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vanteguccir · 10 hours ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: LA'S, THE PUPPY CITY * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where at the Los Angeles show of the Surprise Party Tour, Chris not only surprises Matt with the presence of Y/N but also with a new small addition to the family.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　Matt being a dog parent 🥺🙏🏻.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The bell over the door gave a soft jingle as Chris pushed it open, the metal frame rattling lightly against the glass. A breath of lemon-scented air wrapped around them immediately. It felt clean, a little sweet, with a subtle, milky smell that could only ever mean one thing: puppies.

Chris stopped just inside the door, his hand tightening around his phone, already recording. His screen caught Y/N stepping in first, the sleeves of her soft beige hoodie crumpled inside her tight fingers like she always did when she was nervous or excited - honestly, with her, it was usually both at once.

"Alright." Chris said quietly behind the camera, his voice almost swallowed up by the soft hum of the lobby. "We’re really doing this, huh?"

Y/N shot a small, crooked smile over her shoulder before turning back to their front. She looked around the lobby slowly, taking it all in, the neatly organized shelves of treats and toys, the bulletin board cluttered with colorful flyers and Polaroids, the little potted plants trying their best to survive on the windowsill.

It felt so alive here. Safe. Somewhere you could exhale without even realizing you'd been holding your breath.

Behind the front counter, a woman glanced up from a stack of paperwork, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. She was older, maybe in her fifties, with gray-streaked hair pulled into a messy braid and kind, smile-lined eyes. She set her pen down and stood, smoothing her hands down the front of her jeans.

"Hi there." Y/N said, stepping closer to the counter. Her voice was soft, full with that warm kind of politeness she always carried. "Are you Veronica?"

The woman’s whole face brightened. She rounded the counter with an easy, open smile that made Y/N open her own wide and pearly one.

"That’s me." She said warmly. "And you must be Y/N. You called about the puppies, right?"

Y/N nodded, the tension in her shoulders loosening visibly.

"Yes. And this is Chris." She added, glancing back at him. "He’s Matt’s brother. The one we’re surprising."

Chris gave a half-wave, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a grin. Veronica’s smile widened like she could feel the expectations echoing around them.

"Well, you picked a perfect day." She said, motioning them forward. "Come on back. We’ve got a lot of little ones eager to meet you."

She unlatched a small swinging door next to the counter, and Y/N slipped through first, Chris following close behind, lifting his phone to catch every second.

The hallway was narrow, lined with colorful paintings of dogs and cats, and the faint sound of barking echoed down the corridor. Veronica led the way with easy steps that told them about the years spent in places like this.

"We’ve got a few litters in right now." She said as they walked, her voice low and steady. "Some purebreds, mostly mixes. All around two to four months old. A couple of rescues, some surrenders. They’re all looking for someone to love them."

Y/N listened with her whole body. You could almost see every word soaking in through her skin. She glanced at the little nameplates on the walls, the photos of dogs with their 'gotcha day' dates scribbled underneath in bright marker.

Chris tilted the camera to catch them both.

"She’s about to cry, and we haven’t even seen them yet." He whispered with a soft laugh that he didn’t bother hiding.

Y/N elbowed him gently, her cheeks warming, but she didn’t deny it.

Veronica slowed as they reached a thick, heavy door at the end of the hall. She rested her hand on the handle, looking back at them with a small, knowing smile.

"Just a heads up." She started. "It’s... a lot. But in the best way."

Y/N nodded, practically vibrating with so much joy that made Chris’s throat feel a little tight.

Veronica pushed open the door, and the sound hit them like a wave.

Not too loud.

Not overwhelming.

Just tiny barks. High-pitched yips. The soft whimpering of baby dogs desperate for attention.

The room was huge, warm, and alive.

Colorful pens lined the walls and clustered in the middle, each one a little world of its own. Puppies tumbled over each other, tails wagging furiously, tiny paws slipping on the polished floor. Some barked for attention, others yawned and dozed, some sat solemnly watching as if judging whether the visitors were worthy.

Y/N froze in the doorway, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh my." She whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

Chris lowered the camera just a little, blue eyes widening, trying to absorb everything he was seeing.

"I’m not ready." She said in a half-laugh, half-sob kind of way, looking at the camera before traveling up to Chris's eyes.

Chris grinned, shrugging.

"You've been talking about this to me for months." He playfully rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you are ready."

They moved slowly into the room.

Puppies cried out from every direction, tiny paws scratching at the metal gates, little noses pressing eagerly against the bars.

Everywhere they looked had floppy ears, wagging tails, big hopeful eyes.

Y/N dropped to her knees by the first pen, offering her fingers through the bars. A tiny golden retriever mix immediately pounced, licking her hand with wild, uncoordinated enthusiasm.

"Hi, baby." Y/N cooed, her voice trembling a little

Chris crouched beside her, filming the way the puppy nipped at her hoodie strings and the way her laugh broke through, high and light and a little watery.

Veronica walked them slowly through the room, pausing now and then to tell them each puppy’s name, their little backstories.

"This is Millie. She’s a husky mix. Lots of energy, super smart... And that’s Bruno, he’s shy at first but a total cuddlebug once he knows you..."

Y/N knelt by every pen, meeting every puppy like they were the only one in the room. She spoke to them softly, let them sniff her hands, and gave every single one a piece of her heart.

Chris kept filming, but there was a lump in his throat now, heavy and thick. He could already see it happening. The way Matt’s posture would break when he saw.

The way this tiny new life would change their whole lives.

They were almost at the end of the room when a small sound caught Y/N’s attention, a soft, hoarse little bark, almost like a question.

She turned instinctively, eyes scanning, and there he was.

Tucked into a small pen near the back, almost hidden away, was a tiny pug, barely bigger than a loaf of bread, with oversized paws and huge, round eyes.

He blinked up at her, wobbled toward the gate on unsteady legs, and let out another bark, louder this time, more certain.

Y/N’s whole body went still.

"Oh." She whispered, her hand flying to her chest.

But it wasn’t the overwhelmed kind of 'oh' from before. It was different now.

She moved without thinking, sinking to the floor in front of his pen. The little pug pressed his smooshy face against the bars, pawing at the air desperately until Y/N slid her hand inside.

The moment her fingers brushed his fur, he let out a happy, high-pitched whimper and collapsed into her hand like he’d been waiting for her all along.

Chris lowered the phone slightly, laughing almost breathlessly.

"Oh my God, it's Matt's stuffed pug."

"This is him." Y/N said, her voice breaking on a whisper, ignoring his reference to Mr. Wrinkleton. "Chris, it’s him."

Chris crouched down beside her, his lips forming a smile. He looked at the tiny pug clambering over himself to get closer to her, his little tail wagging so hard it made his whole body wobble.

Yeah.

This was it.

Veronica knelt beside them, her smile gentle.

"He’s three months old." She said softly. "Had a rough start, but he’s healthy now. He’s gonna be somebody’s whole world."

"Our. Our own world." Silent tears slipped down Y/N´s cheeks as she cradled the tiny pug’s squirming body against her chest.

Chris lifted his phone again, filming as Y/N pressed a kiss to the pug’s soft paw.

"Welcome to the family, little dude." He whispered.

Y/N looked up at him, her arms wrapped protectively around the tiny bundle of fur, her whole face shining with something so pure it almost hurt to look at.

"Matt’s gonna lose his mind." He said, laughing at her reaction.

Y/N laughed, too, blinking hard.

"Yeah." She said. "In the best way."

The little pug yawned, his tiny body going limp against Y/N’s hoodie, safe and small and finally, finally home.

The big screen glitched.

Just for a split second, barely even a breath, but it was enough to make every single person in the theater sit up a little straighter.

The giant screen flickered, snapping out of its still state before huge white letters, sprawled loud and proud across it.

'SURPRISE'

The noise was instant.

It rose so fast it felt like the theater itself trembled with the force of it, a full-body, head-to-toe rush of screams and gasps and insane, joyful chaos.

And then the countdown appeared.

Big, chunky numbers.

5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

The entire theater vibrated.

And then there he was.

Chris.

Right there, filling up the screen, standing in front of a camera, looking dead into it while adjusting the knot of his tie with both hands.

Screams echoed louder than before, paired with bodies jumping out of seats like they had been electrocuted.

Chris just smiled his cheeky half-smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made everything else blur a little.

He stood up from the orange couch on the right side of the stage, the one where he’d been sitting shoulder to shoulder with Matt, grabbing the mic that had been resting between them.

The noise, if it was even possible, got louder.

Chris shot a quick look at the crowd, like seriously?, lifting his brows and laughing under his breath, but you could see the way his whole face lit up.

He loved it.

Still laughing, he shoved his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie and walked across the stage, his black Converse scuffing softly against the dark wood.

He turned toward one of the big wooden shelves that were part of the stage set and paused, throwing a quick glance back at the crowd, lifting the mic to his mouth

"Okay." Chris started, his voice crackling a little through the speakers because people wouldn’t stop cheering. He laughed again, boyish and bright. "For this surprise..." He paused, letting it hang in the air just long enough to make people collectively calm down. "I need you guys to chill, okay?"

The crowd didn’t exactly obey - because honestly, how could they? - but the volume did dip, a little.

Chris rolled his eyes dramatically, turning away from them and toward the wooden cabinet door in front of him.

He wiggled his fingers at it like he was about to do a magic trick, smiling so hard you could practically feel it.

Meanwhile, Matt and Nick were already on the left couch, explaining the dynamics of the live broadcast channel and the hint Chris was going to show to the public.

"Alright." Chris huffed out, laughing through his nose like he couldn't believe he - and Y/N - were really about to do this.

Well, they already did it anyway.

His fingers wrapped around the cool metal handle of the cabinet door and pulled it open.

The tiny little squeak the hinges made was almost swallowed by the mutters of excitement echoing across the theater. He reached inside, his arm disappearing into the dark cabinet before pulling his hand back out slowly.

When he turned around, he had something small and squishy clutched in his hand.

The cabinet clicked shut behind him as he made his way back toward the couches, stopping in front of his brothers, holding the thing up.

For a second, Matt squinted at it, confused.

And then his face changed.

"Wait-" Matt leaned forward, hands shooting out to grab it. "Dude! Mr. Wrinkleton?!"

The theater straight-up erupted.

A loud, messy mix of laughter and cheers filled the air.

Matt cradled the stuffed pug against his chest like it was a living, breathing thing. His brows furrowed, all dramatic.

"How- how did you even-" He started, mouth hanging open a little. He shook Mr. Wrinkleton gently, like that was gonna shake an answer out of the poor plushie. "I swear I left him at home! I didn’t pack him!"

Chris just shrugged, doing that thing where he tried way too hard not to laugh, but his whole face was twitching.

Nick was already cracking up on the couch beside Matt, throwing his head back like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

"Chris, did you sneak into your bag?!" He asked into his mic.

Chris just threw his hands up all innocent-like, backing up a little.

"Well, obviously." He said, grin stretching wider.

Nick leaned forward, still laughing, grabbing his own mic tighter.

"Okay, wait, wait. So what, you went to those stuffed animals stores and bought a whole lot of it?" He asked, frowning at the pug.

"Yeah, like..." Matt shook Mr. Wrinkleton in the air again, pointing at him. "Build your bear or something."

Chris gave them both a deadpan look, crossing his arms over his cotton jacket.

"Wrong. Both wrong." He said, voice dripping with fake disappointment. "And Y/N would kill me if I bought more stuffed animals."

The audience cackled.

Without warning, Chris stepped forward and snatched Mr. Wrinkleton right back out of Matt's hands, ignoring his loud "Hey, he's mine!" protest.

"Sorry, bud. He's part of the surprise." Chris said, tossing a wink at the crowd.

He walked away before either of them could argue, crossing the stage to the opposite couch, lowering himself onto the cushion, sitting Mr. Wrinkleton against his chest.

And even though he was trying his hardest to act normal, to play it cool, he definitely didn't look over to where Y/N was sitting offstage.

Not even a glance.

Okay, he peeked once. Real quick. But it didn’t count.

He pulled his gaze back to the audience, clearing his throat into the mic.

"Okay." He said, leaning forward a little. "I need you guys to really, and I mean really pay attention to this surprise, okay? No screaming. Just... watch."

The theater actually settled. Not all the way, but the noise dropped down to a quiet murmur. A few people were still whispering excitedly, phones clutched so tight in their hands that it looked like they might actually snap in half.

Chris turned back toward the giant screen, rubbing his palms over his knees once before looking up.

"Well." He said into the mic, voice a little softer now. "Let's see what I did."

The video started.

It didn’t come with any fanfare or intro, which already made it so different from the slow builds Matt and Nick did for theirs.

The first thing they all saw was the little bell above the door, giving a tiny jingle as Chris pushed it open. The metal frame rattled against the glass, a little shaky from his hand being just barely too excited.

Chris must've turned his phone a little, revealing Y/N stepping into frame.

And you could literally hear the collective reaction in the room. A few people gasped softly, immediately putting their hands to their mouths, excited whispers of Y/N's name carrying around the theater.

Matt’s whole body jerked upright, eyes going round as coins, traveling from the screen to Chris and back again.

"Y/N? What-"

She was tugging the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands, all tucked in and shy, just like she always did when she was either excited out of her mind or on the verge of jumping out of her skin.

Behind the camera, you could hear Chris’s voice, low and soft, kind of laughing under his breath like he couldn’t believe they were actually doing whatever they were doing.

"Alright." He said, his tone so full of his excitement it filled up the whole living room and made Matt and Nick instinctively smile. "We’re really doing this, huh?"

Y/N shot a crooked little smile over her shoulder at him and then turned back toward the front of the store.

Video-Chris moved his phone in a way that the camera registered the shelves lined neatly with treats and toys, the bulletin board overloaded with colorful flyers and Polaroids of grinning pets, the half-dead potted plants on the windowsill.

Back on the couch, Matt’s mouth fell open a little, slow realization crossing his face, his occupied hand moving his mic close to his lips.

"Chris... is this a-?" Then blinked hard and answered himself in a sudden, hushed rush. "That's a dog place. Dude, it's a dog place."

Nick, looking equally bewildered but not yet putting two and two together, yelled back.

"What's happening?!"

On the screen, behind the front counter, an older woman lifted her head from a stack of paperwork. She pushed her glasses up her nose, eyes warm and crinkling at the corners. Her gray-streaked braid swung over her shoulder as she stood.

"Hi there." Y/N said, stepping closer to the counter.

Her voice was soft, careful but open, the way she used to talk when she's trying really hard to get it right because it matters.

Chris’s phone camera caught the way her fingers twisted the fabric of her hoodie, nerves leaking out even though her smile stayed steady.

"Are you Veronica?" She asked.

The woman’s face lit up instantly, like Y/N had flipped a switch.

Veronica rounded the counter with this easy energy that made you want to trust her instantly.

"That’s me." She said warmly, a little laugh in her voice. "And you must be Y/N. You called about the puppies, right?"

Puppies.

The word dropped into the room like a tiny, adorable bomb.

A whole new ripple of gasps and low "oh my god's" ran through the audience. Matt slapped a hand over his own mouth so fast it made a little smacking noise, his eyes widening more - if that was even possible.

Nick just shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, jaw dropped low.

Back on the right couch, Chris could feel everyone's eyes on him, the glances bouncing between him and the screen like they were all trying to process the serotonin overload.

Nick was the first to react.

"Wait-" He half-shouted into his mic. "You both spent a day with puppies or-?"

Matt was still staring at the screen, eyebrows drawn so hard together that they were practically touching.

Chris just leaned back a little, smirking at them all.

"I told you to pay attention." He said lightly, voice all mischievous.

The video continued playing, but no one really moved.

Backstage was dark. There was a warm golden light cast over everything from the stage beyond the thick curtains, but none of it quite touched where Y/N stood.

She was tucked into the far-left side of the stage, just behind where Matt and Nick were seated, hidden.

Perfectly hidden.

The kind of hidden where her heart could race freely and her hands could clutch the hem of her hoodie without anyone seeing her do it - the fabric was soft beneath her fingers, already wrinkled from how much she’d been fidgeting.

She stared at the stage, catching a glimpse of the big screen showing the video that had just started to roll, the one that had captured her and Chris walking into the puppy shelter weeks ago.

But her eyes weren’t on herself, though.

They were locked - utterly glued - to Matt on the flat screen across the stage.

His mouth was parted slightly in that unguarded way he had when he was surprised or deeply focused. His eyes were wide. Shiny. And every couple of seconds, he’d glance away from the screen, flicking his gaze through the crowd like maybe, maybe, he would find her in between their fans.

It was like he could feel her there.

But it wasn't possible, right? She was back home, waiting for them.

For him.

Y/N’s heart swelled, aching in the best, most ridiculous way. Her cheeks were already warm, and she hadn’t even stepped out yet.

On the screen, Chris's voice played softly through the speakers.

"Alright. We’re really doing this, huh?"

Y/N saw Matt’s brow pull in just slightly. And then his lips tugged up.

She was just barely biting her bottom lip when a soft touch on her shoulder made her jump.

She spun around, heart flying into her throat, but it was just Paula with her extravagant clothes, her headset half on, and her big knowing smile. But it wasn’t her smile that Y/N noticed.

It was him.

A squirming, snuffling, snorting little ball of cinnamon-colored fuzz, wrapped in Paula's arms.

Y/N’s eyes went immediately huge.

Her hands shot out, palms opening like some instinctual reflex she couldn’t fight. Paula laughed, handing over the pug puppy with the most care in the world. He squeaked once, then buried his little wet nose into Y/N’s chest the second she cradled him.

"Thank you... thank you so much." She whispered to Paula, though she never looked away from the tiny dog. Her nose pressed to his squishy head, eyes fluttering closed as she kissed him once, twice, three times. "Hi, my little love." She cooed, arms wrapping tighter around the warm, wiggly ball of fur. "Are you ready to meet your daddy?"

The puppy responded with a tiny sneeze and then a soft whimper, tucking even deeper into the safety of her hoodie. Y/N smiled, pulling the fabric higher around him, her lips brushing his ears as she rocked him lightly.

Across the stage, just barely in her peripheral, she caught movement.

Chris.

He didn’t wave or speak - obviously, but the small, subtle flick of his chin down, then toward the curtain, was enough.

Her cue.

She swallowed.

Her throat was tight, voice stuck somewhere behind her ribs. But she took one long, quiet inhale through her nose, then let it out through parted lips.

Her legs moved before her brain even fully caught up. Her boots were soft on the stage floor as she walked around the edge of the curtain and into the glow.

Her eyes flicked playfully to a group of fans who noticed her first and gasped. She gave them a small shake of her head and a smile and then looked down at the puppy still trying to climb her like she was a mountain.

"Shhh." She whispered to him, lips brushing his head again. "You’re okay, baby. We’re almost there."

His little paws dug softly at her chest, whining quietly with the new lights and noises, but Y/N just chuckled and kissed him again.

"We’re gonna get your daddy, okay? One sec."

She walked along the center of the stage slowly, looking at the crowd and lifting her right hand gently, pressing her index finger to her lips, until she reached the back of the left couch.

Matt’s back was still turned.

He was leaning forward a bit, fully focused on the final moments of the video. His fingers were twitching a little on his knee. Nick was watching too, his mouth still slightly open, clearly trying to process the whole thing.

"Matt’s gonna lose his mind." Chris’s voice said on screen, laughing.

Y/N’s laugh echoed faintly from the video. And then her voice echoed.

"Yeah. In the best way."

The screen faded to black.

"I'm so fucking confused right-" Matt turned toward Nick just a little, hand holding his mic to his lips, when something interrupted him.

A whine.

Right behind him.

Matt blinked. Froze. His body stiffened as he slowly turned toward the sound, eyebrows pulling in, lips slightly parted in confusion.

And then his entire world stopped.

Because there she was.

Y/N, who was supposed to be at home after a day full of classes.

Standing just behind him.

With a puppy cradled in her arms like he was something precious and sacred and just... perfect.

The little thing let out another soft yip, paws twitching.

Matt didn’t move for half a second.

And then everything hit him all at once.

His mic fell to the cushions with a soft thump as he stood so fast the couch shifted slightly under Nick. His blue eyes were huge, glassy, locked on her, and the tiny dog in her arms. He looked from her face to the puppy and back again like he couldn’t believe either were real.

Nick was still sitting, mouth wide.

"A dog?! What the fuck?" He yelled into the mic, which made the crowd laugh, breaking the silence.

But Matt didn’t react. Not to Nick. Not to the crowd. Not to anything.

His feet moved, and he rounded the couch as fast as his wobbling legs could. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of her, his bottom lip trembling so hard it visibly shook.

Y/N didn’t speak. She just looked at him. Heart bursting. Face soft and eyes full of tears she was barely keeping in. Her smile trembled, her arms slightly lowering the tiny pug toward him.

And Matt- God.

He reached out like he’d never touched anything so gently in his life.

His hands came around the puppy, scooping him carefully, protectively. His fingers curled around his soft belly, bringing him to his chest, and Matt immediately bent his head, pressing his nose to the pup’s warm, wriggling body.

The crowd around them had started to whisper, a few quiet "awws" spreading like waves, people lifting their phones to capture it.

Y/N stepped closer. Her hands dropped to Matt’s right hip, fingertips ghosting over the fabric of his denim jacket, grounding herself in him.

Matt breathed. He breathed like he’d been holding it in for years. The puppy let out a soft grunt, and Matt kissed the top of his head, nuzzling his nose into his fur.

"I-" Matt’s voice cracked. He pulled the puppy tighter. "Fuck- I love you. I love you so much already, little guy."

His voice was so emotional, so raw and wrecked and overwhelmed that it made Y/N’s eyes sting even more.

"You’re mine now, yeah?" He whispered, pressing another kiss to his tiny wrinkled head, raising his eyes to meet Y/N's, waiting for some sort of confirmation that came as a nod. "Ours."

Y/N let out a soft laugh, her hand smoothing over Matt’s back before sliding up to gently stroke the puppy’s little ear.

"You’re gonna be the best dog owner." She whispered.

Matt looked at her again. His eyes were wet.

Really wet.

And full of every bit of love he could show.

And then Chris approached from the side, his mic still in his hand but lowered. He walked up slowly, looking from Matt to the puppy and then to Y/N.

He caught her eye, lifted his right hand, and closed it gently into a fist.

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, eyes still glassy as she lifted her own and gently bumped her knuckles against his.

Nick was the next to move, craning his neck and squinting behind the couch.

"This is insane." He stared between them and then turned to the audience. “They hid a puppy from us." He said, stunned, pointing to Matt, who was now just silently smiling down at the pug in his arms like he had found the meaning of life. "A whole entire puppy. From us."

The audience laughed, all warm and emotional, several people visibly wiping their eyes. Nick shook his head and looked back at Matt, softening when he saw how wrecked his brother looked.

"Matt..." He said into his mic. "They literally just made your whole world."

Matt just nodded slowly, that water-logged grin barely leaving his face, whispering something to the pug about how tiny his paws were as the little guy curled tighter into his jacket.

Chris stepped a little closer to him, lifting the mic.

"So..." He said, all playful but still gentle. "Did you like the surprise?"

Matt glanced at him, then at the crowd, then finally looked to Y/N. His gaze softened even more. He reached his arm out, grabbing her hand and pulling her gently against his side.

"I guess..." He said into the mic, voice low and smile cracking wide. "We’re dog parents now."

The entire crowd erupted in screams and laughter. Y/N laughed quietly against Matt’s side as he covered the puppy’s ears instinctively with the noises, kissing Y/N’s temple with one hand still pressed gently over the pug’s head.

323 notes · View notes

m1dori-eyes · 5 hours ago

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that is not a 'single angelic note' girl you are going to get fucking carbon monoxide poisoning

[8 seconds from a ytp my friend @normalname69 made]

nurse joy: "Have you seen that posteR?"

ash: "HUauuaUH?"

nurse joy: *one single angelic note*

16K notes · View notes

geminiwritten · 2 days ago

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perfect storm ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: you and jake have a messy history and have been comfortably hating each other for the past few years, until all hell breaks loose when you're brought in as the newest member of maverick's special detachment (enemies to lovers)

notes: okay, i'm starting to think that i really should work at work instead of write... like, is it unethical? anyways, idc!!! have some enemies to lovers! i'm not feeling as strong about this, despite the fact that i've chosen writing over sleep and work for the past few days... but i really hope y'all like it and i hope it lives up! please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, angst, miscommunication, jake is an asshole, allusions to sex (18+ ONLY PLEASE), bad weather / storm descriptions, a written plane crash, and frequent mention of plane crashes! let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 12439

your callsign is angel

“Alright, listen up.” Maverick stands at the front of the room, his trademark leather jacket draped over his shoulders and his hands firmly planted on his hips. “You received your official briefing this morning, but we’re going to go over a few things now.”

