#we need to write a longer post on this but for now have this

[avengxrz]

the fool humbles the golden boy ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part two]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 16.6k (i think i am crazy)

summary: jake seresin thought he had it all together until you came back, colder and sharper than he remembered, holding a higher rank and flying like a ghost he couldn’t catch. everyone noticed you, and rooster was practically drooling every time you spoke. but it was jake who couldn’t look away, jake who kept wondering when the girl who once adored him turned into someone who barely blinked in his direction. the worst part was you were starting to act like him back in college, and now he’s the one left feeling pathetic. he shouldn’t care, right?

warnings: language, aviation terms used wrong on purpose, mentions of past emotional manipulation, unresolved tension, rooster being down bad like embarrassingly so, hangman being jealous and quiet about it, emotional whiplash, flashbacks to academic humiliation, reader is hot and scary now, slow burn and enemies to lovers energy, squad chaos, hangar tension, hard deck tomfoolery.

notes: i am crazy for the word count, i am so sorry. if tumblr still tries to stop me from posting 20k+ words like the menace it is, this might end up having a part 4 lol. blame hangman and rogue for the tension. blame rooster for being in love. blame me for not knowing when to stop writing. also, taglist is in the comments because y’all are TOO MANY 😭💛 thank you so much for the love!!

part one

masterlist

your callsign is rogue.

Lunch hit with a weird kind of tension. The kind that made the cafeteria quieter than usual, like everyone was trying not to say the wrong thing too loud. Trays clattered, boots scuffed across the floor, and pilots moved like they were walking around a minefield. Jake grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of something he didn’t care about, following the rest of the squad to their usual table—only to stop short when Rooster, standing beside him, froze in place.

“There she is,” Rooster whispered, reverent like he’d just spotted a deity in mortal form.

Jake didn’t need to look. He already knew. But he looked anyway.

Rogue was at a table near the far window, sunlight catching the edge of her profile, casting shadows under her eyes. She wasn’t talking, wasn’t laughing—just flipping through a paperback with one hand while sipping coffee with the other.

Beside her, Jinx and Ruin were leaning back in their chairs, both grinning like schoolkids caught in a joke. Jinx nudged her shoulder with a smirk; Ruin said something that made him laugh under his breath. Rogue didn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth lifted.

She looked calm. Untouchable.

Like none of them had even scratched the surface.

Jake sat down hard in his chair, sandwich forgotten.

“They’re like... intimidatingly hot,” Fritz said, wide-eyed.

“No,” Payback corrected. “She’s intimidating. They’re just scary.”

“She’s literally reading a book in the middle of a Navy base,” Fanboy muttered. “Who even does that?”

“Geniuses,” Rooster answered, without shame. “Geniuses and goddesses.”

Jake groaned. “You’ve known her for five minutes and you’re ready to tattoo her name on your dog tags.”

Rooster shrugged, unapologetic. “If she asked.”

“Can we stop acting like she’s some mystical creature?” Jake snapped. “She’s just another pilot.”

Everyone turned to look at him, clearly not buying it.

“She’s a commander,” Phoenix pointed out. “And they made you look like a deer in headlights this morning.”

Jake shot her a warning glare. “I wasn’t the only one.”

“Yeah, but you were the only one who looked like someone ran over your ego on the runway,” Coyote said with a grin.

Jake forced a smile, biting back the instinct to say something reckless. He took a bite of his sandwich instead—dry, bland, tasteless. His eyes flicked back toward Rogue’s table.

She hadn’t looked over once.

Not even a glance.

And the longer Jake watched her, the more he hated that it still bothered him.

She was supposed to be the one with soft edges. The one who lingered. The one who waited.

But now?

She wasn’t waiting for anyone.

The noise level picked up around them—cutlery clinking, chairs dragging, idle chatter from other tables—but their squad stayed weirdly focused. Or maybe it was just that Jake could feel their attention even when they weren’t speaking. The way Coyote kept glancing between him and Rogue’s table like he was waiting for a detonation. The way Fanboy bit his cheek like he was holding back another quip. The way Phoenix kept shooting him these looks like she knew exactly what this was and was just waiting for him to crack.

Jake didn’t crack.

He chewed his dry sandwich like it had personally wronged him and stared past Rooster’s dumb grin toward the far table, where Rogue still hadn’t spared them a single glance. She was laughing now—soft, low, nothing dramatic—but it was the kind of sound that hit him like a punch to the gut. The kind of sound he didn’t even know she could make. Not back then.

He looked away. Fast. Like he could unhear it.

Rooster sighed again, obnoxiously dreamy. “You think she’s single?”

Phoenix threw a carrot stick at him.

“Dude,” she said, “you’re practically vibrating.”

“I’m appreciating talent when I see it,” Rooster replied, brushing the carrot off his lap. “She’s clearly brilliant. That whole ‘I’m not here to be your friend’ line? Iconic.”

“It was kinda terrifying,” Fritz muttered.

“It was hot,” Rooster corrected.

Jake slammed his bottle down harder than necessary, the plastic thunk echoing off the table.

“She’s a commander,” he said, voice clipped. “Maybe stop talking about her like she’s some poster on your bedroom wall.”

That earned him another round of side-eyes. Hondo, who had wandered over with a coffee in hand, arched a brow at Jake like he’d just walked into a soap opera he didn’t sign up for.

“Everything alright over here?” he asked, amused.

“We’re just admiring leadership,” Rooster said sweetly.

Phoenix rolled her eyes. “More like actively planning your own destruction.”

Jake stood up.

No one told him to sit down, but they all looked at him like they expected it. He ignored them, grabbing his tray and heading for the nearest bin, because if he stayed there another second he was going to say something stupid—like I knew her before you did. Like she used to smile at me.

Like she used to wait for me to notice her… and he never did.

And now?

She hadn’t looked at him once.

Jake didn’t go far. Just far enough that it didn’t look like he was running. He dumped his tray, grabbed a napkin he didn’t need, and hovered near the drink station like he had unfinished business with the water cooler. He could still hear them laughing behind him, still feel the weight of her name heavy in the back of his throat. Rogue. Rogue. That wasn’t the kind of name you earned without fire. That wasn’t the kind of woman who came back looking like that unless she wanted you to choke on it.

Back at the table, the rest of the squad watched him in silence for a beat.

Then Rooster leaned forward, elbow on the table, brow raised like a kid who just caught his older brother sneaking out after curfew. “Okay, I know I’m not the only one who noticed something is up with Hangman.”

“You mean besides the fact that he looked like he got punched in the soul?” Coyote replied.

Fanboy whistled. “I thought he was gonna throw the bottle at me.”

“He almost snapped my neck just for breathing near her name,” Rooster added.

Phoenix hummed. “I’ve seen that look before.”

“What look?” Fritz asked.

She pointed subtly toward Jake’s back. “That look. The one where you’re watching someone you thought would stay in the past… and they show up not just alive, but better. Higher rank. Sharper. Untouchable.”

“She didn’t even look at him,” Yale said.

Rooster grinned. “Cold-blooded. Icon behavior.”

“Hangman’s not used to being invisible,” Payback added, smirking.

Hondo chuckled from where he was sipping his coffee nearby. “Y’all talk like he’s not twenty feet away with Navy hearing.”

“We’re not subtle,” Phoenix said, unapologetic.

Jake still hadn’t moved. Just stood there, eyes locked on the vending machine like it owed him answers. His jaw ticked, arms folded. He looked like a statue of a man trying really hard not to care. But everyone at the table could tell—it wasn’t just that he cared.

It was that he’d lost something. And Rogue? She didn’t even seem like she’d noticed.

Rooster leaned back in his seat, lacing his hands behind his head. “If she yells at him in the air, I’ll Venmo twenty bucks to whoever catches it on camera.”

Phoenix smirked. “Make it fifty if he actually listens.”

Jake felt the roar of the engine before it settled under his skin. The sim was basic—just formation flying, reaction drills, standard maneuvers. Stuff they could all do with their eyes closed. But even in the simplicity, Jake pushed harder. Sharper turns, tighter controls, smoother recoveries. He knew Maverick was watching. He knew the rest of the squad was trying to shake off the shadow Rogue had cast that morning. So he flew like it was war.

Maverick’s voice crackled in his ear. Calm. Precise. “Coyote, ease off Payback’s six. Hangman, lead the stack again—keep it tighter this time.”

Jake grinned, a little too sharp. “Copy that.”

He snapped into the lead, banking hard with a little extra flair. Not enough to be showy—but enough. Just enough.

There was silence for a beat. Then Maverick again, dry as hell. “You showing off or compensating?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Jake drawled, voice smooth even as sweat slid down his neck.

Rooster chimed in a second later, grin audible through the headset. “I dunno, Hangman. Feels like you’ve got something to prove today.”

Jake’s grip tightened on the throttle.

“No different than any other run,” he said.

Phoenix’s voice cut in next. “Except you’re actually trying.”

A few scattered chuckles filled the comms.

Jake ignored them.

Because they were right.

He was trying harder. Because flying was the only place that still felt like his. The air didn’t whisper her name. The sky didn’t laugh when she looked through him like he never mattered. Up here, he was still Hangman—the best, the fastest, the sharpest. Up here, he could pretend Rogue didn’t exist.

But even at thirty thousand feet, she was still under his skin.

And the worst part?

He knew Maverick noticed. Knew the squad did too. But no one said it outright. Not yet. They didn’t know what she had been to him, what he had done to her. They just felt the shift. The crack. The static in the air that hadn’t been there before she walked in and flipped his world upside down.

Jake exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing as he pulled a tight banking turn, perfect and effortless.

She wasn't even here.

And she was still flying circles in his head.

By the time they were back on the tarmac, the sun had dipped low enough to bleed gold across the hangars, painting everything in long, lazy shadows. The kind of evening that looked peaceful—if you ignored the limp way the squad walked, like every limb had been rung out and left to dry in the California heat.

Jake pulled off his helmet and let the breeze hit his sweat-damp face. It didn’t help much. His shirt clung to his spine, his biceps ached, and his mind—despite the perfect formations and sharp turns—was still a warzone of unanswered questions and long-buried memories.

