence was someone worth waiting for.

And now, sitting there in the back row, cheeks burning, heart sinking fast, you realized something you couldn’t un-feel.

He was never yours.

Not even close.

And you had never been his sunshine. Just his shadow.

You didn’t stay for the rest of the presentation.

You waited just long enough for the polite applause—just long enough to watch him smile and wave and bask in praise like he hadn’t just carved you open in front of fifty people.

Then you left.

You walked fast, out of the auditorium, down the hallway, out into the air that suddenly felt too sharp, too loud, too real. You didn’t know where you were going. You just had to go.

The sky was starting to turn gold, dipping into orange at the edges. Your feet carried you toward the quad without thinking, past people laughing, past someone skateboarding down the path with music blasting from a phone speaker. You moved like a ghost. Like someone only half-real.

Your stomach was hollow. Your hands were shaking.

You wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw something. Or maybe all of it at once.

Instead, you sat on a bench. Stared down at your lap. And tried to understand.

Because it wasn’t like this was new. He’d teased you before. Let his friends say things. Laughed when they made jokes that left you blinking too hard, your throat closing around the truth.

But this? This was different.

This was cruel.

And the worst part was—you knew he knew it. He’d looked right at you when he said it, even if his eyes didn’t meet yours. He knew you were there. He chose you. You’d handed him everything—your time, your effort, your loyalty—and he used it as a punchline.

You pulled out your phone.

No messages.

No apologies.

Just silence.

And maybe—for the first time—you let yourself believe it.

He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t trying to protect himself.

He just didn’t care.

He never did.

And you? You were the fool who mistook scraps for affection. Who mistook his silence for softness. Who thought that loving someone hard enough would make them see you.

You sat there until the sun dipped behind the buildings, the light fading into shadow. Bingo wasn’t with you. Your parents weren’t calling. No one was coming to find you.

And Jake?

Jake was probably still smiling.

You didn’t go to class the next day.

You told yourself you were just tired. Just needed a break. But when you passed your mirror on the way to the bathroom, you couldn’t quite meet your own eyes.

You looked small. Not in size—just in spirit. Dimmed somehow. Like someone had taken a sponge to your outline and blurred the edges.

The texts from your group chats went unanswered. A message from your professor popped up—Hope you’re okay. Let me know if you need an extension. You almost replied. You almost told the truth.

But then what would you say?

The boy I loved made me into a joke. And I let him. And now I don’t know what to do with myself.

No one prepares you for this part. Not the movies, not the books, not the Pinterest quotes about unrequited love. They don’t tell you how it feels to watch someone you cherished turn you into something disposable. Something laughable.

They don’t tell you that the worst heartbreak is the one you talked yourself into.

Because you’d defended him. Again and again. You’d brushed off every red flag, excused every offhand comment, convinced yourself that he was just scared or immature or confused. That eventually, he’d realize what you were worth.

But now?

Now you couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not after the way he laughed. Not after the way they all laughed with him. Not after he took your loyalty—your love—and used it like a stage prop, like the punchline in a joke he didn’t even bother to make clever.

It wasn’t just the humiliation.

It was the choice.

He chose to hurt you. For a laugh. For a second of charm. For nothing.

And maybe that hurt more than anything.

You sat on the edge of your bed, wrapped in a sweater you hadn’t realized was his—something he'd left in your bag weeks ago, after a group project. You stared at it for a long time, fingers curling around the fabric like it could still carry meaning.

Then, slowly, quietly, you folded it. Set it on your desk. You walked away.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But something inside you—a belief, a dream, a soft little spark—finally went out.

You didn’t tell anyone what happened.

Not your roommates. Not your parents. Not even your favorite professor, the one who always stayed after lectures to ask how you were holding up. You just kept moving. One foot in front of the other. Like muscle memory. Like sleepwalking.

But your world had shifted.

Suddenly, everything reminded you of him.

The vending machine near the library—the one where you used to catch him between classes, grinning with two granola bars and zero clue what day of the week it was. The quad bench, where you once sat side by side, your notebook in his lap and your heart in your throat. Even the smell of cologne on someone else’s jacket made your stomach twist before your brain caught up.

It was everywhere.

And nowhere.

Because for all the space he took up in your head, in your life, in your heart—he had left you with nothing. Not even a “hey, sorry.” Not even a text to explain. Like what he did didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

You wanted to hate him.

God, you wanted to.

But hate would’ve meant he still had power over you. That he still got to sit in the center of your emotions. And that felt too generous.

So instead… you began the slow work of forgetting.

You stopped opening his messages—when they came at all. You stopped checking to see if he’d be in class before you showed up. You stopped rehearsing conversations in your head where he apologized and you forgave him, tears and all, like some shitty campus romance novel.

You stopped wearing yellow. You deleted the photo from your birthday. You unfollowed his roommate. Then his sister. Then him.

It was like shedding a skin.

Painful. Awkward. Slow.

But necessary.

Because you couldn’t keep carrying him around. Not after he turned you into a caricature. Not after he fed you to a room full of strangers and laughed while you choked on your own silence.

You weren’t his sunshine.

You were a mirror. And when he looked at you, he didn’t see beauty or love or worth—he just saw his own reflection. And when it didn’t flatter him, he shattered it.

So you picked up what pieces you could.

And this time, you didn’t hand them back.

It happened on a rainy Sunday.

The kind of rain that didn’t pour—just fell soft and steady, like the sky was grieving with you. You sat in the kitchen with your mom and dad, their mugs steaming, your hands shaking as you clutched your own like a lifeline.

You didn’t know how to start. Not really.

So you just said, “I want to transfer.”

They both blinked. Looked at each other. Then back at you.

Your mom’s brows furrowed gently. “Sweetheart… is everything okay?”

You nodded. Then shook your head. Then tried again. “I just—I need to leave. This school. This place. I can’t stay here anymore.”

Your voice cracked on the last word.

Your dad leaned forward, his expression steady but kind. “Did something happen?”

You swallowed. “Not… not exactly. I just—it doesn’t feel right anymore. The program, the people, everything. I thought I was happy. I thought I knew what I wanted, but—”

You stopped, breathed, kept going.

“Can we look into transferring? Maybe… out of state?”

Your mom reached across the table, her fingers brushing yours. “Of course. If this isn’t working, we’ll figure something else out.”

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just squeezed her hand and nodded, grateful and guilty all at once. You knew it was sudden. Knew you were asking a lot. But you also knew you couldn’t stay—not in a campus where everything reminded you of him. Of who you used to be.

You wanted space. A reset. A chance to become someone else.

Or maybe not someone else—just someone more.

Your dad cleared his throat gently. “Have you thought about what you’d switch into? Or are you just looking for a new campus?”

You hesitated.

Your fingers tapped against the side of your mug, absently. A rhythm you didn’t recognize until much later.

“I’ve been thinking about something else,” you said, voice softer now. “A different path. Something more… structured. More focused.”

They didn’t press. Didn’t question. Your parents weren’t perfect, but they knew when to hold things gently. They didn’t need you to explain why you were asking. They just understood that you were.

And maybe that was enough.

Later that night, you sat by your bedroom window, listening to the rain and watching Bingo chase shadows in his sleep.

You didn’t know what came next.

But for the first time in weeks, your heart felt just a little quieter.

And beneath all the hurt, all the anger, all the shame—something else had begun to flicker.

Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe…purpose.

- Jake -

She wasn’t at the library.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Not that he’d been looking for her—he wasn’t. He was just cutting through the stacks, half a granola bar in his mouth, phone lighting up with a string of dumb texts from Coop about the weekend party. But she wasn’t there.

She was always there.

Tucked between the second and third aisles, back hunched over some worn-out political theory book, highlighter cap stuck between her teeth. Sometimes she'd wave. Sometimes she’d pretend not to see him. But she was there.

Today, the spot was empty.

He shrugged it off.

Maybe she had class. Maybe she’d finally decided to study somewhere else, like the normal students who didn’t have a desk reserved in the library by sheer force of will.

But then he didn’t see her in the quad either.

Or outside the café.

Or by the vending machine near the engineering wing where she always ended up somehow—wrong building, wrong class, always just there, arms full of papers and talking too fast about midterm deadlines like anyone else cared.

Weird.

And it got weirder when he sat down in class and the seat in the third row, second from the right, stayed empty.

That seat was never empty. Not even on days with surprise rain or fire alarms or whatever other dumb excuse half the class used to skip. She was always early. Always had a pen in her hand. Always offered him gum if he looked like he hadn’t slept.

He tapped his pencil against the desk. Checked the time.

Still nothing.

No backpack. No flash of yellow. No tired smile like she’d been up all night fixing someone else’s citations again.

He didn’t get it.

Sure, she was a little clingy. A little too available. Always orbiting a little too close. But she meant well. She always showed up. She always—

The professor started talking.

Jake blinked. Swore under his breath. His notes—he didn’t have them. She usually gave him a cheat sheet the day before. Color-coded, too. Where the hell was she?

After class, he stood outside for a beat longer than he needed to, scanning the crowd like maybe she’d just been running late. But she wasn’t there. Not in the hallway. Not by the stairs. Not on the bench where she sometimes sat reading those giant political memoirs like they were bedtime stories.

Nowhere.

It was weird.

And yeah, okay—he might be screwed if she didn’t show up by next week. He hadn’t started that ethics paper, and he sure as hell didn’t remember the case study they were supposed to cite. She usually reminded him.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

It was the quiet.

The lack of her.

He didn’t miss her. Not exactly. But the campus felt off without her in it. Like something small had shifted and he didn’t know what yet.

She’d always been around. Like background music you didn’t really notice until it stopped.

And now?

Now it was silent.

Jake didn’t know why he went.

It was almost midnight. The campus was dead quiet, the air humid and thick, streetlights glowing in broken halos as he drove without thinking—just letting muscle memory steer the wheel. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. He figured she’d be there. She always was.

Her house sat at the edge of that quiet little neighborhood near the hospital—white fence, trimmed lawn, porch light glowing like always. He parked sloppily at the curb, engine still ticking as he climbed out, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

He just knew he was tired of the weirdness. Tired of walking into class and seeing her seat empty. Tired of not getting his damn notes. Tired of whatever this was.

He rang the bell once.

No answer.

Then he knocked—harder this time, sharper, the way he did when Coop was ignoring him on purpose.

The door opened after a moment.

And there she was.

Hair tied up messily, hoodie way too big, eyes red like maybe she’d been crying. Or maybe she hadn’t slept. The living room behind her was dark except for one dim lamp. A half-empty cup of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table.

The puppy—Bingo, or whatever stupid name it had—perked up on the couch, then settled again.

She blinked at him like she couldn’t quite believe he was real. Like he was something she thought she’d finally let go of.

Jake shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, shifted his weight. “You weren’t in class.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Or the library. Or anywhere, actually,” he added, voice sharp. “Kinda hard to finish my paper when my PoliSci encyclopedia disappears off the map.”

That made her flinch—just barely—but he caught it.

Good.

She opened the door a little wider but didn’t move aside. “Why are you here, Jake?”

The way she said his name—flat, quiet, tired—itched under his skin.

“I just told you. You ghosted. No heads-up, no nothing. You think I don’t notice?”

She let out a breath. “You don’t notice anything.”

And something about that—something in her tone, in the way she looked at him like he was a stranger—lit a fuse in his chest.

“Excuse me?”

She stepped back finally, letting him in. But her body language was rigid, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.

Jake walked in, took one look around—the neatness, the warmth, the family photos—and felt like he was choking on something invisible. Something sweet. Something that didn’t belong to him.

“You’re seriously gonna act like I did something wrong?” he snapped, turning to her. “I didn’t ask you to worship the ground I walked on. I didn’t beg you to fix my papers or follow me around like a goddamn puppy.”

Her eyes widened. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t stand there and pretend you weren’t obsessed. You made yourself useful, and now you’re mad I didn’t bow down in return?”

She stared at him, mouth parted, trembling. “I cared about you.”

“Yeah?” he said, and the laugh that escaped his throat was ugly. Bitter. “Well, newsflash—I don’t owe you anything for that.”

Silence.

Thick. Ugly. Shattering.

Then—crack.

The slap hit harder than he expected.

His head jerked slightly to the side, the sting blooming hot across his cheek. He blinked, stunned—not because of the pain, but because she did it.

Her hand dropped, shaking. Her breath came out in broken gasps. Her eyes flooded instantly, fat tears slipping down her cheeks, and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know you don’t owe me anything. But I gave it anyway. Because I thought—God, I thought if I loved you quietly enough, maybe one day you’d look at me like I was real.”

Jake opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She took a shaky step back. “You don’t even know me. Not really. You don’t know what I study, what I like, what I want. You don’t know anything except how to take. And I let you.”

She wiped her face now, not to hide the tears but just to breathe.

“I let you turn me into a background character in my own life.”

He stared at her.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know why his chest was tight or why the sight of her crying in the middle of her perfectly lived-in home made his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You should go,” she said, voice flat now. Steady.

Jake took a breath, but it felt jagged.

He nodded once.

No apology.

No goodbye.

Just the echo of the door closing behind him and the knowledge that for the first time since she’d walked into his orbit—

she was done.

Jake didn’t sleep.

Not really.

He kept replaying the slap. Her voice, cracked and shaking. The way she looked at him—like he’d gutted something soft and sacred inside her, like she didn’t even recognize him anymore. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe he didn’t either.

He told himself he hadn’t meant it. Not like that. Not so sharp. Not so cruel.

But what the hell else was there to mean?

He didn’t know what he wanted when he got in his truck. He just… needed to see her. Say something. Fix it, maybe. Or at least explain.

The street was quiet when he pulled up. Morning sun creeping through the trees. Her porch looked the same—flowerpots, wind chimes, the little ceramic puppy bowl still tucked by the door. Familiar. Safe.

He stepped up and rang the bell, palms sweating.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

Her mom stood there, still in her robe, her hair pulled back, a mug of coffee in hand. She blinked, surprised. “Jake?”

He straightened. “Hi, Mrs. [Last Name]. Uh—I was wondering if… if she’s home.”

Something flickered across her face. A pause. A softness. And maybe—just maybe—a hint of regret.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she said gently, like she was about to tell him someone died. “I thought she told you.”

His heart slowed. “Told me what?”

“She transferred,” her mom said with a small, sad smile. “Packed everything and left last night. Got accepted into a program out of state. It was sudden, but… she seemed sure.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

Gone?

Just like that?

“No warning?” he asked, the question barely making it out.

She frowned faintly, looking confused. “I assumed you knew. I thought you two were close. She didn’t say much. Just that it was time. She seemed… tired. But she’s happy. I guess that’s the word.”

Jake couldn’t breathe. Not properly. He looked past her, into the house. Same furniture. Same hallway. But empty.

No yellow hoodie draped on the back of the chair. 

No stack of textbooks on the coffee table. 

No Bingo barking like a maniac at the door.

Gone.

She was really gone.