The chatter that had filled the room falls to an abrupt silence as the aviators, now fully attentive, settle into their chairs—every eye on their captain.

“Let’s start with the basics. Just like the last operation, this mission is classified. You’ve all been reassigned from your standard duties to continue training as part of this special operations detachment. Not all of you will deploy, but everyone will undergo training and remain in reserve if you’re not selected. We’ve got a bit more time to prepare this go-around, but don’t mistake that for leniency. This mission is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, with brand new challenges ahead.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening as he locks eyes with Mickey and then Bob. “Our weapons systems officers will be key to our success.”

Natasha raises her hand, waiting for Maverick to acknowledge her before speaking. “Will the same pilots from the last mission be prioritised?”

Maverick shakes his head firmly. “No. There’s no favouritism or preference. Selection will be based on performance during training. We’ll see who excels in the specific skills needed for this mission.”

Bob leans forward. “Will Omaha and Halo be returning to the detachment?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Maverick replies. “As you’re all aware, Omaha and Halo were urgently recalled to their original squadrons and will not be returning. But rest assured, arrangements have been made to bring in a top-tier replacement.”

Jake tilts his head, a frown forming as confusion plays across his face. “Replacement, sir? Singular? If this mission hinges on WSOs, shouldn’t we be getting a pair to replace Omaha and Halo?”

What Jake is really asking—without being blatantly obvious—is why they’d bring in another pilot to compete with him for mission lead.

Maverick’s signature smirk, the one that gets him both in and out of trouble, curls at the corners of his lips. “You’re not wrong, Hangman," he says, voice steady. “Which is why I’ve decided that Coyote”—he glances at the man sitting beside Jake—“will no longer be flying solo.”

Javy’s eyes widen, brows lifting in surprise as a grin tugs at his lips. “I get a WSO?”

Just outside the training room door, a knot of nerves begins to coil in your stomach, but you don’t let them show. Nerves are nothing new to you—unwanted, but familiar. You’ve learned how to manage them. When your heart starts to race at the thought of something trivial, like walking into a room full of the country’s best naval aviators, you remind yourself what real fear feels like. Like being strapped into the back seat of a fighter jet, spinning out of control, wondering if you’ll ever see your family again. That’s fear. This? This is just another challenge.

The admiral standing beside you smiles, but it’s an awkward fit for his hard-lined face. “They’re ready for you now.” He gestures toward the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Maverick is your captain, but… well, he can be a bit trying. Exceptionally skilled, and somehow always managing to dodge death, but trying.”

A light laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Duly noted. Thanks, Admiral Simpson.”

His smile tightens as he gives you a terse nod. “Cyclone,” he corrects, his tone sharp. As he turns to walk away, he glances back over his shoulder. “Good luck, Angel.”

You take a steadying breath, roll your shoulders back, and step through the door into the training room—where ten sets of eyes, and one captain you’ve already met, turn to face you.

“This,” Maverick announces with a grin, “is Angel.”

Jake fucking Seresin—because of course it’s him—shoots up from his chair like he’s been launched, disbelief written all over his face. His scowl is thunderous as he whips toward Maverick. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Maverick’s smile drops instantly, confusion flickering across his face before it hardens into something closer to disappointment. He may not be a by-the-book kind of CO, but he’s not about to tolerate open insubordination first thing on a Monday morning.

Your heart slams in your chest, each beat pounding hot blood through your veins. Anger simmers under your skin, but unlike Jake, you don’t let it take the wheel. Instead, you plaster on the sweetest, most radiant smile you can summon—one worthy of your callsign.

From the front row, Natasha snorts. “Oh, man. This is going to be fun.”

“Lieutenant Seresin,” Maverick snaps, voice sharp. “Sit. Down.”

“Mav,” Jake says, clearly abandoning any trace of professionalism, “you don’t understand-”

“I understand perfectly,” Maverick cuts in, his scowl deepening. “Now take your seat. That’s an order.”

Jake drops into his chair stiffly, posture ramrod straight, jaw clenched so tight you can see it working from across the room.

“Good.” Maverick’s gaze shifts to you, his tone softening. “Take a seat, Angel. I take it you already know a few of my aviators.”

You nod and start forward, willing your legs to move. “Yes, sir.”

You offer quiet hellos to Harvard, Yale, and Fritz as you pass them, and Reuben and Mickey each get a subtle fist bump. Bradley throws you a wink as you slide into the open seat beside him, and Natasha and Bob twist in their chairs to whisper excited greetings your way. Across the aisle, Javy leans forward past Jake’s stone-still form to offer you a smile—though there’s a flicker of nervousness behind his eyes.

“Alright,” Maverick claps his hands together, “let’s go over the mission parameters.”

You do your best to focus on what your captain is saying, but it’s difficult with Jake shooting you dirty looks every few minutes. When Maverick announces that you’ll be flying as Javy’s WSO, it clicks—that’s why he looked so nervous before. Still, you’re more relieved than anything. As long as you’re not stuck in a jet with Jake at the controls.

After nearly an hour of mission briefing and discussing operational challenges, Maverick finally decides that it’s time to fly.

“Phoenix,” he calls as the group begins to file out. “Hang back a sec.”

Natasha gives you a curious glance but stops, turning back to the captain. You continue out the door with Bob, only half-listening as he talks about the last special detachment training. Something about SAM evasion drills and low-level ingress routes.

Once the room clears, Maverick crosses his arms and lets out a heavy sigh. “Can you explain whatever the hell that was?”

Natasha’s concern fades instantly, replaced by a smirk. “You mean Hangman and Angel?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you ask one of them?”

He looks up, visibly exasperated. “Did you see the way they were glaring at each other? I’d get two completely different versions of the same disaster.”

Natasha laughs quietly. “Fair.”

He waits, arching a brow—inviting her to keep going.

“To be honest, I don’t know the full story,” she says. “But it goes back to TOPGUN. She was his WSO. They were… kind of legendary. Unbeatable, from what I’ve heard. There were even rumours about the two of them dating.”

Maverick’s expression shifts—mild curiosity now threading through his frown.

“Rooster swears she’s the only woman Hangman ever really wanted but couldn’t have,” Natasha continues. “But I think he saw her as a threat and convinced her to fly with him just to keep her close.”

Maverick’s frown deepens. “So, what happened?”

“One of their last flights before graduation, Hangman pulled something reckless��overconfident, stupid. The usual. He got them into some serious trouble. They lost control and had to eject, both ending up in the hospital.”

Maverick doesn’t interrupt, just listens, arms still crossed.

“They refused to speak to each other after that. It got so bad during the investigation that they almost got court-martialled—they kept arguing during the hearing. I’m pretty sure the crash was ruled pilot error on their records.”

He lets out a low whistle. “And they still graduated?”

“With conditions,” she says. “They were given a choice—suspension or assignment to the same fleet squadron.”

That earns a blink. “Who gave that ultimatum?”

Natasha grins. “Admiral Kazansky.”

Maverick actually chuckles at that, despite himself. “Of course he did. So, they chose to patch things up?”

“Yes… and no. According to Coyote, they’ve coexisted by pretending the other doesn’t exist. That’s why Hangman was so eager to join this detachment—he was planning to request reassignment after it ended, and I’m pretty sure she is the reason why.”

Maverick’s amusement fades. A pale look crosses his face as the reality sets in. “What have I done?”

Natasha’s grin widens. “Sir, you’ve just set us up for the most entertaining training cycle in Navy history.”

The roar of jet engines fills the comms, and the sky outside is a dizzying patchwork of clouds and sunlight as Maverick's jet cut across the HUD like a ghost—fast, erratic, and unpredictable.

Javy’s a solid pilot, but you can feel the tension in his movements. “He’s all over the place,” he says, “I can’t get a clean shot.”

“You won’t,” you reply, voice steady. “That’s the point. Don’t chase—bleed his energy.”

Javy exhales sharply through his mask, trying to keep up. Maverick flips his jet inverted, slicing low over the water. Javy follows, but you're already moving, fingers dancing over the console. The radar pulses with activity, tracking Maverick’s erratic manoeuvres.

“I’ve got tone in five… hold steady,” you say, fighting a smirk under your mask. “Three… two…” A sharp beep echoes through the headset, and you let that smirk stretch across your lips. “Fox Two. Guns, guns, guns.”

“Holy shit,” Javy gasps.

On the HUD, Maverick’s jet flashes red—the simulated kill confirmed.

“Nice shooting, Angel,” Maverick says over the comms, a hint a laughter in his tone.

“Anytime, Captain.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he adds. “I was going easy on you.”

“Bullshit,” Bradley pipes up from somewhere in the sky. “You were scrambling, Mav.”

“Yeah, alright,” Maverick says with a chuckle. “Now get your asses on the ground. I want Pheonix, Bob, and Hangman up here.”

You let out a breath of relief as Javy guides the jet back to base, the landing smooth and controlled. The jet powers down, and you run through a quick check before climbing out. The second your boots hit the tarmac, you yank off your helmet, sweat dripping from your brow, and turn to Javy, who is grinning like an idiot.

“I can’t believe you just shot Maverick,” he says. “None of us have ever done that.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Really? Maybe he was going easy then.”

“Oh, he was,” Jake says, his voice sliding down your spine like ice. “You’re not that good, Angel.”

You round on him, jaw tight. “I’m better than you, Bagman.”

He lets out a laugh—sharp and mocking. “Says who?”

You shrug, masking the anger bubbling beneath your skin with false nonchalance. “I don’t know. Ask your friends—or, sorry—friend. Singular. Because I’m pretty sure Coyote’s the only one who can stand you, and even he’d admit I’ve got you beat.”

Javy chuckles under his breath but shifts awkwardly. “Hey, leave me out of-”

Jake cuts in before he can finish, cockiness dripping from every word. “You know, you really shouldn’t obsess over my social life. Maybe try having one of your own. Or better yet, get yourself a date. Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.”

His words stick in your skin like pins in a voodoo doll—sharp and cruel. He always knows exactly what to say to really get to you.

“Fuck you, Seresin,” you snap, before shouldering past him and storming toward the hangar.

Your eyes sting, and your throat burns with the threat of tears, but you force it all down. You won’t cry. Not here. Not today. Not because of him.

Instead, you take a hard turn into the locker room—the men’s locker room—and head straight for Jake’s stuff. His name is stitched on the inside of his clothes, which you scoop up along with everything else he owns—socks, boots, the whole lot. You carry it all around the corner to the showers, drop it into a stall, crank the cold water, and walk out without a backward glance.

A few minutes later, you’re in the waiting room with the others, tension still buzzing under your skin but your expression cool. Natasha, Bob, and Jake are in the air now—you can hear their comms crackling over the speaker.

Maverick’s voice cuts through the static like a knife. “Hangman, if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll ground you myself.”

You smile to yourself, satisfaction blooming like a flower in your chest.

The next week passes in much the same way. You do your best to avoid Jake, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. At first, you think it might have something to do with how much time you’re spending with Javy, but it quickly becomes clear—he’s just really enjoying getting under your skin.

You argue almost every day. Most of the time, someone has to step in to break it up. But it’s never like that first day again. The fights stay surface-level—petty jabs over gear, disagreements about drills, snide little comments. It’s stupid, juvenile, and relentless. Still, you’re grateful that none of it gets personal again. Because it still hurts to think about what he said on your first day.

By Friday, you’re right back in the same room where it all started, sitting through an updated mission briefing from Maverick. You try to focus, but your attention keeps drifting. Jake is sitting across the aisle from you, whispering snide remarks about this morning’s drill—childish jabs you can’t help but respond to.

He leans in slightly. “Hell of a move back there. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

You glare at him. “Yeah? That part where you nearly clipped your wingman was real smooth.”

He scoffs under his breath. “At least I was actually doing something instead of riding shotgun in the backseat again.”

Your head snaps toward him, heat flaring in your chest. “Why don’t you just-”

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “Both of you—cut it out.”

You freeze. So does Jake. Slowly, the entire room turns toward the back, every pair of eyes locked on you, and none more intense than Maverick’s furious glare.

“Everyone else—you’re dismissed. Hangman. Angel. You’re staying behind to help with inventory, and you’re not leaving until you sort out whatever the hell this is. I don’t care if it takes all weekend.”

You both know better than to argue. There’s a heavy silence as everyone else stands, shuffling out with awkward glances and murmured goodbyes. You sink lower into your chair, dreading whatever’s coming next.

Neither of you speak as Maverick leads you down into the hangar, where maintenance crews are busy running post-flight checks on the jets. The air smells like jet fuel and frustration.

He stops to speak briefly with a technician before handing Jake a clipboard thick with paperwork. “You’re logging and checking all the equipment used this week. Everything. Make sure it’s clean, accounted for, and stored properly.”

He meets both your eyes with a dry, unimpressed stare. “Don’t kill each other…” He pauses. “Or do. I don’t care. Just as long as you’re not still bickering on Monday morning.”

And with that, he turns and walks away.

The two of you quickly fall into an unspoken agreement to work in silence. You start with the flight suits and G-suits, then move on to spare helmets and oxygen masks. There’s the occasional grumble or muttered complaint, but for the most part, you both keep your heads down and your mouths shut.

It’s about an hour into your assigned torture when Jake drifts away from where you’re double-checking the spare survival kits. He doesn’t say a word as he crosses the hangar, heading toward a short row of rusted lockers shoved into the back corner—right where most of the gear you’ve been sorting through came from. Two of the lockers hang open and empty, but the one in the middle is sealed shut with a heavily rusted lock.

Jake gives it a jiggle, then a harder tug. Nothing. You glance over, ready to tell him to stop wasting time, but your own curiosity is starting to itch.

Against your better judgment, you rise from your crouch and wander toward the tool pile a tech left behind earlier. You grab a pry bar and walk it over to Jake.

“Here,” you say simply, handing it over.

He quirks an eyebrow, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re helping him. But he takes it without a word. You nod toward the locker, silently urging him to get on with it.

Jake wedges the bar into the seam and heaves. There’s a horrible screech of metal grinding against metal, and the door practically explodes outward. You yelp and instinctively jump behind him, your hands landing on his back as if he could shield you from whatever haunted relic might burst out of the spooky locker.

When nothing attacks, you quickly step away, cheeks burning. Jake looks over his shoulder, cocky grin already forming—but for once, he spares you the teasing.

“When do you think this thing was last opened?” he asks, using the pry bar to hold the warped door fully open.

You peer inside and snort. “Judging by the Barry Williams photo taped in there? I’m going to guess sometime before Mav even joined the Navy.”

Jake chuckles—and for once, it’s not smug or biting. It’s warm. Deep. It rumbles through his chest like thunder and coils around you like smoke, pulling you toward him despite the apprehension roiling in your gut.

He steps closer, pulling out his phone to shine a light into the dim locker. It’s mostly empty: a few cobwebs, a protein bar wrapper, a single sock, and the faded photo of Barry Williams.

Jake picks up the wrapper. “Wow. They really thought this was health food?”

You laugh softly, taking the pry bar from his hand. As he keeps inspecting the wrapper, you use the bar to hook the sock, trying to lift it gently. But it doesn’t drape—it holds its shape, stiff and unbending.

“Gross,” you mutter, balancing the hardened fabric on the end of the bar.

Jake glances up, his eyes widening. “Is that thing... solid?”

You drop the sock onto the floor. It hits with a soft thud and stays exactly how it landed: twisted and grotesquely preserved.

“Yup.”

Jake lets out a snort. “Do you think it’s full of-”

“Please don’t say it.”

“Jizz,” he says gleefully.

You groan and shove the pry bar back into his hands, fake gagging as you walk away from the scene of the crime.

Jake eventually wanders back over to the survival kits, apparently satisfied with having quenched his thirst for mystery. The two of you settle into what could almost be called a companionable silence—rare for you both.

About half an hour later, one of the techs approaches, his face smudged with grease and sweat.

“Most of us are headin’ out,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lance is still workin’ outside. If you need anything, give him a shout. Security’ll be doing their first walkthrough in about an hour. You can stay as late as you want, as long as your overtime’s cleared.”

You snort and shake your head. “Oh, this isn’t overtime.”

“It’s punishment,” Jake adds dryly.

The man tilts his head, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “What’d you do?”

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Jake replies, “Captain got sick of us arguing.”

The tech raises his brows, glancing between you with an amused glint in his eye. “That so? Wouldn’t’ve guessed. You two looked mighty cosy pokin’ around that locker earlier.”

You glance over at Jake, only to find his gaze already locked on yours. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, blooming across your cheeks. You quickly duck your head and return to sorting the gear.

Jake lets out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry about that. Curiosity got the better of me.”

The man waves a hand dismissively. “Ain’t no thing. Have a good night.” And with that, he ambles off.

“Cosy,” Jake mutters, cracking open another kit.

You roll your eyes, weariness softening your usual edge. “Don’t think I’ve ever been cosy with you, Seresin. Friends, maybe. But never cosy.”

You keep your eyes on the kit, missing the flicker of something—hurt, maybe—that crosses his face.

“Friends, maybe?” he repeats quietly. “If I remember correctly, we were very much friends.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice flat. “We were.”

Another few minutes of silence tick by, broken only by the shuffle and scratch of your work. You’re almost finished with the survival kits when Jake speaks up again.

“You know it’s not true, right?”

Your brows knit together as you look up slowly, meeting his green gaze. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve always assumed you’re lying about having a massive-”

“Not that,” he cuts in, almost growling, irritation flashing across his face before something softer—something almost sad—takes over. “I mean about why I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer. Phoenix told everyone it was because I was threatened by you, but that’s not true.”

“Oh.” Your frown fades. “I know.”

He cocks his head. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder and pack up the last kit, dusting your hands on your pants. “Like I said, we were friends back then, Jake. I know you weren’t trying to screw up my career. You saw that I had potential to be a great WSO—and you were right. I am.”

You can’t bear the look on his face. It’s too open, too honest—too much like the way he used to look at you right before a flight. Right before you both climbed into the jet and he’d promise to keep you safe.

You straighten up and turn toward the checklist Jake left nearby, grabbing it and pretending to study it. Anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “We’re almost done. Just a few miscellaneous items and we’re out of here.”

Jake pushes to his feet and puffs his chest out, as if trying to shove all the emotion down and replace it with ego. “Alright. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here.”

You barely sleep all weekend. You’re too strung out, too confused, and—annoyingly—still thinking about Friday night. Why the hell was Jake nice to you? You know you both need to get your shit together and start acting like adults, but he didn’t need to go dredging up the past like that.

Every time you close your eyes, you see his face. The one you used to love. The one you used to daydream about kissing. But that was years ago. Any feelings you had for Jake Seresin died the moment you heard his voice through your headset that day—that calm, reckless voice telling you that it didn’t matter if he made it out alive, as long as you did.

By Monday morning, you wake up in a cold sweat for the third night in a row, sheets twisted and soaked. Your head is a mess and your chest is tight, so you do the only thing you can think of that might help.

You throw on your workout gear and head to the gym, ready to exorcise some demons.

The gym on base is unusually quiet for a Monday morning, and you decide that it’s a blessing—you’ll get your pick of equipment without having to wait for others to finish. You set yourself up on a treadmill first, hoping that getting your blood pumping will distract from your turbulent thoughts. Sliding your headphones over your ears, you pick an upbeat playlist and start marching along to the beat.

Most of the other early risers are packed into the weights section—well away from you, thank God.

But then, Jake’s words from last week creep back into your mind: Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.

You grimace. You hate to admit it, but there is a nugget of truth in there. Maybe you do need a release. Maybe that would help you stop fantasizing about strangling—or worse, kissing—Jake Seresin every time he so much as breathes near you. You’ve fought too hard for your spot here. You’re not about to let Jake, or your traitorous body, screw it up.

Your gaze strays toward the weights section again, casually scanning the candidates like you're hosting your own imaginary version of The Bachelor.

First up: a beefy guy with a shiny bald head, a thick goatee, and a death grip on the bench press bar. He’s grunting so loudly you can hear it over your music. Definitely not your type—hard pass.

Next contestant: a scrawny dude slouched on a bench, hoodie up, thumbs flying across his phone screen. The impressive-looking weights at his feet are a hilarious mismatch to his weedy physique. He’s either a sleeper-build legend or seriously overestimating himself.

Your treadmill beeps, announcing another mile. You bump up the incline and glance back up just in time to spot someone more promising.

Sitting at the lat pulldown machine is a guy with dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a smirk you can feel from across the room. He’s broad-shouldered, strong without looking like he eats steroids for breakfast, and he pulls down the heavy bar with ease. That little smirk screams trouble—and you love trouble. A cocky, pretty boy who can back it up? Now that is your kryptonite.

After a few more minutes of half-assed walking while planning your opening line, you see him leave the machine and wander toward the water bubbler.

It’s now or never.

You jump off the treadmill, loop your towel around your neck, and start sauntering over, practicing your most casual, I-don't-care-but-also-maybe-marry-me smile.

But then you see him.

And you stop dead in your tracks.

In the far corner of the gym is a man doing deadlifts, shirtless. His dark blond hair is sweaty and spiked up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Tight grey shorts—painted on by Satan himself—cling to him like they were designed for the express purpose of making you lose your religion.

You only get flashes of his reflection in the mirror, but it's enough to short-circuit your brain. Broad back, taut glutes, rippling arms. Every single inch of him looks carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and wanted you to suffer.

You forget all about Water Bubbler Guy. About why you even began walking this way. You stand there, completely paralysed, mouth dry, heart hammering, one singular, shameful thought blaring through your mind:

I want to lick him clean. I want to taste him like a cat in heat. Forget cold showers. Forget dignity. Just sign my soul over now.

The tremendous grunting of Goatee Guy jolts you out of your impure thoughts. You blink once—twice—before your gaze snaps back to the guy at the water bubbler. He smirks at you like he knows exactly what you’d been planning to do just minutes ago.

But not anymore. Sorry, buddy.

You give him a tight, awkward smile before scurrying over to the free weights section. You drop your stuff in a heap and unroll a rubber mat, all while stealing glances at the man still doing deadlifts—your future husband.

You still can’t see him properly. He keeps his back to you—which you’re not entirely mad about—and continues heaving that heavy bar off the ground like it's nothing. It has to be close to four hundred pounds, easy. Which means, yes, he could definitely lift you. Throw you around. Pin you down until you’re squirming.

God. Stupid Seresin was right. You do need to get laid.

You spend the better part of the next hour watching him like a creep. Subtlety is dead and buried. He never strays from his corner, which frustrates you—because it would be so much easier to accidentally make eye contact if he’d just wander past. Instead, you’re stuck hovering like a predator, practically salivating.

Eventually, you give up on trying to telepathically tell him to walk your way and decide to hit the showers before maybe—maybe—approaching him afterward. What’s the worst that could happen? You accidentally propose? Even if you crash and burn, odds are you’ll never see him again since you've never seen him here before.

You pack up the weights you’d been pretending to use and make your way toward the showers. After a quick (cold, very cold) rinse and a change into fresh clothes, you walk back out.

Your eyes immediately dart to the corner where they’d been glued all morning, but he’s gone.

Panic sparks low in your gut as you scan the gym, your pace quickening toward the centre of the room for a better vantage point. You’re so focused on searching that you don’t even notice what’s right in front of you—until you plough right into a firm chest.

You stumble back, an apology on the tip of your tongue—but then you realise exactly who you just ran into.

“Ugh.” You glare up at a very shirtless Jake Seresin, cocky grin firmly in place. “It’s you.”

He chuckles, deep and smug. “You really do know how to make a man feel special. It’s honestly a mystery why you’re still single.”

You roll your eyes. “Shove it up your ass, Seresin, I’m-”

The words get stuck in your throat as your gaze drops.

Shirtless, yes. And wearing a criminally tight pair of grey shorts.

No. Fucking. Way.

Silence stretches thick between you before Jake tilts his head, amusement dripping from every pore. “Cat got your tongue?”

Yes. A cat in heat.

You wrench your gaze back up to his face. “No.”

Without another word, you shoulder past him and bolt for the exit.

The second you step outside, you suck in a gasping breath like you’ve just broken the surface of deep water. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing up your throat.