“Alright,” Rooster muttered, peeling off his flight gear like it offended him. “Now that sucked.”

“You only say that because Phoenix smoked you in the last run,” Coyote said, elbowing him.

“I was distracted,” Rooster argued, shameless. “Some of us are still emotionally recovering from earlier.”

“Emotionally wrecked,” Fanboy corrected.

“By a woman you’ve known for three hours,” Phoenix deadpanned.

Rooster held up a finger. “Three hours and fifteen minutes.”

Jake rolled his eyes hard enough to see static.

They made it halfway to the locker room before talk of plans started bubbling up. The Hard Deck, of course. Beers. Pool. Drowning trauma in tequila. Fanboy was already planning a playlist. Fritz mentioned wings. Rooster was still mid-rant about “the way she commanded the room,” when Maverick’s voice cut through them like a sharp turn in G-force.

“You’re not going out tonight.”

Everyone stopped. Collective groans erupted instantly, as if on cue.

“Come on, Mav—”

“Seriously?”

“We just survived that sim.”

Maverick stood near the hallway, arms crossed, aviators still on even in the dying light, which somehow made him look more dangerous. Like he could smell weakness.

“You’ll need the sleep,” he said simply. “Tomorrow, you’ll thank me.”

Rooster squinted at him like he was trying to read a classified file just by vibe. “Sir, with all due respect—why do you say stuff like that and then walk away?”

Maverick didn’t even blink. He just tipped his head, gave a half-grin that was equal parts cryptic and menacing, and turned down the corridor without a single backward glance.

“Because it’s fun.”

And just like that, he was gone.

They all stood there in silence, mentally reviewing their wills.

Payback whispered, “We’re gonna die tomorrow, huh?”

Jake didn’t answer. He was still thinking about the way Rogue hadn’t looked back either.

Jake was up by four.

Not because he needed to be. Not even because he wanted to be. It was just the only way to breathe. He’d always told himself discipline was power—quiet, daily power. So he ran. Early. When the world was still blue-gray and silent, when the only thing moving was the ocean air and his own shadow pounding against the concrete. It made sense. It was simple. No questions, no ghosts, no politics. Just heartbeats and breath and routine.

Coyote joined him ten minutes later, headphones in, no words needed. Then Phoenix. Then Fanboy, groaning the entire way. By five, they were a full formation of suffering. Rooster staggered in last—sweaty, yawning, but still somehow smirking.

“Dreamt about her again,” he said through a breathless laugh, bent at the waist.

Jake didn’t answer. He just kept doing push-ups like his pride depended on it.

They finished with laps and protein bars and silence. And by six-thirty, they were changed, cleaned, and marching across base toward the detachment hangar—where God and Maverick both had something planned, and only one of them would feel merciful.

The hangar looked bigger in the morning light. Empty space, humming tension. Jake could already feel the shift in the air—like the sky itself was holding its breath.

Maverick and Hondo were already there, standing near the flight brief screens, arms crossed, expressions unreadable. Maverick had ditched the aviators but not the mystery. Hondo nodded as they entered, offering the kind of half-smile that said you're not gonna like what happens next.

Jake stood with the others in formation, arms loose at his sides, back straight, jaw clenched. Rooster nudged him lightly.

“She’s gonna be here,” he whispered.

Jake didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because he could already feel it. Like thunder under his skin.

She was coming. Again.

And this time, he wasn’t sure if he’d survive it.

The click of the doors echoed loud across the hangar.

Jake didn’t turn right away. No one did. But he felt it. That shift in the atmosphere—like pressure dropping before a storm. The quiet didn’t come from fear. It came from instinct. From something older. Like every one of them, despite years in cockpits and warzones, had just remembered they were still very capable of being outclassed.

Boots on concrete. Three pairs.

They walked in like they owned the air.

Jinx entered first—tall, clean-shaven, focused. His flight suit was matte black with dark gray patches, sleeves neat, gloves tucked at the belt. A rank patch on his chest. Another by the shoulder. His gaze swept across the room, sharp and measuring, but not unfriendly. Just… aware. Like he was used to being the smartest man in any room and didn’t need to prove it.

Next was Ruin. Broader than Jinx, darker gaze, flight suit creased perfectly and covered in insignia like he’d earned every damn one in blood. He walked slower, heavier, like the floor should be grateful. He cracked his knuckles as he passed the threshold, a lazy smirk on his face, but there was something watchful in him. Something that said: I know exactly how dangerous I am.

And then her.

Rogue.

Jake’s pulse skipped.

She stepped in last, calm and steady, not trailing behind them—anchoring them. Her flight suit was fitted and fierce, unzipped just enough to show the high collar of her undershirt, dark hair pulled back with clinical precision. Her name stitched on her chest like a warning. Her call sign—Rogue—flashed in stark black over deep crimson. A single badge gleamed near her collarbone: silver wings with the gold trim of command.

And God, she looked different.

Older, yes. Sharper. Like time had carved away every softness he used to cling to. Her eyes swept the squad like she was collecting intel—not sparing a glance too long, not offering a smile. She didn’t smile anymore, apparently.

But she didn’t need to.

Every step was clean. Controlled. She moved like a storm bottled up in silk and steel. Every inch of her said commander. Every breath screamed: I’m not the girl you forgot. I’m the woman who learned to fly without you.

Jake stood there, jaw tight, arms folded. Pretending he didn’t feel it.

But he did.

And it burned.

Jinx took two steps forward, boots echoing crisply on the hangar floor. He clasped his hands behind his back again and stood with the kind of posture that couldn’t be faked—a man carved by decades of structure, of battle briefs and bullet points, someone who didn’t just understand order but embodied it.

“Good morning, aviators,” he began, voice as cold and polished as his rank insignia. “I’ll keep this direct.”

His gaze scanned over them, slow and deliberate. Not cruel. Not curious. Just… evaluating. Like he was already building files in his head.

“Today’s objective is simple in design, but not in execution. We are not here to hold your hand or walk you through a syllabus. This isn’t flight school. You’ve already earned your wings. You’ve already proved you can survive. That’s not the question anymore.”

He took a breath, pacing once as he spoke.

“Now, we want to see how you fly. How you think. How you adapt.”

Jinx stopped just before Maverick, who nodded once, saying nothing. Then he faced the squad again.

“You will be running a series of maneuvers—close-range ACM, simulated dogfights, multiple-angle engagement scenarios, and formation recovery drills. Each pair will be observed for cohesion, response time, and aerial discipline. We don’t care how pretty you look on camera. We care about whether we’d trust you in a blackout with flares running low and fuel bleeding from your port wing.”

A few of the younger squad members shifted slightly. Not out of fear—out of instinct. Because this didn’t feel like a test. It felt like a battlefield they just hadn’t seen yet.

Jinx continued, voice level but sharp enough to cut.

“This isn’t about your past accolades. I’ve read your files. Every one of you was chosen for a reason. But that reason won’t matter if you hesitate when it counts. In this exercise, you will fly against and beside each other. You will be matched and rotated. There is no designated enemy—because in the air, threat is always shifting.”

He stepped back smoothly, the silence he left in his wake palpable.

Then came Ruin.

Where Jinx was precise, Ruin was weight. He stepped forward like the air belonged to him. Thicker build, jaw set, and that commanding tone that came not from showmanship but from sheer presence. His flight suit bore more badges than Jake could count from where he stood. And that patch on his arm—WSO Master Command—caught the light like a medal forged in fire.

“For those of you in the second seat,” Ruin began, voice gravel-low but absolutely clear, “let’s make something real damn clear.”

His eyes locked first with Bob, then with Halo, Harvard, and then swept to Fanboy, who stood just a bit taller than before.

“You are not passengers. You are not here for color commentary. You are here to control the sky from the backseat. And if your pilot doesn’t trust your voice, doesn’t trust your read of the threat? Then you’ve already failed.”

He paused, letting the weight of that sink in.

“The Weapons Systems Officer is not just a radar babysitter. You are the eyes, the ears, the strategy. If you’re thinking about your next line or trying to sound cool on comms, congratulations—you just got your pilot killed.”

Jake watched as Fanboy swallowed thickly. Bob nodded once, lips pressed into a line.

Ruin wasn’t done.

“Every call matters. Every delay costs. Your voice is your weapon—and if you misuse it, I will personally make sure you don’t fly in my Navy again. Not because I dislike you. But because I refuse to put someone reckless in a position that demands excellence.”

There was a long beat of silence.

Then, more quietly, he added, “Up there, we don’t get redos. And neither will you.”

He held their gaze for a few moments longer, the silence nearly sacred.

Then he stepped back beside Jinx.

Neither of them smiled.

And Rogue still hadn’t spoken. Not yet.

But Jake could feel her eyes on them—watching, waiting.

Measuring every breath.

Then, Rogue stood at the front of the hangar, spine straight, arms behind her back, her voice calm and surgical. Not a single syllable carried more emotion than it needed to. She didn’t have to raise her tone—her authority was baked into every word.

“You’ve received your preliminary briefing. You understand what’s at stake. This detachment was not assembled to entertain theatrics or egos. It exists for one purpose—refined readiness. You’ll demonstrate that today in operational flight sim.”

Her eyes swept across the formation, holding no one’s gaze for too long, but not shying from it either. There was no smile. No warmth. Just the kind of focus that told everyone here they were being watched down to the breath.

“This morning’s rotation will consist of three successive sorties. Each will simulate a separate combat condition—offensive engagement, defensive response, and recovery under pressure. These operations are based on actual scenarios run in active airspace. Your performance will be evaluated based on tactical decision-making, inter-seat communication, maneuver efficiency, and structural discipline.”

She took a half step forward, heels clicking cleanly against the concrete.

“There are four elements. Each element consists of one single-seat pilot and one crewed aircraft—pilot and WSO. The elements are as follows.”

A pause. Her posture didn’t shift an inch.

“Element One: Solo pilot—Coyote. Crew configuration—Yale and Harvard.”

Jake blinked once, expression hardening just slightly. He hadn’t expected that. A rare pair-up. And no one would be covering his six but himself.

“Element Two: Solo pilot—Fritz. Crew configuration—Omaha and Halo.”