Her mom sighed and stepped aside a little, like she wasn’t sure what else to do. “I’m sorry, Jake. I wish I could tell you more. I don’t know what happened between you two, but… I hope you’re okay.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

A lie. So flat it felt like it burned.

She nodded. “Well. If you ever need anything, we’re still here. Take care, alright?”

The door closed gently. Not slamming. Not shutting him out.

But final.

Jake stood there for a full minute, staring at the place where she used to be.

She’d loved him—quietly, stupidly, endlessly.

And when he finally turned around to look?

She was already gone.

“Earth to Hangman!”

Rooster’s voice sliced through the noise, his fingers snapping twice in front of Jake’s face.

Jake blinked.

The bar snapped back into focus—glasses clinking, pool cues cracking, Penny’s voice somewhere near the jukebox calling out an order. The low thrum of a Fleetwood Mac song spun lazily through the air, mixing with the laughter of pilots who’d made it through another mission, another day.

He shifted in his seat, realizing he’d been staring at his beer for who-knew-how-long.

“Jesus, man,” Payback muttered, leaning on the bar beside him. “You looked like you were having an out-of-body experience.”

“Did you forget where you parked your ego?” Fanboy added, grinning into his drink.

Jake exhaled slowly through his nose and smirked, letting the default arrogance snap back into place like muscle memory. “Nah. Just tuning out your voice. Didn’t realize I’d need earplugs on my night off.”

“Real original,” Rooster muttered, but he was still grinning.

Phoenix rolled her eyes from across the table. “What’s the matter, Hangman? Someone finally beat you at darts? Or are you just sulking ‘cause the bartender gave your usual to someone hotter?”

“Maybe he’s thinking about someone special,” Bob said softly, then immediately flushed when everyone turned to him.

“Aww,” Fanboy teased. “You’re blushing, Bobby. You projecting or something?”

Jake laughed along with them—sharp, smooth, a little too loud.

But inside? He was still standing on that front porch, staring at a house that no longer held her.

He didn’t even remember what someone had said that triggered it. Maybe Phoenix had mentioned something about transfer paperwork. Maybe Rooster had told a story about an old friend who disappeared after college. Maybe it was nothing at all—just the sound of a voice, a chord in a song, a flash of yellow from someone’s hoodie at the bar.

Whatever it was, it hit like a sucker punch.

He hadn’t thought about her in a while. Not seriously. Not like that. He’d shoved it down—buried her between flight briefings and adrenaline highs and the praise of being the best in the sky.

But some ghosts didn’t stay buried.

Jake shook his head and raised his glass, voice smooth again. “Y’all are acting like I’ve got some dark secret. Hate to break it to you, but I’m just tired of carrying this whole squad on my back.”

The group groaned in collective protest, tossing fries at him, flipping him off, throwing more jabs his way.

He leaned back, grin practiced. Easy. Untouchable.

But he didn’t laugh this time.

Not really.

Because the truth sat there, right beneath his ribs, quiet and unshakable.

She’d been gone for years.

And he still hadn’t forgiven himself for noticing too late.

“You guys hear what Mav said earlier?” Coyote asked, nudging his beer bottle in a slow spin across the table. “About someone joining us tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix said, sitting forward. “Apparently it’s someone high up. Real decorated.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Higher rank than us, huh? What’d he say? Lieutenant Commander? Captain?”

“Didn’t say,” Payback replied. “Just said they’re experienced, important, and we better have our shit together.”

“Sounds like someone’s trying to scare us,” Fanboy joked. “What’s next? We get a briefing from a Rear Admiral with a death glare and a coffee addiction?”

Phoenix snorted. “Wouldn’t be the worst we’ve had.”

“Could be Navy Intel,” Bob added quietly. “Or maybe a specialist. Someone brought in for mission design.”

Rooster leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Or maybe it’s a Top Gun legend. Someone who makes Maverick look like a rookie.”

“Unlikely,” Hangman muttered.

But his voice was distant. Hollow.

The banter buzzed around him—jokes flying, theories stacking—but Jake had barely moved. He was still nursing the same beer, head tilted slightly, gaze locked on nothing in particular.

Because something about the way Maverick said it earlier that morning had itched at the back of Jake’s mind.

“This person’s not just smart. They’re sharp. Respected. You’ll recognize the name.”

He hadn’t thought much of it then—just another big-shot to brief them, maybe fly one or two training rounds and disappear.

But now?

Now his gut twisted.

There was something wrong about this kind of silence. The way Mav didn’t give them a name. Didn’t give them a face. And usually, when Maverick kept details under wraps like that—it meant the surprise was personal.

Very personal.

“What do you think, Hangman?” Rooster asked, kicking his boot lightly under the table. “Think we’re about to be out-ranked by some crusty war hero with a cane and a vendetta?”

Jake forced a grin. “Nah. Probably just someone with twice your IQ and a cleaner flight record.”

They all groaned and swatted at him again, but Jake barely felt the energy.

His skin prickled. A chill slithered across the back of his neck, even as the sun dipped lower outside, streaking the windows gold.

Someone important.

Someone they’d recognize.

Jake swallowed hard.

He had a bad feeling he already did.

The door creaked open with that familiar Hard Deck jingle, followed by the low rumble of boots hitting wood.

“Speak of the devil,” Rooster muttered, turning his head as four familiar faces walked in.

Harvard. Yale. Halo. Fritz.

More Top Gun grads. Tight-knit. Dangerous in the air. Trouble on the ground.

“Great,” Phoenix deadpanned. “Just when I was having fun.”

“They let you guys back in here?” Fanboy called out.

“Relax,” Halo said, lifting two fingers in mock peace as they made their way over. “We’re off-duty. For now.”

Fritz was already heading for their table, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he tossed his flight jacket over the back of a chair.

“You guys hear the rumor?” he asked, voice low, grin way too smug for comfort.

Jake raised a brow. “What rumor?”

Fritz leaned in like he was about to tell them state secrets. “About who’s coming tomorrow.”

The Dagger Squad went quiet. Not frozen—but that slow shift into alertness. Rooster set his drink down. Bob sat up straighter. Even Phoenix stopped twirling the straw in her soda.

“You know who it is?” Coyote asked.

“No name yet,” Harvard jumped in. “But they’re saying it’s someone big. Like, Navy-shifting big.”

“They said we’ll recognize the name,” Yale added, clearly enjoying the tension building in the room. “And that this person’s been operating under special orders. Off-grid. For years.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. That itch in his spine was back. Crawling now.

Fritz dropped the bomb like it was casual gossip.

“Word is—Mav might be getting replaced.”

Dead silence.

Not even the jukebox seemed to be playing anymore.

Jake blinked. “What?”

Fritz shrugged, sipping his beer. “I’m just telling you what I heard. Apparently this new arrival’s got the credentials, the combat record, and the connections. Might be coming in to evaluate Mav’s leadership. Maybe even take command.”

“No one replaces Mav,” Phoenix said flatly, but there was a beat of hesitation. “Right?”

“Unless command thinks he’s getting too soft,” Halo offered, clearly enjoying the drama.

“He’s not soft,” Rooster snapped.

“No, but,” Harvard said slowly, “he’s Maverick. Which means he pisses off every third admiral just by breathing.”

The weight of it sank in.

Someone important. Someone respected. Someone they’d recognize.

And now… maybe someone powerful enough to take Mav’s spot?

Jake’s stomach coiled.

Because suddenly this wasn’t just a name or a face.

It was someone coming to shake the cage.

Someone who’d left a scar deep enough to still ache under his skin.

Someone who disappeared before he could ever make it right.

Jake didn’t say a word.

He just stared at the melting ice in his glass.

And for the first time in a long time, Hangman didn’t feel like the guy with all the answers.

“You’re all acting like we’re getting replaced by God,” Jake said, tipping back in his chair, boots hooked on the table leg. “Relax. Whoever it is probably files paperwork better than they fly.”

“Ohh, big words from the golden boy,” Rooster muttered, raising his brows. “What if they’re better than you?”

Jake grinned, sharp and smug. “No such thing.”

“Right,” Phoenix drawled. “Because your ego wouldn’t allow it.”

“Exactly,” he said, without missing a beat.

Coyote snorted. “Okay, but think about it. What if it’s someone insane? Like ex-NSA, flew in Black Ops, has a call sign that got classified?”

Fanboy leaned forward, all dramatic. “What if it’s someone with like… seventeen confirmed kills and a face that makes grown men cry?”

“Sounds like a Disney villain,” Bob said quietly.

“I’m just saying,” Fritz added, slapping his beer down. “If they’re coming in hot enough to maybe replace Maverick, they’re not gonna be your average Top Gun grad. That’s like—nuclear level.”

“Maybe it’s Cyclone’s secret kid,” Halo said, eyes wide. “Raised on steel and shame. Sent to destroy Maverick for breaking too many rules.”

“Jesus,” Phoenix laughed. “Are we writing a soap opera now?”

Jake just smirked, but he was leaning in now—interested, if not worried.

“Whoever they are, I give it two days before they choke trying to keep up,” he said, spinning his beer bottle between two fingers. “No one flies like we do. Mav picked us for a reason.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Cocky much?”

Jake pointed. “Confident. There’s a difference.”

Harvard looked around the table. “Seriously though, y’all aren’t even a little nervous?”

There was a beat of silence.

Rooster shrugged. “I mean, it’s weird. They didn’t give us any info.”

“Exactly,” Yale said. “And Maverick’s been acting cagey.”

Jake stretched, draping his arm over the back of his chair like he didn’t have a single worry in the world. “Maybe they just want to keep us on our toes. Keep the best sharp.”

“You think they’re doing this for you, don’t you?” Phoenix asked, deadpan.

Jake shrugged. “Can’t blame ‘em. I’d want to rattle me too.”

“Man thinks he’s the main character,” Fanboy muttered.

Bob smiled into his drink. “Hangman probably hopes it’s someone he can beat in a dogfight.”

Jake leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Hope? No, Bob. I’m counting on it.”

“Imagine,” Coyote said with a laugh, “it’s some tiny person who just walks in and makes you look like a rookie.”

Jake chuckled. “The day someone walks into that hangar and out-flies me is the day I kiss Rooster’s mustache and call it destiny.”

Everyone groaned at once.

“No one asked for that mental image,” Phoenix said, covering her face.

Rooster made a gagging sound. “Try it and I’ll throw you into the ocean, Hangman.”

Jake was halfway into another cocky retort when Payback—who’d been silent for most of the conversation, nursing his drink with the patience of a man watching children self-destruct—finally spoke up.

“Y’all are doing a lot of barking for people who don’t even know who’s walking through that door tomorrow.”

The table paused.

Payback didn’t look up, just swirled the ice in his glass, like he wasn’t dropping a quiet nuke.

Phoenix blinked. “Damn, man. That was ominous as hell.”

He raised a brow. “I’m just saying. You can laugh all you want, but whoever’s coming in? Mav respects them. Enough to not tell us anything. That doesn’t sound like just a transfer to me.”

Coyote leaned back slowly. “What if they’re here to evaluate us, not just Mav?”

Bob looked mildly alarmed. “Like… as a unit?”

Fritz whistled. “What if they’re our new squad lead?”

Jake scoffed. “Mav wouldn’t do that. He’d say something.”

“Would he though?” Halo asked, sipping her beer. “If he thought it would make you fly sharper?”

“You all sound scared,” Jake said, pushing his chair back on two legs again. “Like someone’s gonna come in and kick you out of the sky.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “And you’re not?”

Jake just smirked. “Whoever it is, they’ll either learn or crash trying to keep up. I’ll give ‘em a soft landing.”

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Rooster muttered, shaking his head with a grin.

“Always,” Jake fired back, flashing that signature grin.

But Payback wasn’t done.

He finally looked up. Met Jake’s eyes—steady, unreadable.

“Sometimes the ones you don’t see coming hit the hardest.”

And just like that, the noise at the table dulled.

Jake held his gaze for a second too long before he scoffed and looked away.

“Whatever. Let ‘em come.”

But the chill down his spine didn’t leave.

Because he was Hangman. Untouchable. Unbothered. Right?

…Right?

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

The morning sun hadn’t even cleared the hangar roof when the squad assembled—flight suits zipped, dog tags tucked, postures stiff with expectation.

The detachment hangar echoed with the click of boots and murmured voices. Rooster cracked his neck. Phoenix sipped burnt coffee. Bob kept checking his clipboard even though nothing had changed. Hangman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t already calculating who was gonna blink first when the so-called legends arrived.

And then—Warlock stepped in.

The room straightened like one body.

He moved like a man who didn’t waste steps. Every inch of his uniform was razor-cut perfection, ribbons gleaming in the gray light. His eyes swept over the group, sharp and unreadable.

“Good morning, aviators,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “At ease.”

A collective breath released.

Warlock stood at the front like he owned the silence. His hands clasped behind his back. His tone steady—but heavy.

“You’ve all been called back for one reason,” he began. “Because you’re the best. Because you were trained by the best. And because the Navy needs you—again.”

He paused just long enough to let the weight of it settle. No one moved. No one spoke.

Jake resisted the urge to yawn, but even he couldn’t fake indifference. Not with the way Warlock’s voice carried now—like something big was shifting.

“Today, we’re joined by a unit the Navy considers indispensable. Specialists. Graduates of Top Gun, yes—but far more than that.”

Heads tilted. Eyes flicked sideways.

Warlock didn’t budge.

“They’ve served internationally. Led black ops we’ll never read about. Advised on global defense protocols. Trained squadrons on three continents. And most recently—hand-selected by Pentagon leadership to support strategic restructure initiatives across branches.”

Jake blinked. That wasn’t just credentials. That was… another league.

“They’re not here to replace you,” Warlock continued. “But they are here with purpose. Consider them embedded observers. Tactical partners. And yes—commanding officers.”

A visible shift rippled through the squad.

Bob stiffened.

Coyote muttered something under his breath.

Phoenix’s jaw tightened.

Jake? He furrowed his brow just slightly, arms still crossed. Higher rank. Embedded. Top Gun grads. Tactical partners?

Before he could piece it together, Warlock turned slightly—and in stepped three figures.

They walked in with the kind of silence that screamed power. Perfect posture. Eyes forward. No smiles. No introductions.

Two men. One woman.

Flight suits. Command patches. No unnecessary flair—but something about their presence made even Rooster straighten taller.

They took their seats without a word.

Warlock nodded once, then turned back to the squad.

“You’ll work with them. You’ll learn from them. And you’ll fly like your life depends on it—because soon, it just might.”

He stepped aside.

Silence.

Chairs scraped as the Dagger Squad slowly sat down, still side-eyeing the new arrivals like they were bombs waiting to detonate.

Jake leaned back in his seat, jaw tight.

Who the hell were they?

And why did something in his chest feel like it was getting ready to collapse?

He didn’t know yet.

But he was about to.

The steel doors groaned open again.

And then he appeared—Cyclone, in full dress blues, cap under one arm, face carved from stone.