There’s no fucking way you just spent the entire morning fantasizing about Jake fucking Seresin.

You try to avoid Jake for the rest of the day, which proves absurdly difficult—he’s like a bad smell you can’t escape. It makes you wonder if he caught you creeping on him at the gym. You weren’t exactly subtle. But if he did notice, he’s keeping it close to his chest.

By lunchtime, you’re so desperate for a reprieve that you decline the invitation to join your friends in the mess hall, opting instead for a little peace and quiet in the training room. Unfortunately, Maverick isn’t a mind reader, and he’s completely oblivious to your silent plea for solitude.

“You alright, Angel?” he asks, sliding into a seat across the aisle from you.

You glance up from your phone, hoping he didn’t notice that you had Tinder open. “Yeah, I’m good.”

There’s a brief pause before he chuckles to himself, shaking his head softly. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of callsigns, but yours always makes me hesitate.”

Your brows pinch together. “Really? There’s definitely worse out there… for example, Maverick. Ugh.” You can’t help it—being a smartass is in your blood.

He laughs again, tilting his head with a fond smile. “I don’t mean it’s bad. There are worse. But ‘Angel’—it’s so... affectionate. Forgive me, but I’m not exactly used to calling my lieutenants pet names.”

You snort, watching as Maverick’s face turns a soft shade of red. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I guess I’m just so used to it, I stopped thinking of it as something affectionate.”

He leans back in his chair, considering you for a moment. You feel a little too seen under that sharp gaze. Maverick is smart—almost obnoxiously so—and you’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t see straight through you.

“So it was affectionate,” he says finally, cutting through the silence. “At some point, at least.”

You sigh, warring internally about how much to share. The usual, abbreviated version you tell everyone else seems… somewhat insufficient right now.

“Yeah,” you admit. “It was actually Ja—uh, Hangman who called me Angel first. We met at the Academy. He tried some stupid pickup line on me, and I told him—rather colourfully—where to stick it.” You pause, chest aching as you drag the memory out of the dark corner you’d shoved it into. “He thought it was hilarious. Said I looked like an angel but swore like a sailor.”

Maverick chuckles softly, but his expression gives nothing away. You can’t tell if he’s judging you, or simply wondering how you and Jake could have fallen so spectacularly apart.

“Then, when I decided to become a WSO, people started calling me ‘The Avenging Angel’,” you add. “Because I was good at it. That’s usually the story I stick to. I don’t like admitting who really gave me the name.”

Maverick nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. You two clearly have a complicated history. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

You offer him a tight smile, grateful he isn’t pushing, though you aren’t sure what else to say.

“I’m not big on advice,” he says after a beat. “And I’m not going to pretend to know you better than I do. But I’ve known Hangman a little longer—and if you’ll let me, I’ll tell you one thing. Take it however you want.”

You nod once, fingers fidgeting anxiously with your phone in your lap.

“I once had a back-seater who kept me grounded when I needed it most,” Maverick says, pushing slowly to his feet. “And I’d give anything to have him still flying with me.”

Your breath catches. You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Unfortunately,” Maverick adds, offering a small, soft smile, “there’s nothing I can do to get my back-seater back.”

Then he turns and walks out, leaving you frozen in your seat, staring after him like he just dropped a nuclear bomb.

Did Maverick just tell you—in the most roundabout, emotionally devastating way possible—that Jake misses having you behind him? That you still matter to him?

You blink back the sting of tears.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The afternoon passes in a blur, and before you know it, Maverick announces that it’s time for some outdoor team-building—something everyone is far too excited about. You’re not sure why until he tells everyone to change into their “beach clothes” and then leads the group down to the sand, where Bradley and Reuben are quick to start setting up a volleyball net.

The sun is blazing, and the energy is electric. Everyone is stretching and practicing, casually tossing jabs at each other as they get the trash-talking started early.

Maverick decides that the WSOs will be paired with their pilots—so you’re with Javy—and the solo flyers are free to pick their partners. Jake teams up with Billy, callsign Fritz, while Mav steps in as Bradley’s partner.

The first teams to play are Reuben and Mickey versus Jake and Billy. The rest of the group settles around the court, all eager to watch and prep for their own games. The competition is fierce, and the excitement is palpable as Mav twirls the white ball on his finger and shouts out the rules.

But then, the worst thing imaginable happens.

Jake takes off his fucking shirt.

You hadn’t even noticed that the other guys had already opted to go shirtless under the blazing sun, but the second Jake peels off his white cotton t-shirt, your eyes lock onto him like a magnet.

You can feel your mouth go dry, your heart rate spiking, like a predator eyeing its first meal in days. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you.

Look away, you fucking idiot, before someone notices!

But you can’t. You can’t look away. You’re still seeing the guy from the gym—before you knew who he was—and now, against the backdrop of the beach, he looks absolutely obscene. His tan skin gleams in the sun, and his sunglasses sit low on his nose, giving him that effortlessly cocky look that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“Hey,” Javy appears beside you, nudging an elbow into your ribs. “You’re good at this game, right?”

You snort, tearing your eyes away from Jake. “I haven’t played since high school.”

Javy chuckles. “Well, shit. Let’s just hope we’re not up against Hangman and Fritz. Those two are more competitive than they have the right to be.”

You laugh again, letting your eyes slide back toward the game, landing immediately on the hot, tan man you hate yourself for fantasizing about. But you can’t help it—he’s fucking magnetic.

And, of course, he’s fucking good too. He knows how to play volleyball like a pro, and despite the stiff competition from Reuben and Mickey, Jake and Billy eventually prevail.

The rest of the group erupts into laughter and cheers as Jake does a victory lap around the court—cocky bastard. Mav then tells you and Javy to flip a coin with Natasha and Bob to see who goes next. Your heart pounds in your throat as the coin spins in the air, and when it lands on heads, you curse under your breath—you’re up.

The sun feels twice as hot as you stand across from Jake, grateful for your sunglasses that hide the very hungry look you know is threatening to spread across your face. This is Jake—annoying, cocky, careless Jake. There’s nothing special about him just because he was carved by the gods... right?

You wriggle your feet in the sand, trying to shake off the way your body is betraying you, and decide to take a little of Maverick’s advice. Maybe it’s time to stop hating Jake Seresin and at least try to be civil.

Jake gets into his stance just on the other side of the net, and then he tips his chin forward. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those piercing green eyes. And then he fucking winks at you. The audacity.

He throws the ball into the air, his body coiling as he leaps up after it, slamming the ball over the net toward your partner behind you. Your stomach flips. This bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

Javy whacks the ball back, and Billy returns it with equal intensity. You barely have time to think before you’re leaping up and spiking the ball back onto their side. It’s clearly Jake’s to save, but for some inexplicable reason, he freezes. He just stands there, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, as if he can’t believe you just pulled that off.

It wasn’t that impressive. In fact, you’re pretty sure you hit the net, which would be a foul in a real game—but this is just a friendly match.

The ball hits the ground, and Billy throws his hands up in disbelief. “Dude, what the hell? I thought you had that.”

Jake snaps out of his daze, his head jerking toward Billy like he’s just been slapped. “Shit, sorry.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you turn to Javy. “Did you see that?”

“Fuck yeah, I did!” he exclaims, beaming back at you.

You rush over to him and deliver a high-five so hard it stings, but you don’t care. You just scored on Jake.

You glance back over at him, jutting your bottom lip out exaggeratedly. “You okay, Seresin? Cat got your tongue?”

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they narrow as he tips his head forward. “Oh, it’s on!” he growls. “You’re about to lose those wings, Angel!”

A giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Bring it!”

The game wears on, and your confidence begins to wane—because, yeah, Jake is good. Really good. But that only fuels your competitive fire. You’re sprinting, jumping, leaping without worrying about how you look. All that matters is keeping that ball off your side. You hit the sand twice, and your knees are starting to burn, but it’s worth it. You’re in it now.

You and Javy are almost perfectly in sync, anticipating each other’s moves without a second thought. After every point, you share a high five or—at one point—a painfully awkward chest bump, but it’s worth it for the rush.

The fatigue starts to creep in after about fifteen minutes, but you know the game is nearly over. So, when Jake sends a ball sailing just out of reach, you spring as high as you can, throwing your entire body into the jump. Your fingertips brush the ball, just enough to send it back over the net.

You brace yourself for the inevitable thud of hitting the sand again, but instead, two strong hands catch you by the waist, pulling you into a solid, muscular chest. You do hit the sand, but with far less force than you anticipated.

And then, you tumble right on top of Javy. The two of you land in a heap, laughter spilling out of you like it’s been building up all day. Sand is everywhere, covering both of your faces as you giggle uncontrollably.

You hear Billy’s frustrated shout from across the court, and you realise that your dramatic save just scored you another point.

“Are you okay?” you ask, climbing off Javy.

He’s still chuckling and shaking sand out of his hair as he takes your hand to let you help him up. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“Yeah, I had a pretty soft landing,” you reply, winking playfully at him before you can even think about it.

When you turn back to your competitors, wearing a cocky smirk that could rival Jake’s, you’re met with a pair of blazing green eyes. Jake’s glare is nothing short of stormy, his sunglasses now perched on top of his head, eyes flicking between you and Javy.

Wow, he really does not like losing.

The next few volleys are borderline dangerous. Jake is putting everything he has into each hit—swinging hard and fast, directing every single ball straight at Javy. He’s darting all over the court, barely allowing Billy to touch the ball, sending it slicing through the air with a vengeance.

Five minutes later, Jake and Billy are declared the winners, but Javy is wiped out. Not because of the loss, but because he’s exhausted from dodging and saving himself from Jake’s ruthless shots.

Maverick calls for a break, giving Jake and Billy some downtime while Natasha and Bob face off against Brigham and Logan.

Billy shoots both you and Javy a teasing grin, offering a little jab about doing better next time before grabbing a water bottle and heading over to chat with Bradley. The two of them stand at the edge of the water watching Reuben and Mickey try their hand at body surfing on the small waves rolling toward the shore.

Javy grabs a cold bottle of water from the cooler before flopping down beside you in the sand. “That was intense,” he sighs.

You nod, taking a long drink of your own water. “Yeah. Hangman doesn’t like losing.”

Javy chuckles, his grin a little knowing. “In more ways than one, apparently.”

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what he means, but Javy cuts you off with a subtle shake of his head as Jake approaches. His dark sunglasses are back in place, concealing any trace of emotion written on his face.

You’re sitting next to the cooler, so you decide to extend a small olive branch. You pick up a bottle of water and offer it to him.

He takes it without a word and starts to walk away, effectively snapping your olive branch.

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’?” you call after him, unable to stop the words before they slip out.

He spins on his heel and strides back toward you, his broad shadow swallowing you whole. “Thank you? Right. For what? Doing something nice? I’m not in the habit of handing out gratitude to people who only pretend to care when it’s convenient for them.”

Your heart races as the words sink in. The heat of the moment rushes to your head, and you rear back, suddenly feeling too small beneath his towering presence. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You are,” he snaps, voice sharp and low. “I can’t escape you. The academy, flight school, TOPGUN… then you had to run your fucking mouth and get us deployed together. This detachment was the best thing to happen to my career, and then you had to come in and fuck it all up. As usual.”

The sting of his words lands like a slap across the face. Your heart beats louder in your chest, and the bridge of your nose burns. Your vision blurs, but you rapidly blink away the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“As soon as we’re done here,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower, “I’m getting reassigned and getting the fuck away from you. For good.”

“Good,” you bite back, scrambling to your feet. “The further you are from me, the better. Because I fucking hate you, Jake Seresin.”

It’s a cheap shot, but it feels like the truth. You’ve never felt as hollow as you do in this moment, realizing that your past and what you once meant to each other still haunts you. He knows exactly where to hit to make it hurt.

“Woah, woah,” Maverick’s voice cuts through the tension as he rushes over. “What’s going on? I thought you two-”

“It’s fine, Mav,” you cut him off, voice cold. “It’s nothing.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and storm off, your feet digging into the sand with every furious step. You have no destination in mind, only the burning need to get away from him. You swipe the back of your hand across your cheek, feeling the dampness of your skin and realizing too late that you’ve been crying this whole time. How fucking embarrassing.

Later that night, Maverick sends out a message to everyone to let you all know that training will start a bit later tomorrow. Something that you’re grateful for, because you don’t fall asleep until well past midnight. You spend the hours crying and wallowing, allowing your mind to spiral, and ultimately giving way too much of your time to the thought of Jake Seresin.

By morning, you’re feeling a little better and a lot stronger, fully prepared to ignore the hell out of him for the next few weeks.

At 9 AM, you’re all gathered in the training room, waiting for Maverick to finish his meeting with the admiral. Everyone is there except one—Javy. And the absence of your pilot is making you more nervous than you’d like to admit.

“Hey,” Nat says quietly, twisting in her chair to face you. “You feeling better?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, heaps. Yesterday was just... a bit of a shit show.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “We’re all entitled to a meltdown, especially with the kind of assholes we have to deal with.”

You offer her a tight, appreciative smile. “Tell me about it.”

She turns back around just as Maverick breezes through the door, his face tight with tension.

“Alright, listen up,” he says, standing at the front of the room. “You’ve probably noticed by now that Coyote is absent. That’s because, during a particularly intense game of volleyball”—his gaze flicks sharply toward Jake—“he hurt his back. The doctors have recommended that he not fly until further assessment, so unfortunately, he’s out.”

Your stomach drops and your heart starts pounding as a wave of anxiety washes over you.

“Angel,” Maverick continues, his gaze shifting to you. “This means you’ll be Hangman’s back-seater.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room, and your heart jumps into your throat. This has to be some kind of joke. This can’t be real.

“Mav.” Jake leans forward, his posture stiff and tense. “This isn’t a good idea. I can’t fly with-”

“You can and you will fly with her,” Maverick interrupts, his voice hard and final.

You don’t look away from Jake, studying his profile with desperate eyes, searching for even a hint that he’s on board with this—like Maverick said he would be. But his face is stone cold, and you’re starting to think that Maverick might have been full of shit when he told you that Jake misses his back-seater.

“That’s all,” Maverick says, his voice slicing through the stillness in the room. “Now, let’s hit the skies.”

Downstairs in the locker room, your hands shake as you tug your flight suit on and drag the zipper up to your collarbone. You haven’t been this nervous since your first flight after the crash—but you managed then, and you’ll manage now. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t flown with Jake in years. You’re good at your job and he’s good at his. As long as you can both be mature, this will be fine.

Jake’s already seated in the jet when you approach, head bowed over his controls. He doesn’t flinch when you climb up and strap into the back seat. He doesn’t even move—until it's time to follow the ground team’s signals toward the runway.

You focus on steadying your breathing, the rumble of the engine thrumming through your body. When you glance up at the familiar helmet in front of you, a wave of aching nostalgia crashes over you, stealing the air from your lungs.

Once you level out in the sky, you take a gulp of oxygen from your mask.

Maverick’s voice crackles through the headset: “Enemy fighter inbound. Take him out. Work together.”

You snap to attention, eyes locking on your radar, fingers flying over the controls with perfect precision.

“Talk to me, Fritz,” Jake says coolly. “Where is he?”

“I don’t see him yet,” Fritz responds. “Angel, anything on radar?”

And then—Maverick’s jet appears on your radar. Fast. Slippery. Impossible to pin down.

“I see him, but he’s bouncing all over the place,” you say.

Jake dives after him instantly, and you resist the urge to look up—you have to trust him.

“I’ve got him,” Jake says. “Fritz, on your left.”

The g-forces shove you into your seat as Jake throws the jet into a tight, reckless turn.

“Hangman, wait—follow my lead,” you snap.

Jake scoffs. “No. Just be quiet and let me do my job.”

You grit your teeth and swallow your retort.

“Hangman, on your six,” Fritz warns, a beat too late.

Jake yanks the jet into a hard, inverted climb. Your stomach flips, chest compressing painfully.

Maverick isn’t playing fair. He’s a blur across your radar, pulling turns that would rip lesser pilots apart. Your fingers dance across your controls, tracking him as best you can.

“He's coming up behind us, Hangman,” you call urgently. “Evade, evade.”

Jake finally hesitates.

“Left, now! Then roll!” you bark.

And this time—he listens.

The jet swings in a sharp, vicious arc. You spot a window, heart hammering against your ribs.

“He’s right behind me, guys,” Fritz says, his voice strained with panic.

“Hangman, right!” you yell. “Hold steady! I’ll have tone in four... three... two…”

The shrill beep fills your helmet, and adrenaline floods your veins.

“Fox two. Guns, guns, guns!” you shout.

The HUD flashes red. Maverick is hit.

“Nice move,” Maverick’s voice comes over the comms, surprisingly warm. “Very impressive flying.”

You sag back in your seat, heart still racing.

Flying with Jake used to be your favourite thing in the world.

And God help you—you’re starting to realise it still might be.

Back on the ground, the others are buzzing. They can’t stop raving about how good you were—how insane it is that you managed to catch Maverick with the way he was flying.

Harvard and Yale are next up in the sky with Bradley, and Hondo tells you and Jake to go clean up before the afternoon briefing. Apparently, the admiral himself will be joining for a mission update.

You’re just about to push into the women’s locker room when Jake’s hand slaps against the door, stopping you cold. You hadn’t even realized he was right behind you until he’s there—towering over you, close enough that you can smell the sun and sweat on his skin.

“You—uh,” he starts, voice low and rough, like it’s been scraped raw. His free hand drags through his hair, mussing it up. “You were damn good up there.”

You blink up at him, heart thudding. “Um. Thanks. You too.”

You try to slide past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans in a little closer—close enough that you feel his chest against yours when you inhale too deeply. Your whole body locks up, wired so tight it’s a miracle you’re still standing.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mutters, voice dipping even lower. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was... way outta line. And if you like Coyote... that’s fine.”

You raise an eyebrow, the tension snapping something sharp inside you. “Thanks for the permission,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially coming from the guy who told me to find some loser to fuck in the first place.”

You pause just long enough to see the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

“But for the record?” you add, voice soft but cutting. “I’m not interested in Coyote. He’s got a little too much Hangman in him for my liking.”

You expect him to lash back, but he doesn't say a word. He just stares at you—hungry, furious, starving—like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless.

“Move,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I’m hot and sticky and I need a sho-”

Before the words are fully out of your mouth, he grabs you.

His fingers wrap around your bicep, pulling you against him and then pinning you against the wall. He cages you there with his body, pressing so close that there’s not a sliver of air between you. You can feel every hard plane of him, the heat pouring off his skin.

“You drive me fucking crazy, Angel,” he growls, voice low and ragged, the sound vibrating through your chest.

You gasp, back arching instinctively toward him.

His mouth hovers just a breath from yours—so close you can almost taste him. His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back up to your eyes, desperate and agonizing and wrecked.

“Do you have any idea?” he murmurs, the rough edges of his voice catching. “How fucking hard it is to be around you?”

His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the shape of you. Your skin burns under the touch, your whole body tightening with the need to just lean in—just once—before it’s too late.

Your mind is scrambling, unable to catch up with whatever the fuck is going on. I mean, yeah, you know you drive him crazy—but not in this way. Not in a way that should make him look at you with that much hunger in his eyes.

“Jake, I-”

The sound of footsteps shatters the moment.

He tears himself away from you like he’s ripping off his own skin, turning and disappearing through the next door without a word.

You sag against the wall, dizzy and aching, as Reuben strolls past and raises a curious brow. You can’t even summon the energy to pretend you’re fine.

Because for the first time in a long time, you know you’re absolutely, dangerously not.

The next three days feel like you’re an extra on The Walking Dead. You can barely eat, barely sleep, and even breathing feels like a conscious effort—and half the time, you forget to. Every time you see Jake, your chest tightens, your lungs constrict, and your limbs seem to forget how to function. You stand there, frozen, like you’ve forgotten how to be human. But then he walks right past you, as if you don’t even exist.

How he went from being molten hot to freezing cold is beyond you. And it’s almost tearing you apart.

Everyone can feel it—the thick tension that’s building between you two. It’s suffocating. Even over the comms during flight drills, you can’t ignore the electricity crackling between you. It’s as if the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for the moment when everything explodes.

Maverick has noticed it too. You haven’t even come close to catching him again during the drills. It’s like you’re both on autopilot—doing your jobs, but barely.

It’s finally Friday, and you and Jake are the last to fly today. You should be focused—laser-focused—on the radar in front of you, tracking the mission as Jake does the high-speed manoeuvres Maverick instructed. But you can’t. Your eyes keep drifting toward the horizon.

The sky was clear and sunny this morning, but now it’s turning ominous. You know there’s a storm coming tomorrow, but today was supposed to stay clear. Yet here you are, watching the sky darken, thick clouds rolling in like a slow-moving freight train.

“Angel?” Jake’s voice snaps you back into the cockpit.

“Yeah?” You blink, shaking yourself out of the daze. “Sorry, can you repeat?”

“Do you see Mav?”

“Not yet.” You hesitate, weighing up whether or not you should say something about the storm. But when you twist in your seat, you catch sight of the darkening clouds creeping toward you.

“Jake,” you murmur, your voice low, “the sky looks bad.”

The jet shifts into a turn, angling toward the oncoming storm.

“Shit.” Jake curses under his breath. “Mav, are you seeing this?”

“Yeah, I am,” Maverick responds, his voice tight.

You tune out the next few seconds of chatter as Mav asks control if they need to call it off. The jet begins to shake slightly, the turbulence picking up, and Jake curses again as the wind buffets the jet, pushing you off course.

You want to speak up and tell him that you’re scared. The words are sitting on the tip of your tongue, but then the memory hits you—the one from that day before the crash, when you told Jake, your best friend, that you were afraid.

“You’re gonna alright, Angel,” Jake’s voice comes through your headset, as calm as it has no right being. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes your stomach twist in knots. Those aren’t the words you wanted to hear then, and they're not what you want to hear now.

The jet lurches again, and you grip the armrests, knuckles going white. Your chest tightens and you struggle to breathe.

“Control has called it,” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms. “Bring it back to base immediately.”

“Copy that,” Jake replies, his voice steady but edged with a tension you can’t ignore.

You try to focus on the instruments, but the jet is shuddering, veering off course as the storm grows closer. The sky is turning an almost unnatural shade of grey, and you’re pretty sure you can see a flicker of lightning in the distance.

“Jake,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Tell me we’re going to be okay. Both of us.”

There’s a long pause before his voice comes through the comms, low and firm. “We’re gonna be okay, Angel.”

You keep your eyes trained on the instruments as the jet wobbles its way back toward base. You’re moving slower than usual, every inch of the plane hesitant as it fights against the unsteady weather. Over the comms, you hear Maverick speaking with control, his voice calm and confident as he lands, having been much closer to base than the two of you.

Just when you think you might be able to breathe a little easier, a downburst hits, and the jet is slammed by violent turbulence. A scream tears from your throat as the plane pitches up and down, lurching wildly in the storm. You’re thrown against the harness, the seatbelt biting into your skin as your body is tossed around like a ragdoll.

Jake’s voice cuts through the chaos, but you can barely hear him over the deafening shrieks of the wind and the thunderous shakes of the jet. His words are broken and distorted, lost between the gusts of wind and the violent rocking of the plane.

You glance up just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning slice through the dark clouds ahead, and the jet jerks again, diving into a deadly spin.

“Jake!” you shout, panic rising in your chest. “We need to eject!”

His voice is strained, barely audible, but you catch the tail end of what sounds like him saying he can save the plane—save you—but you know it’s too late.

“Eject now!” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms, urgent and commanding. “Eject, eject!”

“Jake!” you scream, the fear in your voice raw and desperate.

“Okay,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Eject!”

You brace yourself, gritting your teeth as the plane continues to be tossed around like it’s made of paper. You have no choice but to trust in the training, the equipment, and Jake.

Then, with a frantic press of the button, you eject.

The world explodes into chaos. A rush of wind roars in your ears, the pressure so intense it feels like your bones are being hollowed out. For a heartbeat, everything is spinning, and then the world falls silent. Your stomach drops as you’re weightless, free-falling through the air.

You force your eyes open, the blurring motion of the storm clouded sky making it hard to focus. But then, with a violent jerk, your parachute deploys, the canopy snapping open above you, catching the air and slowing your descent just enough to ease the shock of it all.

Being picked up and rushed to the hospital is a complete blur. The only clear memory you have is giggling like a lunatic in the back of the ambulance when you hear a huge crack of thunder. Like... yeah, you were just in the sky.