Fritz shifted subtly, shoulders squaring. Halo gave a small nod beside Omaha, already mentally calculating routes, Jake was sure.

“Element Three: Solo pilot—Rooster. Crew configuration—Payback and Fanboy.”

Rooster straightened immediately, that telltale smirk flickering on his lips. Jake didn’t even have to look to know the idiot was probably already imagining Rogue watching him from the tower.

“Element Four: Solo pilot—Hangman. Crew configuration—Phoenix and Bob.”

A hum of acknowledgment passed between the last three, sharp and silent.

Rogue continued without pause.

“All elements will rotate lead and support positions between sorties. Your mission objectives will be given via encrypted brief five minutes prior to takeoff. No advanced schematics. No rehearsal. This is about adaptability and real-time execution.”

Her gaze hardened slightly.

“You are being watched not just for performance—but for reliability. When a call is made, you follow it. When your WSO says break, you break. You are not lone wolves. You are naval aviators operating under one command structure. If you choose to ignore that, the air will not forgive you—and neither will we.”

Her eyes met Maverick’s briefly. Then Warlock’s. Then, just for a breath, Hangman’s.

“One final note,” she said, voice colder than before. “If your element fails to communicate effectively—if your maneuvering is reckless, your targeting is loose, or your egos interfere—your file will be noted accordingly.”

Then she stepped back into position beside Jinx and Ruin without a single wasted motion.

No dismissal. No soft ending.

Because the storm was just beginning.

The sun had barely climbed over the edge of the flight line when Element One launched from the carrier. The air was sharp and blue, calm in that eerie, deceptive way. From the ground, everything looked clean—just another routine sim with Coyote in the single-seat Super Hornet and Yale flying lead in the two-seater with Harvard in the back.

Their formation held steady as they climbed altitude, the buzz of pre-flight chatter fading into focused comms.

“This is Yale, Element One has cleared the tower. Climbing to angels fifteen,” Yale called out through the comm.

Coyote’s voice crackled through, easy and confident. “Copy that. Let’s go punch the clouds.”

From the observation deck, Warlock watched with arms folded tight. Maverick leaned forward, jaw tense. The others gathered around, eyes glued to the screens—Hangman, Rooster, Phoenix, all quiet now, all locked in.

“Where’s Rogue?” Fanboy whispered. “I don’t see her in the briefing tent.”

“She’ll show up,” Phoenix muttered. “She always does.”

Up in the sky, the element stayed clean. Tight turns, good spacing. Harvard’s voice came calm from the backseat, marking simulated targets, adjusting radar sweeps. Nothing irregular. No signs of hostiles.

And then—

“Contact. Unidentified fast mover at two o’clock high,” Harvard announced, his tone still steady, but clipped now. Sharper.

“What the hell—” Yale began, glancing over his shoulder.

It dropped like a hammer.

From the upper layers of the sky, two jets broke formation hard. No transponder ping. No friendly signal. They didn’t appear on radar until they were practically on top of them.

“Jinx and Ruin?” Coyote’s voice cracked slightly. “What—were they even cleared to fly?”

“Negative confirmation from tower,” Yale replied, his voice tightening. “They weren’t scheduled to fly this run. Evasive maneuvers now.”

And just like that, the sky broke open.

Jinx cut through the clouds with terrifying precision, Ruin’s voice sharp and clear as he called shots from the backseat. “Target acquired—simulating missile lock on lead.”

Alarms screamed in Yale’s cockpit. “Fox three! I’m hit! Simulated missile strike!”

Coyote peeled hard left, engine roaring as he dove low, trying to shake the second lock.

“Shit—they’re actually running suppression tactics,” Harvard breathed.

Before anyone could recalibrate or regroup, another blip appeared on the scope. Small. Fast. Barely a whisper on radar.

“Second unknown contact—closing fast. Five o’clock low,” Harvard barked.

Coyote banked hard, jaw clenched. “Who the hell—?”

And then she hit.

Not literally. But it felt like it.

The jet streaked out of the low cloud bank like lightning with a vendetta. Sleek, silent, dark-trimmed with blood-red markings on the tail.

Rogue.

She didn’t call it in. She didn’t warn them. She didn’t have to.

Her Super Hornet broke right over Coyote’s canopy, too close for comfort, and a split second later the simulated lock screeched through his system.

“Damn it—Rogue has missile lock!” Coyote shouted, pitching hard.

From the deck, Hangman leaned forward, his fists clenched.

“No way,” Rooster muttered. “She was nowhere—how did she—?”

“She baited them,” Maverick said, low. “She knew they’d go defensive against Jinx and Ruin. And she waited. She hunted him.”

On the screens, Rogue had already broken formation and vanished again—gone into the clouds like smoke.

Coyote was still breathing hard, flying high and desperate. But they all knew.

He was dead. He just hadn’t hit the ground yet.

And Rogue? She hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Element Two launched tighter than the first. Fritz didn’t joke like usual, didn’t drop any cocky lines as he pulled into formation. He’d seen what happened to Coyote—and the man had barely lasted five minutes against them. Omaha was silent, gloved hands steady on the stick. Halo flicked through radar readouts, scanning the airspace like her life depended on it.

Because now? It kind of did.

“Element Two has cleared deck,” Omaha said, her voice cool but clipped. “Climbing to angels sixteen.”

“Copy that,” Halo replied. “Running thermal sweep. We’ve got clean air for now.”

“For now,” Fritz muttered. “Until the dragons show up.”

No one laughed. From the tower, the rest of the Dagger Squad watched in grim silence. Even Rooster had gone quiet, arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed.

“Any visual on the Big Three?” Payback asked, voice low.

Hangman scoffed, arms locked tight. “Nah. You don’t see them. You just go boom and realize it’s too late.”

“They’re in the air,” Bob said calmly. “Radar’s spiking. They’re close.”

Down in the simulation, Omaha and Fritz broke formation briefly to check blind spots, staying sharp. This time, they knew to expect it. They had to anticipate an ambush—because that’s what it would be. A trap. A hunt.

But even expecting it didn’t help.

“Unknown contact at high eleven o’clock!” Halo shouted. “Speed is—damn it, that’s Jinx. Confirmed visual. Ruin in the back.”

“Break left, break left!” Omaha barked.

Fritz responded immediately, spiraling hard down and away from their position. Jinx’s jet flashed past overhead like a bird of prey circling for blood, and Ruin’s voice—sharp, professional—echoed in the comms.

“Element Two, this is a kill zone. Fox three.”

“Missile lock, missile lock! I’m hit!” Halo shouted. “Fritz, they’re coming around on you!”

But Fritz was good—better than good. He looped out wide, flying low, using the terrain and his speed to keep his radar cross-section down. He was trying. Trying to be unpredictable. Trying to be invisible.

And for a moment, he was.

Then came the silence.

“Where’s Rogue?” Halo asked. “I’ve got no visual—she’s not on radar—”

But it was already too late.

She came in low, from below the clouds, dragging vapor and vengeance behind her. By the time Fritz registered the gleam of her jet in the sun, she was already past him—and his systems screamed with simulated impact.

“Rogue has kill on Fritz,” the tower confirmed. “He’s down.”

“Jesus,” Omaha muttered.

“We’ve got to push defensive,” Halo snapped. “Switch to countermeasures.”

They tried.

They really did.

But Jinx and Ruin worked like one body. High-low trap, coordinated flanks, timing that didn’t feel real. Ruin read their positions like a map, and Jinx executed with clinical cruelty.

Within five minutes, Halo was down. Omaha followed thirty seconds later.

Dead silence on the tower for a beat.

Then Hangman blew out a breath. “They didn’t even stand a chance.”

And high above the sea, Rogue’s jet banked silently into the clouds again—like a ghost with unfinished business.

Element Three tore into the sky with a kind of tension that buzzed between their bones.

Rooster led the climb, his grip steady, jaw tight. He had that signature smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—but it wasn’t arrogance today. Not fully. There was something else beneath it. Anticipation. Pressure. The kind that came from knowing the woman you couldn’t stop thinking about was waiting for you at thirty thousand feet with her kill switch ready.

Behind him, Payback and Fanboy clicked into formation, comms tight, eyes sharp.

“This is Payback. Element Three is airborne, climbing to eighteen thousand.”

“Copy that,” Rooster replied, scanning the skies already. “Eyes open. They’re out there.”

From the deck, Maverick leaned on the rail, watching with narrowed eyes. Hangman crossed his arms, jaw set.

“Let’s see if Rooster lasts longer than ten minutes,” he muttered.

“Please,” Phoenix smirked, “he’s gonna pull every trick he knows. Girl’s got him feral.”

In the sky, the clouds shifted—and the hunt began.

“Radar contact, twelve high,” Fanboy called out. “Looks like Jinx and Ruin. They’re coming in fast.”

“No surprise there,” Payback muttered. “Ready on flares.”

The first contact was brutal and immediate. Jinx descended like a missile, Ruin calling the shots with clinical precision.

“Missile lock on Payback,” Ruin’s voice echoed coldly through the comms. “Fox three.”

“Shit—countermeasures out!” Fanboy shouted. “We’re—damn it, we’re hit! Simulated kill confirmed!”

“Element Three, backseat is down,” Warlock’s voice confirmed from the tower.

Rooster sucked in a breath. He was alone now. Just him. And her.

He banked hard left, dove through the thin clouds, checked his six.

Nothing.

No blip. No ping.

No her.

Then she was there.

From his right, like a blade unsheathing from the horizon. No warning. No lock. Just a flash of her jet’s painted tail slicing across his line of sight.

“Damn—Rogue on my three!” he barked.

He pulled vertical, pushing his jet harder than he usually did this early into a sim. She followed, of course she did, her turns tighter, sharper, closer. He dove. She dove harder. He jinked left, rolled under her wing path.

They danced like fire meeting wind. And for a second—for a brief, golden second—he had her in his sights.

“Come on, come on,” he whispered to himself. “Just a little closer—”

But she was faster. Always faster.

She rolled under him, reversed, and locked on so cleanly it felt like insult.

His HUD lit up like a Christmas tree. “Missile lock. Fox three. Simulated kill—Rogue has the shot.”