The air changed the second he entered. Warlock shifted subtly to the side. Hondo straightened where he stood near the back, arms folded. And Maverick—late as always—stepped in behind them, as if he'd known exactly when to arrive without being told.

Jake saw Rooster tense beside him. Phoenix didn’t even blink. Everyone knew what it meant when Cyclone entered with that face.

The storm was already rolling.

Cyclone stepped forward, taking his place beside Warlock and in full view of the squad. His gaze swept over them once, sharp and slow.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he said, voice like gravel and steel. “The individuals you see seated beside you hold higher rank, more hours logged, and more confirmed kills than most of you combined.”

He paused. No one breathed.

“They have led squadrons into classified airspace. They have written protocols you use. And they have the authority to overrule damn near every one of you—including your training officer.”

His eyes flicked sideways, right at Maverick.

Jake swore he saw Mav smirk. The man had no sense of self-preservation.

Cyclone turned back to the room. “So, if any of you feel the need to crack jokes, roll your eyes, or question why these officers are here, I suggest you stow it. You will address them with respect. You will fly when they say fly. And if you embarrass this detachment—God help you.”

His words landed like blades.

Jake leaned back slightly, finally pulling his arms off his chest. There was no charm slick enough to wriggle past that tone. Not from Cyclone.

Still, he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

Maverick stepped forward, casual as ever, his hands clasped behind his back. He was in his flight suit already—dog tags glinting, expression calm.

“Appreciate the warning, sir,” Mav said with that cool, confident lilt. “But I think you’ll find this group learns faster when they’re not being barked at.”

Cyclone sighed. “Maverick.”

“Hondo,” Mav said, ignoring him, nodding toward the man standing nearby.

“Captain,” Hondo greeted, trying not to smile.

Maverick turned to face the squad now, taking center stage like it was second nature.

Jake watched him closely—because if there was anyone who could casually deliver a speech while standing in a pressure cooker, it was Maverick.

“I know you’ve all been wondering who’s joining us,” he started, voice steady. “I won’t lie—when I heard the Navy was embedding them, I had questions too.”

He glanced toward the three seated officers, not in challenge—but in something closer to... respect. Maybe even wariness.

“These aren’t rookies. They’re not here to play nice or hand out gold stars. They're here because the Navy wants results.”

Another pause.

“They’re also not here to replace me,” he added lightly, though the smile that tugged at his mouth was short-lived. “But don’t let that stop you from trying to outfly them.”

A few of the pilots chuckled under their breath.

Maverick took another step forward. “You’ll be flying tighter. Harder. And faster than you’ve flown in months. You’ll be critiqued. Corrected. Maybe outmatched.”

He looked straight at Hangman now.

Jake’s spine locked, jaw tightening instinctively.

“And if that bruises your ego,” Mav finished, “then I suggest you start building some calluses.”

He nodded once, then stepped back in line beside Warlock and Hondo.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was coiled.

Every pilot in that hangar knew something had just shifted.

Three strangers. Higher rank. Total silence.

And tomorrow? The games began.

Jake didn’t know who they were. Didn’t know why they were here. Didn’t know what they were capable of.

But damn if he wasn’t ready to prove he was still the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Whoever they were—he’d make them blink first.

Cyclone took a step forward, squaring his shoulders like the weight of the Navy rested neatly across his spine—and maybe it did.

“You’ve all been through Top Gun,” he said, voice precise, unwavering. “You’ve flown against the best. You’ve survived the impossible. And most of you carry that like it’s enough.”

The room held still. Not a fidget. Not a breath out of place.

Jake’s smirk had vanished. His hands now rested on his knees, back ramrod straight, eyes forward. He knew this tone. This was the serious Cyclone. No theatrics. No margin for error.

“But surviving once doesn’t make you infallible,” the admiral continued, eyes sweeping across the squad. “Flying one mission doesn’t make you elite forever. The world doesn’t stop because you made it home.”

His voice dropped slightly, the edge hardening.

“Which is why the Navy doesn’t just want warriors in the air. We want tacticians. Innovators. People who don’t wait for orders—they anticipate them.”

Cyclone’s gaze locked briefly with Phoenix, then Fanboy, then Jake. A slow assessment. A subtle challenge.

“These individuals—our guests—represent a standard that goes beyond what you’ve known. Their mission history is sealed. Their ranks earned in blood and black ink. They’ve served in joint task forces across the globe. And above all—”

The heavy hangar doors creaked open behind them.

Loud. Slow. A deliberate sound that echoed off the walls like a warning bell.

Jake heard it.

They all did.

But no one turned around.

Not even Rooster—who turned at everything.

Because Cyclone was still talking. And when an admiral is speaking, you don’t break rank to look behind you. Not unless you’re ready to kiss your wings goodbye.

Jake’s heart picked up speed anyway. That itch again, low in his ribs. The kind that said something wasn’t normal.

Cyclone barely paused at the interruption. Not a glance back. Not even a tick in his tone.

He just kept going—like he knew who was behind them.

“They hold the trust of Joint Command. They’ve written policy most of you don’t even realize you’re following. And tomorrow—they’ll fly with you.”

Another pause.

Jake felt it. That burn at the back of his neck. That presence behind him. Footsteps soft, intentional. Three shadows crossing the threshold like ghosts.

Still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t breathe.

Cyclone’s voice, still steady, cut through the moment like a scalpel.

“Until they introduce themselves—they don’t owe you anything. Not a name. Not a smile. Not even a nod.”

The squad sat frozen.

And somewhere behind them, three chairs were pulled out.

Three seats filled.

Jake’s jaw twitched.

He still didn’t know what was coming.

But whatever it was?

It just walked into the room.

Cyclone’s gaze swept the hangar once more, the kind of gaze that made even seasoned pilots sit straighter. His voice carried clean across the open space, no microphone needed.

“You’ve all heard rumors,” he said, every syllable sharpened like a blade. “Today, those rumors meet reality.”

No one moved. Even the restless ones—Harvard, Fritz, Coyote—were locked in, eyes forward, spines tight. Maverick stood at the side now, arms folded, silent but watchful. Jake could feel the tension spiderwebbing through the room, subtle but unmistakable, pulling at his nerves like a thread.

“These three officers are not here to be your mentors, nor your friends,” Cyclone continued. “They’ve been assigned joint operational authority, and they’ve seen more combat, managed more pilots, and rewritten more doctrine than most of you will in your entire careers.”

Jake didn’t blink. He wanted to scoff—wanted to—but something about the admiral’s tone made even his usual sarcasm stick like stone in his throat.

Cyclone took a breath. “First—Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer. Call sign: Jinx.”

One of the seated officers stood, his movements smooth and economical. Jinx had the air of a man who didn’t need to try hard to be the smartest in the room—he just was. His dark hair was trimmed regulation-short, his jaw shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble, and his stare—sharp, cool, unreadable—swept across the squad like a surgical light.

“Mercer’s logged thousands of hours in foreign airspace. Tactical infiltration, stealth coordination, and psychological pattern disruption. He’s the pilot we send in when the map doesn’t work anymore,” Cyclone said. “He’s also ranked top-five in split-second tactical reversals—don’t bother trying to beat him in a turn.”

Jinx gave a single, small nod, then stepped aside and stood off to the left. The air around him felt colder somehow, like he carried a different pressure system with him.

Cyclone didn’t wait for the tension to ease.

“Second,” he said, with a slight nod toward the remaining seated officer, “Commander Theo Hale. Call sign: Ruin.”

Ruin stood slowly. Where Jinx was precision, Hale was presence. Broader, older, his eyes were shadowed but watchful, like someone who had lived through too many things and survived them all. His steps were deliberate as he moved to stand beside Jinx, shoulders squared and arms loosely folded.

“Ruin has led recovery and retaliation ops across three continents. He has extracted downed pilots under live fire, and when protocol fails, he writes new ones in the field,” Cyclone said, his tone unwavering. “If the mission falls apart, this is the man they call to put the pieces back together—or destroy what’s left.”

No response. No smirk. Just a subtle nod of acknowledgment from Ruin, his gaze sweeping the squad like he was already calculating who wouldn’t make it through.

Jake exhaled through his nose, slowly. These weren’t just good pilots. These were ghosts. Legends in uniform. Men the Navy brought in when everything else had already gone to hell.

And then—Cyclone’s posture shifted just slightly.

“And finally,” he said, a new edge entering his tone, “Commander (Your Name) (Last Name). Call sign: Rogue.”

She stood.

Jake’s stomach dropped before he understood why.

The sound of her boots hitting the floor was sharp and clean, cutting through the quiet like a blade. She didn’t move like someone trying to impress a room. She moved like someone who already owned it. Her chin was high, her flight suit immaculate, and her eyes—god, her eyes—didn’t flicker once as she stepped into the center light.

It was her.

The girl he used to forget. The one he barely noticed.

The one who used to bring him coffee and flashcards and nervous laughter—and now looked like she could order a missile strike with one raised eyebrow.

Jake’s lungs stalled. She didn’t even glance at him.

Cyclone kept going. “Rogue is the Navy’s youngest strategic operations commander. Her combat and advisory records are protected under restricted access codes. She’s been stationed on black-zone carriers, coordinated global strike exercises, and earned her Distinguished Service Medal at twenty-eight.”

No one in the room moved. Jake didn’t even realize his jaw was tight until his teeth ached.

“She will be your senior embedded officer,” Cyclone finished. “Any decisions she makes regarding your performance, readiness, or flight status are final. You will address her as Commander or Rogue—and you will not underestimate her.”

She stood between Ruin and Jinx like she belonged there. Like she’d never been anyone else.

And Jake?

Jake sat still, watching her like a ghost had just climbed out of his past and took command of his entire world.

She didn’t even blink.

Jake didn’t hear the rest of Cyclone’s words. Didn’t register the murmurs rolling through the squad, didn’t flinch at the subtle creak of Maverick crossing his arms beside Warlock. The buzz of conversation had faded to a low hum in the back of his skull.

He was staring at her.

Eyes locked like a target he didn’t mean to track. Muscles tight. Breath slow. Something in his chest had gone still, caught between memory and disbelief.

She stood there—Commander Rogue—like she belonged in the middle of war stories and classified briefings. Like she’d never once blushed under library lighting or stumbled through a birthday invite with homemade cookies wrapped in tissue paper. The girl he remembered had notebooks stained with highlighter and coffee rings, a shy smile, and the kind of laugh that didn’t know how to hide its hope.

This woman? She had fire in her spine and stars on her collar. And not once—not for a single second—did she look at him.

Jake’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t move.

She hadn’t even blinked in his direction. Hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t done a double take. And that, somehow, was the worst part.

Because Jake Seresin—cocky, charming, always two steps ahead—was suddenly just a face in the crowd.

He tried to tell himself it was shock. That it didn’t mean anything. That he didn’t care.

But the truth settled low in his gut like a weight he hadn’t noticed until now. She didn’t look nervous. Or awkward. Or out of place. She didn’t look like the girl who used to wait for him outside lecture halls with hopeful eyes.

She looked like she’d forgotten him.

And maybe that was the part that stung the most. Not that she was different, not that she outranked him now. But that she didn’t even need to look twice.

Commander Rogue.

The girl who once waited for him.

Now the woman who walked right past.

She hadn’t changed. And yet—she had.

Jake couldn’t stop staring, his gaze tracing over every sharp line, every familiar curve turned foreign under the weight of time. Her jaw was more defined now, no longer soft with youth but set with quiet strength. Her shoulders, squared with practiced discipline, didn’t carry the same hesitant curve they once had when she’d shrink beneath his sideways glances. No oversized hoodie. No spiral-bound notebook pressed to her chest. Just a flight suit, clean and creased, and a calmness that didn’t bend.

Her hair was pinned back, neat and strict beneath her regulation cap, but he could still remember the way it used to fall in front of her face when she leaned over his laptop to edit his papers for him. She had that same tilt to her head, that same posture of control—but now it wasn’t shy, it was sharp. Deliberate.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked unshakable.

Jake’s eyes narrowed just slightly, disbelief curling in his gut like a slow burn. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t her. Maybe it was just the name. People shared names all the time—right? He’d probably met three Ashleys last week alone. Could be coincidence. Could be nothing.

But then—

Then there was the way she stood.

That little pause in her step before Cyclone said her name, the same way she used to freeze when her name was called in class, like her brain had to double-check that someone was actually saying it. That subtle bite of her bottom lip—she still did that. A nervous tell. The same one she had when she handed him a flash drive with his project already formatted because “you always forget the citations, Jake.”

God.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, slowly, like it might smother the memory.

It had to be her.

But how? How the hell had she gone from PoliSci major with trembling hands and wide eyes to Commander Rogue?

And why did his chest feel so damn tight?

Jake sat there, stunned, every excuse he reached for slipping like oil through his fingers. Maybe she wasn’t the same girl. Maybe she was just someone who looked like her. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. His mind was good at rewriting stories when they made him look bad. But this?

This wasn’t a story.

She was real.

She was right in front of him.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

Jake was still staring.

Still trying to force logic into something that had none. His brain looped through possibilities like they were checklists: Same name, maybe. Long-lost cousin, maybe. Government clone, hell, maybe. Anything to explain the impossible without confronting what was staring him in the face.

Then—right beside him—Rooster leaned slightly in his seat and muttered under his breath with a low, impressed whistle.

“God,” he said, barely above a whisper, “she’s hot.”

Jake snapped his head toward him so fast his neck popped.

“What did you just say?”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Or maybe he did mean them that sharp.

Rooster blinked, caught off guard, eyes narrowing like Jake had just challenged him over the last wing at the Hard Deck. “What, man? I said she’s hot. It’s not a crime.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a moment, he almost replied with something stupid. Something defensive. Something that would've given everything away.

But before he could speak, a voice cut through the hangar like a whipcrack.

“Lieutenants.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Commander Ruin’s voice had that same weight a teacher used when they’d caught a student mid-eye roll during a lecture. Cold. Controlled. Designed to humiliate you just enough.

Jake turned his head slowly, along with Rooster and half the squad, all trying to act like they hadn’t just been called out in front of literal legends.

Ruin hadn’t moved from his place at the front, arms folded neatly across his chest, expression unreadable.

“If the conversation is more engaging than the briefing,” Ruin said, cool and clipped, “you’re welcome to step outside and discuss your thoughts where you’re not wasting our time.”

Jake felt the flush crawl up his neck immediately.

Phoenix gave a low whistle under her breath beside them, not even trying to hide her grin. Payback muttered something that sounded like “oof,” and Coyote leaned away like he didn’t want to be associated with any of them.

Jake didn’t say a word.

Neither did Rooster.

But the heat in Jake’s ears had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

And when his eyes flicked back to Rogue—Commander Rogue—she still wasn’t looking at him.

Didn’t even smirk.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she heard any of it.

That, somehow, burned the worst of all.