Once they’ve got you in a bed, hooked up to machines, your mind slips into a half-conscious state. You're too full of adrenaline to fall asleep, but exhausted and in shock enough to let your eyelids drift shut. You hear the doctors discussing your condition—something about you being fine but clearly sleep-deprived. Rude.

The thing that snaps you back to full consciousness is the sound of Jake’s frantic voice. Cracking and desperate as he argues with the doctors.

“I told you, I’m fine!” he exclaims. “Look! I’m standing, breathing, walking. I need to see her. Let me see her or you’re going to be the one in a hospital bed!”

You shift higher in the bed, and the beeping of your heart monitor increases its pace.

“Oh, thank God,” Jake sighs, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and something you can't quite place as he rushes into your room.

The nurses at the door scowl at him, but they don’t try to stop him.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks, stepping quickly to the side of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand, hesitates, and instead places both palms on the bed railing beside you.

“I’m fine,” you say softly, your voice still rough. “Just sleep-deprived, apparently.”

His smile is shaky, watery, and the sight of it makes your chest ache as you look at the earnest, green-eyed boy you haven’t seen in years. The real Jake Seresin.

“What are you sorry for?” you ask after a beat of silence.

His brows furrow, and he hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Um... you know, the whole plane crash thing... back there. Do you—did you bump your head?”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “No. I told you, I’m fine. Just sleep-deprived—which is something you should be apologizing for. Not losing control of a jet in a storm. That wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

He opens his mouth, likely ready to protest, to say something about how he should’ve seen it coming sooner, but then he stops himself. His eyes soften, and he tilts his head slightly. “Why do I need to apologize for your lack of sleep?”

You snort loudly, a very unladylike sound. “Because of that shit you pulled the other day. Cornering me near the locker rooms and telling me that it’s hard to be around me. But not like ‘hard’ because you hate me, but like... I make you hard or something ridiculous.”

You feel your cheeks burn at the thought.

He chuckles, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah,” you say. “That.”

Another awkward silence falls between you, and both of you glance away, unable to meet each other’s gaze thanks to the thick and unholy tension hanging in the air.

Your chest tightens as your heart tears itself in two. One half wants to forgive him for everything, to beg him to be your friend again and forget the years of unadulterated loathing. But the other half refuses to give in, holding onto the hurtful things he said and did—especially what he said before the first crash.

Huh. Now you get to sulk about not one, but two plane crashes with Jake Seresin.

Jake clears his throat, breaking the thick silence. “Do you want to know the real reason I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer?”

You glance at him, your brow furrowing. “We had this conversation last week, Jake. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?”

He rolls his eyes. “I said the real reason.”

You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “So it is because you were intimidated by my massive talent. I knew it.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, inhaling like he’s summoning patience. “Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to be intensely heartfelt right now.”

You bite your lip to keep from giggling, not sure if it’s the painkillers or lingering adrenaline making everything feel strangely buoyant. “Sorry. Force of habit to annoy you. I’ll shut up. Please, enlighten me.”

He grips the bed railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he looks back up at you, the intensity in his green eyes steals all the air from your lungs—and every ounce of humour drains away under the weight of his stare.

“The reason I encouraged you to become a WSO is because I knew you’d be good—and I knew we’d be good together. And if we proved that, we’d most likely be deployed together.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

It feels like you've just been ripped from your jet again, but this time you’re not free-falling—you’re caught in the storm, spinning helplessly out of control. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and thanks to the rapid beeping of the monitor beside you, it’s not exactly subtle.

Jake’s eyes flick toward the machine, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but when he meets your gaze again, his smile is small and fragile. “I was scared to lose you, and then that stupid crash happened. I knew I’d screwed everything up. I knew you’d hate me for ruining your record, but I-”

“Wait.” You sit up straighter, twisting toward him. “Is that why you think I was mad? Because of the mark on my record?”

He blinks, confused. “That’s... not why?”

You stare at him, shock crashing through you. For years—years—you've carried this anger, this bitterness between you. And he never even knew the real reason why.

“Jake...” You hesitate, emotion swelling tight in your chest. “I wasn’t mad about the crash being labelled pilot error. I mean, sure, it sucked, but that’s not why I couldn’t speak to you afterward.”

His eyes widen, the colour draining from his face. “What?”

“God, this is going to sound so stupid.” You drag a hand over your face. “The reason I was angry was because of what you said before we almost died. You told me it didn’t matter if you survived—as long as I did.”

A heavy silence settles over you both, broken only by the too-loud beeping of your heart monitor.

“I just...” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “I hated that you thought so little of yourself. That you could leave me behind and think I would be fine. That I could just go on like you never existed. You scared the hell out of me, Jake. And when we ejected and I couldn’t find you... I didn’t know if you were alive. I thought-” You stop, throat closing up.

Jake’s chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, his hands trembling slightly where they grip the rail.

“When I saw you again, I wanted to forgive you. I knew I would... eventually. But then, before the hearing, you told me to-”

“Stop acting like you're better than everyone else and get a fucking grip,” he says, voice hoarse, repeating the ugly words that had haunted you.

You nod, forcing yourself to look at him.

“I thought you hated me,” he mutters. “When you wouldn’t talk to me... I thought you hated me because of the crash. I thought I'd wrecked everything. I convinced myself you didn’t want me around anymore. I thought I’d lost you.”

A flash of anger sparks in your chest.

“So instead of just asking if I was okay, you made sure you lost me by being a prick?”

Jake’s brow furrows, a flush creeping up his neck into his cheeks. “You didn’t talk to me for three fucking weeks after we almost died! What was I supposed to think?”

“Maybe that I needed space?” You throw your hands up. “Maybe that I was a little rattled and trying to figure out how to breathe again? But no—you assumed that I hated you, so you just decided to hate me back.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, frustration practically vibrating off him. When he leans in closer, his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes your heart stutter—and the monitor beside you makes sure everyone hears it.

“Don’t you get it?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

You can barely breathe.

“I never fucking hated you,” he says. “I’m in love with you.”

A nurse freezes at the door, shooting a concerned look toward the screaming heart monitor, but you barely notice.

Jake’s voice softens, but it still hits like a punch. “That’s why I couldn’t stand seeing you with Coyote.”

He pulls back like he’s preparing to walk away, but before he can, you grab his hand. Without thinking, you’re up on your knees, yanking him back toward you. There's a clatter behind you as your movement tugs at the cords and machines, but none of it matters.

Jake stares at you, stunned, like he’s bracing for you to shove him away.

But you don’t. You reach for his face, holding him between your palms like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. You barely have time to catch your breath before crashing your mouth into his.

The second your lips meet, it's like a dam breaks. Jake's hands find your waist, steadying you as you cling to him, desperate and trembling. He kisses you back with a rawness that speaks of years of confusion, anger, and longing all tangled together. His mouth is warm and familiar, yet new all at once—like you’re discovering something you’ve been searching for without even knowing it. For a moment, there’s nothing else: not the heart monitor blaring, not the nurses whispering at the door, not the ache still lingering in your bones. There’s only Jake, and the way he kisses you like he’s terrified to let you go again.

But then a god-awful alarm explodes through the room, startling the two of you apart.

One of the nurses rushes in, heading straight for the heart monitor. She presses a few buttons before turning to you with a spectacularly unimpressed glare.

Your cheeks burn as you sink back into the bed, trying to sit properly. “Sorry.”

She gives you a deadpan stare, then starts untangling the cords from around you. “I can see you're feeling much better. I’ll remove these to avoid any... further incidents.” She fiddles with the machines, then adds, “And I’ll page the doctor to clear you for discharge.”

You nod sheepishly. “Thank you.”

Then she turns her death stare on Jake. “You still need to be examined, so please return to your room.”

Jake flashes her his most charming, boyish grin. “But I—”

“Now.”

You have to hold your breath to keep from laughing, but Jake doesn't even try. He chuckles low and deep, then leans over you again, his presence swallowing the space between you. He kisses you—firm and possessive—right on the mouth. Then at the corner of your lips. Then your cheek. Your jaw. Finally, he breathes against your ear, voice a delicious threat:

“When we get out of here, I'm gonna be the loser who fucks you ‘til you finally unwind.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you breathless and blushing like a maniac, while the very exasperated nurse pretends she didn’t hear a damn thing.

END.

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ruinix · 3 days ago

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Jack with a pillow princess! Day ruined. I will not be able to think about anything else for the foreseeable future.

My apologies, lovely. I just couldn't resist. Side note, I just decided to google the term (just to make sure, y'know) and damn, i am missing half the definition?? Now, I know. Anyway, pillow princess...yesyes... (i would like to report the jack smut has been...deleted again...so let me give you some thots)

Whore thoughts ⬇️⬇️⬇️

Jack, without a doubt, spoiled you so much that you would just surrender. You would turn into mush, melting into his touch, unable to do anything except for grinding and seeking more and more. He doesn't mind doing all the work during sex. Shamelessly, he would prefer it.

He would get so captivated by your expressions. The way your eyebrows meet, your eyes being swallowed by your pupils, your lips parting where your lower lip was red from how hard you bite down on it. The way you would lick up the air trying to catch the sweat that drips from his temple.

So allured by your breathy whines and moans. The way you sounded so fucking desperate as you would say, "Please, please, Jack. Need more. Give me more," was turning him on. He loves hearing those fucking pleas.

So amused with your desperation. You would try to spread your legs for him even more as if he wasn't already doing that. You would just lie there and take it. There would never be any complaints from you because Jack would flip you over to fuck you from behind. You would be screaming your pleasure and coming so hard around him. Even when he presses your lower back, gripping your hips up, forcing you to arch your back, you would just let him.

Always so wanton when he spanked your ass red. So whiny and pathetic when he purposely changed up the angle, not hitting that delicate spot that would bring you quicker to your orgasm. So pitiful when you started to cry for not getting what you want. So fucking beautiful when he would finally oblige. So pliant as your pussy clenched around him with your orgasm until you couldn't stop coming.

Jack was so used to giving you all the pleasure because he felt the same.

Every night with him buried deep inside your pussy, with him seeing your fucked out expression, with him not stopping when you passed out from exhaustion was a delight. He wouldn't get tired seeing you and your greedy pussy that would drip with his cum.

He felt so good fucking you. It felt so wonderful to love you physically and emotionally and fucking spiritually--whatever that means. He wouldn't mind giving and giving. He would gift you the world but he knew that you only need him. His cock. His tongue. His lips. All of him is just for you. He wouldn't mind if he was the object of your pleasure, because you were his. His good girl. His angel. His princess.

Just a few added thoughts for you. Have fun, lovely. 🫣🙂‍↕️😏

-> more thoughts? List.

#ruinix answers #ruinix thinks #this didn't happen #jack hughes #jh86 #jhughes #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fic #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes drabble #jack hughes smut #jack hughes blurb #nhl x reader #smut

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cherries-of-wrath · 2 days ago

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omg i have one of these absolute angels, i gave them a lil shoutout in the post script notes

You know when you get one of those readers who comments on every chapter of your fic, pointing out their favorite parts and quoting lines that really resonated with them?

Yeah, as a writer, this is an absolute gift. ❤️

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overadores · 2 days ago

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٠࣪⭑ art of desire ⭑ daniela avanzini

٠࣪⭑ synopsis: Supermodel Daniela Avanzini has finally landed a cover feature in one of the most prestigious fashion magazines—a long-time dream in her career. But her excitement quickly sours when she learns that the magazine is now being overseen by none other than the CEO’s daughter, Y/N, a mid-known heir with a reputation for unpredictability. Daniela immediately clashes with Y/N, convinced the girl is out of her depth and only coasting on her last name. What Daniela doesn’t realize, though, is that Y/N is far more competent—and deviously clever—than she lets on. In fact, she thrives on getting under Daniela’s skin.

"Never try to waste your time"

٠࣪⭑ pairing: model!daniela avanzini x ceo!daughter reader

٠࣪⭑ tags: fluff, crack, smau, little writing, sexual jokes, sexual tension (?), mention of substance and alcohol, model daniela, daughter of ceo reader, toxicity, red flags, tiny bit of angst, profanities, kys jokes, hate-love relationship, suggestive themes.

"And you never try to waste mine"

٠࣪⭑ guests: billie eilish. ph1 (yoon keeho). enhypen (park jongseong). le sserafim (huh yunjin). katseye. other celebs.

٠࣪⭑ status: on the making.

٠࣪⭑ author's note: This is an original work of smau, and is written for entertainment purposes only. Any names or characters, businesses or events or incidents, are fictitious and for the lore the place is going to be in Los Angeles. The characters identity have no relation to the actual persons/portrayers—and are solely based on the author's imagination. Don't bother looking at the timestaps 'cause it's not that important unless stated and also the face claim would be random masc peepz at pinterest so ctto. taglist is also open.

٠࣪⭑ in queue: drive - the weeknd. tbh - pnd. into it - chase atlantic. tightrope - zayn. don't blame me - taylor swift. idfc - blackbear. r u mine? - arctic monkeys. friends - chase atlantic. meddle about - chase atlantic. starboy - the weeknd. heaven - julia michaels. pillowtalk - zayn. she - harry styles. her - chase atlantic. miss possessive - tate mcrae.

"I'm tryna treat you special, like no one did"

٠࣪⭑ profiles.ᐟ nepo babies (on top) models models models models models models 2.0

٠࣪⭑ chapters.ᐟ

taglist: @xochitlisbest @fruityg0rl @leotapes @cceanvvaves @hotluvlet

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heechwe · 3 days ago

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WORST BEHAVIOR | 양정원

⟢ PAIRING: yang jungwon & fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 2K ⟢ GENRE: smut ⟢ TAGS: established relationship, actor!jungwon, a bit pwp, pet names (pet, love, sweetheart, etc), dom & sub elements (dom!reader & sub!jungwon), sensory play, multiple positions (cowgirl, reverse cowgirl), ass play, unprotected sex ⟢ SYNOPSIS: Jungwon's perfect in front of the camera—a film darling in the eyes of the fans who love him and the team that calls him their "shining star." But sometimes it's too much; sometimes he needs you to be chaotic so he can handle his own chaos, especially in the bedroom. -ˋˏ✄┈┈ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Requested by anon and inspired by the song by kwn. This is also my first fic for Wonnie which I did not expect to write so quickly but I love him and this so much. Also bless up @ghstzzn for letting me carry the torch of this idea lol ilysm. It's not proofread this time, but I think it's good grammar-wise! Let me know if there's any mistakes, though!

He wants this. He wants it all, you tell yourself as you tug the knot of the silky red blindfold tighter until it's snug. You wipe the bead of sweat from his forehead, his body already taut in anticipation of what you plan to do.

"Do you remember your safe word, pet?" you ask. One of your fingers trails down his cheekbone, an acrylic nail dragging lightly across his soft skin, and he shudders from the contact. You unfurl your entire palm for him to rest his cheek inside of, and it melts you like warm honey, similar to the color of his newly dyed hair.

"Artemis," Jungwon whispers. He gasps when you move your hand lower, nestling the palm against his racing heart.

The first date you ever went on, Jungwon called you the goddess's name like it was the greatest title in the world to hold. "She's not a sufferer of fools, right? I know we've just met, but you give me that same impression." Maybe it was the bottle of wine you shared that night, but you couldn't forget how smoothly the compliment slid down into your soul. It's apt to use it now, you think.

He looks like pure sin laid out on your shared bed. His skin is well tanned, muscles toned, strands still slicked back from his earlier photo-shoot. The only thing out of place for him is how swollen and painfully hard his cock is, his tip red and leaking already. You've barely touched him, only a few writhes of your hips being enough to make him crumble before things have even started. But it's more than enough. It's everything, how well you take care of him.

He walked into the apartment with a dejected pout on his face and his fists balled tightly at his sides. You thought the muscles of his face had to be sore from the tight set of his jaw as well. You stopped cooking then to run to him, arms immediately circling his middle.

"Another press junket in Los Angeles." he grumbles into the crown of your head. "They just told me before I left. You'd think they'd give me a break after this damn premiere."

"Didn't they say no more engagements after March?" You furrow your brows in confusion, suddenly angry for your boyfriend, but definitely not to the same magnitude as him.

"Yeah. But that was before they got some famous starlet to interview me for Actors on Actors and landed an entire spread in GQ." He pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the impending bang across his temple, one of his anxiety-induced tension headaches on the horizon.

You squeeze him tighter to fight the negativity in his voice, hoping your touch will settle him and ease his irritation. His blazer rubs against your cheek, the fabric cool despite the wearer's blazing ire.

Film production is stressful; Jungwon's never discounted the level of effort you put into your own career. However, it's no match for the expectations placed upon him as a media starlet or the stress that accompanies the success he's garnered. He's not ungrateful, though; he knows the acclaim will not last forever, and he needs to work hard now to make up for when calls stop coming.

You want to shelter him from every piece that rattles him to alarming degrees, tuck him into your pocket so he can forget it all and coast instead of crash.

"It's not forever. You'll have the entire summer after this," you swear, although it's not up to you to determine completely. You hear the beat of his heart slow, its pace transitioning from frantic to steady, and you think things might just be right in the world again.

Then Jungwon says he needs you—"Please touch me" to be exact—and you know that for him, his stress is far from gone until he's given exactly what he wants.

Lucky for him, you know the solution to every problem he has—what will pull him back to normalcy—even if your methods to get there are unorthodox.

You grip his cock in your hand, lightly squeezing as you run your hand along the shaft. Jungwon can't fight the subtle raise of his hips to meet your touch, nor can he stop the "fucking finally" that slips from his mouth.

You remove your hand altogether, clicking your tongue. "What did I say before we started, pet?" you ask, the question entirely rhetorical. But you expect an answer, even as Jungwon whines. You stiffen. "Do I need to gag you too?"

"No! N-No, Mistress, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to misbehave." He shakes his head at you to articulate his point, and you swear you can see the tears forming behind the blindfold. Jungwon's cock twitches, his sex aching. It begs for your tender, lewd touch once again, even if Jungwon doesn't say the words out loud.

"Then answer my first question. What did I say before I put the blindfold on?"

Jungwon whimpers, the sound high-pitched and full of cracks. "Stay still until you tell me to."

You take his face in both of your palms, rubbing circles into the apples of his cheeks. "Yes, my love. Now do as I say and you'll be rewarded like the good boy I know you are, okay?"

"Yes, yes, please."

You go back to holding his cock between your fingers, running the pre-cum at his slit down the length of him. Its girth and length are in unbelievable harmony, the muscle snug every time he fits inside of you. You admire it as you twist your wrist, enjoying the sound of its slickness as it fucks your fist.

In so many ways, Jungwon is the puzzle piece you didn't recognize was missing until he came into your life with endless witty banter and his soul's infinite fire. It's what makes him so worthy of adoration, fame and love.

But where he burns, you're there to cool him into a calm state again, the pinnacle of fortitude and composure. The core answer of why you work so well together is in that balance. And you're reminded of why you love him every second he asks you to take over like this, make him succumb to all your whims before you repay him in kind.

It's salacious how easily you sit on his cock, no preparation needed on your end to become accustomed in record time. He fills you so completely; you don't mind how he once again bucks up into you, a throaty groan ripping from his lips from finally being inside of you. He keeps his arms at his sides, but you know he wants to touch. He loves everything about your body, especially the voluptuousness of your breasts and how freely they bounce when you ride him.

"You can touch me now, pet." Jungwon doesn't need to be told twice, immediately running his thumbs over your nipples until they pebble. He kneads them in his hands as you set the pace, slamming down now and then to make him cry out.

The blindfold is both constricting and necessary. Jungwon was initially terrified of it, but he couldn't get enough after you first wrapped it around his head. Now, his sensory perception goes into overdrive every time because of his loss of sight. He loves to see you on top of him and against him, without a doubt, and there have been days where he was already so sensitive he could do without the cloth. But, most of the time, he'd rather soak in the passion like this compared to any other way.

You guide one hand from your chest to down to your clit, and he immediately pinches and pulls like the expert he is. He's well attuned to what works to get you off and what doesn't. If he wants to orgasm, he knows he has to let you do so first.

A mewl crawls out of your throat at the rhythm of his thumb and forefinger against your slick, the digits almost running down to where you're both connected before going back to the hood of your cunt.

"You feel me, Mistress? Is it good? Do you love it?" Jungwon may be stationed in the submissive form often, but it doesn't keep his mouth from running. You adore every sinful word, all his statements and questions that hold a hint of wonder at how good he's making you feel, and vice versa.

"Yes, yes, it's so good—ah, fuck—you know you're such a good boy." You suddenly switch positions, you're riding Jungwon in reverse. Laying your hands across his thighs, you move faster, slam down in lewd slaps to each other's skin, clench around him with more force than before. You feel the traces of your orgasm with every movement, and you'd be a fool to not chase it.

"I can feel how close you are. Your cunt is squeezing me so tight," he moans. He grips an ass cheek in his hand, massaging it while his opposite palm continues touching your clit.

You know the thought on his mind, and even though he can't see, you look over your shoulder with a wolfish grin. "You can do what you want, my love."

Jungwon groans low in his throat, the timbre of it animalistic. He sucks his thumb for a long second before pressing it to your perineum. The digit slowly enters you, and the taste of ecstasy coats your tongue with each centimeter that goes in. It's too much all at once, his fingers in tandem working against your clit and ass while his dick fills you up.

"Come, Mistress, pretty please?" is what does you in. You wail as you shatter into a million discomposed pieces, saying his name the entire time as your body floats. You laugh, your chest heaving up and down, from how incredible all of your synapses firing off at once feel. But it's more than just your orgasm. It's in how much you love the man underneath you, how eager you feel to please him the second you come back to your senses, and how lucky you are to love him.

"Do you want to come now, too, pet?" you ask him, voice ragged but still acceptable to speak with.

Jungwon nods eagerly, his thumb still inside of you while he runs his other fingers along your lower half. "Please, Mistress. It hurts so bad."

"Don't worry," you coo, "you'll get to soon, I promise."

You move your hips once again, using the last drops of your shared strength and spirit to ride him to completion. His hands come up to your bare breasts once again, and you use them as leverage to continue, intertwining his fingers with your own.

"You're too good for me, my love, always so eager to please me. You're my beautiful boy, Wonnie." His pet name on your tongue unravels him. His face contorts as his hips stutter up into you. He covers your insides with his cum, painting your walls white with his seed like it's all he knows how to do. It warms you to the brim, and your body practically glowing in the aftermath.

You move from his lap as he tugs the blindfold free. He may be sweaty, as are you, but it doesn't stop you from burying your face in his sweat-soaked chest.

"I love you so much," he says into your damp hair. "Don't ever say you're not good enough. You're just right in every way." He tucks a finger under your chin to kiss you firm on the lips. You moan into his kiss, tongues intermingling. "You're perfect for me, you know that right?"

You blush, squeezing him tighter against you. "As you are for me."

You fall asleep like that, basking in a love that is so whole, so equal, you don't think anyone else will ever recognize it the same way you both do. It's yours, in all of its unique facets.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @frenchkisstheabyss @prkhaven @tinycatharsis @fangel @aaa-sia @yvnempire @addictedtohobi @innocygnet @filmnings @lovetaroandtaemin @xylatox @dawngyu

𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 ── .�� @kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators @cosyhomenet @sweetvenomnet

𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑴𝒀 𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑺 𝒐𝒓 𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑺 © 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖧𝖤𝖤𝖢𝖧𝖶𝖤; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

#jungwon smut #yang jungwon smut #enhypen smut #enha smut #jungwon x reader #yang jungwon x reader #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen fics #enhypen fic #jungwoon fic #jungwon fics #yang jungwon fic #yang jungwon fics #enhypen hard thoughts #enha hard hours #[ lexi's works ]#[ lw - enhypen ]

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ghstyles · 2 days ago

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Partners | His Angel

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 5.3k

Summary: You and Harry's first big fight

Requested

His Angel Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The tension has been building for days, a slow accumulation of small irritations and unspoken frustrations that finally erupts on a rainy Friday evening in your apartment. What begins as a simple conversation about weekend plans quickly spirals into something neither of you anticipated, your first real fight.

It starts innocuously enough. Harry arrives at your apartment unannounced, as he sometimes does when his schedule allows an unexpected break. You're at your desk, surrounded by textbooks and notes for an upcoming midterm, hair piled messily on top of your head and wearing your oldest, most comfortable sweatpants. It’s hardly the way you prefer him to see you, but you've long since accepted that he appears when he wants to, regardless of your state of preparedness.