Rooster exhaled, heart pounding.

And then—her voice. Calm. Amused.

“Nice flying, Rooster,” she said. “You made me work for it.”

There was a pause. The comms were quiet for a beat.

And then Rooster beamed. Like a kid.

“Uh—thank you,” he stammered, voice cracking just slightly. “I mean—I try.”

Back in the tower, Hangman let out a groan. “Oh my god. I just know he’s blushing.”

“We’re getting married,” Rooster muttered to himself, still smiling like a lunatic as he turned his jet home.

He may have lost. But damn if that didn’t feel like a win.

The jet sliced through the morning haze like a blade—Phoenix at the controls, calm but sharp, every muscle in her arms braced with purpose. The early dawn light caught the sheen of the canopy, glinting over her visor as she scanned the sky. She didn’t speak much once they were up there; didn’t have to. Everything she felt lived in the way she moved. Beside her, the ocean stretched in an endless blue mirror, deceptively calm. But Phoenix had been in the air long enough to know better. Silence like this? It was never peace. It was a prelude.

Behind her, Bob sat with his usual stillness, fingers flying over the controls. His voice was quiet in her headset, steady and low—a tether in the wind. “Systems green. Radar clean for now, but if we’re sticking to the pattern, we’ve got less than five minutes before the Big Three make their entrance.”

Phoenix exhaled through her nose, eyes narrowing. “Copy that. Let's stay fluid.”

Overhead and several hundred meters off formation, Hangman’s jet rocketed into a vertical climb—breaking formation without a word, not even a grunt of acknowledgment. He was already gone. No apology. No warning.

Phoenix caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, jaw tightening. “He’s gone.”

Bob didn’t look. “Standard Hangman.”

“He always runs,” she muttered, voice thick with disdain. “One breath into a dogfight and he’s solo. Like clockwork.”

“He doesn’t fight in a team,” Bob said simply, like it was fact. “He hunts.”

“Then he better hope he finds something worth the chase.”

But the sky didn’t give them time to be bitter. Not today.

Bob’s fingers paused over the controls for a second—just long enough for Phoenix to glance back.

“Contacts,” he said.

“Where?”

“High. Eleven o’clock. Jinx and Ruin.”

And there it was.

Breaking through the thin layer of morning cloud came the sleek silhouettes of two aircraft, moving too fast for comfort, gliding like sharks in deep water. Jinx’s jet dipped into a perfect descent, no hesitation, no showboating. Just velocity and precision. Behind him, Ruin sat coiled in the backseat, the WSO’s voice eerily absent from comms—no chatter, no intimidation. He didn’t need to speak. They came like they were born from the air itself.

Phoenix’s grip tightened around the stick, already peeling into a roll as Bob flared the countermeasures. “Deploying chaff—go evasive now!”

The world tipped sideways, the ocean flipping up into the sky as she banked hard and fast. The G-force rattled her spine, but she held the turn with practiced control. Bob was already recalculating vector angles behind her, calling movement, but every direction they turned, Jinx was there. Every duck, every spiral, every juke—they were matched before the thought even completed itself.

“They’re tracking too fast,” Bob said, voice clipped. “I can’t shake them.”

“Try harder!” Phoenix snapped, frustration flaring behind her teeth.

But there was no gap. No weakness. Jinx stayed locked in, every maneuver cleaner than the last. Ruin’s targeting calls were unseen but absolute. It didn’t feel like a fight. It felt like being dissected.

“Fox Three. Missile lock confirmed,” came the mechanical voice in their comms.

“Shit!” Phoenix pulled the stick hard, but it was done. The simulation registered the hit. Lights blared red across her dashboard.

“We’re down,” Bob said quietly.

Phoenix let the jet level, silence falling hard between them as the sky slowly came back into focus. The cloudline now felt far too empty—eerily so. Like predators had simply disappeared back into the fog.

From the control tower, the voice of Warlock echoed in grim finality. “Element Four, simulation complete. Phoenix and Bob—terminated.”

Phoenix cursed under her breath, leaning back against the seat. “Damn it. They didn’t even blink.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally: “They didn’t need to.”

And far across the sky, tearing into a new altitude with reckless abandon, Hangman was alone in the clouds—his radar hunting, not for Jinx. Not for Ruin.

He was hunting her.

He was hunting Rogue.

The sky above the carrier burned gold, the horizon bleeding into the ocean as dusk crept in. The others had landed—Phoenix, Bob, Payback, Fanboy—still reeling from the storm the Big Three had brought with them. From above, the decks glimmered, but Jake Seresin wasn’t even looking.

He was flying alone now. Higher. Faster. The silence in his cockpit wasn’t peaceful—it was coiled. Expectant.

She was out there. Somewhere in the clouds.

“Come on,” he muttered, fingers flexing around the stick. “Show me what you’ve got, PoliSci.”

He hadn’t said her name out loud in years. Hell, he wasn’t even sure this was real. That the woman he remembered—all shy smiles and trembling hands—was the same person flying under the callsign Rogue. But the second she locked missiles on Rooster like it was nothing, the moment she burned across the sky faster than any pilot had a right to?

He knew.

His radar pinged. Just once.

Then silence.

Jake straightened. She wasn’t showing herself. She was circling.

"Alright," he whispered to himself, teeth flashing into a grin. "Let’s dance."

And then the sky cracked open.

She dropped in from above—silent, fast, ruthless. No comms. No flair. No dramatic entrance. One second the sky was clean, and the next she was ten feet off his right wing, matching his speed, his altitude, his breath. Her jet shimmered in the sunlight, sleek and marked with the commander’s badge, trailing a faint signature of heat off the engines. Jake caught a glimpse of her helmet—matte black with that blood-red stripe and the word ROGUE slashed across the side.

She didn’t say a word.

She just rolled.

Not a standard barrel roll. Not even a combat split.

She pitched her nose upward, snapped the tail into a yaw, and twisted—pulling a vertical corkscrew just under his nose, flying backwards for a split-second before flipping behind him in an impossible maneuver that made Jake jerk back in his seat.

“What the—”

His HUD screamed. Missile lock. She could’ve fired.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she whispered over comms for the first time.

“You always were too loud, Seresin.”

Jake blinked. His heart jackknifed. “You—”

“Try and keep up.”

And she was gone again, vanishing into the clouds like a shadow.

Jake growled, adrenaline flooding his system. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He tore after her, body pressed into the seat, engine roaring. It wasn’t a simulation anymore. Not in his head. Not in his gut. This was something else. Something personal. Her jet darted through the clouds like smoke through fingers—untouchable, merciless, graceful.

She wasn’t just flying.

She was haunting him.

Jake gritted his teeth and yanked the stick hard right, nose diving into a tight roll, chasing the ghost trail she left behind. His heart pounded like a war drum. The G’s wrapped around his ribs like a vice, but he didn’t care. He was Hangman—he didn’t get shaken.

But right now?

He was shaking.

She was ahead of him—barely visible. Her jet shimmered silver in the light, dancing along the edge of a cloud bank like a phantom. He’d chased plenty of pilots before. He’d taunted, baited, and broken the best of them. But no one—not one goddamn person—had ever made him feel like he was chasing a myth.

He was good. No, he was great. Top percent. Born to fly. And she?

She made him feel like he’d learned to fly yesterday.

“Come on,” he hissed, pushing harder. “You’re not magic.”

But then she pulled a move that made his blood go cold.

Rogue didn’t climb or dive—she tilted. Mid-straightaway, she cut her thrust by just enough to pivot sideways, slicing her aircraft into a flat spin with zero altitude loss, her wings practically skating sideways through the air like she was ice-dancing at thirty thousand feet. It wasn’t evasive. It wasn’t practical.

It was showboating.

“She’s taunting me,” Jake muttered aloud, stunned.

The nose of her jet pointed at him as she slid backwards through the air for a second—just long enough for him to catch a flash of her canopy—and then she slammed the throttle again, vanished upward like smoke through cracks.

He blinked. “That’s not— That’s not even legal.”

He climbed after her, his HUD screaming to keep up, but she was everywhere and nowhere. Every time he got her within radar lock, she slipped through his grip like oil on water. No heat signature. No sound.

Just that same flash of the matte black jet with the blood-red stripe and the word ROGUE slashed across the fuselage like a warning label.

Jake was sweating. Actually sweating.

She pulled a double Immelmann out of a climb, twisted her wings mid-flip, then reversed thrust so violently that she dropped behind him like a shadow cast by God.

“Missile lock—” his HUD buzzed, “—warning: compromised position.”

He cursed, twisted, threw out countermeasures even though he knew she wouldn’t fire. Not yet.

And she didn’t. No kill confirmed.

But he could hear her breathing on comms now—low, steady, controlled. Like this was a game of chess and she already saw checkmate three moves ahead.

“I’ll give you this,” she said, voice smooth as sin. “You’re still fast.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m not the one running.”

“Sweetheart,” she murmured, almost kind, “I’m not running. I’m leading.”

And then she was gone again. Into the clouds. Just like old times—except this time, she wasn't the one chasing him.

She was showing him how far behind he really was.

The clouds tore past his canopy like shredded silk, the roar of the jet thunderous in his ears. Jake’s hands were tight on the controls, knuckles bone-white, adrenaline bleeding into every nerve. He pitched up, throttle pushed to the edge, sensors screaming as he skimmed the jet too close to stall just trying to match her altitude.

But she was already gone again.

Somewhere above him. Or behind him. Or inside the sky itself.

He caught a shimmer at his two o’clock and banked hard, rolling with practiced grace—and for a moment, he saw her. Rogue, dancing between light and gravity like neither applied to her. Her jet moved with an elegance that didn’t belong in war. Her turns weren’t calculated—they were instinct. Like she felt the air before it even moved.

Jake twisted into a high-g spiral, trying to bait her. “You’re not untouchable,” he growled, teeth grinding.

There was a pause. And then her voice slid into his headset—low, smooth, impossible to read.

“No,” she said. “But I am unreachable.”

He caught her jet flaring above him, inverted and drifting down toward his six. What the hell was that? He swore she’d stalled her engines mid-air—dropped like dead weight—and then fired them again to snap behind him. A whipcrack of control, like she’d timed it with the beat of his pulse.