Then, Commander Hale stepped forward with the unhurried, unshakable calm of someone who’d walked through real fire and didn’t flinch at smoke anymore. His boots echoed across the hangar floor—solid, heavy—until he came to a stop dead center in front of the squad. Arms still folded. Back impossibly straight. Eyes locked forward.

The kind of posture that said I don’t need your respect. I already earned it years ago.

Jake studied him carefully now, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t not. There was something about the man—something still, like a mountain before an avalanche. He wasn’t big in a showy way. He didn’t posture. Didn’t sneer. But you felt him in the room, in the same way you felt an approaching storm behind glass.

“My name is Commander Theo Hale,” he said, voice low but clear. “Call sign Ruin.”

He let that settle.

Not a flicker of emotion in his face. Not a blink.

“You’ve already been told what I’ve done, where I’ve flown, and what it means to work with me,” he continued. “None of that matters here unless you give me a reason to believe you belong in the air with us.”

A few seats shifted. No one dared speak.

Jake didn’t move. He felt the words sink beneath his skin like hooks. Belong in the air with us. As if they were a tier above—and maybe they were.

Ruin paced forward a step, slow and methodical, eyes scanning the rows like he was weighing each soul inside them.

“I’m not here to babysit. I’m not here to lecture. I don’t care about your reputations, your bar fights, or your daddy issues. I care about results. I care about the people who will come home because of how tight your formation flies.”

He stopped. His gaze caught Jake’s for half a second—and it didn’t falter.

“If that doesn’t interest you?” Ruin said, voice suddenly sharper, “Let us know now. We’ll make room for someone who still gives a damn.”

Silence.

He nodded once, curt and clean, then stepped back beside Rogue and Jinx, hands behind his back.

Jake let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

One down.

Two to go.

Commander Mercer stepped forward with a slower ease than Ruin, but no less authority. Where Ruin moved like a warpath waiting to happen, Jinx moved like he was already three steps ahead of the rest of the room and didn’t feel the need to brag about it.

He stood tall, hands clasped loosely behind his back, jaw relaxed, eyes half-lidded in that quiet, analytical way that made Jake immediately wary. There was no bark to him—just that deadly stillness some pilots had when they didn’t need noise to command a storm.

“Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate, and unshaken. “Call sign Jinx.”

He didn’t follow it up with credentials. Didn’t rattle off medals or deployments. He let his name and tone carry the weight—and it did.

“I’ve flown combat missions in seven countries and trained with five different air forces. If you’re in the air with me, you won’t need to guess what I’m thinking.”

His gaze slid over the squad like he was scanning data points instead of people. Not judgmental. Not cruel. Just thorough.

“If I give you a command, it’s not a suggestion. If I give you silence, it’s on purpose. I expect you to listen. I expect you to think.”

There was no heat behind it, no raised volume. Just certainty. Control so quiet it left no room to argue.

“I’m not here to be your enemy,” he said. “But I won’t waste time convincing you of something you should already know.”

He paused. Let that hang in the air like static.

“I trust skill. I trust clarity. I trust decisions made in less than three seconds. If you can’t handle that, step back before you waste my time—or worse, get someone else killed.”

Jake’s throat tightened slightly. He wasn’t scared of this guy. But he respected him, instantly and absolutely.

Jinx gave one final, silent nod, then stepped back into place beside Ruin.

Two down.

Jake felt it coming.

The last voice.

The one he wasn’t ready to hear.

She stepped forward.

Not a twitch of hesitation in her spine, not a flicker of uncertainty across her face. Commander (Last Name)—no, Rogue—moved like someone who’d learned long ago that power wasn’t about volume. It was about presence. And she carried it in spades.

Jake’s eyes followed her like they were wired to. Like he couldn’t look away even if he tried. His hands flexed against his thighs. Her boots clicked once against the concrete and then silence fell again, heavy as a stormfront.

She stood at the center, posture perfect, chin level, her hands at ease behind her back. There was a stillness about her that made the air feel heavier. And when she spoke, her voice didn’t crack or rise—it settled, clean and even, like a scalpel being drawn.

“I’m Commander (Your Name) (Last Name), call sign Rogue.”

She let it breathe. Let the name hang in the air for a moment. The confidence in her tone wasn’t rehearsed. It was worn-in. Lived-in. Like it had been forged in pressure and held together with purpose.

“I don’t care where you came from or how many hours you’ve logged. That’s not what earns you a place here.”

She glanced across the squad as she spoke. Not pausing. Not blinking. Not lingering long enough to give anyone more weight than the next. Not even him.

“You’ll earn your spot in the air. In the comms. In the debrief. You’ll earn it when you show me that you’re not just flying to prove something, but flying to protect something. If your pride’s more important than your team, don’t get in my formation.”

Her eyes flicked for a second—brief, surgical—toward the row where Jake sat.

Then away again.

And he was hit with that same damn ache, sharp and hot in his ribs, the kind that didn’t leave bruises but ought to.

“Some of you might remember my name,” she said, with the faintest curve of something that could’ve been a smirk—but wasn’t. “Some of you won’t. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you hear it now, and you understand one thing.”

Her shoulders drew back, her gaze hardening just slightly.

“I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to make sure you survive.”

And that was it.

She stepped back beside Jinx and Ruin without fanfare, without waiting for a reaction. Like she hadn’t just split open the sky and walked out of the thunder.

Jake stared at her like he’d been punched.

Because for the first time in a long damn time, he had no idea what to say.

Warlock stepped forward, the calm after the thunder. His voice didn’t boom—it didn’t need to. It rolled across the hangar like it belonged there, measured and precise, carrying the weight of authority without ever sounding forced. “That concludes introductions,” he said, his tone level, eyes sweeping over the squad like he was checking for cracked composure.

“These officers will be part of your detachment for the foreseeable future. You will respect their rank, follow their lead when instructed, and if you’re smart, you’ll learn something from them while you can.” No one nodded. No one dared breathe too loudly. Jake barely blinked. He kept his jaw tight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes locked forward—mostly. Not quite on her, not anymore. But close.

Warlock gave a final nod to Maverick, then turned. Cyclone followed a beat after, posture as stiff and unreadable as ever. And then they were leaving—Warlock, Cyclone, Ruin, Jinx... and Rogue. She didn’t look back. Not once. She didn’t glance at Jake, didn’t even skim the row of stunned pilots like she needed their approval. She walked out the same way she entered: like the room had already been warned.

Jake watched her until the doors eased shut behind them. The second they did, he let out a slow breath through his nose—but even that felt like weakness. He was still trying to find his footing when Maverick stepped forward.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Maverick said, hands on his hips, aviators glinting in the overhead light. “You’re not dismissed yet.”

Groans rippled lightly across the group. Fritz let his head roll back. Coyote muttered something about needing a damn minute. And Rooster—Rooster leaned sideways with that half-stupid, half-lovesick grin curling on his face.

“Rogue,” he said under his breath, low enough that he thought no one heard him. “She’s something else.”

Jake’s head turned, just enough to catch it. Just enough for his stomach to twist, tight and fast.

“Dial it back,” he muttered, voice flat but sharp enough to slice. “You’re drooling.”

Rooster blinked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “What? I said she’s impressive. Don’t have to act like I proposed.”

But Jake didn’t respond. He just looked forward again, jaw tight. Something bitter sat under his tongue, and for once, he didn’t have a clever line to spit it out. Rogue was gone. Out the door, out of reach, and yet somehow—still everywhere.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

The silence that lingered after the doors shut behind the three commanders was thick enough to choke on. It wasn’t the stunned, respectful kind. It was the kind of silence where no one wanted to be the first idiot to speak and break whatever spell had just been cast.

Of course, Rooster broke it anyway.

“Rogue,” he said again, like the name had settled in his mouth too sweet to spit out. “That’s a damn call sign. She’s got presence. You see the way she walked? I didn’t even know I liked getting yelled at by women until—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Phoenix muttered, rubbing her hands down her face.

“I’m just saying,” Rooster went on, undeterred, “she commands a room. Not just anyone gets that kind of intro. And did you see the way she looked at—”

Jake cut in, sharper than intended. “She didn’t look at anyone.”

That earned him a glance from half the squad. Rooster raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised at the edge in Jake’s voice, but he didn’t push it.

Before anyone else could jump in, Maverick stepped up to the front, arms crossed, clearly amused by the nervous buzz hanging in the air. “Alright,” he said, drawing everyone’s attention back, “while you all recover from your collective ego bruising, we’re still on schedule. Sim runs this afternoon. Live maneuvers tomorrow. That hasn’t changed.”

Coyote groaned. “You’re telling us we’ve gotta fly after that?”

Maverick shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think command cares if your pride’s hurt?”

“Mine’s not hurt,” Jake blurted, voice rising slightly. “I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling hotter than he wanted. “I mean, what the hell, Mav. Who are they? Especially her—you don’t just drop someone like that in here without warning.”

Maverick looked at him, unreadable behind those damn aviators. “You’ll find out in time, Lieutenant.”

Jake’s jaw ticked. “That’s not a real answer.”

Hondo, who’d been standing silently at Maverick’s side, finally spoke, his tone light but knowing. “Neither’s that attitude, son.”

The rest of the squad chuckled, the tension breaking just slightly, but Jake didn’t join them. He crossed his arms, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the spot Rogue had been standing just minutes ago. She hadn’t looked at him once. Not when she walked in. Not when she spoke. Not even when Rooster practically drooled on the floor beside him.

And now she is gone again.

But this time, she’d left a crater.

Jake wasn’t listening to a damn thing anymore.

Maverick had started outlining the rest of the day's schedule—some nonsense about sim rotations, recalibration drills, airspace protocols. Jake heard the words, sure, but none of them stuck. Not when Rooster, two seats down, was still mumbling like a man freshly baptized.

“She was just—” Rooster exhaled hard, running a hand down his face like he was trying to cool himself off. “That voice? That stare? I think I blacked out a little. I didn’t know it was possible to feel both terrified and turned on at the same time.”

Jake rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Rooster didn’t even flinch. “Worth it.”

Phoenix groaned. “You’re gonna get court-martialed for simping.”

“Gladly,” Rooster shot back. “I’ll hand over my wings if she tells me to kneel.”

“That’s enough,” Jake snapped, louder than intended.

The squad quieted for a beat, all heads turning toward him. Maverick arched an eyebrow, clearly clocking the sudden shift, and Hondo gave him a slow side-eye like damn, someone struck a nerve.

Jake forced a smirk onto his face, even though it felt brittle. “I mean, come on. You’re all acting like this is the first time you’ve seen someone with rank and a decent jawline.”

Payback snorted. “That wasn’t just rank, bro. That was presence.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Yale added. “Straight-up cold steel.”

Jake clenched his jaw.

Because they were right.

She hadn’t blinked. She hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t spared him a glance.

And Jake Seresin, Lieutenant and golden boy of the skies, was sitting there feeling like a ghost in his own story.

Rooster let out another dreamy sigh, tipping his head back. “God, I hope she yells at me.”

Jake didn’t say a word. He just stared straight ahead, arms crossed, pulse ticking in his throat like a warning. Because he knew what was coming.

Tomorrow, they'll be flying with her.

And tomorrow, for the first time in a long damn time, he might be the one falling behind.

[serenity-loves-red]

IT STARTED WITH THE CAT DISTRIBUTION SYSTEM

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. (Current)

Cat distribution system featuring Phainon.

In which• The Deliverer of Amphoreus is suddenly transported to your home as a cat.

Since your classes for today was canceled, you decided to spend time home and relax. Instead of waking up quite early, this time, you woke up around near noon when you felt something paw in your face following a small fluffy body with its head resting on your neck.

You slowly opened your eyes, and as expected, you saw Blue cuddled to your chest. He gave you a cute meow when he saw you awake, albeit eyes still fogged sleep.

You noticed that he seems to like waking you up like this. Either peppering kitten licks to your face or resting his whole body cuddle to your chest. No in between.

Blue is also really considerate. When you don’t have early classes, he lets you sleep in and won’t disturb you until near noon.

You’ve already established and accepted that he isn’t like some normal cat you’d see outside. He can understand you really really well that at first, you thought it as some kind of funny coincidence but as it keeps happening, you slowly accepted that it isn’t.

You just think that he’s special to make it plausible. It’s better to accept than get crazy thinking too much about it. Besides, you feel more amused than scared to be honest. Blue is like some kind of human trapped inside a cat’s body.

And as much as you want to think so, that’s just sounds impossible. Unless if they are cursed or something. Or some cosmic being at play.

Blue gave you another meow that finally took the last bits of sleep from your eyes. You slowly got up, moving your head sideways to check for your other companion.

You remembered them sleeping at your room last night. Blue slept cuddled in your chest while Princess lay somewhere at the floor. You tried to lay him at your bed but he didn’t bulged. He let out some small whines and whimpers instead, tucking his head underneath your bed when you tried to carry him over.

You didn’t saw Princess anywhere your in room. Rather, you saw him sitting at the pillows in your couch, staring blankly. When you called him over, you saw him flinch and didn’t make any eye contact.

Princess has been behaving like that after you bath him last night, just like Blue when you first bathed him.

Thinking about it, who would have thought that Princess isn’t some Princess like you thought him out to be.

Imagine your surprise when you were able to finally subdue the orange ball of fur–he packed a fight for someone as small as him, when you felt some firm, oval shaped structure– about the size of a grape in his rear as you washed his body.

You felt Princess–can you still call him that?- stiffen in your arms, letting out a high pitched bark and before turning limp in your arms.

“Oh…” you trailed out. Did you just misgendered your dog?

“So Princess isn’t a Princess hm?” You said amused. “Princess is still a lovely name so we don’t have to change that.”

That was the scariest thing Mydei felt in his whole life. The hardest battle he’d fought but had lost to. No amount of pets or affection can easily sway him! Don’t worry, he’ll just come around.

He may be in a body of a fluffy canine, he is still in his right mind to feel scandalized and horrified.

Mydei tried to comfort himself. At least he wasn’t the only one who experienced this. The Deliverer must’ve been at this situation too at some point. Besides this is just a bath. What’s worse that could happen?

You never knew how traumatized Mydei and Phainon felt that time. If you did, that’ll be around by the time they are back to normal and you would rather jump on the nearest building than let them remind you what crazy things you’ve done.

Alas, seeing Princess clearly still uncomfortable, you left him alone and make yourself some breakfast.

If he is that similar to Blue, then you supposed he can understand and retained some degree of human intelligence.

Damn, just what kind of luck did you have to get pets like these?

And before you forget, you did make some vet appointment for tomorrow, didn’t you?

Just how bad will that be?

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

The stranger- Yandere husband??? x fem reader

Contains - minor smut, obsessive behaviour, corporeal horrors, body horror, neglect.

You are starting to think the man in your home isn't your husband.