"I need you ready in thirty minutes," he announces without preamble after letting himself in with the key you gave him last month. "Wear the black dress."

You look up from your textbook, momentarily disoriented by his sudden appearance and directive.

"What? Harry, I can't go out tonight," you reply, gesturing to the study materials spread across your desk. "I have a midterm on Monday that I'm nowhere near ready for."

Harry's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture suggests he wasn't expecting resistance.

"The test can wait," he states with the casual authority that usually brooks no argument in his world. "I have a dinner meeting with associates from Chicago. Your presence is required."

It's the phrasing that ignites the first spark of irritation. ‘Your presence is required,' as if you're an employee being summoned rather than a partner being invited.

"My presence is required here, with my books," you counter, more firmly this time. "I told you earlier this week that I needed the weekend to study."

Harry moves further into the room, his eyes taking in the scattered notes and highlighted textbook pages with a dismissive glance.

"This dinner is important," he says, his tone indicating that this should settle the matter. "Moretti is bringing his wife. The proper appearance is essential."

The implication stings more than it should. That you're needed not for yourself but for the image you'll project, a decorative accessory to facilitate his business dealings.

"I'm not an accessory, Harry," you respond, your voice taking on an edge rarely directed at him. "And I have my own priorities. This test is worth thirty percent of my grade."

A slight furrow appears between his brows The first indication that he's registering your resistance as something more than a temporary inconvenience.

"I understand your studies are important," he says, his tone suggesting he's making a significant concession. "But this meeting has been difficult to arrange. Moretti doesn't leave Chicago often."

"And I can’t take this class again if I fail it," you counter, standing now to face him directly. "I've been clear about my schedule this weekend. You can't just show up and expect me to drop everything because you've decided my time is suddenly yours to allocate."

Harry goes still in that particular way of his, the absolute stillness that reminds you of what he is, of the power he wields in his world. When he speaks again, his voice has taken on that dangerous velvet quality that usually precedes his most serious statements.

"I don't recall asking," he says quietly. "The car will be here in twenty-five minutes. Be ready."

It's the command that does it.

The assumption of compliance that ignites something fierce and unyielding within you. All the small frustrations of the past weeks, the cancelled plans when his business took precedence, the way he sometimes speaks to you in public as if directing a subordinate, the unilateral decisions about your shared time, crystallize into a sudden, white-hot anger.

"No," you state simply, the word hanging between you like a challenge.

Harry's eyes narrow fractionally, the only visible sign of his surprise at your direct refusal.

"No?" he repeats, the word almost curious in its delivery.

"No," you confirm, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart. "I'm not going. I have to study. You'll have to manage without your arm candy tonight."

The flash of genuine anger that crosses his face is so rare and startling that it momentarily takes your breath away. Harry doesn't lose control of his emotions. It's one of the qualities that makes him so formidable. But there's no mistaking the brief hardening of his features before he masters himself again.

"That's not what you are," he says, each word precisely delivered. "And you know it."

"Do I?" you challenge, your own anger gaining momentum now. "Because from where I'm standing, it sure seems like what you value most is having me available whenever you decide you want me, looking however you want me to look, saying whatever you need me to say to impress your business associates."

Harry takes a step toward you, his movement deliberately controlled despite the tension evident in his posture.

"That's not fair," he states, his tone low and intense. "You know exactly what you mean to me."

"Actually, I don't," you fire back, surprising yourself with the force of your response. "Because you never say it. You never talk about feelings or what you want from this relationship. You just expect me to fit into your life on your terms, dropping everything when you appear and waiting patiently when you disappear for days on business I'm not allowed to know about."

The words pour out of you in a rush, grievances you hadn't even fully acknowledged to yourself until this moment.

"I'm not one of your employees, Harry. I don't take orders from you. I'm supposed to be your partner, but half the time you treat me like I'm just another asset you control."

Harry's jaw tightens, a muscle working beneath the skin in a visible sign of his restraint.

"I have never treated you as anything less than precious," he counters, his voice dangerously quiet. "Everything I do, every precaution, every decision, is to keep you safe, to give you the best of what I can offer."

"But that's just it," you persist, unwilling to back down now that the dam has broken. "You decide what's best. You decide when we see each other, where we go, who we meet. You decide what I need to know and what I don't. That's not a partnership, Harry. That's you controlling every aspect of our relationship because you can't stand not being in charge of everything and everyone around you."

The accusation lands with visible impact. Harry's expression shifts, something raw and unguarded flashing across his features before he can suppress it.

"You think I enjoy this?" he demands, his voice rising slightly for the first time. "You think I want to live with the constant knowledge that my world could destroy everything good in yours? That every moment you spend with me puts you at risk from people who would hurt you without hesitation to get to me?"

He moves closer, his intensity filling the small space of your apartment.

"I control what I can because there's so much I can't," he continues, the words coming faster now, with less of his usual measured precision. "Because the alternative is acknowledging that loving you is the most selfish, dangerous thing I've ever done, and I'm not strong enough to stop."

The word 'loving' hangs in the air between you, its unexpected appearance momentarily derailing your anger. In all your months together, you’ve only heard it once from Harry, and he was too drunk to remember it.

But you're not ready to let go of your grievances so easily, not when they've been building for so long.

"If you love me," you say, your voice steadier than you feel, "then you need to respect me enough to let me make my own choices. To have my own priorities. To be a real partner, not just someone who follows orders and looks pretty at your side when it's convenient."

Harry's expression hardens again, his momentary vulnerability disappearing behind the mask of control he wears so effortlessly.

"You have no idea what you're asking for," he says coldly. "No concept of the realities of my world."

"Because you won't let me!" you exclaim, frustration coloring your tone. "You keep me in this carefully constructed bubble, showing me only the parts of yourself you think I can handle. That's not trust, Harry. And without trust, what do we really have?"

The question lands between you like a physical blow. Harry steps back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours as he processes your words. When he speaks again, his voice has taken on a distant quality that chills you more than his anger.

"Perhaps you're right," he says quietly. "Perhaps this was always impossible."

The shift in his tone sends a jolt of alarm through you. This isn't how you expected the argument to go, not toward this sudden, cold assessment of your relationship's viability.

"That's not what I meant," you say quickly, some of your anger giving way to a creeping apprehension. "I'm not saying we can't make this work. I'm saying we need to do it differently."

Harry's expression remains closed, unreadable in a way it rarely is with you.

"And if I can't?" he asks simply. "If this is who I am, someone who controls, who protects through management and calculation? If I can't be the partner you want?"

The question hangs heavy in the air, carrying implications that make your heart constrict painfully in your chest. For the first time, you can see the real vulnerability beneath Harry's controlled exterior, the fear, not that you'll be hurt by his enemies, but that you'll reject the fundamental aspects of who he is.

Your anger deflates, replaced by a complicated mixture of frustration and understanding. You move toward him, closing the distance his earlier step created.

"I'm not asking you to be someone else," you say, your voice softening despite your lingering irritation. "I'm asking you to let me be your partner in reality, not just in name. To discuss things with me instead of deciding for me. To respect that I have my own life that matters too."

Harry watches you approach, his posture still rigid with tension, but something in his eyes has shifted, a cautious reassessment of the situation.

"My priority will always be your safety," he states, the words carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "That's not negotiable."

"I understand that," you acknowledge, stopping directly in front of him. "But there's a difference between protecting me and controlling me. Between making decisions for my benefit and making them without my input."

You take a deep breath, organizing your thoughts before continuing.

"Tonight, for example. If you had called earlier and explained why this dinner was important, asked if I could rearrange my study schedule instead of commanding me to be ready... that would have been partnership. I might still have said no, but at least I would have felt like my priorities mattered too."

Harry is silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving yours as he processes your words. You can almost see the calculations happening behind his gaze, the careful reconsideration of approaches and outcomes.

"I'm not accustomed to asking," he finally says, the admission carrying a rare honesty. "In my world, hesitation is weakness. Consultation is inefficiency."

"I'm not your world," you remind him gently but firmly. "I'm your partner. Different rules apply."

Harry steps closer, his expression shifting to one of genuine offense, his green eyes darkening with intensity.

"You are my world," he growls, the words coming out with such raw conviction that it momentarily catches you off guard. "That's the fucking problem, isn't it? You've become everything."

The admission seems to fuel his frustration rather than diffuse it. He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the carefully styled waves.

"You think this is about control?" he continues, his voice rising. "It's about keeping the one good thing in my life untainted by everything else. The moment those worlds truly collide is the moment I lose you, either to fear or to something worse."

"That's not your decision to make!" you fire back, your own voice matching his in volume. "You don't get to decide what I can handle or what risks I'm willing to take. That's exactly what I'm talking about, Harry! You make these unilateral decisions about our relationship based on what you think is best."

His jaw clenches, the muscle there twitching visibly. "Because I've seen what happens when people get too close to my life! You think I'm being controlling? I'm being fucking realistic!"

"No, you're being a coward," you snap, the words leaving your mouth before you can consider their impact. "You're so afraid of losing control that you won't even try a real partnership. It's easier to keep me in this pretty little box where I don't ask questions and just do what I'm told."

The look that crosses Harry's face is something you've never seen directed at you before, a flash of that cold, dangerous anger usually reserved for those who cross him in his professional life. It sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"A coward?" he repeats, his voice dropping to that deceptively soft tone that anyone else would recognize as a warning. "You have no idea what courage it takes to let you in at all. To know what could happen to you because of me and still be selfish enough to keep you."

"Then be selfish enough to trust me too!" you demand, refusing to back down despite the tension crackling between you. "Trust me to make my own choices, to handle the truth about your life, to be a real partner instead of a pretty distraction you keep separate from everything else!"

"You want to know about my life?" Harry's laugh is harsh and humorless. "You want to know what I did yesterday? I broke a man's fingers one by one until he told me who's been skimming from our shipments. You want to know about tonight's dinner? I'm meeting with a man who's killed more people than you've probably met in your life, and if it goes wrong, there's a very real chance someone ends up dead."

He moves closer, his presence overwhelming in the small space of your apartment. "That's the reality you're so eager to be part of. That's what you're asking for when you say you want everything."

"I'm asking to be treated like an equal!" you shout, frustration making your voice crack. "Not sheltered like a child who can't understand the real world!"

"An equal?" Harry laughs again, the sound bitter and cutting. "In what universe are we equals, Y/N? I'm a fucking monster who's spent his entire life building an empire on violence and fear. You're studying to help people, to make something worthwhile of yourself. The only way I can justify being in your life at all is by keeping those worlds as separate as possible!"

"That's not your choice to make," you insist, tears of frustration beginning to well in your eyes. "You don't get to decide what I can handle or what compromises my morality. That's my decision."

"And what happens when those decisions put you in danger?" he demands, his voice rising again. "When someone decides you're the perfect leverage against me? When you're faced with the reality of what I do, not just the abstract concept of it?"

"Then we deal with it together!" you shoot back. "That's what partners do!"

Harry stares at you for a long, tense moment, something complicated and pained working behind his eyes. Then he shakes his head, a gesture of finality that sends a chill through you.

"We're going in circles," he says, his voice suddenly controlled again, that artificial calm that means he's withdrawing. "I have a dinner to attend."

"So that's it?" you ask incredulously. "We're having the most important conversation of our relationship and you're just going to walk out because you have business?"

"What would you have me do?" he asks coldly. "Cancel a meeting with one of the most dangerous men in the Midwest because we're having a domestic? That's exactly the kind of vulnerability I can't afford."

The dismissive way he refers to your argument, a 'domestic', ignites a fresh wave of anger within you.

"Go," you say, your voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Go to your important dinner. Show everyone how in control the great Harry Styles is. God forbid anyone think you might actually have human feelings."

Something flashes in his eyes, hurt, perhaps, or anger, before his expression shutters completely.

"We'll continue this discussion later," he says with that infuriating finality, already turning toward the door.

"Maybe we won't," you throw after him, the words born of hurt and frustration. "Maybe there's nothing left to discuss."

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, his back to you, shoulders rigid with tension. For a moment, you think he might turn back, might actually engage with the implications of your statement. Instead, without another word, he pulls the door open and walks out, closing it with a controlled click that somehow feels worse than if he had slammed it.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

---

It's nearly three in the morning when your phone buzzes with a text. You've been alternating between angry pacing, frustrated tears, and fitful attempts at studying that have yielded almost nothing productive. Your emotions have cycled through righteous indignation, hurt, worry, and back to anger several times.

The text is brief: Coming up.

Less than two minutes later, there's a knock at your door, an unusual courtesy from someone who has a key. When you open it, the sight that greets you is one you've never seen before: Harry Styles, the man who prides himself on perfect control and impeccable appearance, looking distinctly disheveled.

His normally perfectly styled hair is mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His tie is loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone. But it's his eyes that truly shock you, slightly unfocused, with an emotional vulnerability you've never witnessed before.

"You're drunk," you state, the realization hitting you as you catch the faint scent of expensive whiskey.

"Perceptive as always," he replies, his accent thicker than usual, another tell-tale sign of his inebriation. "May I come in?"

The formality of the request is so at odds with his usual confident entries to your space that it momentarily throws you off balance. You step aside silently, allowing him to enter.

Harry moves past you with less than his usual grace, making his way to the center of your living room before turning to face you. For a long moment, he simply looks at you, as if reacquainting himself with your features.

"I fucked up," he finally says, the crude admission falling from his lips with surprising ease. "I handled it badly. All of it."

You cross your arms, not ready to let go of your anger despite the unprecedented sight of a contrite Harry Styles. "Which part, specifically?"

He gives a short, humorless laugh. "All of it," he repeats. "Coming here with demands instead of requests. Dismissing your priorities. Walking out." He pauses, swallowing visibly. "Treating you like you're not the most important thing in my life."

The raw honesty in his voice catches you off guard. Harry is never this unguarded, this emotionally transparent.

"You're right," he continues when you remain silent. "I am a coward. Not about the business, never about that. But about this." He gestures between the two of you. "About us. About how fucking terrified I am of losing you."

He takes a step toward you, slightly unsteady but determined. "I don't know how to do this, Y/N. I've never, " he breaks off, frustration evident in his expression as he struggles to articulate thoughts he's clearly never voiced before. "I've never had someone I couldn't bear to lose. I've never had to balance power and vulnerability this way."

Another step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "But I know I can't lose you. And tonight, sitting across from Moretti, all I could think was that you might be serious. That this might be it."

The admission hits you with unexpected force. Despite your anger, the thought of actually ending things with Harry had been more threat than intention, a frustrated lashing out rather than a considered decision. The realization that he took it seriously, that it affected him so deeply, softens something in your chest.

"So I left," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "Made my excuses and left the most important business meeting I've had in months because none of it mattered if you weren't, " he stops again, struggling visibly with the unfamiliar territory of emotional vulnerability.

"I need you to forgive me," he says finally, the words coming out rough and urgent. "I need you to give me another chance to do better. To be what you need."

He's directly in front of you now, close enough that you can see the slight redness in his eyes, smell the expensive whiskey on his breath. With an uncharacteristic hesitation, he reaches for your hand.

"Please," he says, the word so rarely used by him that it carries exceptional weight. "I know I don't deserve it. I know I'm not, " he shakes his head, frustration at his own inarticulateness evident. "I'm not good at this. At being what someone like you deserves. But I want to try. I need to try."

The naked vulnerability in his expression, the unguarded emotion in his voice, these are sides of Harry Styles you've never witnessed before, aspects of himself he keeps rigidly controlled at all times. The fact that he's showing them now, that he's allowing himself this level of exposure, speaks volumes about his sincerity.

"I love you," he says finally, the words emerging with such raw honesty that it takes your breath away. "I fucking love you, Y/N. And I'm terrified of what that means, of what it makes possible, both the best and worst possibilities. But I can't…I won't lose you over my fear."

He's never said those words to you before, not while sober, not with this level of conscious intent. The admission hangs in the air between you, transforming the atmosphere of your apartment, of your relationship.

"I need you to say something," he urges after a moment of silence, an unusual note of uncertainty in his voice. "Tell me I haven't completely fucked this up. Tell me there's still something to save."

"Hey. Hey," you whisper, stepping closer, your hands rising to gently cup his face. You brush a strand of hair from his forehead, your touch soft, steady. "Harry, I know I was upset but I didn’t mean it. God, no. Not any of it. Okay?"

You feel his breath hitch under your fingertips, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to anchor himself to your words.

Harry's eyes search yours with an intensity that's almost painful, a vulnerability rarely witnessed in a man so accustomed to power. For a moment, he remains perfectly still under your touch, as if afraid any movement might shatter this fragile moment of reconciliation.

"You didn't?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically rough, almost boyish in its uncertainty. His hands come up to cover yours where they rest against his face, his fingers wrapping around your wrists with gentle pressure.

You shake your head, feeling a surge of tenderness at seeing this side of him, this rawness that he shows to no one else.

"No, I didn't," you affirm softly. "I was angry and frustrated, but I never meant that I wanted to end this. Us."

Something shifts in his expression, tension releasing, relief washing through him in an almost physical wave. His shoulders drop slightly, and he exhales a breath you hadn't realized he was holding.

"I thought, " he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. "When I walked out, and you said maybe there was nothing left to discuss..." His grip on your wrists tightens fractionally. "It's the first time I've ever walked away from a fight thinking I might not get to come back."

The admission strikes you as profoundly significant. Harry Styles, who walks through life with absolute certainty, who commands rooms with his mere presence, who never shows doubt or weakness, admitting to fear, to uncertainty about his place in your life.

"I'm still angry," you tell him honestly, your thumbs stroking gently across his cheekbones. "I meant everything I said about needing things to change. About being treated like a partner, not a possession. But I never meant I wanted to throw away what we have."

Harry nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "I understand," he says, and for once, you believe he truly does. "I won't promise to be perfect at it. This, " he gestures vaguely between you with one hand, ", doesn't come naturally to me. Trust. Vulnerability. Compromise." He takes a deep breath. "But I will try. For you, I will try."

You can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the slight unfocus in his usually sharp gaze, but there's a clarity to his words that tells you this isn't just drunken remorse. This is Harry Styles, stripped of his usual defenses, showing you a truth he normally keeps buried.

"That's all I'm asking for," you say, your anger continuing to soften in the face of his unprecedented vulnerability. "Just try. Talk to me instead of commanding. Ask instead of telling. Remember that I have choices too."

He nods again, more firmly this time. "I can do that," he says, then amends, "I will do that."

His hands release your wrists, moving to frame your face in a mirror of your own gesture. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze more directly.

"I meant what I said," he tells you, his voice low and intense. "I love you. I've never said that to anyone before. Never felt it before." His thumbs trace your cheekbones, his touch uncharacteristically tentative. "It terrifies me, how much power that gives you. How much it would destroy me to lose you."

The confession sends a wave of warmth cascading through your chest. Harry Styles, admitting to fear. Admitting that you have power over him, perhaps the only person in the world who does.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, your eyes softening as you look up at him. "I know," you say, amusement threading through your voice despite the weight of the moment. "You told me when you were drunk."

Harry’s brow furrows, hands stilling against your face. “What?”

“About a month ago,” you say, your smile growing as the memory resurfaces. “After that business dinner with the Russians. You called me. I found you drunk in your office, still in your suit, mumbling about how much I mean to you.”

His expression shifts from confusion to disbelief, then to something almost bashful. In emotion so rare on Harry Styles' face it feels almost precious.

“I did?” he asks, genuinely stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrug, your hands drifting down to rest on his chest. “You didn’t remember the next morning. I figured if you meant it, you’d say it when you were sober. When you were ready.”

Harry’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before a slow realization seems to dawn on him. His brows lift slightly.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “you said it too. When you were drunk.”

Your head tilts, puzzled. “What? No, I didn’t.”

A faint smirk appears on his lips, edged with something fond. “Yeah. You did. After finals. You showed up at my penthouse crying because you thought I was going to leave you. You said you loved me between hiccups and snotty sniffles while I was trying to get you to drink water.”

Your mouth parts slightly as the memory hits, hazy and wine-soaked, but there. You remember the ache in your chest, the way your arms had clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, how your voice had cracked when you begged him not to go.

"Oh my god," you breathe, heat rising to your cheeks. "I thought that was a dream. You never said anything!"

Harry's smirk widens, though there's a softness in his eyes that belies his teasing expression. "For the same reason you didn't. I thought if you meant it, you'd say it when you were sober. When you were ready."

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, unexpected and genuine, the absurdity of the situation cutting through the lingering tension between you. "So we've both been waiting for the other person to say it first? For months?"

Harry joins you in laughter, the sound transforming his face, making him look younger, unburdened in a way you rarely get to see. "Apparently so."

As your shared laughter subsides, he pulls you closer, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture is intimate, vulnerable in its simplicity. His hands slide from your face to your shoulders, down your arms, finally settling at your waist.

"How did I find you?" he murmurs, the question seemingly directed more at the universe than at you. "How the fuck did someone like me end up with someone like you?"

The raw wonder in his voice touches something deep inside you, melting away the last of your anger from earlier. This is the Harry that no one else gets to see, the man beneath the power and control, the boy who grew up too fast, the heart that learned to harden itself against a cruel world.

"Someone like you?" you repeat softly, your hands moving up to thread through his hair. "You mean someone beautiful?" You press a gentle kiss to his jaw. "Someone loyal?" Another kiss, higher on his cheek. "Someone who would burn down the world to protect what's his?" A final kiss, just at the corner of his mouth.

Harry's eyes close briefly at your touch, his breathing becoming slightly uneven. When he opens them again, the vulnerability there is staggering.

"Someone broken," he corrects quietly. "Someone with blood on his hands and darkness in his past. Someone who doesn't deserve the light you bring."

You shake your head, rejecting his self-assessment. "That's not for you to decide," you remind him gently, echoing your earlier argument but with tenderness now instead of anger. "What I deserve, what I want, that's my choice. And I choose you. All of you, not just the parts you think are acceptable to show me."

His arms tighten around your waist, drawing you fully against him. "I'm still learning how to do that," he admits. "How to let someone see everything and trust they won't run."

"I'm not running," you promise, your fingers still tangled in his hair. "I'm standing right here, telling you I love you too. Sober and certain and fully aware of exactly who you are."

The last of his restraint seems to crumble at your words. With a sound that's half groan, half sigh, Harry captures your mouth with his, the kiss desperate and reverent all at once. He tastes like expensive whiskey and vulnerability, his usual controlled precision giving way to something rawer, more urgent.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathless. He keeps you close, his forehead pressed against yours again, his eyes closed as if committing this moment to memory.

"I'm still angry about earlier," you remind him, though your tone has lost most of its edge. "This doesn't fix everything."

Harry nods, his eyes opening to meet yours. "I know," he acknowledges. "We still have things to work through. I still need to do better." His hands flex against your lower back. "But we'll figure it out. Together. As partners."

The word 'partners', the very thing you'd been fighting for, sounds different coming from his lips, weighted with new meaning and promise.

"Partners," you agree softly, sealing the commitment with another gentle kiss.

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mocha1004 · 3 days ago

Text

In the House of God (Priest!Leon x Nun!Reader)

WARNINGS: smut (mdni!), fem reader, taboo themes (religion), power imbalance, breeding, degradation, p in v, oral (giving, receiving), possessive behavior, corrupted innocence, humiliation

Summary: Father Leon’s discipline is harsh, his devotion absolute, and his mission clear: to ruin his sweet little nun, to claim her innocence, and to fill her with proof of her fall from grace. In the house of God, she will learn true worship, on her knees and heavy with sin.

Notes: oh my gah..my first real smut! this has been in the drafts for a hot minute. truly, thank you for all the support. i promise to deliver my best work. please enjoy this filth <3

The small confessional was thick with incense and guilt. You knelt, trembling slightly, your fingers tightening around the smooth wooden cross that hung from your neck. The heavy velvet curtain shivered as he entered, and then you could hear nothing but the pounding of your own heart, until his voice washed over you, low and sinful, nothing holy about the way he said your name.

“You asked for forgiveness, little dove…”

Father Leon’s breath was warm against the thin screen, his roughened fingertips just barely brushing it as he leaned closer, so close you could almost feel his mouth against your ear. “But forgiveness is not what you want, is it?”

Your cheeks burned, your thighs pressed tightly together. You tried to whisper a denial, but it came out as a desperate whimper. You had worn nothing beneath your robes today. You had waited for this moment, baited it with innocent glances and trembling prayers.