“Impossible,” he whispered, mind scrambling to keep up. “That’s—that’s not a maneuver. That’s a suicide dive.”

But she did it. And now she had him in her sights.

He dove. Hard. The ocean rose up below them in a blur, the altimeter ticking down too fast for comfort. His stomach flipped. The water was getting close.

Too close.

“Let’s see how brave you really are,” Jake muttered, yanking the stick as he buzzed the ocean’s surface. Salt spray kissed the belly of his jet.

And then she followed.

Rogue dropped with him, slicing just above the wavecaps, her wingtips practically licking foam. Jake glanced sideways—just a flicker—and saw her there. Flying parallel. A mirror. Her cockpit turned just enough to face him.

She saluted.

The audacity.

“Are you kidding me?!”

He pulled up, barely clearing a swell—and she vanished into the mist like a damn sea spirit, her jet dissolving into the horizon with only the sound of her engines echoing behind.

His HUD screamed again. Missile lock. But no fire.

Because she wasn’t trying to win.

She was trying to remind him—this was never a game she played to lose.

And Jake?

He was starting to wonder if chasing her wasn’t about catching her.

Maybe it was about surviving her.

The sky had never felt so small.

Jake climbed hard through a bank of mist, his fingers slick inside his gloves, his breath loud in the cockpit. The altimeter ticked up. He was bleeding fuel and pride. Somewhere above him, Rogue still moved like she had written the weather herself—no drag, no hesitation, just seamless, fluid violence in motion. And Jake couldn’t touch her. Every time he thought he had a shot, she bent gravity around her like it was something pliable. Something she could own.

He had fought dozens of pilots. Danced in death spirals with men and women who came from the best schools, best squadrons, best damn programs in the country. But no one flew like her. No one vanished like smoke, only to reappear in your blind spot and whisper your name before pulling the trigger.

And still—she hadn’t ended him yet.

He pulled into a tight vertical climb, tail smoking from how hard he pushed the engine. She was behind him now. He knew it. Could feel it. That burn between his shoulder blades wasn’t the sun. It was her eyes on him.

Then the voice.

Cool. Distant. Frustratingly calm.

“Running out of tricks, Hangman?”

He nearly choked on the fury in his throat.

“Still standing,” he snapped. “Still faster than you.”

“You’re not faster,” she corrected. “You’re just louder.”

He banked violently left, trying to shake her, trying to rattle her. But she didn’t even need flares. He dumped half his countermeasures and still couldn’t get a bead on her. She wasn’t fighting back. She wasn’t defending.

She was toying with him.

Then—suddenly—nothing on the radar.

Jake blinked. “No way.”

She was gone. Completely.

His fingers hovered above the comm, hesitant. “Rogue?”

Silence.

Then his heart skipped when her jet exploded from below his field of vision, inverted, flying belly-up toward him like some aerial grim reaper. He barely pulled out of a spin before she nosed past him and locked in on his six.

“Missile lock confirmed,” the simulator warned again.

Again.

He jerked the stick and fired every flare he had left, rolling, tumbling, trying to shake her. And still—still—she didn’t fire.

The silence on comms stretched long and cold before she spoke again, her voice just a whisper in the storm.

“I used to think you were the best,” she said.

And then she pulled away.

Not in retreat. No—like a queen dismissing a pawn.

Jake stared after her, his pulse thundering in his throat.

He hadn’t lost yet.

But he knew now—

She had already decided when he would.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Jake leveled out over the coast, lungs tight, heart jackhammering behind his ribs. He stared at the empty sky in front of him, the thin contrail Rogue had left already evaporating into blue. She was gone again. Just like that. No missile fired. No kill confirmed. Just the lingering sting of her voice, curling in his headset like a ghost.

“I used to think you were the best.”

He didn’t know why those words hurt more than a simulated missile strike ever could. But they did. God, they did.

His hand hovered over the comms. He should say something—something cocky, something snide. He was Hangman. He was all ego and bite and a damn good show. But the words caught in his throat.

Because for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like Hangman.

He felt like Jake. The asshole from college. The boy who thought speed and charm could outrun consequence. And in that moment, Rogue wasn’t just a pilot with a better handle on her aircraft. She was something else entirely. Something carved sharp by time and distance and disappointment. She was someone who had watched him leave her behind once and come back to prove she didn’t need him to look back.

He didn’t lose today.

But he didn’t win either.

“Hangman,” Maverick’s voice cut through the comms, steady and unreadable. “Return to base.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. He was still flying, still pushing altitude like it would hide the heat in his face, the sweat slicking the back of his neck. Slowly, he keyed the mic.

“Copy.”

He turned the jet, the horizon tilting beneath him. The carrier loomed in the distance, calm and waiting. But he didn’t feel calm. And he sure as hell didn’t feel like someone worth waiting for.

Because somewhere above or below or a thousand miles sideways, Rogue was still in the air.

And she had left him in her dust.

He touched down with the kind of smooth, practiced precision that used to make instructors nod in approval. His landing was textbook. Clean. Quiet. Controlled.

But Jake didn’t feel any of those things.

The moment his jet rolled to a stop on the deck, canopy hissing open, the roar of the ocean greeted him like it was mocking him. The crew didn’t cheer like they used to. There was no clapping on the back, no familiar jabs from Payback or cocky grins from Rooster waiting at the catwalk. It was just the wind—and the silence that followed someone else’s triumph.

Rogue had already landed.

Of course she had.

He climbed down, boots hitting the deck hard, and for a second he stood there. Helmet tucked under his arm. Flight suit clinging to his skin. His chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, not flown a mission. No one approached him.

Across the deck, he spotted her.

Rogue stood near the hangar, arms folded across her chest, helmet under one arm, visor still down like she couldn’t be bothered to make eye contact with the world she just dominated. Sunlight streaked gold across her flight suit, the commander badges catching light like medals on a battlefield. She wasn’t surrounded. She wasn’t celebrating.

She was just… there. Solid. Unmoved.

Untouchable.

Jake’s jaw clenched.

He hated the way his pulse kicked just from looking at her. Hated that he’d walked through years with her shadow somewhere in the back of his mind, and now here she was—real and tangible and better than him in every way that counted. Not just as a pilot.

But as someone who had survived him.

Maverick appeared beside him without warning, arms crossed, watching the deck like a man who’d seen too much and still wasn’t done.

“Hell of a fight up there,” Maverick said.

Jake didn’t answer.

“She didn’t shoot you,” Mav added, glancing sideways. “Any idea why?”

Jake shook his head slowly. “She didn’t have to.”

Maverick gave a soft, knowing chuckle. “Yeah. I figured.”

A beat of silence passed.

“She always fly like that?” Jake asked finally, voice tight.

Mav didn’t look at him. Just kept his eyes on Rogue. “No,” he said. “She flies better when she’s pissed.”

Jake’s breath hitched.

Maverick tipped his head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “What did you do to her, Seresin?”

And for the first time, Jake had no answer.

Because maybe that wasn’t a question for right now.

Maybe it was one he’d have to ask her.

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t ready to hear it.

They stood in two uneven rows inside the hangar briefing space, still in their flight suits, helmets clutched like lifelines. The tension was thick, heavier than the G-force they just survived. No one dared lean against the wall. No one spoke. Not after what had just gone down in the sky.

Coyote’s jaw was clenched tight. Rooster’s eyes were fixed on the floor like it had answers. Hangman? He looked like someone had driven a knife between his shoulder blades and left it there, twisted. Even Phoenix, cool and composed, had a flush creeping up her neck.

Then came the commanders.

Jinx stepped forward first, removing his gloves with deliberate care. His voice, when it came, was cool and flat. All technical, no warmth.

“I watched your formations break apart under pressure in less than three minutes. Your communication protocols collapsed almost entirely. Coyote, you pushed your bank angle beyond your threshold for no gain. Yale, your overcorrection opened up a kill window wide enough to fly a carrier through.”

Coyote visibly swallowed. Yale didn't even flinch—just stared ahead like a man trying not to drown.

Jinx turned his eyes toward Rooster, Payback, and Fanboy. “Team Three. Your cohesion is commendable, but it took three of you over seven minutes to track a single target. Rogue was marking you the entire time—if she were hosti—”

“She is hostile,” Fanboy muttered under his breath.

Jinx didn’t even blink. “Then you’d be dead.”

Silence.

He moved back in line, and Ruin stepped up. He didn’t waste time. His focus was entirely on the WSOs.

“Harvard. Halo. Bob. Fanboy.”

Each name hit like a hammer.

“You’re not observers. You’re not co-pilots. You are weapons systems operators. That means you anticipate, calculate, and execute. If your pilot is blind, you see. If your pilot hesitates, you command. And not one of you took decisive initiative when your pilot broke formation or lost radar.”

Bob stiffened. Halo rubbed the back of her neck. Harvard’s face was stone, but his ears had gone red.

“You’re not in the backseat to ride,” Ruin said. “You’re there to kill. And you failed.”

No one moved.

Then came her.

Rogue stepped forward, her boots hitting the concrete like a slow metronome. She took her time, eyes sweeping over each of them one by one. Jake’s stomach twisted when her gaze passed over him—it didn’t linger, didn’t even hesitate. She looked right through him.

Her tone wasn’t sharp like Jinx. It wasn’t cold like Ruin.

It was worse.

It was calm. Measured. Disappointed.

“You are Top Gun graduates,” she began. “Elite pilots. That’s what the file says. That’s what the Navy says. But from what I saw up there?” She let the silence drag, sharp and stinging. “You’re flying like amateurs who think skill is something you keep after graduation without earning it every time you enter the sky.”

Phoenix blinked slowly. Jake stared at the ground, jaw grinding. Rooster shifted his weight, neck flushed crimson.

“Hangman,” she said. The name was a gunshot.

He looked up instinctively, lips parting.

“You fly angry. You pull wide. You hunt like you’re trying to prove something. You didn’t lose today because you were slower. You lost because you’re predictable.”

Jake’s throat went dry.

She turned away before he could speak. “All of you are flying like the sky owes you mercy.”

She looked over her shoulder, expression unreadable beneath the command. “It doesn’t.”