It was the night after your wedding when he left to go to war, you looked up at him as he stood beside the bed fastening his armour while you covered your bare chest with the sheets. Neither of you spoke a word to each other. You still remember your thighs were sticky with his spend, and it was as though he looked everywhere in the room but at your direction. The wedding itself felt like a farce, he only needed someone to maintain his estate in his absence, picking the daughter of one of his vassals to do the job. You only spoke one sentence to him in the glow of your room before he left.

“Would you like me to give you a token?” You were still bright eyed and used to novels of courtly love. Naive enough to believe that if he didn't love you yet he would at least have respect for you as his wife.

The only thing he met you with was a grimace “Why would I want something like that?” He muttered before closing the door behind him. Leaving you there in the dark unsure if you did anything to upset him.

That was three years ago, now with the war over and all the men returning you heard stories about men returning changed from war. Quiet and unable to handle loud noises, or volatile and quick to blows. But you heard nothing about a man who once felt nothing for his wife returning home full of love.

In all the years he's been gone he's never written to you, never asked after you. The man who returned however sought you out firstly, took you in just arms with a passion you thought only existed inside those novels you long abandoned as lies. And you wanted to believe it, wanted so much to be deserving of the love you always wanted. Until you noticed some things-

His eyes flickering between colours from the start to the end of the day. Moments when his features just looked wrong on his face, slightly off angle and misplaced. Or when you'd wake late at night, turning over to your side and freezing when you'd see a void where his teeth should be. But most of all, it was his newfound gentleness, following you throughout his day without caring for the household. The way he'd hold you to him at night, gentle as he pistons in and of you, asking reassurance for your comfort, wanting to make sure you're not in pain. How he'd have you cum over and over before he would allow himself release. when your wedding night was a stab of pain, and a handful of grunts over in five minutes before he abandoned you. This cannot be the same man.

You've taken to superstitions hoping they would help. Spending hours in the temple only for him to cross the threshold and find you. Keeping salt in your pockets but he'd still have his hands all over you. The only thing you haven't tried yet was silver until you spotted him through the keyhole, cracking in two before forming himself back again. Dressing up in the skin of your husband as though it's an evening suit.

With only the moon as your witness you hold the blade carefully above his heart, it would only take one push and then the thing masquerading as your husband would reveal himself. He is beautiful in his sleep. But with the beauty of a statue, an imitation of life from the perspective of an outsider looking in. You thrust the knife down- only to be interrupted with one eye opening.

“Why can't you just be satisfied with this?” The cloying affection is finally dropped from his voice as he grabs at the knife you hold against him. “He wanted nothing to do with you but here you are, unwilling to accept all the love i have to show you,” blood drips down his palm and onto his sleep shirt, falling in thick black drops.

“What are you?” you cry out “You've stolen my husband's face and wear it for what purpose?” you try to push the knife deeper but his grip blocks you before you can break flesh or what constitutes his flesh.

“I am someone who can take any shape I wish, I took your husband's face because I quite enjoyed the life he led in his memories. Nobels always lead the most fun ones, and they tend to die easily in battle so it's rather easy to switch skins from one man to the next”. He smiles and you could swear his teeth become sharp. “Normally I'm quick to switch my interest, but how could anyone grow tired of a life with you?” His hands move, pinnng you underneath him, staining the shoulders of your gown black with his mud like blood.

“I tried for you, I read those books you hid beneath your bed, copied them exactly but you never would accept it. Is it my face? Am I not pretty enough for you? I assumed you'd want me to keep his face at least publicly but in private I can be anyone you want,” he pleads desperately leaning down above you as his face begins to shift, features rearranging themselves. You become dizzy as he swaps faces, “I can be anything you want, take any form all for you!” He transforms into the stable boy who blushes when you take his hand, to the guard that accompanies you out from the castle, to the knights from all your abandoned books, before going back to your husband. Not stopping until you scream for him to end this game.

“Show me your face then! The true one!” your scream silences him as he pauses, leaning down into your neck.

“Do you really mean that?” his breath is hot on your neck as he begins to shift. A creature of ink spilling over your body, a thousand hands and lips caressing you. Made of smoke and stone you can't escape the weight he holds over you.“My love,” a thousand voices speak in tandem, “my sweet sweet love wanting me as I am.” the creature giggles almost, giddy on his adoration of you, “but I can't stay like this for too long, else you'd become mad,” he coos, you feel teeth across your neck, nipping the skin, careful not to devour you whole. He's still so careful as you feel tendrils spreading your legs, caressing you wherever he can find skin. You can't breathe with him stealing the air from your lungs.

He transforms back slowly, reducing into bone, then sinew then flesh again. Your husband's form, a minor horror compared to what you just witnessed. He smiles with too-sharp teeth as he pulls you close to his chest as though to steady you with his false heartbeat. “My sweet little wife, how could he have never loved you?”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hii! Could I request a gn s/o who’s always sleepy/cuddly and always cold with all the saja boys? Like how would they react to that? Thank you!! <3

Jinu is touch starved, so it’s a new thing for him to experience when he becomes your personal pillow.

He’s stiff like a wooden board the moment you cuddle up to him but he relaxed after a few moments, allowing himself to know he’s in the presence of safety and relax as his hands seemed to hover over you before pressing flat to your back, keeping you close to him as he frequently presses kisses to the top of your head; all the while whisper words of reassurance that he would be there when you wake. Jinu is often not available to give you unlimited cuddles and snuggles -something he hates just as much as you did- but when he did get use to your affection, sleepily clinging to him like he couldn’t be anything but someone you trust with your safety, he chuckles softly and enjoys the softness of it all while hoping that it never ends.

Baby is very relaxed about this, he doesn’t mind you being affectionate with your cuddles and kisses, just as long as it’s not excessive.

He would be on his phone or writing in his notebook and feel something drop on his shoulder, yet Baby would feel no need to look up to see what it was becuase he knew it was you, from the way you would hold his arm hostage against your chest and how you would drape your legs across his lap unceremoniously. Baby sighed and moved whatever was in his lap aside and out of the way, putting his hand on your knee while the other was at your back -after wrangling it from your grasp- and pulling the rest of you into him. His calm was what you needed after a long day, something you needed to quiet your mind and with that you would always find your feet leading you to him, and Baby would always be there to provide whatever comfort you might need for a peaceful sleep; forgoing whatever he was doing in order to make sure your nap go smoothly.

Mystery is immediately reciprocal of your cuddles and snuggles by cuddling and snuggling you in return.

The second he felt you sleepily flop yourself against him, you were immediately coddled within his arms as his head is burrowed within your neck, his arms tightened protectively and his legs interlocked with your own. He’s nosing your neck and his hair is tickling you like someone was running a feather over your neck, but you didn’t care as Mystery was having the time of his life as he was squeezing your sides, pulling you closer to him as though he was trying to convince himself that this was his reality. Even when he couldn’t bring himself to join you in your cuddly naps, he makes sure no one is unruly or loud enough to wake you up, he would even growl and bare his teeth at others before nuzzling against you once more like a demonic guard dog that he was.

Romance is all for the clingy cuddles, all for it.

A smile blossoms upon his face the second he feels you cuddle yourself into him, burrowing your face within his neck and making noises of disgruntlement whenever he even moved an inch. Romance would kiss your forehead in apology when he does slightly move, making sure to hold you tighter to his chest in attempts of making it up to you, and feeling content with just watching you gradually fall asleep within his embrace as his happiness is impossible to contain. He can’t help it! You looked adorable latching onto him like nothing else mattered, like your mind had told you to look in search of the most comfortable place to sleep, and your weary body lead itself to him and he couldn’t be happier as he got to hog you for the remainder of the day.

Abby is a teasing fuck about how cuddly and clingy you are when heavy with sleep.

Even daring to say that you only cuddled him because you wanted to feel his abs. He jokes but loves the fact that he was the one that you go to for cuddles and snuggles, longing the feeling of you burrowing your head into his chest and leeching off of his warmth. Abby might act like he’s cocky and confident, he’s a big softie who will welcome your sleepy form with open arms and pulling you into him as his hushed voice only lulled you further into a peaceful slumber, not caring about being unable to move for a bit as it only gave him the golden opportunity to take a small break with you. Abby could be seen taking a nap with you shortly afterwards, not that he would ever regret it, as any amount of time with you in his busy schedule was better then not having you clinging onto him at all.

[binmeister]

Comfort

Saja Boys x Fem! Bodyguard reader

I had a dream - I say as I wipe some tears away, have a short drabble

CW: not proofread, mild angst, mostly fluff, drabble

You don’t remember when the change happened in your dynamic and the boy group you’d been hired to protect but it did. It was subtle, comfortable. Just little interactions that were no longer distant and cold as they progressively became attached to you.

It was in the way Mystery actively followed you around if he was able to, like a lost puppy with attachment issues. You couldn’t see his eyes but he radiated a different aura when he was around you, something softer as he waited patiently for you to spare him a crumb of attention and affection. His body language as he became less guarded, the way he melts into your touch when he feels you reach up and ruffle his hair and how he he hums a soft ‘mhm’ when you ask if he’s feeling okay because he feels okay.

He feels safe and content.

Something he hasn’t felt in years and it really shows in the way he trusts you, actually lets his eyes and body rest in your presence.

A demon that sleeps?

Suddenly a lot more common than you imagined when you realise how frequently the guys would request you visit and they all collectively nap in the living room, scattered amongst the furniture or even on the carpeted floor with a silent plea of ‘please stay’. So you do.

An eye occasionally checking on them while you busy yourself with reading a book or scrolling on your phone as five grown men sleep peacefully for a few hours in your presence.

It’s in the moments like these where you’re straightening out Baby’s crumpled shirt and he doesn’t complain for once. Isn’t making any snide or rude comments and just lets you. The routine familiar as he lifts his arms up for you to pat his shirt down, or leans his torso forward a little so you can fix the beret on his head.

It’s when he’s asking you if you want a snack or anything because he can go grab it if you want. You wave him off because you appreciate the gesture but he didn’t have to- then there’s a cool can pressed against your cheek. Your favourite drink. You didn’t even know that Baby knew that and then he’s back to his usual self, making some off-handed comment to hide his kindness and you accept it with a little smile.

When you’re at the gym with Abby there’s a moment during your break that he admits that he enjoys spending time with you. Quietly and calmly, the first time you’ve seen him not pretending to be an out-going and rambunctious guy. Before you can respond he puts up the facade again, realising he was vulnerable and tries to go back to hype man gym rat. But he notices the way you go easier on him when you scold him after he breaks something in their house.

There’s times where Romance and you are existing, seated or standing and he talks to you. Not flirts. Talks. Listens to the things you say with earnest care and opens up to you without any honey glazed words, no playing tricks or trying to butter you up. Just him being him. You open up about your insecurities one day, about how occasionally you wish how your thighs were a little less toned or how you wished it was more prominent that you were conventionally feminine and he points out that you still are. That they all still appreciate you as you are regardless.

He doesn’t know that when you got home after that conversation you had cried, or you thought he didn’t, til the next time you visit and he’s gotten you a small plushie as a ‘I’m sorry’ gift.

It’s the way that Jinu trusts you now. There’s no walls around him, let’s you into his space and when he opens up about the memories that haunt him? He lets you comfort him with a reassuring touch, let’s you rub his back as he starts sobbing into your shoulder and let’s himself be vulnerable for once. You don’t tell anyone else about that.

You never share anything about the secrets they share with you, because you had started to care. They weren’t just “the Saja Boys” anymore, they’d become a part of your life and demons and hell be damned, you’re gonna make sure they feel loved.

“Thanks mum.” You freeze. Everyone else in the room freezes except for the man who had let it slip so casually. Baby was confused, why was everyone freaking out? He just thanked you for helping him out and then it hits him what he said. You excuse yourself as you rush off for a moment to collect your nerves in the bathroom and you let the tears fall as you question it.

When was the last time they even saw or thought of their mother in a way that hadn’t tormented them? Didn’t keep them on a tight leash and force them to obey some lower or higher being. It doesn’t change the dynamic you have with them any further but you still continue to be protective of them, aimed to bring them a sense of comfort they all clearly yearned for and let them become a part of you as well.

[asoftsighh]

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ rockstar!eddie munson x reader ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

eddie reassures you that you’re the only one for him

1.5k words - cw: mention of groupies and cheating (neither in detail)

You don’t usually travel with them. 

It’s not like you don’t want to, but being an adult is hard. You have bills to pay and a job to go to; you don’t have the time or funds to travel coast to coast with Eddie and the boys. Tonight is different. The tour has brought Corroded Coffin close to home, and Eddie had asked you to come with a wide smile and a kiss. It would’ve been hard to say no even if you wanted to. 

So here you are, tucked backstage while the boys finish their set, adrenaline pumping through the venue. You can hear the last song wrapping up Eddie’s guitar loud over the crowd. You’re wondering whether that's because he is loud or if your ears are just attuned to him when a girl comes up to your side.

She’s already looking at you when you turn. She's pretty. Tall and blonde. Looks like she could be a model if she wanted to, but she’s more likely one of the college students that stick with the band, hoping for one of the boys to notice her. 

“You with the band?” Her voice competes with the loud music as she perches on the arm of the chair beside yours.

You nod and smile politely. “Yeah. I’m Eddie’s girlfriend.”

She looks you up and down, eyes lingering on your clothes. Shifting uncomfortably, you watch the door, waiting for Eddie’s entrance to come and save you. 

“You go on tour with them?”

Your eyes are still on the door as you listen to the outro to their last song. Tonight’s crowd is loud and rowdy; you had seen as much when you peeked out to look. Shaking your head, you say, “No, I have a job.”

The girl lets out a low whistle, raising her brows in surprise. “That’s brave.”

Your own brows go up in confusion, turning your head to look back at her. “What do you mean?” 

She sips a beer that she must’ve grabbed from the cases stacked behind her. “It’s no offense, I just don’t see that many girlfriends letting their men go off on tour without them,” she says, twirling a long piece of her light hair. Her eyes roam around casually, as if what she’s saying isn’t causing beads of sweat to form on the back of your neck. “Y’know, the whole rockstars and groupies stuff. Can’t have one without the other.”

You’re saved from responding when cheers leak through the now open door, the band members coming in one by one. They all buzz with that post-performance energy, bounding across the room. Eddie is full of the same, eyes searching for something. You, if you had to guess. 

When his eyes do find you, he lights up like a damn match. You’re already standing when he makes his way over to you, wrapping his sweaty arms around you, pulling you against his lean body. 

“Did you hear the crowd?” He asks, astonished, against the warm skin of your neck. You feel and hear his smile rather than see it. His hands squeeze your hips, palms warm enough to seep through your shirt. 

His excitement is enough to rid your mind of the girl from before temporarily. Your fingers curl into the damp fabric of his shirt. 

“You were amazing,” you say, and you mean it. The crowd must agree with you, their energy still ringing through the walls and along your bones. 

Eddie comes out of your neck to look at you, eyes sparking with adrenaline and affection blended together. “I had to play my best, my girl is here.” He pushes your hair back as he says this, following it with a quick kiss to your lips. You hum, but the feeling starts to fade, the love swelling in your chest turning into dread when you think of her words. 