The curtain between you was pulled aside with one swift motion. Leon stood there, tall and broad and dressed in his priestly black, the collar at his throat gleaming like a mark of forbidden authority. His eyes, cold blue and scorching all at once, pinned you in place.

Without a word, he stepped inside your booth. His large hands closed around your wrists, guiding you to stand. His palms were calloused, his touch so firm it made your breath catch. He pressed you gently but insistently against the wood, trapping you between him and the confessional wall.

“You look so sweet when you sin.” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your neck, the rough scrape of his stubble sending shivers down your spine. One hand slipped to your waist, gripping you through the coarse material of your robes, then slipping beneath, exploring the soft, heated skin underneath.

Your confession came in gasps now, your body arching into him. Leon chuckled darkly, low in his throat. His hand slid lower, and when he found the slick heat between your thighs, he let out a quiet, reverent curse.

“You’re already soaked for me.” he growled. “My sweet little lamb… My filthy little angel.”

You whimpered, your hips rocking helplessly into his hand. He teased you with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers spreading you open, learning every quiver and shudder you gave him. His other hand found your breast, squeezing, kneading through the thin fabric until your nipple ached and peaked.

“Do you want forgiveness?” he asked again, his voice a wicked purr.

You nodded frantically.

“Then you’ll have to earn it” he said.

Leon fell to his knees in front of you, dragging your robes up around your hips, baring your trembling body to his hungry eyes. His lips pressed reverently to your inner thigh, leaving kisses that burned hotter than any flame.

And when his mouth found you, when his tongue licked a slow, devastating stripe up your soaked core, you nearly sobbed.

He licked and sucked with a slow, cruel patience, holding your hips firm while you writhed and cried out his name like a prayer. His tongue was skilled, relentless, driving you closer and closer to ruin.

“Cum for me” Leon commanded, his voice thick, “Show me how much you need your Father.”

When you finally shattered against his mouth, clutching at his hair, sobbing in pleasure, Leon smiled against you like a man tasting something forbidden, and loving every sinful second of it.

But he wasn’t finished with you yet.

Leon rose slowly from between your thighs, his lips glistening with your release, his eyes darkened almost black with hunger. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, and then his hands seized your hips, spinning you to face the wall of the confessional.

“Hold onto the wood.” he ordered, voice thick and commanding.

You barely managed to nod, your palms flattening against the wall, your body trembling in anticipation. Behind you, you could hear the heavy clink of his belt, the rough slide of fabric as he freed himself.

“Please, Father.” you gasped, hips instinctively pushing back toward him. “Please, I-I need you inside me.”

Leon groaned low and brutal at your words.

“Say it again” he demanded, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance but not yet pushing in.

“I need you” you cried out, shame forgotten, the only thing left was raw need. “Father, please, fill me. Make me yours.”

That was all he needed.

With one fierce thrust, he buried himself inside you, thick and heavy and overwhelming. You sobbed at the stretch, the shock of it, the way he filled every part of you like he had been made for it.

“Fuck” he hissed, gripping your hips so tight you knew there’d be bruises. “So fucking tight, little dove. Taking me so perfectly…”

“Leon—!” you gasped, the name tumbling from your lips before you could stop it.

He slapped your ass sharply, the sound obscene in the quiet booth.

“Wrong” he growled. “Try again.”

“F-Father” you whimpered, correcting yourself, your walls fluttering around him at the sheer wrongness, at how right it felt.

He started to move, slow at first, dragging almost all the way out before slamming back into you with a punishing snap of his hips. Each thrust drove you harder into the wall, made the cross around your neck swing wildly against your chest.

“You like this” Leon panted against your ear, his hand fisting in your hair and yanking your head back. “Getting fucked like a common whore in the house of God. My good little nun, so desperate for her Father’s cock.”

“Yes, yes—!” you cried, tears slipping down your cheeks from the sheer overwhelming pleasure. “Only yours, Father—only you—please, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

He fucked you harder, faster, relentless now, grunting with each brutal snap of his hips.

One hand snaked around your body, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing harsh, tight circles that had you keening his name like a hymn.

“Cum again for me” Leon growled, his breath hot against your skin. “Show me how much of a filthy little angel you are.”

“I-I’m gonna..Father..” you sobbed, your whole body locking up as another orgasm crashed through you, ripping a scream from your throat.

Leon swore violently, and with one last savage thrust, he spilled deep inside you, burying his face against your neck as he groaned your name like a prayer.

For a moment, neither of you moved, still locked together, trembling and gasping.

Then Leon pulled back slightly, his hands still possessive on your hips.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, almost tender.

“Confession’s not over, little dove” he murmured. “You’ll have many more sins to atone for.”

And you smiled, dizzy and wrecked and utterly his.

“Then forgive me, Father…” you whispered breathlessly, “Because I’m going to sin again and again, just for you.”

Leon chuckled low against your skin, and without warning, spun you to face him again, hunger burning anew in his wicked blue eyes.

Leon’s hands gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at him. His pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling heavily, but he still had that smug, predatory smirk as he dragged his cock, still thick, still hard, along the messy seam of your thighs.

“You’re not done” he murmured, almost lovingly. “You wanted to be ruined, didn’t you, little one? You wanted your priest to fuck the last bit of innocence right out of you.”

“Y-Yes, Father.” you whimpered, dazed and wrecked, your body aching for more even though it should have been too much.

Leon groaned at your obedience, at your total surrender.

“Good girl.” he praised, one rough thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Such a filthy, perfect little whore for me.”

He guided you down to your knees on the hard wooden floor.

Your fingers clutched at his hips, desperate, needy. He tapped his cock against your lips, smearing your own wetness across them.

“Open up.” he ordered.

And you obeyed without hesitation, mouth falling open in offering.

Leon slid himself into your mouth with a low, broken moan.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” he hissed, guiding your head with both hands. “Take your Father’s cock. Choke on it if you have to, you’re mine now. My good little sinner.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as he pushed deeper, but you took it, desperate to please him.

You could feel him twitch inside your mouth as he fucked your throat slowly, grunting under his breath.

“Gonna fill you up again.” he panted, thrusting harder, “Fill every hole you have. Stuff you so full of me, you’ll be dripping sin for days.”

You whimpered around him, the filthy words sending fresh pulses of need through your exhausted body.

Leon pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop, hauling you back to your feet. You barely had time to gasp before he bent you over the small wooden bench, kicking your legs apart with his boot.

“One more time.” he growled. “Gotta make sure you remember who you belong to.”

He slammed into you from behind with a brutal thrust, and you screamed, high and broken and perfect.

There was no gentleness now, only Leon’s desperate, possessive need to claim you completely.

“Gonna fuck a baby into you, little dove.” he grunted, pounding you mercilessly. “Mark you from the inside out. Everyone will know you’re mine. That this little cunt belongs to me, to your Father.”

“Yes, Father! Please—!” you cried, your body arching wildly beneath him, every nerve ending burning alive. “Make me yours, fill me up, breed me, please—!”

The words seemed to snap what little restraint he had left.

Leon slammed into you one final time, so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach, and he came with a deep, guttural roar, spilling everything inside you.

Hot, endless pulses of his seed flooded you, and you moaned, collapsing forward against the bench, your whole body trembling violently.

He stayed pressed deep inside you, panting against your back.

His hands smoothed down your sides, soothing where they had bruised, his voice a low, possessive rumble:

“You’re mine now, little dove.” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. “Every part of you, every drop of you, belongs to me.”

You smiled weakly, blissed-out and utterly spent, your body still clenching around the thick heat of him inside you.

“Yours, Father.” you breathed, “Always.”

Leon chuckled, pulling out slowly, watching with hungry satisfaction as his cum dripped from between your thighs.

He gathered you up in his arms, your trembling, ruined body tucked protectively against his chest.

“We’ll have to confess again tomorrow.” he teased, voice low and sinful.

“And the next day…and the next…until you can’t even remember what it feels like not to sin with me.”

You buried your face against him, laughing breathlessly.

You had never felt more alive.

Or more owned.

And you knew — you would sin for him again and again, until salvation was nothing but a memory.

#mocha's love letters #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut

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elysixns · 2 days ago

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Chrysos Heirs w/ clumsy reader !

Content: GN!Reader, fluff, mentions of light injuries + sprains, yandere behavior on Anaxa's part (?)

🌹 Note: Shout out to the mfs that get cuts and bruises just by standing still. Me too.

INTRO

The Sky Titan must absolutely despise you for you to trip over air as often as you do.. How you haven't gotten a broken bone is baffling, and yet here you are. For all of your clumsiness, you do manage to get out of almost any situation with only minor scrapes and bruises (most of the time). You're not allowed outside of Okhema for any reason, though, not even to help bring in refugees. The last time you were allowed outside the city, you sprained your ankle so badly that you were bedridden for about a month.. But do not fret!!! There are still plenty of ways to entertain (injure) yourself in the holy city, much to your partner's distress.

– Dear, if you keep falling over your own feet every 20 minutes, she's going to think you like when she catches you in her golden thread

Aglaea

– ^ (You do. She knows you do, so you can't deny it when she teases you for it, yes?)

– If you somehow sprain any of your limbs, she WILL pamper you for the entire time you're injured. This is probably one of the ONLY times she’ll baby you when you're hurt, so try to take advantage of it as much as you can

– One of the few who isn't overly concerned with your penchant for getting injured simply by existing

– Unless you are quite literally impaled by a spear, Aglaea assumes that you can handle yourself and she won't fuss over you too much

– She does get a bit antsy if you end up getting an open wound, though

– You're much too precious to bleed, Dear. What happened? Does she need to kill someone to avenge you?

– ^ She says she's only joking if you get worried/upset. (She is not joking)

– Aglaea may tease you often about your clumsiness, but that's only because she thinks it's endearing

Phainon

– “Who did this? Are you okay? What happened? Who do I need to fight?–”

– He'd try to fight the air if you asked him to. Phai will do anything to defend your honor!! Anything.

– He worries about how often you fall over and drop things– Anytime you're carrying a heavy object, he about has a heart attack before quickly taking it away from you

– “Your hero’s got it covered. Just tell me where I need to put this!”

– Whenever you get a sprain, he'll insist on carrying you everywhere that you want to go for as long as you're healing up

– Doesn't matter if you're bigger than him or not. Phai can lift you with ease and is eager to show off how dependable he can be!!!

– He genuinely spoils you so much when you're hurt. It is as sweet as it is silly

– Please remind him that it's just a sprain or else he'll keep treating you like you're dying 😭

– After you're healed up, he usually spends at least the next few days kissing any and all scars/bruises left behind from your injuries

– It's almost like he's apologizing for not being there to prevent them in the first place 🩵

– ^ (In a way, he is. Even if he has nothing to apologize for, Phai will always feel guilty for not protecting you from yourself)

Castorice

– Ohh you cause her so much stress, she thinks she might have a heart attack one of these days

– Cas genuinely doesn't know what to do!!! She can't just tell you to sit still and do nothing, she's tried that!

– ^ (Somehow, you ended up falling off of your chaise lounge and spraining your elbow..)

– Her only other solution is to spend as much time with you as possible, making sure you don't fall down a flight of stairs or get stomped on by a Dromas D:

– You've got an overprotective angel of death hovering around you nearly 24/7.. It's almost comical, but also a bit unsettling!

– If there's one thing she hates the most, though, it's that she can't patch you up on her own

– Seeing you injured tugs at her heartstrings so much, but all she can do is put a first aid kit in front of you or go find someone else to help you

– You also hate not being able to touch her, but you always reassure Cas that her just being beside you is more than enough

– It may take her a while until she's able to believe you (if ever she does), but she likes hearing it nonetheless because she knows you're being sincere when you say it <3

Mydeimos

– (Affectionately) calls you an idiot whenever you fall or drop things in front of him

– He doesn't usually help you when you stumble because he knows you'll be fine on your own, and he doesn't want to treat you like a child

– That being said… If you've fallen one too many times that day, Mydei will simply pick you up bridal style (all the while grumbling complaints) so that he can carry you around wherever you need/want to go

– He says it's because you're slowing him down, but in reality, it's because he caught a glimpse of the scars and bruises on your legs from previous accidents

– Mydei will never admit this to anyone, especially not to you, but seeing bruises on your skin hurts him more than any physical blow ever could

– He is once again reminded of how fragile the average person is. he is reminded of how fragile you are in particular

– ^ (Just another reason to break this damned curse. What's the point of being indestructible if you're not allowed to share in this “blessing” with him?)

– Mydei can't keep you safe from everything, least of all from your own gracelessness, but he can be there to patch you up and (reluctantly) wait on you hand and foot until you feel better

Anaxagoras

– Oh, you must be studied; he just can't believe you're naturally this clumsy. Are you sure you haven't been cursed?

– Anaxa finds your inelegance as adorable as he does irritating; it's quite a confusing mix of emotions for him

– You are very precious, truly! But if you fall on the way down the steps of your own home one more time, Anaxa will have to resort to drastic measures to keep you from harm

– ^ (“Drastic measures” being forbidding you from using any stairs by yourself, and keeping you by his side for the rest of your life)

– Overkill? Not at all. Maybe. But he loves you, so he'll never admit that he's being overprotective

– You trust him, don't you? So you'll let him do what's best for you without any complaints, right?

– You're simply too much of an airhead to keep yourself safe and uninjured… Those bruises and scars on your legs are proof of that, wouldn't you agree?

– Anaxa knows what's best, of course he does. If you can't trust in yourself, then just trust in him

– He won't outright force you to go along with what he wants, but he will try to “subtly” encourage you to stay indoors. Or even better, move in with him!! Just so that he can take care of you more efficiently, of course :)

Cipher

– You are very cute. Extremely cute, really.. But if she keeps having to run to your rescue (for free!), she will get a perpetual migraine

– It also ruins her image of being independent and selfish when she’s clearly always close enough to hear you stumble or drop something

– Cipher can not be tied down! She is untamed!!! She waits for NO ONE! … Unless it's you, and you're injured. Then she’ll wait for a minute or two

– She does steal things from you as well, but she always says she's only taking them away because they pose a danger to you

– “Oh? Your brush? The handle was real high-quality wood, uh-huh… It was way too heavy for the likes of you, though, so I decided to take it off your hands and sell it! Ah, but don't worry; I'll find an even better one for you, okay?”

– Cipher worries a lot about leaving you alone for too long without supervision (you didn't hear that from me, though)

– You're so unsteady on your feet that she doubts you could survive a day without her

– She may or may not pay Aglaea to check in on you from time to time

– Such a shame you'll never have proof of this :3 can't tease her about it if it's not definitively true!

#hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x gender neutral reader #aglaea x reader #phainon x reader #castorice x reader #mydeimos x reader #mydei x reader #cipher x reader #hsr cipher x reader

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darqx · 17 hours ago

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Pick up the receiver I'll make you a believer

❗️For commonly asked qs please see my BTD FAQ

After doodling the first image that hug body slam meme immediately came to mind and i couldn't help myself 😂

Thanks very much I'm glad you are enjoying my art and characs! :D

To put the answer simply, Rire used to work for the prior King as a Collector (of souls) and he was that King's only Collector and so got the brunt of his ire for any related, perceived fault. Aside from that personal connection Rire also really disliked him because he viewed the prior king as a useless glutton who failed at ruling a sector (conditions were tanking/had tanked for ages), and which the Royal powers were wasted on.

Almost all of his sunglasses are actually normal human sunglasses, he can just see better than a human can 😎

Anything can be a kink, anon :d

Boring victims are often exceptionally weak-willed victims so that's something in particular he dislikes.

Yes he can play the piano and violin, and horseback ride and ballroom dance etc. Put it this way he has a lot of particular small skills that he picked up during his Earth visits so he could hide in plain sight with the upper echelons XD

Not like how a snake or cat hisses which is what I'm assuming you're implying XDDD He can't bite off a limb (his mouth ain't that big) but his teeth are very sharp so he can feasibly take a chunk out of someone or like, completely bite off something smaller (finger, ear...)

I havent added to it in a while (since I dont often find songs I like enough to actually download lol) but this is my current playlist for him in no particular order:

Anon, the fact you capitalised "Aliens" made me think of Xenomorphs and I had to immediately stop thinking 🤣

On a side note, I can't actually tell you either way because he hasn't encountered an alien (that isn't a demon or a human) lol. He'd probably initially treat an alien much like he would treat a common demon, if they are obviously not human, and then if he realises they are also not quite a demon this could peak his interest.

Pointing you in this direction because regardless of the canon answer this proves he could look good in one LMAO

Sorry to burst your bubble but no :d Though I suppose he could simulate the effect by reverting parts of them to their "liquid" state 🤔 DO WITH THAT INFO WHAT YOU WILL.

It is theoretically similar to a human's.

If you can remember his age then that is how old he is :d I'm not really like other creators who give their characs a definitive "birthday" down to the year, mainly because I don't often have set "time periods" in my stories lol.

His birth date falls somewhere between late October - late November though.

In the context of BTD; they just don't like each other XD Well I can't actually speak for Cain, but Rire not liking Cain is partly a riff on general angel/demon rivalry dynamics, and partly because Rire would see Cain as more of a threat since canonically Cain is way more OP than him.

Most of the time when i draw them Cain is also actively getting in Rire's space whilst Rire is actively trying to avoid him, so there's also that XD

It...depends. On which aspect of "ownership" you're implying. For those that he has deals with, he'd calculate what exactly the value of the deal lost would be and in this situation he'd likely write them off as Cain would be more annoying to handle then they'd be worth (he can always make more deals).

If someone was specifically marked by Rire, that's a different level of possessiveness and he'd actually try cos like

Hey guys some offence but why are some of you sending me asks formatted as if i were ChatGPT

Is there one for like, personal ambition or cunning or something cos I don't think he'd be any of those listed lol.

Rire doesn't have a mobile phone and he doesn't need one because he has a demon power that basically CCTVs all his citizens to himself. And really, if he wants to find you he'll find you.

He's somewhere in the middle of that scale through the sheer fact that he's been around long enough to see technology change and would've kept up with how to use things to blend in better, but also doesn't need to use the electronics to the point that he'd need to be an expert at it.

Is this cos Gato is Canadian cos I don't remember a country location being specified when we did it? |D Personally I figured most of the settings were in the US since the US has the most documented serial killers

Also sos no i dont anon, you'll need to either ask Gato or EP or dig through any of their lore posts they might have left.

Think kind of like Rire (he did learn a lot from her after all), but with a more Elizabethan era socialite vibe. Possibly a black widow but we dont have any proof about that.

Has/had a p good relationship. I use both terms because I still never decided whether she was currently dead or not lol.

Lol a misconception but Rire doesn't actually perceive humans as trash XD Trash suggests that he hates them and they wouldn't be worth regarding at all, whereas Rire usually finds them more like...novelties. Or like whatever that feeling that is associated with viewing ant farms or animals performing tricks is. Rire's mother would view them as more like working animals or livestock.

#boyfriend to death #rire answer dump #art #doodle #answer dump #long post #so funny story before posting this RAD i decided to fix up the html/css for my tumblr cos out of dash the inline images were too big #and as i was doing that i finally discovered that tumblr neue post type REALLY dont have any differentiation as to what type of post it #which is SO ANNOYING as it made what i wanted to do near impossible 🙄#luckily most of my neue RADs and answer dumps have a title so i had to specifically target the existence of that element 🫤

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the-hottest-vampire-poll · 1 day ago

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#The Hottest Vampire Poll #Rip notes #this ones going to be bloody #Angel #Spike #angelus #william the bloody #william pratt #buffy #buffy the vampire slayer #btvs #angel tv series #vampire #if this gets more than a 1000 votes #I'll do a mini Puppet Angel vs Count Von Count poll

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jhyoos · 1 day ago

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Fight For You

boxer!abby x model!reader

summary: you meet abby at a high-end party.

mentions: fame au, modern au, everyone is alive, mentions of ed, smoking, drinking, romance, angst, smut, fucking in the bathroom, oral & fingering (r!receiving).

author note: suprisingly this was highly requested ! very long fanfic so get something to eat!

You were a model—not a household name, not a face plastered on every billboard in Manhattan or Paris—but you walked. You moved. You made it somewhere. You’d been in a few Vogue spreads, dimly lit behind the star of the page. You’d walked Victoria’s Secret runways, wings stitched to your back like borrowed dreams. You weren’t the centerpiece, but you were there, shimmering in the glow of flashbulbs and eyes that didn't always see you.

As much as girls romanticized it—modeling was war. Polished smiles in front of the camera, but behind the scenes? It was elbows out, lips stitched shut. A competition of bone counts and measurements, where praise sounded like “you finally look thinner” and love came in the shape of hunger.

When you first started, your manager had you on diets so strict they felt like rituals—punishment masked as discipline. Celery sticks for breakfast, water for dinner, shame for dessert. There were nights when your body rebelled, when you’d throw everything up until your vision blurred and your ribs ached. You smiled anyway, because that’s what pretty girls did.

Then came the miracle.

Victoria’s Secret reached out. They wanted you—a new Angel. And God, you flew. You cried in the back of your Uber, mascara bleeding into your palms. When the official post dropped on their Instagram, your phone lit up like a Christmas tree. Follows. Blue checks. Brands. People cared.

And yet... people commented.

Under the glowing announcement, buried between the fire emojis and “she’s perfect,” came the venom. “She’s too thick to be an Angel.” “She doesn’t have the face for it.” “Bet she slept her way in.”

You told yourself not to look. You did anyway. You always did.

And you tried to brush it off. You liked the positive comments. You reposted the good ones. You told yourself the hate came with the fame. That it was just noise. But even angels have soft spots under their wings.

You weren’t famous-famous. You were known. Seen. Not always remembered. But in a world that wanted you to be skin and air, you were something real. And that, maybe, was enough.

Abby Anderson was everywhere.

Her face graced the cover of every major sports magazine—ESPN, Women’s Health, Boxing Monthly—always front and center, gloves slung over her shoulder like royalty, like muscle wrapped in silk. When competition season rolled around, her image lit up city billboards like neon prayers. Times Square. L.A. Live. Hell, even Tokyo had her gritted smile above the skyline.

She wasn’t just known—she was inevitable.

Her Instagram was a force of nature. Millions of followers, all eyes on her knuckles, her callouses, her workouts, her smirks. The caption could be two words—“Try me”—and it’d break the algorithm. Her fans called themselves the Anderson Army, flooding every comment section with love, awe, thirst. Her fights sold out in minutes. Pay-per-view numbers shattered records. Even people who didn’t watch boxing knew who she was.

Abby was a beast in the ring. Some called her a bull��not because she was reckless, but because she was unstoppable. Every match she walked into, she didn’t just win, she dominated. Her fists moved like poetry written in blunt force. Her footwork was tactical, brutal, almost unfair. Opponents fell before the second round like they knew what was coming.

And she looked damn good doing it.

Viral TikToks caught her mid-punch, sweat-glossed and godly, jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. There were fan cams edited like music videos. Tweets that said, “Abby Anderson could knock me out and I’d say thank her.” Gym clips turned into thirst traps. She didn’t try to be hot—she just was.

She had the fame, the fans, the money, the muscles, the girls who lined up for a chance to be close. And her team? Top-tier. Nutritionists, trainers, publicists, stylists. Everything about her life looked like it was curated for a champion, and it was—because she earned it.

Every scar, every bruise, every early morning and broken rib—it paid off.

Abby Anderson had the world in a chokehold, and the world loved it.

Your friend was the kind of model who didn’t just walk runways—she owned them. Her name alone got invites to the most exclusive parties in the city, the kind of places where no phones were allowed but everyone knew everything that happened anyway. You were surprised when she asked you to be her plus-one.

“Please come,” she’d said, voice syrupy over the phone. “Some other friends are coming, but you're the only one who doesn’t drink. Help me make sober choices, yeah?”

You laughed softly but agreed. You couldn’t say no—not just because you cared, but because deep down, you wanted to see it. That other world. That forbidden, neon-lit underbelly of the elite.

She helped you pick out a dress, too—that dress. A black, sequined slip of a thing that clung to every curve like it had been sewn on with whispers. The neckline plunged like a dare, held up by the thinnest black straps. A small silver clasp cinched the cutout just beneath your chest, the only thing keeping the whole thing from unraveling completely. It was short—dangerously short—and it shimmered with every breath, every turn, catching the light like stars stuck to your skin. Paired with simple black heels and your hair down in soft waves, you looked like temptation bottled.