No one moved. No one could.

The silence was absolute. Stifling. Every member of Dagger Squad stood there like they'd been turned to stone, the sting of each critique still fresh on their skin. It didn’t matter how many hours they’d logged, how many missions they’d flown. In the span of a single training exercise, the Big Three had cracked them open and shown them what they really looked like.

And Rogue wasn’t finished.

She turned back, slow and sure, her arms folded behind her back with an ease that made her feel even taller, more imposing. Her voice didn’t raise—but it carried. Steady. Final.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

Rooster’s eyes snapped up, startled. His posture straightened like instinct had taken over.

“You flew with restraint,” she said, tone clipped. “Which I assume was your version of respect.”

A few of the squad glanced sideways. Jake didn’t. He couldn’t.

She held Rooster’s gaze a second longer before continuing, “Your targeting was slow. Your response time lagged. You hesitated. But unlike the rest, you adjusted. You didn’t panic. You adapted.”

Rooster’s mouth twitched—like he wasn’t sure if he should smile or swallow his tongue.

Then Rogue’s tone dropped an octave, colder. “Don’t let flattery from a woman you find attractive be the reason you underperform again, Lieutenant. That kind of distraction gets people killed.”

He blinked. Visibly flinched. The compliment—the only one given—was barbed, tethered to a brutal lesson. It sank deep. But he nodded, jaw tight.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Rogue didn’t respond. She turned clean on her heel, already moving to rejoin Jinx and Ruin at the edge of the hangar. No applause. No acknowledgment. Just the echo of her boots on concrete and the taste of her words still burning in the air.

And the rest of them?

Still didn’t move.

Rogue turned halfway, just enough to face the squad again. Her gaze swept the room—slow, deliberate, assessing each of them like they were failed prototypes instead of elite aviators. The silence pressed down again, heavy and expectant. She let it settle before she spoke, her voice as cool and clean as a steel blade.

“You’re not the best,” she said simply. “You’re just the latest.”

That sentence alone made Yale shift in his boots. Halo crossed his arms over his chest and looked down. Payback scratched the inside of his glove like he suddenly needed to feel something real.

“I’ve read your files. I know your kill ratios, your service records, your graduation scores,” she continued, tone perfectly even. “You’ve all been told you're exceptional. You’ve been praised, rewarded, decorated—and now you're comfortable. You think Top Gun is a title, not a test.”

She took a step forward, shoulders squared, the commander insignia on her flight suit catching the light. “You fly like the sky owes you something. Like your previous wins are guarantees.”

Coyote’s jaw ticked. Phoenix stared ahead, her spine locked straight. Rooster, still a little flushed from earlier, was trying to bury whatever ego he had left beneath military rigidity.

“But combat doesn’t care about your reputation. The enemy doesn’t care what base you trained on or which instructor believed in you. The sky is not merciful. It only answers one question—can you survive it?”

Rogue’s words lingered like a warning carved into the walls.

Jake stood at the back of the group, arms crossed tightly, jaw tense. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like this—not even during his worst sim scores. He’d always been fast enough, flashy enough, clever enough to slip past real consequences.

But with her? Every word hit exactly where it hurt. Not because she yelled—but because she didn’t need to.

Then she tilted her chin just slightly, as if weighing whether to deliver the final blow.

“I’m not interested in egos,” she said. “I’m interested in execution. Precision. Discipline. If you want to fly with us—if you want to be worth the aircraft you’re sitting in—then you need to stop being impressed with yourselves.”

Silence.

Her boots echoed once as she stepped away from the squad, and for a moment, it seemed like she’d walk right out without another word. But then she stopped—turned slightly, just enough to lock eyes with Maverick, who had stayed wordless through the entire debriefing.

She approached him with her chin high, shoulders set. There was no hostility in her movement—just purpose. He stood straighter, instinctively bracing as if part of him already knew what was coming.

“This is the squad you vouched for?” she asked, quiet but cutting. “The ones you claimed could handle anything we threw at them?”

Maverick didn’t blink. “They’re green. But they’ll catch up.”

“They’re not green,” Rogue replied. “They’re sloppy. Entitled. Too used to winning in simulations where failure costs nothing. I expected more from pilots wearing your badge.”

There was no venom in her words. No heat. It made it worse somehow—like she wasn’t mad.

She was disappointed.

“I know what you’re capable of,” she said. “I read your reports. Your mission logs. You pulled off miracles with aircraft older than most of them were when they enlisted. You don’t fly by the book. Fine. But I hoped you’d at least teach them to respect the damn air they’re flying in.”

Maverick crossed his arms loosely. “And they will.”

Rogue’s eyes narrowed just a touch. “Not if you keep shielding them. You can’t expect them to rise if you’re still playing the safety net. You told us they were ready. So let them prove it. Or stop wasting our time.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the faint hum of the carrier beneath their boots. And then Rogue took a breath and softened—barely, but it was there.

“You’re still the best damn pilot I’ve ever read about,” she said. “But don’t let that legend of yours keep these kids from becoming what they could be.”

Maverick gave her a small nod—equal parts respect and challenge. “Noted, Commander.”

Rogue paused at the door, just as Jinx and Ruin moved to follow her out. She didn’t turn around, but her voice carried cleanly across the room—measured, unwavering, and final.

“Make no mistake,” she said, “we’re not here to play instructors. We’re here to find who among you is actually ready to fight alongside the best. Some of you still have time to prove that.”

A brief silence followed—no challenge, no bravado. Just the brutal weight of truth.

Then she dipped her head, barely, a gesture of formal respect.

“Dismissed.”

With that, Rogue stepped through the doorway, Jinx and Ruin falling into step behind her. The sound of their boots echoed down the corridor, sharp and even, until the hangar swallowed them whole. And the Dagger Squad remained frozen in place—quiet, humbled, and very, very awake.

Rogue paused at the door, just as Jinx and Ruin moved to follow her out. She didn’t turn around, but her voice carried cleanly across the room—measured, unwavering, and final.

“Make no mistake,” she said, “we’re not here to play instructors. We’re here to find who among you is actually ready to fight alongside the best. Some of you still have time to prove that.”

A brief silence followed—no challenge, no bravado. Just the brutal weight of truth.

Then she dipped her head, barely, a gesture of formal respect.

“Dismissed.”

With that, Rogue stepped through the doorway, Jinx and Ruin falling into step behind her. The sound of their boots echoed down the corridor, sharp and even, until the hangar swallowed them whole. And the Dagger Squad remained frozen in place—quiet, humbled, and very, very awake.

The door shut behind the Big Three with a heavy finality, and for a beat, the room stayed still—like even the walls were waiting to see who’d dare speak first. Then, like a collective exhale, the Dagger Squad finally let go of the breath they’d all been holding.

Fritz let out a low groan, head hitting the back of his chair with a thunk. “Dude. I think I just aged ten years.”

Halo slumped forward, elbows on his knees, fingers dragging down his face. “They didn’t just roast us—they cremated us.”

Payback whistled, long and low. “I haven’t been chewed out like that since I left boot.”

Bob blinked slowly. “I kind of liked it.”

Phoenix shot him a look. “Bob.”

“What?” he shrugged. “They were… efficient.”

Rooster, still faintly red around the ears, ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “Okay but like—did anyone else feel their soul leave their body when she looked at you?”

Fanboy leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know what hurts more. The burn or the fact that I agreed with everything they said.”

Coyote grunted. “It was the way Jinx didn’t even blink. He just said I was too predictable like he was ordering a damn coffee.”

Another wave of groans followed.

But Jake?

Jake said nothing.

He sat on the edge of the bench, elbows on his knees, gloves still clenched in one hand. His eyes were distant, unfocused, fixed somewhere beyond the metal wall like he could still see her shadow there—flight suit sharp, voice sharper.

You’re not the best. You’re just the latest.

That line gnawed at him more than the rest.

Because she had once said the opposite to him, back when she was just a quiet girl with bright eyes and trembling hands and too much belief in someone who hadn’t earned it.

And now?

Now she was everything he wasn’t. Everything he had claimed to be.

And Jake Seresin didn’t have a damn thing to say about it.

Fanboy let out a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, clutching his helmet to his chest like it could shield him from the flashbacks. “Man, I need a minute. I think I just got psychologically audited. She looked at me like I was a tax error.”

Bob patted his shoulder, awkward but sincere. “You did your best.”

“My best got vaporized,” Fanboy croaked. “I haven’t been that embarrassed since my mom walked in on me dancing to ABBA in sixth grade.”

Coyote snorted. “That’s… specific.”

Fanboy just buried his face in his gloves. “At least she didn’t call me slow to my face. Ruin just looked disappointed in me like I failed him as a son.”

Across the room, Rooster was still staring at the door where Rogue had exited, brows knit together like he was trying to replay her words in his head without combusting.

“She said I adapted,” he murmured.

Phoenix didn’t even look up. “She also said you were distracted ‘cause you thought she was hot.”

Rooster paused. Then, very quietly, “I mean… she wasn’t wrong.”

Payback kicked the back of his chair. “Dude. She flies like a demon and ranked all of us like we were civilian traffic. That’s not ‘hot,’ that’s terrifying.”

“I can live with terrifying,” Rooster replied with a dreamy sort of daze.

Phoenix rolled her eyes. “Of course you can. You have a type.”

Meanwhile, Jake still hadn’t moved. He wasn’t chewing gum. Wasn’t posturing. Wasn’t tossing out some smug line to deflect the humiliation that had absolutely just flattened all of them.

He was quiet.

He was never quiet.

Phoenix noticed it first. Her brow furrowed, and she nudged him with her boot. “Hangman. You good?”

He blinked once. Slowly.

Then gave her a look that didn’t quite land as his usual cocky grin. “Peachy.”

But he didn’t joke. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t even fire back when Rooster teased under his breath, “Guess it’s hard being number two for once, huh?”

Jake didn’t bite.

Because that wasn’t it.

Not really.

He hadn’t just been outflown. He’d been unmade—taken apart without even being touched. Not by maneuvers. Not by missiles.

But by her.

By Rogue.

And whatever fire still smoldered in his chest, it wasn’t pride.