Rockstars and groupies. Can’t have one without the other.

You trust Eddie, you really do, but now the thought is there, lingering like the smoke from a blown-out candle. 

He hasn’t seemed to notice, though, too busy with saying goodnight to the boys. They peel off in different directions, some for a drink and others for their dressing rooms. Eddie comes back to your side, fingers loosely holding onto the back loop of your jean shorts. 

He kisses the side of your head. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

You allow him to guide you to his dressing room. As you walk, he talks animatedly, most likely retelling something that happened on stage. You struggle to pay attention though, replaying every phone call and visit between you and Eddie the last few months. No way, you tell yourself. This is Eddie. 

He tells you everything. He calls you every night. He sends you postcards from truck stops and brings you little trinkets from cities you’ve never even heard of. He writes songs about you. He cries over you. He carries a photo of you in his wallet like you’re some kind of lucky charm.

Inside his dressing room is quieter. Dim lighting hums overhead, casting a soft glow over the limited furniture and clothes spread sporadically throughout. You sink into the couch, ignoring the spring you feel beneath your thigh. 

“You okay?” He asks, grabbing a towel from its hanger to pat himself dry of sweat. 

You force a small smile. “Yeah. Just a long day.”

Forgetting about the towel, he comes over to kneel in front of you, loose strands of his hair tickling your bare thighs. Reluctantly meeting his eyes, you read his face immediately. The look of concern mixed with I can read right through your lies, sweetheart. 

His hand finds your knee, giving it a squeeze. “You sure? You’re quiet.”

You hesitate, opening and then closing your mouth. You could tell him. Let it out, let it ruin nothing or everything. Would it be better to know, to rip the band-aid off and get it over with? 

“There was this girl…” you start slowly, watching as worried creases start to appear on his face: between his brows, at the corners of his lips as they tug downwards into a frown. “She just started talking to me about how rockstars and girlfriends don’t really mix well. Because of… well, groupies.”

Eddie’s expression turns cold and hard. “Who?” He asks, his voice low. “What girl?”

You shake your head quickly, letting out a small sigh as you cover his hand with yours. “It doesn’t matter. Really. It just stuck in my head.”

He doesn’t look mollified. He’s still staring at you, brows drawn, like he’s trying to read between every word you’re saying. Eventually, he exhales, shoulders relaxing. 

“Baby,” he murmurs, both hands now sliding up your thighs. “You know I’m yours, right?”

You don’t say anything yet, assuming that he isn’t done. You’re right.

He rises from the floor to sit beside you on the couch, facing you completely. “I know that I’ve been on tour for a couple months, and being away from you sucks ass, but it has always been just you.” He huffs out a breath, searching for the words. “And I’m not stupid. I know where I belong.”

You look down, eyes burning as you blink quickly. He leans over to kiss your brow softly. 

“I don’t care if hundreds of girls throw themselves at me after every show,” he continues. “Because none of them know me like you do. They don’t know how I like my coffee, or that I cry during that one Pink Floyd song you love. But you do, sweetheart. It’s only you.”

You inhale a shaky breath, raising your head to look at him. Reaching out to stroke his cheek, you say, “I know. I trust you Eddie. I really do. She just… got in my head.”

He holds onto your wrist so he can kiss the center of your palm. “I get it, baby,” he says softly. And it hits you now, how you get a version of Eddie that the rest of the world doesn’t. They get the loud guitarist, while you get the boy who paints your nails and kisses your tears away. 

You don’t say anything for a second. Just let your hands rest on his cheek as he kisses it again. 

“I missed you,” You whisper. 

He exhales like he’s been meaning to say the same thing. “Missed you so much that I was going crazy. Told Gareth I was gonna tattoo your name on my ass if I didn’t see you soon.”

A laugh sneaks out of your throat, watery but real. “Please don’t.”

His grin is boyish, all dimples and relief, nose brushing against yours. “Fine. I’ll just write more songs about you, then.”

You shake your head, smile pulling wider as you ask, “Don’t you have enough?”

His face looks like you’ve hit him and then said some outlandish statement. Before he can go on a rant about how you are forever his muse and that you inspire him everyday, you kiss him. To shut him up, yes, but also because he is yours. 

criticism is welcome as long as it’s kind ✮⋆˙

i’m very new to writing ✮⋆˙

[arbitrarykiwi]

Hyiaa, I just say I'm absolutely OBSESSEDDDD with your Thanos and Nam-gyu fics, seriously you're amazing and I CAN'T stop smiling at the screen whenever I read them like??? You're way of writing if fucking immaculate wtf?? Girl you better keep up with the good work🫶🏽

But now I'm wondering how the boys react during reader's menstrual cycle... OR EVEN BETTER... HEAR ME OUT

When she's OVULATING

BAM I said it

I AM SO FUCKING SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!!??? totally didn’t get started then get lost in my drafts….and I also didn’t totally revamp it once I found it again. This is literally such a good ask. Also thank you for the kind words??? I LOVE KNOWIN I MAKE YEW SMILE WHEN YOU READ MY THINKS ON THANGYUUU <333

I went with a headcannon style for writing this one (I hope you don’t mind)

Warnings: 18+ , nsfw / sfw themes

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

Okay so…admittedly at first they were both so ass with anything to do with periods or ovulation or anything to do with period products- completely oblivious

They both know what a period is, they just don’t particularly realize how much of an effect it has on someone who experiences a period until you’ve come along

Thanos 100% though a ‘heavy flow’ was a new way of saying a rapper had good bars in their raps

When you first told them you had cramps they straight up asked if if you overdid it with a workout or something

When you had to ask them to get you pads or tampons for the first time…fucking hell it was a challenge

They just need to be trained </3

The group chat you had with the three of them was blowing up nonstop. As much as you loved them, this only made your headache worse.

‘Why is there so fucking many’

‘I’ve lost Nam-Gyu. Do I call 911?!’

‘No don’t call 911, you’re in a small store you’ll find him’

‘I told you the brand I needed.’

‘Okay yeah, you told me the brand but you didn’t tell me that brand would have so many fucking products. Like I mean come on…there’s like 70 different options here.’

‘Found Nam-Gyu! :D What does “with wings” mean?’

‘I want the ones with the wings. Just get any brand at this point idc.’

‘Wings for my angel’

‘Wait are you mad now?! :( I swear I’m trying here can’t say the same for shit-for-brains’

‘You’re too pussy to say it out loud that’s why you text it :P’

‘Not mad ‘Gyu…just tired and hurting. Get ones with wings and the overnight kind.’

‘What size pussy you wear?’

Once they got back from that trip you explained to them why there was so many options and how you had a specific favorite brand and even more specific product from that brand

They then took pictures of all four sides of the pad or tampon box to save or for the next time they tried to find your items

After seeing how it affected you, the way you’re more lethargic and in pain, they begin to take your menstrual cycle more seriously than you do.

Nam-Gyu then has your cycle in his calendar and shares it with Thanos as well as you

The second that calendar reminder goes off, you’re getting texts from both of them to confirm if it came on that day

They also can’t seem to grasp that although your period sucks and it’s worse on some days and not others- it’s something you’ve been dealing with for a long while and you know how to cope with everything- you’re not dying.

You falter in your steps when a sharp pain hits? They’re asking if they need to take you to the hospital. You get up to change your pad or tampon a little sooner than normal? They’re both convinced you’re bleeding out

After learning about what you need and what your period is like, they’re both attentive in their own ways.

“Here you go, girlie.” Nam-Gyu says tapping your shoulder and passing a hot bowl of homemade Ramen over your shoulder from behind the couch.

Your eyes widen and you turn around, smiling at him with a wide but tired smile. This has been a particularly tough day, horrible cramps, heavy flow, headaches, the whole lot. “Ohhhh!! You’re the fucking best.” You say, taking the warm bowl from his hands.

“Mhm, I know~” he says, leaning over the back of the couch and bending down to kiss the crown of your head, he’s ruffling your hair before grabbing a bottle of water out of his apron pocket and placing it against your legs on the couch, “You better fuckin’ drink this, you can’t only drink soda- you’ll get dehydrated.”

Your attention is turned away from Nam-Gyu when the front door opens. “I’m back!!” Thanos calls out, wide grin becoming impossibly wider when he sees you sitting on the couch. “Ahhh!! My baby! Perfect, I come bearing gifts.”

Thanos walks towards you, dropping a couple plastic bags down on the couch and sifting through them, beginning to hand you things one by one. “Okay so I got you more of those pain meds you like…” he’s placing the bottle in your lap.

“Got you some chocolates…they unfortunately didn’t have your favorite so I got literally every other one they had in store so we can now decide on a second one to have as a backup for next time…” he’s lifting one of the plastic bags, now identified as being solely chocolate.

“And got you more pads like you requested, the exact ones you requested.” He always says that now after the first pad incident.

You smile wide and lean to reach him, “Thank you!!” You say holding your bowl of ramen steady, “gimme kiss, handsome!” Thanos leans in happily, connecting his lips with yours in a slow kiss.

“Take your meds.” Nam-Gyu calls from the kitchen. Thanos is pulling away, realizing the Ramen in your hand then quickly making his way into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Nam-Gyu from behind and hooking his chin over the household cook’s shoulder.

“Ramen for dinner?”

“Mhm…she requested it.”

“I’ll take them in a bit!” You’re calling out over your shoulder to Nam-Gyu, too engrossed in the level of the video game you’re playing to pause to take the pain medication

“I will come over there and shove them down your throat, princess- don’t test me.”

“Ooooo, so hot when you scold her ‘Gyu.” Thanos coos, squeezing Nam-Gyu tighter.

Now when you’re ovulating?

Those two freaks just know

It’s something about how you hold yourself, how you walk, the little purr that takes over you voice- they just can tell

Almost like dogs, they can smell when you’re ovulating. It’s not that they can smell your arousal- they always say it’s your skin. It’s something uniquely you that almost makes their ears ring.

Pheromones. What they’re smelling is pheromones.

Being in a relationship with the both of them, being near each other almost all hours of almost every day, being intimate- they’re so in tune with you that they can pick up on the slight hints your body gives them.

Also…with living with the both of them…With those two fine ass men around ready to do whatever you ask?- you don’t have to do much to get whatever you need

Wanna watch them fuck each other just while you use your favorite little vibrator on yourself? Done!

Want to just spend hours sucking them both off because there’s just something about the weight of their cocks in your mouth that makes your mind go numb? Lol! Easy money!

It’s when you’re ovulating that they realized they might actually not be able to keep up with you in terms of sex- you’re making them fuck you over and over until both of them are twitching and damn near crying from overstimulation while you’re crying for another round

They end up developing a fucking system where they’re practically tagging each other in and out of the ‘ring’ like some wwe fighters or something (the ring being your pussy)

Also- they’re both so whipped they give you whatever you want when you want it

It’s 3am… and here you were, waking up randomly with a huge throbbing in your lower stomach and damp panties. You do try to get back to sleep, but you mind is flashing with images of the little session that put you to sleep to begin with.

Stuffed so full of both their cocks, begging them to cum inside you over and over until you were fucked stupid- yeah…you weren’t getting back to sleep anytime soon.

You wiggle a bit, loosening yourself out of the mess of limbs that was currently the cuddle pile. Nam-Gyu was to your right, facing you with his arms lightly draped over your stomach. Thanos was to your left, curled into you with one hand arched over your head on the pillows and tangled in Nam-Gyu’s hair.

You’re huffing, tossing and turning trying to ease yourself of the heat that is taking over your entire body. You need them.

Whining, you’re turning your head to press your forehead against Thanos’ and rub your nose against his, your hand tracing up his bare torso- he doesn’t wake up. He rouses, his face twitching into a blissed out smile and his cock begins to grow in his boxers- but he’s not away.

“C’monn.” You whine louder, but still nothing. You’re about to turn over and begin to try and wake Nam-Gyu but you can already feel his side of the bed shift.

Nam-Gyu’s arm removes itself from holding you as he flops down on his back, his eyes still closed- you almost think he’s asleep. You then see his hand fish out his hardening cock.

“C’mon, take what you need, girlie.” His voice is soft, laced with sleep, and creaky- it only makes you wetter. His hand is lazily pumping his cock, getting himself hard as you straddle his thighs.

You’re huffing and whining, removing his hand from his cock and replacing it with yours. The second you drag his fat cock head through your folds you’re nearly falling over on top of him. You’re still so fucking sensitive but you need it.

Sinking down onto him, you’re spearing your cunt open on his thick length, a wanton cry ripping from your throat.

Apparently all you needed to do was moan out all nice and pretty to wake up Thanos because now he’s up and beginning to make his way behind you.

“How rude…” he scoffs, his voice deep and rough. Thanos’ tattooed hands push your down forward on Nam-Gyu, hand staying on your lower back to push you into that deep arch he love sooo much, “Didn’t wanna invite me?”

Thanos is prodding his already hard cock at your stuffed pussy, “I-I tried! You didn’t wake up!” You whine, beginning to feel the wide stretch of having both their cocks deep inside you. You’re pressing your hips back eagerly, seeking more.

“Hmm didn’t try hard enough…must not want it that bad…” He’s drawing his hips back and pulling out, his cock dragging deliciously against Nam-Gyu’s who is now wide awake.

“No I do! I tried- I swear- you sleep so fucking hard. I wan’ both of you!” You’re pleading, trying to press your hips back but it’s not working with how they hold you.

“Don’t be so mean to her…” Nam-Gyu coos like he’s not the one holding your hips in place, “…she’s a needy thing and you’re just mad I woke up first.”

“Well now neither of you are going back to sleep anytime soon.” Thanos says, plunging his cock deep inside you, ripping a high pitched moan from both you and Nam-Gyu

All in all, the two boyfriends are better than one applies here because they both know exactly how to take care of you during those times!!

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

Taglist: @namsgyu @nuttybeans @namgyucat @g1rlonthe3internet @reilapse @yuuumeee @thanosspills

((Lmk if you wanna be added to my main tag list <3))

[lcvecove]

MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE ⋆ SC87

in which sidney comes to some realizations while dancing with you at nate’s wedding. i’m in love with this man😫. this isn’t really summer core but I decided to include it! alexa play ‘you are in love’ by taylor swift

there is something about a man that knows how to hold his woman. a hold that is possessive but still gentle. still makes you feel cherished, admired and loved. sidney was one of those men.

your boyfriend currently had you in one of those holds. one hand clasped firmly on your waist, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your satin dress. the other hand was laid dangerously, confidently and way too comfortably on your lower back.

every so often that hand would dip slightly and brush over your ass, pulling you impossibly closer to him. it was a rare public display of affection that you knew only occurred because sid was a little whiskey drunk and overly happy for his friend.

nate’s wedding had significantly downsized from the enormous social event it had been earlier that day. it hadn’t been nearly as big as it could’ve been, the couple deciding to keep the event private similar to the rest of their relationship thus far. but there was still well over a hundred people in attendance.

it had faded to only a few couples still swaying around the dance floor, including the newly married duo themselves.