The party was already in full swing by the time you arrived.

It was hot—humid with bodies and bass, sweat and perfume clinging to the air. The kind of party where everyone was somebody. The room reeked of status, of secrecy. Celebrities you once idolized were tucked into dark corners, drinking like they were trying to forget their own names. Others were laughing too loudly, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. The scent of weed, champagne, and something chemical lingered everywhere. A haze of smoke floated near the chandeliers like a ghost.

If only the paparazzi saw this. The unfiltered version of fame.

Your friend tugged you by the wrist to a booth she had rented out—elevated just enough to overlook the dance floor like a throne. You sat down, pressing your thighs together on the cold leather couch, the sequins of your dress crackling faintly. You nursed a single drink, barely sipping it as the others around you knocked shots back like water.

Laughter. Slurred voices. Someone snorted something off a phone screen. You stayed silent, posture poised, eyes scanning. Watching.

Eventually, your friend stood, swaying just a little. “I’m heading to the dance floor with them,” she said, already halfway gone.

You nodded, a little uneasy, but you understood. This was her scene.

Now it was just you. Sitting alone in a storm of sound and sweat, the only one not drunk, not high, not tangled up in the mess. Just quiet, calm, and breathtaking in your dress like a still frame inside a film reel spinning too fast.

You lasted longer than you thought you would—sitting pretty and still, the only clear head in a room full of beautiful chaos. But it was starting to crawl under your skin. The sound, the heat, the way the air felt like it was breathing you in. Your nerves were humming too loud for comfort. So, with a quiet sigh, you got up from the booth and decided to make your way to the bar.

Eyes followed you the moment you stood. Like hounds catching a scent.

You kept your gaze low, trying not to make contact. You weren’t here to mingle with the rich tweakers and chemically confident heirs of nothing. Every time someone tried to strike up a conversation, you gave them a single word—“No.” “Sorry.” “Taken.” Short. Sharp. Enough to cut without bleeding.

Then someone touched you.

A hand, too firm, closed around your arm. You stopped cold. Turned.

His face was familiar—he might’ve been in a movie, or maybe the son of someone who was. But his pupils were so wide they swallowed the color of his eyes, and the whites were streaked red like cracks in glass. He wasn’t just high. He was gone.

“Hey…” he slurred, breath sticky. “What you doing all alone?”

You flinched at his tone, at the sway of his body. Your stomach twisted, but you managed a polite, strained smile. “I’m not alone, sir. I’m here with my friends.”

“Mm,” he grinned, like he didn’t believe you. Like he didn’t care. He tugged your arm, pulling you closer like you were some party favor to unwrap.

Your heart skipped in fear and instinct—your fingers grabbed at your arm, trying to yank free.

“You got a boyfriend?” he asked, voice low and greasy.

“I—”

Before you could answer, you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. Solid. Protective. Warm.

“Fuck off,” a deep voice growled behind you. “She’s with me.”

The guy froze. His hand dropped like he’d touched fire.

You turned your head—and there she was.

Abby Anderson.

She stood tall, her shadow swallowing the guy whole. Muscles carved into her like she’d been sculpted, not born. Her jaw clenched just enough to say try me. The air shifted. The guy muttered something, barely audible, then backed off into the crowd like a kicked dog.

You exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes.

“Thank you so much,” you said, voice still shaky with adrenaline.

“No problem,” Abby replied, eyes steady on yours.

Then she looked you up and down—slowly, deliberately. Her gaze lingered at your dress, lips twitching in approval. “You want a drink?” she asked.

You nodded. “Yeah... I was on my way to the bar.”

“Perfect,” she said, her hand brushing your lower back. “Let’s go.”

The dance floor was a different world entirely—smoke in the air, lights strobing in pulses of red and gold, bodies packed so tight you could feel the music in your bones. It wasn’t dancing, not really. It was moving, grinding, existing too close and not close enough all at once.

Abby held your hand as she led you through the crowd like she knew exactly where to go. Her grip was firm, grounding. She stopped in the center, surrounded by heat and rhythm, and turned to face you with a look that was half playful, half something deeper.

You bit your lip. “So this is the part where you pretend to dance?”

Abby chuckled, hands already settling on your waist. “Nah. This is the part where I let you lead and pretend I’m doing something.”

The bass thumped through the floor, into your heels, your spine. You started slow, swaying your hips to the beat, your hands brushing up Abby’s chest to hook behind her neck. She followed your rhythm effortlessly, bodies pressed just enough to tease, but not quite enough to satisfy.

She was warm, solid, her scent sharp and clean beneath the smoke and sweat. Her gaze didn’t leave yours—not for a second. Not even when your thighs brushed, not even when your hips tilted forward in a soft, suggestive grind.

You felt her breath catch. Yours did too.

You tilted your head up, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Still pretending?” you whispered.

“No,” she breathed. “Not anymore.”

Her hands slid down to your hips, pulling you flush against her. Every motion was slow and deliberate, like she was trying to memorize how you moved, how your body fit into hers.

Your hands were in her hair now, fingers threading through the strands as your mouth hovered near hers, your noses touching, foreheads brushing.

And then—

She kissed you.

Right there on the dance floor, under a flickering red light, while the whole room spun and bodies crashed around you. Her lips crashed into yours with a heat that left no room for second thoughts. It was messy and perfect, her mouth tasting like whiskey and victory. Her hand slid up your back, cradling the base of your neck like you were something precious, and the kiss deepened—tongues brushing, teeth grazing, everything hungry and real.

You kissed her like you were tired of pretending. Like the night belonged to you both and everyone else was just noise.

By the time you pulled away, breathless and dazed, her forehead was still pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, lips slick from yours.

“Still wanna call it one dance?” you asked, voice husky.

She smirked, lips brushing yours again. “Nah. I’m not done with you yet.”

“Come with me,” she murmured, her voice like gravel and silk.

She took your hand again—firmer this time—and pulled you through the crowd. Past the dancers. Past the bar. You barely noticed where you were going, but when she pushed open the heavy black door and the cool tile of the upscale bathroom greeted your heels, it hit you—

This wasn’t gonna be a quiet conversation.

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the chaos outside. The room was dim, bathed in golden light from crystal fixtures on the walls. Too pretty a place for what was about to happen.

You turned around to face her, but Abby was already close again, crowding into your space in the most delicious way. Her hands found your hips, then slid around to your lower back, pulling you against her like she needed you there.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” she whispered, leaning down, lips brushing over your jaw. “Walking around like that in that little black dress…”

Your breath caught as her mouth ghosted along your skin—cheek to jaw to neck.

“I didn’t know I’d catch a boxer’s attention,” you teased, voice barely steady.

Abby’s teeth scraped lightly against your throat, just enough to make your knees wobble.

“You caught a lot more than that,” she growled. “You think I was just gonna let you sit there alone, looking like that? Not a chance.”

Her lips met yours again, but this time it was rougher—needy. Her hands explored your back, your sides, fingers grazing bare skin as she pushed you gently until your back hit the cool tile wall. The contrast made you gasp, and she took full advantage, deepening the kiss like she owned your mouth, like she’d waited too long already.

Your hands were in her hair again, tugging gently, nails dragging along her scalp. She groaned into your mouth, one hand sliding down to your thigh—lifting it so it rested against her hip.

You moaned softly as the pressure between you built, your bodies locked together in this stolen moment of heat and hunger and want.

“Say the word,” she breathed against your lips, her hand hovering, waiting.

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

That was all she needed.

Her lips brushed yours—not a kiss yet, just the idea of one. Soft enough to make your breath catch. Her nose nudged yours, foreheads touching. You could smell her—warm and clean beneath the sweat and cologne, with a faint trace of whiskey still on her breath.

Her hand slid up your thigh, knuckles grazing the hem of your dress. “This is driving me insane,” she whispered. “You in this little thing, walking around like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You grinned, high on the rush. “Maybe I do.”

Abby groaned, a low sound in the back of her throat that lit you up from the inside out. Her mouth met yours in a kiss that melted all the air between you. Her lips were soft but firm, her hand gripping your waist, dragging you into her as if she couldn’t bear even an inch of space left untouched.

You whimpered into her mouth when she pressed you harder into the wall, thigh slipping between yours, nudging upward with steady pressure.

“You’re already warm,” she whispered against your lips, voice thick and ragged. “And fuck—you’re shaking.”

You were. It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation, trembling like your body already knew what was coming.

Her hands moved with purpose—sliding up your sides, over your ribs, finding the zipper of your dress and pausing. “Can I?” she asked, voice low.

You nodded.

The zipper purred down, slow and deliberate, as cool air kissed the skin of your back. Your dress slipped from your shoulders like it was made to fall. Abby let it, guiding it down your arms until it pooled around your feet.

The way she looked at you then—

Like she was starving. Like you were everything.

Her hands roamed up your thighs, trailing goosebumps in their wake. Her palms were rough, used to wrapping around gloves and landing punches, but they touched you like silk. Her fingers splayed across your stomach, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra as she leaned in and kissed the base of your throat—slow, reverent.

“You’re unreal,” she murmured against your skin.

You tilted your head back, a soft moan escaping you as her lips traveled down your collarbone, every kiss a promise, every pause a test of restraint. She took her time, building you up with touches and kisses so gentle you felt like you were going to come apart before she even got there.

She dropped to her knees, lips ghosting over your stomach now, her hands gripping your thighs again. You looked down at her—this powerhouse of a woman, a boxer with bruised knuckles and fire in her eyes—kneeling for you, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Abby…”

“I got you,” she whispered. “I want to take care of you.”

And the way she said that?

It didn’t sound like a pick-up line.

It sounded like a promise.

Her mouth pressed a kiss to your hipbone. Then another. Then lower.

You threaded your fingers into her hair, back arching as you felt her breath where you needed her most, every nerve ending screaming awake, your whole body aching for her.

When her mouth finally met your skin, hot and slow and deliberate, you gasped—and that was when you stopped thinking altogether.

You were hers. In this moment. In this heat.

Your breath hitched, when you felt her mouth on your heat, exploring you.

She picked up on every whine you made in certain spots and attacked them with her tongue.

"Fuck you're so sweet," she mumbled against you which made up moan.

She was slow, at first. torturously soft licks and kisses on your clit that made your knees buckle. Then deeper—pressing and sucking in a rhythm that felt otherworldly. You gripped her hair, fingers tangling in her golden strands, moaning shamelessly as she devoured you like it was the only thing she needed to survive.

She worked you open like a prizefighter dissecting her opponent—calculated, relentless, skilled. She knew exactly when to add pressure, when to ease up, when to slide her two thick fingers inside you and curl them just right, making you yell out her name in pleasure.

She sucked on your clit as she continued to finger you. The sound of your arousal filled the bathroom as she fingered you. "Fuck Abby," you moaned out.

The sound of your voice moaning out her name only made her more determined to make you cum. Her fingers got faster and your moans only got louder.

You heard loud knocks on the bathroom door and a few voices, but that didnt stop Abby as you grew closer to your climax.

Abby pulled her mouth away and stood, her fingers still inside of you as she kept a steady pace. Her thumb rubbing your abused and swollen clit making you tremble. She used her other hand to grab your throat, gripping it with just enough pressure. "Are you gonna cum?," she whispered.

"Yes...fuck yes. I'm so close," you whined.

"Be a good girl and cum all over my fingers," she commands.

After a few more pumps of her fingers inside of your cunt. You came and hard. Abby kissed you muffling your moans as she slowed her pace, helping you calm down from your high.

The silence after the storm was thick and golden.

Your chest was rising and falling fast, dress wrinkled and hanging low on your hips, hair a wild halo around your flushed face.

You both stayed like that for a few heartbeats—no words, just the sound of your breathing and the muted thump of the party outside, miles away from the moment you were in.

Then, slowly, Abby's big hands gently slid up your sides.

“You good?” she asked, voice hoarse and low, her thumb brushing along your jaw.

You nodded, still breathless. “Yeah,” you murmured, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Very good.”

She let out a soft laugh, something cocky and proud warming her expression. “Yeah? Scale of one to ten?”

You leaned back against the wall, eyes twinkling. “Ten. Maybe eleven.”

“Damn right,” she said, grinning now, stepping behind you to pull the straps of your dress back over your shoulders.

Her fingers moved deftly, pulling the zipper up in a slow, smooth line that sent a fresh shiver down your spine.

Then you turned around to face her and—

“Oh my God,” you giggled, pressing a hand to your mouth.

“What?” Abby blinked, instantly alert. “Did I mess up the zipper?”

“No,” you said, biting your lip to stop from laughing. “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth. Like… everywhere. You look like you fought a tube of MAC and lost.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

You nodded, laughing now, reaching up to wipe her face gently with your thumb. “You look ridiculous. Hot, but ridiculous.”

Abby grinned, totally unfazed. “Badge of honor.”

Then—bam bam bam—a sudden knock on the bathroom door, followed by the obnoxious giggle of some drunk stranger.

“Yo, hurry up in there! We gotta piss!”

Abby rolled her eyes and looked at you with a smirk. “And just like that… the moment’s gone.”

You both burst out laughing, quietly, like a shared secret. She reached for the door handle, pausing just before she opened it.

“You wanna get outta here?” she asked. “We can go somewhere quieter. Talk. Or… not talk.”

You tilted your head, smiling soft, still feeling the fire she left behind glowing low in your belly.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

The bathroom door swung open and the two of you stepped out, back into the chaos.

The music hit first—thick, heavy, vibrating through your chest. Then came the blur of heat, perfume, weed, strobe lights flickering off mirrored walls. People pressed in from every side, some dancing, some spilling drinks, all of them moving like they were floating through honey.

But you weren’t really paying attention to any of it—your focus was still wrapped around Abby, your skin still buzzing where she touched you.

Then—

“Baaaaabe!” your friend slurred, suddenly appearing from the crowd like a glittering, unhinged fairy. Her dress was sliding off one shoulder and her mascara had migrated halfway down her cheek, but she was grinning ear to ear, holding a bottle of something pink and dangerous.

She threw her arms around you in a sloppy hug. “We’re leaaavinggg,” she declared, then looked up at you with wide eyes. “I want Whataburger. Like now.”

You blinked. “You’re hungry?”

“I’m starviiing,” she drawled, stumbling a little in her platforms. “I want fries. And a honey butter chicken biscuit. And you’re drivinggg.”

Of course. You should’ve known. Mom friend mode: activated.

You turned back to Abby, who stood there watching you with that low smirk that made your knees weak. Her hair was tousled now, lips wiped clean, but her eyes still held that same heat from the bathroom. That want.

You hesitated. “I’m sorry,” you said, stepping closer, keeping your voice low. “I gotta take care of her. But I’ll—um—I’ll add you on Instagram. And we can text. Set something up. Soon.”

Abby nodded, the smirk shifting into something softer. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t leave me on read.”

You smiled, heart fluttering a little. “I won’t.”

And even though it wasn’t a kiss goodbye, there was something electric in the way your eyes lingered on each other just a second too long, like the universe wasn’t done with this yet.

Then your friend yanked on your hand. “WHATABURGER, BITCH.”

You laughed, throwing one last look over your shoulder at Abby before diving into the crowd, one arm wrapped around your intoxicated bestie, guiding her like a lighthouse through a sea of chaos.

Your phone buzzed in your purse.

A follow request from Abby Anderson.

Your friend was still tearing up her Whataburger like it was a competition and she was winning gold. Honey butter chicken biscuit? Gone. Fries? Vanishing. Drink? Half-empty and clutched in her glittered claws like she was fighting dehydration and heartbreak.

You? You were in another world, sipping your diet coke and staring at your phone like it had just whispered something sinful.

[1 notification] abbytheanderson sent you a follow request.

You blinked. Already? You hadn’t even left the damn parking lot. She was good.

You tapped accept, and no lie—your stomach flipped like it was performing stunts. Not even thirty seconds later, another buzz.

abbytheanderson 🥊: hey beautiful

You bit down on a smile, typing back before your brain could overthink it.

you: hey you :)

Buzz.

abbytheanderson 🥊: couldn’t let you disappear like that. you left me wanting more.

You swore your pulse skipped. This woman had a black belt in flirting.

you: good thing you found me then

abbytheanderson 🥊: definitely. hey, random—but you free this weekend?

Your heart sped up. You took a quick sip of your drink to cool down your face, fingers dancing over the keyboard.

you: yeah, i think so. why?

abbytheanderson 🥊: there’s a film showcase downtown. some sports doc screening, bunch of celebs. got an invite +1, and i figured it might be more fun with you.

A movie showcase. That was not casual. That was dress up, flashbulbs, maybe a red carpet territory. Your stomach turned into champagne bubbles.

you: you want me to be your date?

abbytheanderson 🥊: unless you’ve got another famous boxer in your dms rn 👀

You laughed into your drink.

you: nope. just the hottest one.

abbytheanderson 🥊: damn right. i’ll pick you up saturday. wear something that’ll make me stare the whole night.

You locked your phone with a sigh, brain short-circuiting. Your bestie looked up from her fries with ketchup on her cheek.

“Why do you look like you just got proposed to?”

You smiled into your straw. “I’ve got a date.”

Your best friend stood behind you, clutching a makeup brush like it was a wand. "Sit still or I’m gonna make your winged liner look like a lightning bolt."

You giggled, sipping your iced coffee while she dabbed a warm highlight onto your cheekbones. “If Abby sees me and combusts, I blame you.”

She winked. “That’s the goal.”

The dress was hanging up on the door like it needed its own spotlight.

It was the dress—like Aphrodite and red carpet royalty had a baby and named her “divine.” A shimmering champagne gold that sparkled under even the faintest light, clinging to your curves like it was sculpted just for your body. The fabric was sheer but layered in all the right places, ruched along the hips and gathered at the waist in a delicate knot that accentuated everything. Strapless and sensual, the neckline cupped your chest softly and dipped into a subtle sweetheart shape, drawing the eye upward—no necklace needed, just collarbones and confidence.

The choker was a sheer mesh ribbon, soft and romantic, tied in the back like a little secret. And in your hand? A small velvet clutch that looked like luxury.

"Okay," your friend said, stepping back and crossing her arms like a proud stylist. "You look like you're about to walk into a movie and walk out with the star."

You turned to the mirror and exhaled. You looked… expensive. Golden. Ethereal.

And somewhere out there, Abby Anderson was probably trying to tie a tie and not think about your lips.

“Okay,” you said, smoothing your dress down, trying not to ruin your makeup by grinning too hard. “Let’s go melt her brain.”

The car door clicked shut behind you, heels clicking on the pavement like your own entrance music. The showcase was already buzzing—paparazzi lights flashing in bursts, guests in tailored designer looks pouring into the venue like liquid silk and velvet. Your driver looped back around, and your friend gave you a quick squeeze on the hand.

“You got this. Go make that boxer wish she had a mouthguard.”

You grinned, rolling your eyes and walking toward the entrance, that golden dress shimmering with every step like you were dipped in honey and starfire. The fabric clung just enough to whisper with movement, catching the camera flashes even when they weren’t aimed at you. Heads turned. People stared. And somewhere near the doors—

She saw you.

Abby was standing near the carpet, talking to some guy in a sports jacket, but the second her eyes landed on you? Conversation dead. Her jaw? Slightly dropped. Like someone had just uppercut her with Cupid’s fist.

She looked… good. Too good. A tailored black suit, no tie, but the first two buttons of her shirt open to show a bit of her collarbone and that stupidly strong chest. Her hair slicked back like she stepped off a Vogue Homme cover, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a drink she no longer remembered existed.

You saw her lips move—"Holy shit."

You floated up to her like you were gliding, heels clicking like punctuation to her stunned silence.

“Hey,” you said, giving her a smile that would’ve won wars. “I clean up alright, huh?”

“‘Alright’?” Abby shook her head slowly, eyes never leaving you, and damn if there wasn’t a glint of something primal in them. “You look like a damn goddess.”

You blushed, biting your lip just a little. “Not bad for a plus-one?”

“I’m upgrading your title. You’re the main event now.”

She reached out, offering you her arm like some old Hollywood gentleman, but the smirk on her face was all Abby—cocky, smooth, a little dangerous.

You took it.

The two of you walked the carpet together, and the cameras noticed. Photographers subtly turned toward the tall boxer and the glowing mystery girl on her arm. Whispers floated like perfume: “Is that Abby Anderson’s date?” “Who is she?” “She looks like a star.”

Inside, the lights were dimmer, the ambiance expensive and dramatic—velvet seats, champagne trays, and a giant screen waiting for the showcase to begin. Abby guided you to your seats, but not without sneaking glances at you like you were illegal and she wanted to get arrested.

“So,” she murmured, leaning close once you were seated. “What are the odds I get you to be my plus-one again? I was thinking… a real date. One with dessert and less paparazzi.”

You looked at her, still glowing from the lights, the crowd, the adrenaline.

“I’d say the odds are pretty high,” you whispered back.

She grinned, and you swore your stomach did a little backflip.

The movie hadn’t even started, but you already felt like you were living in one.

The afterparty was on the rooftop of the venue—elevators opening to golden lights strung like constellations, sleek white lounges, and a panoramic view of the city glittering below like a spilled jewelry box. The music was mellow, expensive-sounding. People sipped cocktails like they were made of stardust and name-dropped producers like prayers.

Abby got swept into a circle of suits and sharp smiles, people clapping her on the back, toasting to her latest win, asking questions with ulterior motives. She smiled through it, charming without trying, but you could feel her eyes flick to you every few minutes.

You wandered off to the ledge, the wind teasing your hair, your dress still glowing faintly under the rooftop lights. You leaned your elbows on the glass railing, the city stretching out like a promise, the hum of nightlife pulsing below you like a heartbeat.

Your drink was cold in your hand, but your skin still buzzed from earlier—her arm on yours, the way she looked at you like you were art in motion.

“Hey.”

Her voice came soft behind you, lower now, free of the public version of herself. You turned and found her there, hands in her pockets, her suit jacket open just enough to make your pulse trip.

“You done charming the VIPs?” you teased.

She gave a low chuckle, stepping up beside you. “They were boring as hell. I missed this view.”

You raised a brow. “The skyline?”

“No,” she said without hesitation, her eyes dragging down your profile like a caress. “You.”

That earned her a quiet laugh from you, heat rushing up your neck. “You’re really laying it on tonight, huh?”

“I’m just saying what I’m thinking.” Her shoulder brushed yours. “So… what do you do when you’re not breaking hearts in golden dresses?”

You hesitated for a second, still looking out at the city. “I model. Victoria’s Secret.”

That made her blink. “Wait—seriously?”

You nodded, a little sheepish. “I mean… I’m not like, one of those Angels. I’m usually backup. Fill-ins. Commercial stuff. They don’t exactly put me on billboards in Times Square.”

Abby looked at you for a long moment, her head tilted. “That’s wild.”

“What is?”

“That there are people out there who didn’t put you on a billboard. I’d hang a photo of you in every damn room of my house.”

You turned to her with a laugh, playful and warm. “Wow, romantic and a little bit stalker-y. Impressive.”

She grinned, closing the small space between you. “Tell me where the line is, and I’ll try not to cross it.”

You looked at her. Really looked. The city lights caught in her eyes, and something about her felt safe even in the middle of all this chaos. You smiled, heart softening.

“There’s no line,” you murmured.

Abby’s smile shifted, gentler now. She looked at you like you were something to be unwrapped slowly. “Then I’ll keep standing right here.”

You turned toward her fully now, leaning your hip against the railing, one hand cradling your glass while the other played with the condensation on the side. The wind tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, making it shimmer even more in the light. Abby was looking at you like you were unreal, but she blinked when you spoke, brought back to the present.

“So…” you tilted your head, curiosity playing in your voice. “Why boxing?”

That made her smile, and not the kind she gave the higher-ups—this one was smaller, more personal, like a story lived too long in her chest.

She shrugged a little. “I used to watch it on TV with my dad. Every Saturday night. He was always busy at the hospital, but when there was a fight on, we were synced. Like… we got each other.”

You nodded softly, listening.

“I started wrestling in school—figured it was the closest I could get. Got recruited, did alright. But it never felt like mine, y’know? Then I tried boxing. First time I landed a punch clean, everything clicked. I was like—this is it. This is the fire.”

You bit your lip, something warm blooming in your chest. There was a sparkle in her eyes now, not from the city lights, but from the weight of meaning behind her words. Passion always looked good on people—but on Abby? It was devastating.