It was something else.

Something he hadn’t felt since she walked away all those years ago without looking back.

Guilt?

Regret?

Fear?

He didn’t know.

But it was louder than anything the squad could say.

Phoenix squinted at him across the room, leaning back against a row of lockers with her arms crossed and suspicion dripping from her voice like oil off an engine. “Alright, what gives?” she said, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been real not-you today, Hangman.”

That was all it took.

Like flipping a switch, Jake’s spine straightened and his smirk snapped into place, smooth and practiced like he hadn’t just been stuck in a silent staring contest with his own existential crisis.

He tossed his helmet up once, caught it with ease, and let out a low chuckle. “What? You missin’ the sound of my voice already, Trace?”

Rooster groaned. “There he is.”

Payback rolled his eyes, flopping dramatically into a chair. “Ugh, I was just starting to enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“Don’t be jealous,” Jake fired back without missing a beat. “Some of us don’t need verbal affirmation to survive a debriefing.”

“Oh, now he talks,” Phoenix said, shaking her head. “I ask a question and suddenly he’s a stand-up comic.”

Fanboy peeked up from behind his gloves. “He’s deflecting.”

Jake pointed at him. “You’re crying.”

“I could be crying.”

Jake gave a shrug and leaned against the locker behind him, ankle casually crossed over the other. “Look, if a little feedback from three overpaid sky gods made y’all crumble, I hate to see what happens when you get actual enemy fire up your ass.”

“Wow,” Halo said dryly. “Defensive and deflecting. Classic Hangman.”

Jake’s grin widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just keeping morale up, sweetheart.”

But Phoenix wasn’t buying it. She watched him with that sharp-edged gaze she always used when she was flying on instinct—like she could see past altitude and bluster and straight into turbulence. “You sure that’s all it is?” she asked.

Jake didn’t flinch.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he said with a shrug, all teeth and swagger. “Just another day in the sky, Trace.”

But the grip he had on his helmet was a little too tight.

And in the back of his head, that line kept echoing—

You’re not the best. You’re just the latest.

He smiled anyway.

Because if there was one thing Jake Seresin was good at, it was acting like he wasn’t bleeding.

The squad was still licking their wounds in their own chaotic, mildly dramatic fashion when Maverick finally strolled back in, hands in his flight suit pockets, casual as sin. His face was unreadable, but there was a twitch of something at the corner of his mouth—bemusement, maybe. Or resignation. Possibly both.

The squad turned to him like a bunch of kids waiting for their cool uncle to either comfort them or tell them they weren’t grounded that bad.

He stopped in the middle of the room, looked around at all of them, and just exhaled through his nose.

“Well,” he said dryly, “I’ve been flying for four decades, saved the world a few times, pulled Mach 10 out of my ass—and I still got a verbal spanking from a thirty-something with a commander badge and a stare that could freeze lava.”

Rooster blinked. “Wait—they scolded you, too?”

Maverick just raised a brow. “Oh yeah. Apparently, I’ve fostered ‘reckless tendencies’ and ‘over-inflated egos.’” He shot Hangman a meaningful look.

Jake threw up a hand, deadpan. “Don’t look at me, sir. I wasn’t even talking.”

Mav continued, “Then Ruin decided to break down the exact number of Navy regulations I’ve bent since 1986. Took a while.”

Fanboy coughed out a laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t argue.”

“I tried,” Maverick admitted. “Didn’t get past sentence one. Jinx shut me down with a look I swear he borrowed from an IRS auditor. I haven’t felt that judged since I crashed a prototype.”

Phoenix tilted her head. “So what now, Captain?”

Mav gave them all that signature smile—the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still somehow made them feel like they could survive a ten-G blackout if he said it was possible.

“Now?” he said. “Now you rest. Tomorrow, you try again. Smarter this time.”

He turned to go, but paused at the doorway.

“Oh, and one more thing…”

The squad perked up.

Maverick looked over his shoulder with a glint in his eye. “If any of you even think about hitting on Rogue again, I will personally volunteer you as a target drone.”

Rooster’s mouth opened. Closed.

Jake raised both brows, innocently. “What about professionally admiring her from a respectful distance?”

Maverick didn’t even turn around. He just walked out, muttering, “God help us.”

The silence he left in his wake was deafening—until Fanboy let out a long, very dramatic sigh and collapsed face-first into the nearest bench.

“I feel like I just went through an emotional car wash,” he moaned into the cushion. “With the heat setting on.”

Yale slumped beside him. “And the high-pressure hose? That was Rogue.”

Harvard groaned, rubbing his face. “I didn’t even get a comment. She just looked at me and moved on. Like I wasn’t even worth roasting.”

“I’d kill for a roast,” Fritz muttered. “At least then I’d know where I stood.”

Payback sat on the edge of a locker, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn low. “Where you stood? Bro, I tripped and faceplanted into a verbal landmine. I might start using ‘you’re not the best—you’re just the latest’ as my personal motivation now. Or my cause of death.”

Phoenix rolled her neck, stretching until it popped. “She didn’t say anything I haven’t thought before… she just said it better. Louder. With commander bars.”

Bob, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, added softly, “Still… she noticed who worked well together. That has to mean something, right?”

“Sure,” Rooster piped in with a crooked grin, “it means Bob and I aren’t getting court-martialed.”

Jake still hadn’t moved much. His back was to the squad now, gaze fixed on the spot where Rogue had stood, his expression unreadable. The familiar swagger had returned in pieces—he leaned on one leg, his jaw was set like stone—but the usual glint in his eyes was gone.

Rooster nudged him with a boot. “Hey, man. You good?”

Jake finally turned slightly, his smirk lazy and delayed. “Just admiring the leadership style. Direct. Efficient. Humiliating in a charming way.”

Phoenix snorted. “That your type now?”

“Wasn’t it always?” Rooster muttered under his breath.

Jake shot him a look but didn’t bite.

Instead, he leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed, lips pursed thoughtfully. “She’s good,” he said after a moment. “Scary good.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Fanboy groaned again, louder this time. “Do you think they’re, like, watching us right now? From some secret window or camera? Judging our weakness? Planning our next emotional takedown?”

Bob blinked. “You mean like… psychological surveillance?”

“Yes, Bob. I mean psychological surveillance.”

The squad started chuckling, some half-hearted, some genuine, as the tension finally began to drain from their shoulders. The sting of failure still lingered, but beneath it was something else now. A spark. A challenge.

They’d been wrecked. Demolished. Served their own guts on a silver platter.

And somehow—they were still here.

Still standing.

Tomorrow would come fast. The sky would be brutal. And Rogue, Jinx, and Ruin would be waiting.

But damn if they weren’t going to try and claw their way back up anyway.

Even Jake.

Especially Jake.

The door to the Hard Deck creaked open with a soft chime—and every member of the Dagger Squad flinched like a bunch of cats caught in a thunderstorm.

Fritz nearly choked on his beer. Payback muttered something about divine punishment. Fanboy physically ducked under the table, whispering, “No. No, it’s their day off, this was supposed to be safe.”

Because there—walking in like the final boss round of their lives—were the Big Three.

And they weren’t in uniform.

Jinx led the way, hands in the pockets of a dark bomber jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos teasing the edge of his forearm. Ruin followed a step behind, t-shirt stretched across his broad chest, the kind of guy who looked like he could lift an F-18 with its WSO still in it.

And then came her.

Rogue.

Gone was the pressed flight suit and the tightly coiled professionalism. Now she was in dark jeans and a black halter that left her shoulders bare and the soft gold of her skin practically glowing under the bar’s amber lights. Hair down. Chin high. An aura so cool and commanding, it made the jukebox glitch for a second like even it had to reboot.

Jake saw her—and forgot how to blink.

Rooster, jaw practically on the table, muttered reverently, “I… I think I just had a religious experience.”

Phoenix choked on her drink. “Oh, pull it together, Bradshaw.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Rooster whispered, eyes wide. “She’s not hot. She’s like... classified. Like the Navy has a whole separate vault for this kind of danger.”

“She’s wearing black,” Bob mumbled. “I didn’t know black could glow.”

Coyote was frozen mid-chew. Halo spilled a bit of his beer. Even Payback straightened like he’d suddenly remembered to respect authority in all its intimidating, devastating glory.

The three commanders didn’t glance their way at first. Jinx headed for the bar with Ruin at his side, nodding politely at Penny. Rogue—calm, deliberate, unhurried—scanned the room like she owned the place, then walked toward an empty high table near the back.

Jake still hadn’t moved.

His beer sat untouched, his jaw tense, eyes locked on her like she might disappear if he so much as blinked.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She didn’t need to.

She already knew the effect she had.

And that alone nearly drove him insane.

The moment stretched on like molasses in July—thick, slow, and suffocating.

Jake Seresin had faced enemy MiGs, G-forces that could tear your ribs from the inside out, and more explosions than a Marvel finale. But this? Watching her glide across the Hard Deck like she wasn’t a walking, talking gut punch to his pride?

He was not prepared.

Rooster, to his credit, tried to keep the squad from completely combusting. “Okay,” he whispered, leaning in close to the others like they were plotting a prison break. “No one act weird. Just be normal.”

“You’ve said ‘hot’ twelve times,” Phoenix deadpanned. “You lost ‘normal’ at the door.”

Fanboy peeked up from behind his menu. “Should we say hi? Or salute? Or kneel?”

“No one’s kneeling,” Payback muttered. “She might think we’re malfunctioning.”

Bob sipped his soda. “I vote we stay very, very still. Like prey.”

Meanwhile, Jake hadn’t moved a muscle.

He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest like a statue carved from sheer tension. His eyes stayed locked on her figure—how she sat with perfect posture, how her fingers wrapped around the glass of water Penny had set in front of her, how her expression was neutral, unreadable, but not cold.

She wasn’t even trying.

And still, she had every set of eyes in the room trained on her like gravity worked differently in her presence.

Jinx and Ruin were talking to her now—quietly, casually. Probably planning tomorrow’s flight drills, maybe comparing notes on who in the squad was salvageable.

Jake’s jaw flexed.

She hadn’t looked at him once.

Not once.