“they look so happy,” you remark, nodding to where nate was spinning around his giggling bride. the normally serious man having an easy-going vibe surrounding him that you knew was rare.

“yeah they do,” sid responds almost wistfully. a subtle sadness to his words and his expression that makes your chest squeeze uncomfortably.

“what’s wrong, baby?” you ask, cradling his freshly-shaven cheek softly.

“nothing,” he states, the word coming out in a resigned sigh.

“if now is the time you wanna admit that you’re actually in love with nate, you’re a tad bit too late bud” you say teasingly, giggling as he glares at you incredulously.

“you’re such a fucking brat,” sid mumbles, burying his face in your neck and teasingly nipping at the skin there, and pressing a gentle kiss before pulling back and continuing your gentle sway that couldn’t even really be called a dance.

“what’s bothering you?” you ask again and sid stops dancing, both hands settling on your waist and holding you tight.

“everyone always talks about how nate tries to follow in my footsteps and how much he looks up to me and how much I’ve influenced him,” sid starts and you wait patiently for him to collect his thoughts.

“and I think tonight I just realized that it’s the other way around. he’s getting married. he wants to start a family. he’s playing the best hockey of his life. he looks happier than he’s ever been. and I can’t help but wonder why I’ve been robbing myself of that all these years. why I’ve been robbing you of that,” he states, a frustrated frown present between his brows

“you haven’t robbed me of anything. you made it abundantly clear that you weren’t planning on getting married or starting a family while you were still playing and I understood and accepted that. happily. I knew what I was signing up for sid,” you retort softly

“but you deserve better! you deserve a dramatic proposal. and a big wedding. and a marriage that other people are disgustingly envious of. you deserve more than a man that dates you for fifteen years and still hasn’t put a ring on your finger,” he says, rubbing a hand over his agitated face. and it’s then that you realize that he’s almost a little angry at you for not asking this of him earlier. for not realizing you deserve better than he was giving you and demanding it of him.

“I knew what I was signing up for. I chose to be in this relationship, and I haven’t regretted a single day of the last fifteen years. not one,” you argue back, slipping both arms around his neck.

“you’re not hearing what I’m saying,” sid replies and you kiss him reassuringly.

“I am. I’m listening and I hear what you’re saying baby, I’m just not gonna let you villainize yourself or our time together based on some ridiculous notion of what could’ve been. we’re not them and they’re not us. we made decisions based on the circumstances we were in at the time. and we can’t change the past sid. I’d marry you tonight. or when you retire. or another fifteen years from now. or never if you decide it’s not in your cards. I’ve never demanded more because I’ve never needed more. I just need you, that’s enough for me. and if you’ve changed your mind and you decide you wanna marry me earlier then I’m more than okay with that too” you say, running your hand through his salt and pepper hair.

“I love you. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to pull my head out of my ass and I’m gonna marry the fuck out of you very soon, I promise. and we’re gonna have lots of kids,” sidney promises, pressing a bunch of kisses to your face as you laugh happily

“I don’t think the world is ready for dad sid yet,” you state fondly, imagining him with a little mini crosby.

“dad sid? oh my God! am I gonna be an uncle? to a mini sid? this really is the best day of my life,” you hear nate say as he comes over and practically yanks sidney out of your grasp and lifts him into a celebratory hug.

yeah, you think, it’s the best day of my life too

[formulafanfics13]

I got tears at reading pretty fearless, it was so cute :)

Since I am from Austria and a dog owner, I would love one where Lewis lost Roscoe at the GP and Roscoe decides the reader (28) is his new mommy 🐶

Featuring Charles and Leo :)

Roscoe’s New Mom - LH44 

masterlist

Summary While roasting under the Austrian sun, Lewis Hamilton loses his beloved bulldog Roscoe — only to discover him hours later curled in the lap of a woman he’s never met, snoring like he’s found God. You, a low-key paddock media staffer, are baffled by the sudden canine affection, but Roscoe won’t budge. Lewis, flabbergasted and wounded by the betrayal, begins an accidental custody battle that has the entire grid watching — and gossiping. What starts as a dog rescue turns into shameless flirting, grid-wide chaos, and the beginning of something neither of you expected. Roscoe? He’s already decided.

Warnings crack-level fluff, Lewis being dramatic, Roscoe being iconic, unexpected dog custody battle, mild paddock gossip, Charles and Alexandra being nosy, flirty banter, emotionally wounded dog dad behaviour, light language, deeply unserious tone, suggestive future dinner date.

The sun was too hot. The coffee was too cold. And somewhere in the Styrian hills of Austria, Sir Lewis Hamilton had lost his fucking dog. 

“Roscoe?” he called for the fifth time, pacing outside the Mercedes motorhome, hat askew, sunglasses halfway down his nose. “Roscoe, come on, buddy. This isn’t funny.”

Nothing. Not even a bark. Not a single paw tap. Only the sound of camera shutters from nearby photographers trying to pretend they weren’t openly watching a seven-time world champion nearly cry into the Red Bull Ring gravel.

“Do you want me to check near McLaren again?” George asked, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Why the hell would he be at McLaren?”

George raised a brow. “He likes Lando.”

“He likes peanut butter. He tolerates Lando.”

Unbeknownst to either of them, Roscoe had in fact crossed the paddock twenty minutes earlier, weaving around photographers, sponsor banners, and two engineers arguing about floor upgrades, before strutting his short-legged way straight toward a voice.

Not just any voice. Yours. Twenty-eight. Press accreditation still dangling around your neck. Not technically paddock royalty, not technically media, not technically anything. You were there with a startup sportswear brand, doing backstage interviews and B-roll footage of logistics staff — not glamorous, but it paid. And you were currently sitting under a shaded pit wall tent behind the Alpine garage, laptop open, hair in a claw clip, tapping away at a Google Doc and absolutely not prepared for what happened next.

A fucking bulldog flopped at your feet. “Uh…”

You looked around. No handler. No leash. No team badge. Just a hot, panting, snorting creature staring up at you with an expression of divine judgment. You blinked. “Hey there, buddy…”

Roscoe blinked back. Then promptly licked your ankle.

“Oh my god.” You laughed. “You’re Roscoe.”

He responded by rolling over for a belly rub. You gave him one. Obviously. And that’s how Lewis found you, forty minutes later, manic from the heat and lack of answers, turning a corner only to find Roscoe curled up like a retired war general on your lap, snoring deeply while you gently scratched behind his ears like you were born to do it.

“Roscoe!”

You looked up, startled. Lewis was breathing like he’d run a 10K in fire boots. “I swear to god I’ve searched every inch of this track-”

“He came to me,” you said, confused, but instinctively running your hand over Roscoe’s back protectively. “I didn’t steal him.”

Lewis blinked at the scene: Roscoe, cuddled into your thighs, eyes fluttering like he was experiencing heaven; your hand tangled in his fur like it’d always been there; the way you looked… annoyingly calm.

Roscoe snored louder. A deep, content, I-found-my-mother snore. “He’s never done that,” Lewis said, voice cracking. “Not with anyone.”

You flushed slightly, fingers still petting. “Maybe he… imprinted?”

Lewis gave you the sharpest side-eye of his life. “He’s not a duckling.”

You smiled. “You say that, but he hasn’t moved in over an hour.”

Across the paddock, Charles Leclerc stood with Alexandra and Leo, his golden pup, watching the whole thing unfold from the Ferrari hospitality balcony with a croissant in hand.

“I think Roscoe has a new mom,” Alexandra mused, sipping her iced espresso.

Charles nodded solemnly. “Lewis is being replaced.”

Leo, as if offended by the gossip, barked once and nearly lunged toward the railing. “No, no, mon petit,” Charles muttered, clutching the leash. “Don’t get jealous. You are my golden boy.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes. “You let him sleep on your pillow.”

“He lets me sleep on his pillow.”

 Roscoe had finally gotten up, but only to walk three steps, then collapse at your feet again. Lewis was crouched beside him now, expression a mess of relief and betrayal. “Roscoe,” he whispered, dead serious, “I raised you. I bottle-fed you as a puppy.”

Roscoe panted. Then reached out one paw… and placed it gently on your knee.

Lewis gasped. “Oh my god.”

You bit back laughter, still scratching. “I think he wants to stay with me.”

“Is this a custody battle?!” Lewis shouted, hands in the air.

You grinned. “Joint custody, maybe.”

Lewis straightened, putting his hands on his hips. “Fine. But I’m getting visitation rights.”

From that moment on, the grid never let him live it down. Carlos started calling you Roscoe’s Step-Mommy in every paddock chat. Alex Albon made a fake adoption certificate and tried to get Toto to sign it. George asked if he could co-parent on weekends. Even Max nodded approvingly when Roscoe followed you into the driver’s lounge during the Red Bull debrief and sat directly on Christian Horner’s foot.

But the best part? Roscoe refused to leave your side for the rest of the race weekend. Not during media day. Not during FP2. Not even when Lewis tried to bribe him with vegan treats.

And when you finally agreed to come watch qualifying from the Mercedes garage, Roscoe curled right into your lap again, tail wagging, Lewis visibly struggling to focus on his telemetry while muttering under his breath, “Unbelievable. My own dog.”

“Your dog,” you said sweetly, “loves me.”

Lewis scowled. But couldn’t hide the smile breaking through. “I can’t believe I lost Roscoe to a woman I haven’t even taken to dinner.”

You arched a brow, smug. “Then maybe you should fix that.”

Roscoe barked. Loud. Once.

You both blinked. “…Did he just wingman me?” Lewis said.

You reached for his paw. “I think he just said yes.”

[kamospeach]

plot: choso loves having you around, but doesn't show it

content warning: lil mention of sexual activities

dean's (aka peachy) yap: all pics by einruji_ on ig because the fanart matches his vibe in this series PERFECTLY

“choso, open this damn door!” you yelled, banging on his door. just as you were about to bang on it again, the door swung open. choso stood there with an unamused look on his face, his usual stone-cold expression, complemented by his bloodshot eyes and the eye bags he had given up trying to change years ago.

“maybe if you yell louder, i’ll be able to hear a lot clearer,” he grumbled sarcastically, turning his back on you and walking to sit on his couch. “makin’ me waste a perfectly good blunt.”

you both were used to each other's personalities by now. you were loud, outgoing, and overly flirty, making sure to tease choso just enough to break him down. and choso came off as rude, but he’s just introverted and only spoke around others he knew.

you wouldn’t say you and choso were just friends. more so, friends with benefits, but you’d stopped that a while ago. choso thought it was because you hated him or he wasn’t good enough. the truth was, you were catching feelings, and fast.

it was also against the rules the two of you had set: no feelings, and no showing affection in front of your friends or outside. but none of that was possible because you found yourself seconds away from telling choso you loved him. or, every time he pummeled your poor pussy, you wanted to beg him to be with you.

not to mention how you always wanted to kiss him while you sat around on campus. or when you were hotboxing in his car with friends and he looked at you with those low eyes, his pierced eyebrow raised, his pearly white teeth tugging on the piercing in his lip. how could you not be tempted to kiss him?

“aw, cho, you rolled one just for us?” you pouted, sitting on his lap as he continued to smoke.

outwardly, he acted nonchalant, but internally, he was heating up. his free arm wrapped around your waist as his big hand gripped your thigh. he gave it a small squeeze that surprised you, making you flinch a little.

“of course not. i don’t want your lip gloss on my blunt,” he mumbled, holding the blunt between his lips. he grabbed his tray as you frowned, feelings hurt just a little. sometimes it felt like you liked him way more than he liked you. little did you know, choso would do anything and everything for you.

“here.” there was a pre-rolled blunt on his tray just for you. he placed it between your lips, watching you intently. he grabbed his lighter, the pink one you gave him with hello kitty stickers on it. he never let anyone use it. he didn’t even use it himself. it was just yours.

“you look good today,” he mumbled, exhaling smoke into the air. he looked over your outfit, reaching out to play with the string of your sweatpants. he was fighting the urge to touch all over your body like he was used to.

“thank you. it’s the outfit you bought me the last time we went to the mall,” you said, standing up, showing him. “it’s so soft. feel it,” you instructed, and he reached out, touching the pants, feeling the soft fabric.

“i remember from when i bought it,” he said, and you gave him a death glare.

“if you remembered, then why are you touching me?” you asked, and he just laughed, smoking his blunt, not even listening to you, too focused on how good your body looked in what he bought just for you.

“i can’t touch you now?” he asked, smirking as you rolled your eyes at his question.

he knew you didn’t mind his hands on you, since you both were physically intimate regularly.

“give me a 360.” you wasted no time, spinning around, letting him see the full outfit. his eyes stayed focused on your behind. he knew you noticed, but he didn’t care. your face was getting hot as you took your seat back on his lap.

you both continued to smoke, watching whatever flashed across the tv screen.

“need to take you to the mall again so i can buy you something else you can show off,” he said, and you smiled widely.

“you’re so sweet to me,” you said seriously, and he smiled (something he only seemed to do with you, sukuna, or yuji).

“you always say that like you don’t know how much you mean to me.” he shook his head at you.

it made your heart beat a little faster. he’s never told you something like that before. your eyes were wide, and you opened your mouth to say something, until there was a knock at the door.

“you’re expecting someone?” you asked, and he nodded, patting your thigh, signaling you to get up.

once you moved next to him, he went to the door, opening it. and like clowns coming out of a car, one by one, your friends ran in.

“y/n! i knew you’d be here!” takuma yelled, running inside, plopping down next to you on the large couch. geto followed behind him nonchalantly. he sat next to you, but choso wasn’t having it.

“get up,” choso said, and geto scoffed, standing up and leaving to go bother gojo.

“fine, i’ll let you sit next to your girlfriend,” he said, running off before choso could say anything in return.

ino looked up at choso with a smirk. choso didn’t pay either of them any mind, sitting next to you, watching everyone interact.

the days everyone spent together were usually at choso’s house. and if not his house, definitely a club where either choso or ino knew everybody. the friend group was large, sometimes too much for you.

the voices got louder, and your thoughts got quieter. it was getting to be too much for you, so you went outside. the wind was cold on your face, but the balcony was the quietest place.

that was until the door slid open and a few voices were heard coming to join you. when you looked at them, it was three girls you didn’t know. it was awkward, because they all started conversing while you sat there.

surely choso didn’t know they were here. if he did, he’d kick them out (no question).

“who are you?” one of the girls asked, and you turned to look at them.

the nerve of them to ask you that, as if they weren't the only people in the house, no one knew.

“who are y’all?” you asked back, feeling as though you didn’t have to explain yourself. the girls looked at each other, as if they were trying to figure out whether they wanted to tell you or not. you were getting impatient, and real close to telling choso someone he didn’t know was in his house.