“That’s hot,” you said, softly but truthfully. “Like, actually hot. You knowing who you are like that.”

She huffed a little laugh, rubbing the back of her neck, suddenly sheepish. “You’re the first person I’ve told that to in a while.”

You shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Well… you picked the right person. I’m an excellent secret-keeper. They don’t let just anyone model underwear, you know.”

That made her grin wide, her eyes roaming your face like she was trying to memorize it. “You really gonna keep talking like that and not expect me to kiss you again?”

Your breath caught a little, heartbeat fluttering as the tension curled tighter between you like a string pulled taut.

“I mean,” you whispered, leaning in just an inch, “I wouldn’t be mad if you did.”

She didn’t rush. Abby leaned forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. You leaned in, too, until your lips met in a soft, barely-there kiss. Not like the heated one from the club. This one was warm and lingering, like a question you already knew the answer to.

When you finally pulled back, both of you smiling, you rested your head lightly against her shoulder, looking back out at the glittering skyline.

“So…” you murmured, “You planning on knocking anyone out tonight, champ?”

She smirked. “Only if they try to take you from me.”

The car ride back was quiet in a good way. Abby drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing your thigh like she just had to remind herself you were really there. The city outside the window melted by in a blur of neon and soft shadows, and the gentle beat of the music wrapped around you like a lullaby.

By the time you reached your apartment, the air had cooled down to a soft breeze, lifting the hem of your dress and brushing over your skin like a whisper. Abby parked and got out before you could even reach for the door handle. She walked you to your door like a proper date, her hands in her pockets, her steps slow—like she didn’t want the night to end just yet.

You turned to face her at your door, heels clicking softly against the concrete. “Thank you for tonight,” you said, your voice warm and low, your smile a little sleepy but no less sincere.

Abby looked down at you with that easy grin of hers, one side of her mouth curling higher than the other. “No problem, angel,” she murmured. The nickname settled on your skin like velvet, making your cheeks heat in the soft moonlight.

You turned to unlock your door, keys jingling—but something stopped you. A quiet little nudge in your chest. You turned back around, heart kicking up a notch. She looked surprised at first when you stepped toward her, but she didn’t ask questions.

You leaned in and kissed her.

This one was slower. Softer. There wasn’t any club music thudding behind you this time, no crowd, no chaos. Just the two of you and the buzz of the porch light. Her lips tasted like the mint gum she always chewed, yours like sweet gloss and maybe a little bit of stardust.

When you finally pulled away, her eyes fluttered open like she’d been floating somewhere far off.

She smirked and licked her lips, clearly feeling the gloss residue.

You laughed quietly, hand brushing her chest as you stepped back toward the door. “I put on just lip gloss this time… so it’s not hard to take off.”

She grinned, something a little cocky flickering behind her lashes. “You planned that?”

You winked. “Maybe.”

“Smart girl,” she murmured, biting her bottom lip before taking a slow step back. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

You nodded, your fingers resting on the doorframe, reluctant to let the night end. “Okay. Drive safe.”

“Always do,” she said, and then—one last look, one last smirk—she turned and walked back toward her car, the night gently folding around her.

You leaned against the door with a quiet exhale, smiling to yourself like a fool.

an : i don't want it to be too long...so part 2 coming soon!

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geddyqueer · 2 days ago

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tidbit tuesday

this is from the sequel to no crying in baseball, "the best laid plans". if this premise seems slightly familiar to you it is because i am repurposing the plot of an older ficlet for the drama. tagging @rcmclachlan @setmeatopthepyre @screamlet @postmodernau @beanarie @newtkelly and anyone else who's working on something. you're it!

Tommy's alone in the hangar; everyone else is either doing maintenance checks in the lot or out on the picnic bench on the west side of the building. He likes the east side better, though: more private, and with the one long magnolia tree branch hanging awkwardly over the chain-link fence, it feels almost like a garden back there. If he still smoked he'd be carrying a pack of Marlboros with him. He gave that up, though, around the time that Howie carried him out of the exploding mall almost twenty years ago.

Evan has been living with him for three weeks. None of the fears that had bubbled up the first time the question was posed have come to fruition. He only had one panic attack, early on, and dealt with it himself in the laundry room while Evan was busying himself reorganizing the hangers in Tommy's—in their—closet. Then he felt bad, and realized his mistake, and had hung his head and nudged himself into Evan's arms and opened up the line of communication.

All that being said, his only real alone time these days comes in these stolen moments outside Harbor's east door.

He's got his flight suit unzipped, the top rolled down around his t-shirt, sleeves tied across his waist. It's hot today and bizarrely the air feels humid to the point of being wet. It's reminiscent of Georgia, where he only lived for basic training, and it's so unlike Los Angeles that it really sticks in his brain for a second. He pauses, eight or so feet from the door. The floor feels almost… spongy. Probably not good, he thinks, and he's making a mental note to tell Melton about it when the baby box alarm goes off.

The baby box at Harbor sits directly next to the east side door. It's cozy, if a little sparse inside. It has a special alarm tone, one that he's never heard before, because nobody's ever used this before. Tommy clears the space between him and the box in nearly a single stride, and he gets the box open, and he pulls out a tiny little thing, wearing a yellow onesie, wrapped in a Winnie the Pooh towel. The baby looks up at him and opens their mouth, once, twice.

"Okay," Tommy says, looking down at the bundle in his hands. "Okay. What?"

"Was that an alarm?" Richardson calls from the open hangar door.

"Baby box," Tommy calls back. The baby starts to cry. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, that was loud, wasn't it," he says to the baby, as he starts walking back across the hangar.

He doesn't get very far. The floor that was spongy not three minutes earlier is now sinking, tipping down at an angle that shouldn't be possible since it's made of concrete, and so is the rest of the floor, and the west wall is caving in, and that's all he manages to register before the earth disappears underneath him and he's falling, falling, falling.

#don't worry :) or do! i'm not the boss of you #bucktommy #no crying in baseball

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pineconepie · 3 days ago

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CHARACTERS: Seradiel, Kezareth, Reader/You

WARNINGS/TAGS: Parental yandere(s), religious themes and references, conflict, angels and demons, emotional reader, forced infantilization, cuddling, annoyed reader, manipulation, mentioned possession, Sera and Kez giving divorced parent energy 💔

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have finally wrote demon yandad! I didn't know whether or not to just make him his own character, but decided for now since I'll only be writing him with Seradiel, to not give him his own spot on series 3 (yet?)

It's dusk when it happens.

You'd already had a long day, made longer by Seradiel trailing behind you like your shadow, fawning over your safety like always. After a night out on the town with friends, you were exhausted. All you wanted to do now was rest in the comfort of your bed and maybe catch something on TV, before calling it a night and letting sleep lull you.

"I told you not to go out today," Seradiel murmurs for the seventh time, his voice gentle but cloying. His hands are folded neatly in front of him as he walks behind you.

"And I told you, I'm not going to change my plans because you 'had a feeling' it wouldn't turn out well," you retort. "Every single time you say that."

"And I am right every single time," Seradiel counters.

You don't respond. You don't even look at him. His constant hovering is wearing you down, and you have a feeling he's well aware of that.

The worst part is, you can't run from him, can't call anyone to get him away from you— because he's a celestial being. There's no escaping someone who doesn't live by human laws.

Suddenly the street darkens. The temperature dips. You look to the sky for some kind of explanation for the strange shift in scenery, but all you see are the same clouds you saw ten minutes ago. You look at Seradiel for an explanation.

His expression has shifted from irritation to wariness. He takes a protective stance in front of you. "Don't move." He's staring ahead, and you follow his gaze.

Standing there is a man who's slightly shorter than Seradiel, but with black wings, horns, and a thin black tail.

His hair is short and dark brown, and beneath his glasses are piercing green eyes, almost glowing. He wears a suit that makes him look like he came from a business meeting.

"Well, well, well," the man— probably a demon, drawls. "Long time no see, Sera."

Seradiel blocks you from the demon's vision with one of his wings. "Kezareth." Your guardian angel sounds downright hateful when saying his name. You never heard such poison dripping from his tone. "Why are you here?"

"New rules." Kezareth grabs a scroll from his pocket and unfolds it, clearing his throat. "Heaven and Hell's High Councils have come to a compromise; for every mortal human that has a guardian angel reveal themselves to them, a demon must also assign itself to said human, to balance out each side's influence." When he finishes reading, he puts the paper back into his pocket. "Since you angel's care about balance so much, this should be happy news for you."

"Oh, please," Seradiel scoffs. "There is no way anyone in heaven with a right mind agreed to this."

Kezareth shrugs. "Believe me, believe the document, or go ask God himself if you'd like. Now, let me meet my new kiddo..." He kneels down as if you're shorter than you are, waving hello. "Oh, aren't you just adorable!"

He reaches a gloved hand out to ruffle your hair, but Seradiel slaps it away. "Touch them and I will tear out your eyes."

"Wow, what a good influence," Kezareth snorts. He rises to his feet, dusting off his suit. "No need to be a drama queen about it, I'm not allowed to do anything harmful to our baby anyway. I'm just supposed to watch them like you do."

"Not 'our' baby," Seradiel growls. "And why on earth would you want to protect them? What even is your job description, if you aren't lying, that is?"

"We need more people in Hell," he shrugs. "While you're trying to get them into Heaven by encouraging them to do good things, I'm doing the opposite. Nothing crazy, of course. Just imagine me as the little demon on their shoulder."

"If you cared about them, why would you want them in Hell?" Seradiel narrows his eyes.

"So they can be with their superior dad? Catch up." Kezareth turns his attention to you again. "Sorry about all the boring bureaucracy. The main thing to know is I am taking good care of you now."

"And I thought having one overprotective asshole was bad enough," you mumble under your breath. Of course, both supernatural beings hear you.

"Language," Seradiel scolds. He hoists you up, giving you a chance to remember his inhuman strength. "And you, you stay away from them." He jabs his pointer finger at Kezareth. "You know nothing of safety."

Kezareth holds his hands up in a faux gesture of peace. "Even if I didn't want to, I don't have a choice in the matter. Rules are rules. And if you were to stop me, I think that'd be a big offense to both Heaven and Hell."

Seradiel runs a hand through his hair. "Fffffine. But if you put them in danger—"

"I'm not gonna. Demons can't harm mortals directly, remember? We can tempt them and suggest things, but we cannot carry them out. Not that I would." He offers his hand to you. "Now! Walk with me, tell me all about yourself."

...

Having two celestial beings in your life certainly changed things around.

The worst part is how Seradiel and Kezareth constantly clash on the smallest things, unable to agree on almost everything regarding your care. Like two parents in a custody battle, the only thing they share is their mutual desire for your safety. That doesn't stop them from bickering like two toddlers fighting over the same toy, though.

"How did you two know each other before?" you ask during dinner (which Seradiel made, refusing to let Kezareth even touch anything in the kitchen).

Seradiel sighs. "Kezareth was an angel once. We were... acquaintances."

Kezareth looks mildly offended. "If you think mere acquaintances spend every single day together, sleep in the same bed, bathe together, then sure, call us acquaintances."

You nearly choke on your food. "So you guys were an item?"

"Not quite." Seradiel dabs his mouth with a napkin. "That is neither here nor there, but yes, Kezareth was an angel until he fell." Disdain seeps into his voice. "He was never a good angel, mind you. Always questioning orders, never attending meetings. The only thing he was good at was slacking off." He glares daggers at Kezareth, who ignores his glower.

"Anyway, I didn't fall," Kezareth says. "I jumped. And I've never felt more free. That's why I don't want you becoming part of that life, (Y/n). It's not all rainbows and sunshine up there."

Seradiel's eyes narrow. "I'd say more strict rules are far better than eternal fire."

"Oh, please, that's just an exaggeration." Kezareth waves a hand dismissively. He turns his attention to you. "I have a pretty big social status down there. All I have to do is pull some strings and you can have your own mansion bigger than Earth. How about it?"

"Don't listen to him," Seradiel huffs.

Wow, this really does feel like a custody battle. "I just want to eat my dinner and go to bed..."

Seradiel pats your shoulder. "Finish your greens first. They'll make you big and strong." You notice Kezareth nodding to that.

...

A few days later, you attempt to shop for groceries, but you can't even do that without these two butting heads.

"Don't get that, that's loaded with cholesterol," Seradiel chastises, plucking the food from your hands.

"Hey, it's fine to be self-indulgent every now and then," Kezareth shrugs, grabbing the food back.

You groan. "It's fine, I don't have the money to get that anyway."

Kezareth puts a hand to his heart. "You're telling me Sera doesn't pay for your stuff?"

"I only pay for things I approve of. Food, rent, clothes. Anything else is a reward for good behavior." He puts the food back. "I haven't a clue why I'm explaining this to you, you wouldn't get it."

"I don't get anything that comes out of your mouth," the demon utters. He ruffles your hair, lowering his voice. "You ever steal anything before?"

Seradiel answers for you. "Don't even try putting ideas into their head."

Kezareth ignores him. "If you don't want to, I can for you. Just tell me you give me permission."

"(Y/n), don't. That is just as bad as stealing it yourself," Seradiel warns.

As much as you don't want to start any trouble, you do admit Kezareth's offer is tempting. A quick glance around tells you the coast is clear; there's no employees or customers around this area. "Alright, if it's just a snack, I guess so. Go for it."

At your agreement, a broad smile crosses Kezareth's features. He leans into one of the shelves and grabs what you're eyeing, shoving it in his jacket. "Perfect." He kisses the side of your head with a dramatic "mwah" sound, ignoring Seradiel's irritated glare. "Anything else you want around here that Mr. Grump would disapprove of?"

You open your mouth to tell him another thing, but Seradiel's disapproving glare makes you second guess your actions. "Uhh, I don't think so."

"That's correct," your guardian angel says firmly. "We're leaving before this gets anymore reckless." He grabs your wrist, dragging you to the check-out.

For the remainder of the shopping trip, there's palpable tension between Seradiel and Kezareth. You pretend to ignore it for your sanity's sake.

...

"Why do you look so upset, honey?" Kezareth coos a few days later, when he sees you trudge in the kitchen.

He knows why you're upset, of course. He had made himself invisible while watching you through the whole day, and knows you had a falling out with a friend (that he may or may not have caused, after all, you were starting to stray away from him, and he can't have that). He stops what he's doing to pull a chair from the table, ushering you over.

"One of my friends... or, well, ex-friends, isn't talking to me anymore. She blocked all contact with me out of nowhere," you utter, sitting down. "Found out she was gossiping about me behind my back with some other friends."

Kezareth starts combing through your hair with his fingers. "Aww, baby. Well, if she thinks so lowly of you, you can do without her," he says smoothly.

"She called me immature and annoying, too. Is that true?"

Kezareth clicks his tongue, moving a chair in front of you so he can sit face to face. He takes your cheeks in his hands. "Nooo, don't believe anything she said, or anyone else for that matter. She's an idiot. She doesn't know anything, baby."

You sniffle. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

He nods vigorously. "Of course I'm right, I'm always right!" He pulls you into a hug. "Besides, even if you are annoying, I don't care about that stuff. I still think you're adorable."

"I have a feeling you're only saying that because you're obligated to." Nonetheless, you return the gesture.

"Honey, I don't do anything I don't want to," Kezareth promises, voice sweet. "Everything I do is out of choice, not necessity." He brushes his thumb under your eye to wipe your tears. "Now, no more tears over someone like her. Okay, sweet pea? Now how about you take a much-needed nap." He hoists you into his arms like Seradiel often does, carrying you to your room.

"I feel too angry to even sleep," you mutter. "I know it's wrong, but I kind of hate her now."

"There's nothing wrong with hate, I don't understand why so many people are afraid of it," Kezareth says. "It's actually better to have a lot of it, otherwise you get walked over all the time." He sets you down on the bed. "And if you can't find it in yourself to hate her, I can hate her for you. In fact, I already do!"

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. "You don't even know her."

"If she hurt you, then she hurt me." He tucks you into your bedsheets like a burrito and presses a kiss on your nose. "Say the word, and I'll ruin her life for you. Not even joking!"

"As tempting as that is, I don't hate her that much," you chuckle.

"That's alright, sweetheart," Kezareth smiles. "But if you ever change your mind, let me know." He adjusts your pillow so that your neck and head are more supported. "I'll wake you in an hour or so, whenever dinner's ready. I think you're in need of some comfort food!"

When he walks into the kitchen, there's Seradiel, glaring daggers at him.

"Our baby was emotionally wounded, and where were you, hm? Off in cloudland, right?" He walks past the angel, preparing dinner.

"What did you do?" Seradiel snaps. Kezareth turns around, feigning innocence. "Don't give me that look. I can see the wickedness in you, clear as day."

Kezareth sighs. "Some mild possession, what of it? That girl was turning against them anyway."

Seradiel's eye twitches. "Why? Just so you could see (Y/n) cry?"

The demon puts a dramatic hand to his nonexistent heart. "You think so lowly of me! But yes, partially. I need a reason to comfort them and bond with them, since you hog most of their attention to yourself. But also because I need them to come to terms with their more human emotions. Hatred is a natural emotion of theirs that you've tried to suppress for too long."

"I don't discourage them to feel human emotions, I discourage them to act on said emotions," Seradiel points out. "There is a big difference."

"So even though you hate me, by your logic, you can't act on that hatred?" Kezareth challenges.

"You're an exception, since you are not human, and therefore are not bound to those standards," Seradiel says curtly. "I hope you aren't encouraging them to punch anyone."

"Nooo, I'd never want them to get their hands dirty. That's my job. Which is exactly why I offered to ruin that brat's life, but they said they didn't want that. For now, anyway. The offer still stands indefinitely." He adds oil into a pan with a sizzling sound. "Is jealousy eating away at you? Are you frustrated that they aren't crying to you anymore?"

"Stop making them sad just for your ego," Seradiel snarls. "It's sickening and selfish, even for your standards."

"Oh, please, you aren't an angel, either. Oh, actually, I guess you are. You know what I meant." Kezareth peels and chops the vegetables rhythmically, the knife clacking against the cutting board. "Your motives for being overprotective are no different from mine."

"They actually are. I just want them to live a happy, safe life. You just want to drag them down with you to Hell so you'll be less lonely." Seradiel folds his arms over his chest, leaning back against a wall. "At least my intentions come from genuine love and care."

Kezareth snickers. "You're just a control freak. I just want them to be with their superior dad forever. Not as crazy as you make it out to be."

"They are not yours," Seradiel huffs. "I am going to clean the living room. Do not make a mess in here, I already spent an hour cleaning your mess last night."

"Ugh, thank goodness we broke up. You'd make an awful husband, always nitpicking me."

"It wouldn't hurt to pick up after yourself," Seradiel grumbles under his breath.

...

A couple months pass after Kezareth's arrival. While still an adjustment, it starts becoming part of your new routine.

The more time passes, the more relaxed your guardians seem to be around each other too— although sometimes their arguments get intense. You're lucky enough to find them casually conversing with each other every now and then, too, although they still have their disagreements.

One thing that you notice is how Kezareth tends to push boundaries while Seradiel likes to enforce them. Both their protective natures clash horribly as a result.

With Seradiel, at least he doesn't bother trying to mask his controlling nature. On the contrary, it feels as if he takes pride in it.

When it comes to Kezareth, though, he's sneakier about it.

He makes you think you have a say in certain decisions, but ultimately he manipulates you into choosing what he thinks is best. It's clear the only reason Kezareth wants you to do bad things (in Seradiel's eyes, at least) is to not only get you closer to spending an eternity with him, but also to piss off your guardian angel.

But when it comes to things like privacy, independence, and personal freedom, they seem to share a similar perspective.

Just yesterday, you went to hang out with some friends, but of course your celestial babysitters had to follow you around. But with their ability to cloak themselves and disappear, your friends thankfully weren't able to see them.

Though you were, and you swear they thought you were crazy when you randomly shouted at nothing about how annoying they were acting.

To them, they probably just saw you yelling at a wall.

And now, you're trying to go hang out with your friends again tonight, but it seems like your guardians have different plans.

"It's a Saturday night, baby," Kezareth argues. "All of the parties will be crowded with drunk idiots that want to hurt you. Not to mention the possibility of kidnapping. Please stay home, for me? We can bake cookies. Doesn't that sound so much better than going to some concert in a sweaty nightclub with sweaty strangers bumping into you?"

"Not really," you mutter under your breath.

Seradiel cups your shoulders. "Listen, (Y/n), even if we allow you to go, we must accompany you at all times. No wandering off on your own."

"No!" You jerk away from his grip. "Look, this concert won't even last that late into the night. And I'm going with a couple of friends."

"Who?" Seradiel and Kezareth say simultaneously.

"A friend who you don't know and whose name is none of your business," you snap.

"Tone," Seradiel warns, voice stern.

"I'll let you get ice cream and order whatever movie tickets you want for the next month," Kezareth bribes.

"I'm not a baby anymore! Stop treating me like one!" you shout. "You both promised to be more lax if I behaved 'better', but I've done everything you've asked. Yet you still treat me like I'm a child! Well, I'm not. So let me go out by myself for once!" You gesture to Seradiel. "Isn't free will a big part of being a human? Why would you work against that?"

Seradiel sighs. "And you do have free will. Either you go and let us come with you, or you don't go at all. That is a choice you are free to make."

"Why is it the only time you two seem as if you're able to work together, is when you're making my life miserable?" You stomp away towards your bedroom, throwing yourself onto your bed.

Kezareth throws Seradiel a look. "Wait to go."

"Are you seriously throwing the blame on me?" Seradiel scoffs. "You are just as immature as I remember! Perhaps even moreso! Do you even truly care about them, or are you just using this as an excuse to torment me?"

The demon huffs. "Oh, please, you aren't that special. You claim I'm the egotistical one, yet you think I came here just to spite you? Sure, the first reason I came here was because I was curious as to how you're doing, but my priorities have changed! Believe it or not, I do care about (Y/n). And if you choose not to believe it; not my problem!"

Just as Seradiel opens his mouth to retort, they both hear you sob. It's muffled and quiet, as if you're trying to conceal it, but they can hear it nonetheless. At that, any irritation dissipates.

They share a solemn glance and head towards your room.

Inside, you're laying in bed, your blankets sloppily pulled over you, back facing towards the door. Even when the pair enters, you don't acknowledge them.

"Precious, please don't cry," Kezareth coos, sitting beside you. "It hurts our hearts so much when you do that."

Seradiel sits down on the edge of the bed on the opposite side. "Is there anything you desire? You know we would do anything in the world for you." Despite his affectionate tone, his expression is downright heartbroken when he gazes at you.

You shift your position slightly so they can finally see your face, red and tear-stained. "Both of you suck," you mumble. "Every single day, you argue. And the worst part is, I can't escape it! You follow me everywhere! Sometimes it feels like I have no choice but to put up with you guys constantly nagging each other... And when you two actually agree on something, it's something that takes away from my freedom even more!"

Tears well in your eyes again, but Seradiel's fingers are quick to brush them away.

"Baby..." Kezareth says in a small voice. He takes off his glasses to rub his eyes, tears threatening them. "I'm sorry."

Seradiel sighs. "I am, too."

"I'm tired of feeling like your marriage counselor, or having to choose between one over the other," you continue. "I just want you to get along. Or at least tolerate being in the same room as each other." You wipe the rest of your tears away. "And if you have to argue, just do it somewhere I won't hear. Please."

Both of your guardian's faces soften.

They seem almost guilty, which is a rare expression on either of their faces.

"We'll work on our differences for you," Kezareth vows, shooting Seradiel a look. "Yeah?"

Seradiel exhales deeply, then nods. "Yes, that's the very least we can do. Whatever eases your mind." He gently grasps your hand, pressing a loving kiss on your knuckles. "Please, no more crying, my child. May I hold you?" He opens his arms invitingly.

Still mildly upset, you simply crawl towards him, burying your face in his robes. He cradles you like you're made of glass, humming softly in your ear to ease you, gently patting your back in a soothing motion.

Kezareth shifts to lay right behind you. His wings wrap around your frame to keep you warm.

In a weird way, you feel at home, protected by both your caretakers on either side of you. Before you know it, your eyelids begin to feel heavier as sleep consumes you.

"Nighty-night," Kezareth whispers. He and Seradiel share a look, silently agreeing to stay for the rest of the night.

#parental yandere #platonic yandere #familial yandere #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #reader x yandere #gn reader #gender neutral reader #yandad #seradiel oc #kezareth oc #forced infantilization

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