“we’re sukuna’s girls,” they smiled, and you looked at them with furrowed brows. you tried with everything in you not to laugh, because they had to be mentally deranged.

girls? as in plural? what kind of orgy did they think they were in?

even you knew sukuna was practically in love with his athletic trainer. and you only knew from pillow talk with choso (and yuji telling stuff he knew he wasn’t supposed to say, but he didn’t care).

these girls had to be some type of crazy to tell you that while sukuna’s arm was wrapped around her at that exact moment.

“yeah, i don’t think so…” you trailed off, and the girl's face fell into a frown. you weren’t messy, but you were rooting for sukuna and her. no way you’d let them ruin that.

“it’s true. he invited us with our friend, she’s his athletic trainer. all four of us are his girls,” one nodded, trying to convince you she was right. she was clearly the densest one of the group. her eyes were telling everything she wasn’t.

“well, clearly he has a favorite,” you laughed lightly, and they all turned around, seeing sukuna pour a shot into her mouth, wipe her lips with his thumb, and kiss her forehead.

that even shocked you. you didn’t even know they were that close. clearly, that wasn’t anything shocking for her, because she just laughed, leaning onto his chest.

the three girls got angry, rushing in to start up stuff. you couldn’t help but feel like it was your fault, but they were bound to find out anyway.

just when you watched the girls get a little angry, the door slid open and choso came outside with you. he sat on the chair next to you, not saying anything. you both enjoyed the silence as everyone made their way out of the house. you assumed he kicked everyone out after the commotion the three unknown girls caused.

before you knew it, you heard his lighter flick. it didn’t surprise you. he was smoking again. that was just choso.

“oh, by the way, i meant to tell you, eren asked when you were going to start back selling on campus,” you told him, and he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh.

choso used to sell on campus, but he was getting too much traction and didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. everyone knew his shit was the best, but he went into hiding for a while, and everyone was awaiting his return.

“i wish they would find someone else to supply them,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes.

“you staying here tonight?” he asked, and your eyes widened in excitement. it had been a while since you stayed the night with choso.

“you want me to?” you asked, giving him a side-eye, making sure he wasn’t doing it just because you wanted to.

“if i didn’t want you to stay, you would’ve been out with everyone else,” he smiled, standing up, holding his hand out for you.

“why do you always act like i don’t want you around or something?” he asked, and you looked up at him with a childish pout.

“because sometimes you’re mean,” you admitted, looking away from him, nervous about his reaction.

he gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“am i mean to you?” he asked, like he wasn’t even sure how he treated you. in his head, he treated you nicer than he treated his own cousin, sukuna.

“i mean, you’re… just… sarcastic, and i don’t know…” you said, and choso’s brows were furrowed, like what you said actually hurt his feelings.

“i don’t want to be mean to you. i try not to,” he said, and you smiled, hoping to calm him.

“you do well,” you laughed as the two of you got ready for bed.

“you know i would never hurt you on purpose, right?” he asked you as the two of you lay in his bed. your chin rested on his chest as he looked at you, his eyes reflecting the very emotion he was expressing to you — remorse.

“i know, choso. you’re just a sweetheart with a rough exterior,” you smiled, lying on his chest, ready to go to sleep for the night.

choso still thought about your comment, hoping you really didn’t feel like he was mean. he could care less if anyone else around campus or even friends thought he was mean, or rude, or an asshole. he didn’t want to be mean in your eyes.

not someone who meant so much to him.

to be continued...

one two three four five six

university masterlist

taglist (open):

@grignardsreagent @stardollwrites @keraawrites @soldmysoulto @k-a-m232 @ac27dj @buttershea07 @charminstasia @ane5e @satorupied @miksolosss @nanamisbbygirl @beabamboo @sweetshrew @gurllss @rhicambo @v3rdee @vamppirez @y8zuriha @probablynotleahhhh @snapcracklen @emma-37 @thabiddie23 @sunset-euphoria @ami-s-k @angelita-uchiha @antikaiii @meganwiththebody @certifiedchangbinlover @desirehorizon @meowshiki @cypherthecreator @p1nkfl0wers @emoedgylord @kpopslur @palestrawberrycollection @byerno6 @poopooindamouf @padparadschq @frogtits1 @privthemis @zaranobiyuyu @charlie-xo @masterofthepp @arten1234

[yourlipstogodsears]

NSFW ABCs: Jack Abbot

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Jack needs to hold you. Needs to kiss every red mark or bruise. Rubs lotion on the beard burn from his scruff on your thighs. He uses his arm crutch to go to the kitchen and get you a water bottle and orders DoorDash because he’s not the best cook and he doesn’t want you waiting 35 minutes for something to eat to help you settle back down to earth. He’s got a heated blanket he can plug in during the winter time if you need it. He knows sometimes after sex you don’t like clothes on your body. Just skin to skin cuddles and warm blankets.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Jack loves his eyes. Most importantly he loves how eye contact affects you in the bedroom. His steely gaze during foreplay making you wet, his soft furrowed expression when you refuse to make eye contact for the first time turns into a cocky glint in those eyes of his. He found her weakness and it’s not even anything remotely sexual. It’s just the way he uses eye contact to his advantage.

Now his favorite part of his partner is their plush thighs. He loves a little extra cushion to grip onto as he fucks into her. His hands gripping her thighs as he holds her down against him to take every last drop he can give her.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Jack abbot loves eating pussy, he wants your cum dripping down his face like the sweetest fruit he’s ever tasted. “One more baby.. gimme one more” he will grumble greedily and knock you into another white hot orgasm. He loves the taste of your cum, he swears you taste like honey.

He also pays for you to be on birth control or get an implant just so he can cum inside your tight pussy. It’s a need not a want. To fill you with his cum is his favorite thing, playing with it as it dribbles out of your overflowing messy hole. “Shh shh shh baby.. lemme just put this back where it belongs..” he’d purr as he eased two thick fingers back inside you, making sure to keep his cum inside. Hell he’s content falling asleep like that.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

From the first time you two had sex he was all in. He didn’t show it not til months later. But the first time your pussy wrapped around Jack he had to stop himself from writing vows in his head.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Jack is middle aged, ex military. Theres no way in hell that man hasn’t had partners. Looking how he looks now and you can just imagine what he looked like with his auburn hair and army green uniform.

He’s also a doctor. He knows the erogenous zones, he can find the clit. He’s steps above your average man. He can make you tremble and shake and finish over and over til you have to beg him to stop. He’s a pleasure dominant of course.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Mating position. He can be as deep as he needs while seeing your face. Teasing and taunting about the size of his cock. “Ohhh you poor baby… is this too much for you?” he fakingly coos, “oh if it’s too much I can always pull out..” he teases while his body does the opposite and pushes til his hips hit hers, his cock bulging her tummy.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Jack is always very serious. he’s no nonsense in the trauma room, no nonsense when it comes to consent and boundaries. But if something happens during sex- accidentally squirting, farting, queefing. He doesn’t make mention of it, it’s a bodily function. It’s nothing to be scared about. If you’re embarrassed, he might joke about it because if you can’t laugh about it you shouldn’t do it is his motto.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Jack is older now, so the carpet per se is salt n peppered. He’s relatively groomed. His chest is hairless but below the belt is lightly brushed with pubic hair. not a jungle but not exactly smooth. The army instilled a routine for him to be well groomed from 18 years old and on. So when he was honorably discharged he just kept up the routine.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Jack can be romantic when he wants to be. He can be rough and dominant and mean or he can be sweet. Sometimes he’ll sprinkle in a mix. Roughly handling your hips, his cock drenched in your cum as you take your punishment. “Atta girl.. there you go.. almost done..” he’d reassure you even in the roughest of scenes.

J = Jack off (handjob headcanon)

Jack never whines or is pathetic during sex but during handjobs. Absolutely. He’s panting, back arches softly as he leans against the wall of a supply closet. You’d teased him that morning sliding on his favorite thong of yours to wear under your scrubs. He can see the where the lace lays on your ass when you bend or reach for things. So now he’s locked in a supply closet, hand in his pants muttering to himself.

“Jesus Abbot.. pull it together.. couple more hours” he says as he begins to tug roughly on his cock after spitting quietly into his palm.

He’s whining softly and mumbling your name, mumbling praise like you’re there with him. He’s never one to really jack off unless he needs to. But ever since you and him became a thing, he’s started to want to. To want to picture you in his mind and cum for you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Jack Abbot is a possessive man. He’s quiet and observant of men who hit on you. He’s not explosive or angry. He just sits there knowing you’re his. the reason he’s so calm is because of the collar you wear. It’s not a collar in a traditional sense of the word in the BDSM community. It’s subtle. It’s hidden like an everyday piece of jewelry. It’s a silver chain with a little lock that keeps it around your neck. Only he has the key for it to come off. It’s devotion, not ownership. I’m yours and you’re mine.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Edge of the bed. He loves the fact you tell him he feels even bigger than he’s standing than laying down. The blood flow is greater making him swell more inside her. Jack lets you rest on the bed while he does all the work. On your tummy with your ass up or on your back and your legs straight agaisnt his shoulders and Jack holding your head up by the roots of your hair to force you to watch him fuck your weeping cunt.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Every little thing about you from the way you move, look, sound and smell. Just you being you is enough for him to want you. When you playfully banter sexually and tease as foreplay during work or around the house and wait for him to pounce on you is what he kinda enjoys. The thrill of the chase per se even though he’s already got you as his girlfriend.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Blood play, Knife Play- self explanatory.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He loves both. He is absolutely feral about the way you look sucking his cock. It’s the prettiest most erotic thing he gets to see besides his cock sliding into you. You’re gorgeous to him even struggling to take his full length down your throat.

He loves eating you out. It’s only if his favorite pass times. just because he feels like it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Jack switches pace depending on emotional state or energy level. He will match your mood no matter if he’s fresh off a shift.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He loves them. There’s a hidden taboo aspect that turns him on. Doing something he shouldn’t, in a place he shouldn’t is arousing.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Jack abbot is a war veteran. Nothing scares him, except hurting you. So he’s okay with experimenting within reason. Nothing that could permanently hurt you if done wrong.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

First time inside you Jack cums immediately. He’s embarrassed but everytime after he lasts a moderate amount of time. It’s not hours long but it’s enough to get you both off.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them?)

Jack doesn’t own toys before you date him but they will buy some with you in mind. Tossing one to you when you are laying in the bed or couch. “Gotchu something. Try it before I come home in the morning.. I wanna play with you a bit after my shift.”

U = Unfair (how much does he like to tease?)

If Jack doesn’t tease during sex something is truly and deeply wrong.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Jack abbot talks and never shuts the fuck up. He refuses to. He needs you to know how good it feels, how good you’re being for him. He wants it to be interactive and quiet sex isn’t his style. Unless it’s a heat of the moment thing at work where “shh don’t want them to hear do you?” Is sexy.

W = Wild card (random headcanon)

First time with Jack he uses a vibrator on your clit so it makes the first entry as painless and easy as he can. He nods when you whine at the buzz and get soaking wet and he runs his tip through it. “Atta girl getting this wet f’me.. gonna go slow and talk through it.. just breathe for me..”

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Jack is covered in freckles on his shoulder and body. It’s one of the things that drives you wild. He’s big below the belt. Thick and long, maybe 7 inches. Nothing crazy just bigger than average.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Ever since Jack went to therapy and started to talk about his feelings he’s gotten lighter emotionally which makes his mental state more apt to allow sexual exploration. He’s not bogged down with dark thoughts.

Z = Zzz (how fast they fall asleep afterward)

He doesn’t fall asleep til you do. He holds you and cuddles and debriefs it. He wants clear honest communication, always.

[serenity-loves-red]

Never had it once crossed your mind that you would one day find yourself at the receiving end of the affection from both Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos and The Nameless Hero of Amphoreus.

You, a mere lowly merchant from an unknown village who sells handcrafted jewelry, managed to catch the attention of the men in the higher society of Okhema– Amphoreus even.

A cruel joke, you thought. Mydeimos and Phainon are well-known rivals. Childish competitions are dished out anywhere and everywhere. Hell, even staying the longest in a hot bath becomes part of their competitive streak!

No one in their right mind would want you with a status of a commoner unless, of course, just a part of their competition that you find yourself to unfortunately be part of.

So you never had believed them and their so-called affections. You did everything to avoid them, wanting your life away from spotlight of never ending politics. Getting entangled much more as it already is will completely change your life for the worst.

You had already heard how chaotic Amphoreus politics are and with a status as lowly as yours? Maybe one day, someone will find your body in some ditch or something!

But no matter how much effort you give in order to avoid them, even taking the longer route to go home, you will always find yourself walking together staying right between them.

“Walking home? Why don’t you let us send you back? That’s more safer, isn’t it?”

“Why decline? We are already walking with the same route so just let us take you back.”

Avoiding someone was never been this hard before. At loss, you finally decided to confront them. Whatever the reason, everything must stop. You never wanted to get implicated in the first place.

Even if you like them, a joke is still a joke and even more so being cruelly dragged into this mess because of their petty rivalry.

Messing with your feeling intentionally or not, this better stop before it hurts more than it already is.

“Lord Phainon, Lord Mydei please… just stop.” You said shakily. “Stop this.”

“Huh?” Phainon replied confused. “Stop? Stop what?”

“This!” You can’t help but raise your voice. Status be damned. “Playing with my feelings because of some stupid competition? Well guess what–you both won since I’ve always love you both!”

Silence never been this loud before. Regret instantly flooded your senses and before you do something even more embarrassing, you decided to flee.

Funny you thought you could escape them. Within seconds, Mydei had you within grasp, his arms locked you securely in place, while Phainon blocked your view with his body.

“You love us?” Mydei said somewhat shakily. You can feel the heat of his body and the beat of his heart that was unexpectedly fast.

Mydei may have hold you in his arms, but it was Phainon whose gaze pinned you under its weight. Intense, raw, full of conviction and subtle longing, emotions you never imagined to see.

“Don’t run, please.” He begged as he slowly moved his hand to cupped your cheek. “It may be a competition, but not that kind that you thinks of.”

“We wanted to court you, everything we did was.” Mydei began. “But we never imagined that you would take it the wrong way.”

“The only thing we were competing is the one who you would like. Not competing just because.” Phainon told you, his eyes are tender and smile slowly started to form. “But who would have thought that you will like us both hm? Not that I mind sharing.”

His last statement made you finally realize the situation you’re in. Mydei holding you close while Phainon held your face in place.

What? Heat slowly started to rush and blush had coating your cheeks.

Before you started denying or worst– if your head started to think only Kephale knows what, Phainon charmingly said, “So why don’t we all talk about it before your pretty little head create another conclusion.”

Mydei then loosened his hold but remain attach to your left arm while Phainon enthusiastically grabbed your right and practically dragged you towards the Holy City.

…Did you just got kidnapped?

Note: Thank you for the 5k likes and 200 followers🫶🏼 damn this cult is created a week ago, imagine my surprise seeing my notifs😚 love your support tho😜😜😜