Not even when Jinx tossed a casual glance their way, and Ruin raised his glass in their direction like a challenge.

But Rogue?

Nothing.

No flicker of recognition. No smirk. No insult. No trace of the girl who used to light up like a goddamn sunrise when he so much as said her name.

Hell. Maybe she really didn’t remember him.

Rooster leaned toward Jake now, slightly tipsy and entirely lacking self-preservation. “Bro. You haven’t blinked in five minutes. You good?”

Jake finally tore his gaze away, just long enough to shoot Rooster a look that could cut steel. “Peachy.”

“Oh yeah,” Phoenix muttered. “That’s the sound of a man thriving.”

Jake didn’t reply.

But the way his hand curled tighter around his glass said it all.

Because Rogue might not have looked at him once.

But he hadn’t stopped seeing her since the day she left.

At first, no one from the Dagger Squad said anything.

They just watched.

Watched like a bunch of underpaid extras in a military rom-com where the Big Three were clearly the main cast. It was honestly pathetic, the way they tried to look casual while sneakily observing Rogue, Jinx, and Ruin from across the bar like wildlife photographers waiting for a lion to blink.

“Okay,” Fanboy whispered, not even pretending to hide behind a coaster anymore, “do you think Rogue drinks, like, red wine or... molten steel?”

“She’s a tequila girl,” Phoenix guessed, sipping her beer. “Straight. No lime, no salt. Just violence.”

“She could pour it directly into my mouth,” Rooster murmured like he was in a trance.

Bob choked on his drink. “Bradley.”

Rooster blinked. “What?”

Coyote nudged Jake. “Hey, man. You good? You’re unusually quiet and also vibrating like a haunted microwave.”

Jake didn’t answer. He was too focused on the three of them at the bar.

Penny leaned forward with her usual calm charm, clearly enjoying the rare sight of the commanders outside of their steely flight suits. Jinx smiled at something she said—an actual smile, not the terrifying one he wore in the air—and tapped a finger against the bar to indicate his order.

“Whiskey. Neat,” Fanboy narrated under his breath like a sports commentator. “Called it.”

Ruin followed up, rolling up his sleeves and setting a folded bill on the counter. “Scotch, probably. Also neat. He looks like the kind of man who’s never diluted anything in his life. Not even emotions.”

Then Rogue leaned in, said something soft to Penny, and gestured toward the bottles.

The entire squad leaned closer without realizing it.

Penny let out a laugh, warm and familiar, and nodded before grabbing a bottle off the top shelf.

“Holy shit,” Payback muttered. “She does drink tequila.”

Phoenix looked smug. “Told you.”

Rogue accepted the glass without ceremony, no citrus, no frills, just a single smooth pour. She sipped it like it was water and sat back down between her fellow commanders, as calm and collected as if she hadn’t just shattered their egos and entire understanding of power dynamics earlier that day.

“Okay, so like…” Fanboy whispered again. “What do we do now?”

“Pretend we have dignity,” Phoenix replied, eyes still on Rogue. “Which is a lie, but we fake it till we die.”

Jake hadn’t touched his beer. His eyes were locked on her again, jaw set, expression unreadable.

Rooster leaned in, whispering like a middle schooler at a slumber party. “You sure you don’t know her?”

Jake’s voice was low, dangerously quiet. “Drop it.”

Rooster backed off, but only a little. “Okay. Damn. No need to deploy countermeasures.”

And still, none of them noticed the way Rogue’s fingers paused on her glass for just a second… like she had heard something.

But she didn’t turn.

She never turned.

And that might’ve been the most infuriating thing of all.

It happened so fast, it was honestly impressive.

One second the Dagger Squad was locked into full-fledged stealth surveillance mode, pretending to laugh way too loud, fake-scroll through their phones (despite no signal), and comment on the very interesting grain of the Hard Deck’s wooden tables.

Then Jinx’s eyes flicked toward them.

Just a glance.

A glint.

Maybe even a smirk.

And suddenly it was like God herself had turned the spotlight on their sorry asses.

Ruin followed his gaze. Slow. Methodical. Like a hawk sighting prey from two thousand feet up. His stare landed right on Fanboy, who immediately yelped and dove behind Rooster like a toddler playing hide-and-seek.

“Abort!” Fanboy hissed, clutching Rooster’s arm. “ABORT! We’ve been made—”

“Don’t make eye contact,” Yale muttered. “Don’t engage. We’re not here. We’re an illusion. We are bar stools.”

Bob tried to shrink behind Phoenix, which was hilarious because Bob was taller than Phoenix.

Payback actually flinched when Ruin raised his glass in their direction.

But then—then—it happened.

Rooster.

Bradley. “I’d-die-for-a-pretty-girl” Bradshaw.

This beautiful, chaotic man waved.

Like full-hand, kindergarten-style waved at Rogue across the bar like they were old pals bumping into each other at a farmer’s market.

“Hey!” he said, too loud and with too much teeth. “Hi!”

The entire table froze.

Jake’s mouth fell open.

Phoenix audibly gasped.

Bob choked on air.

“Rooster—no!” Payback hissed. “You absolute golden retriever of a man—”

But Rogue?

Oh, Rogue.

She turned.

Not just a glance. A full-on turn, chin tilted, one brow ever so slightly arched as her gaze cut through the bar like a scalpel dipped in elegance and violence.

And then—

She winked.

Not a friendly wink. Not a flirty wink. No. This was the kind of wink that said: You’re cute, kid. I hope you survive.

Rooster made a sound that could only be described as a strangled squeal.

He collapsed back into his seat like she had physically punched the air from his lungs.

Jake was going to have an aneurysm.

“She winked,” Rooster whispered, dazed. “She winked at me. Did you guys see that?”

“No,” Phoenix said flatly. “That never happened. For your sake, I’m erasing it from memory.”

“Oh my God,” Fanboy breathed. “You just imprinted like a duckling.”

Jake slammed his beer down. “Alright, that’s it.”

The whole squad turned to him.

“You okay, Hangman?” Yale asked, but the look on Jake’s face was more nuclear than usual.

“I’m going to the bar,” Jake declared, standing with a fury that made his chair squeak.

“Why?” Rooster blinked. “To fight? Or flirt? I feel like either could happen right now.”

Jake didn’t answer. He just walked.

Straight toward the Big Three.

Phoenix grabbed Rooster’s sleeve. “This is it. This is how we die.”

And honestly?

It might’ve been worth it.

Jake’s boots hit the hardwood floor with the heavy thunk of a man who had lost control of his own decisions and was now just running on pure ego and caffeine.

He stalked toward the bar like he wasn’t internally screaming, like his heart wasn’t hammering against his ribs like a prison escape attempt. The rest of the squad watched with wide, horrified eyes, every one of them frozen mid-sip, mid-bite, mid-breath.

“This is suicide,” Payback whispered.

“Should we…stop him?” Bob asked, ever the gentle soul.

“No,” Phoenix said, eyes narrowed. “We document it. This is how legends are born… or how careers end.”

Fanboy was already filming under the table.

Rooster, still rosy from *The Wink™, *clutched his chest like a swooning Shakespearean heroine. “My man’s going to walk up to her and get smited.”

At the bar, Jake slowed.

There they were.

Jinx, leaned back against the counter, drink in hand, already watching him approach like he knew. Ruin didn’t bother to react, just lifted his brow in idle amusement like he was calculating Jake’s funeral costs.

And her.

Rogue.

Still in her black halter, tequila glass in her fingers, skin kissed by the golden tones of the overhead lights. She didn’t look surprised. She didn’t flinch. She just turned her head, slowly, precisely—eyes lifting to meet his like it was inevitable.

“Hangman,” she said first, her voice calm, almost bored. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Jake’s mouth opened. Closed.

He had come here with something, hadn’t he? A line. A barb. Some clever, cocky insult. But she said his call sign like it was optional, like it could just as easily have been “background character.”

“I figured,” he said, casual as hell, “if you’re gonna keep embarrassing us in the sky, I might as well get a good look at you up close.”

Jinx let out a soft, knowing chuckle. Ruin just sipped his scotch.

Rogue’s lips curved—barely. Like the beginning of a smirk, a threat, or maybe a compliment. Impossible to tell. “You mean you’ve been looking from afar this whole time? How uncharacteristically shy of you.”

The squad across the bar audibly gasped.

Fanboy dropped his phone. “She just flirted back. She just flirted back!”

“No, she mocked him,” Phoenix corrected, not blinking.

“Same thing,” Rooster whispered, love-struck.

Jake, meanwhile, blinked once. Slowly. Then leaned on the bar like he wasn’t internally spiraling.

“You always this sharp off-duty?” he asked.

“You always this slow on?” Rogue replied, still not looking away.

The silence that followed was so heavy, even Penny paused in her cleaning to glance over like, Damn, this is better than cable.

Jake grinned. Something about the way she said it, the way she matched him toe to toe, didn’t piss him off.

It lit a fire under him.

“Well,” he said smoothly, “I guess I’ll just have to try harder tomorrow.”

“Good,” Rogue replied, sipping her tequila. “Try not to cry when you lose again.”

Jake’s smirk twitched, the spark in his eyes reigniting.

Behind him, the squad lost their collective minds.

“Holy hell,” Payback groaned.

“I can’t tell if he’s flirting or being verbally undressed,” Yale whispered.

“Both,” Rooster and Fanboy said in unison.

And for the first time in years, Jake felt it—the thrill.

Not of flying.

Not of winning.

But of finding an opponent who could go toe-to-toe with him—

—and smile while tearing him apart.

The tension didn’t snap—it simmered. Sizzled. Smoked like something cooking too hot in a cast iron pan, but you can’t take it off the heat yet because damn it, you’re too curious to see how far it can go.

Jake held her gaze, steady as he could, trying to measure the unreadable expression on Rogue’s face. Her eyes—sharp, calm, disarmingly clear—stayed locked on his, giving him nothing but quiet challenge.

Jinx leaned in, grinning behind his glass. “You kids need a chaperone, or should we just assume you’ll take it outside?”

Rogue didn’t blink. “He’d lose out there, too.”

Jake felt that one.

“Oh, she’s good,” Ruin muttered with a low laugh, finally joining in. “I kinda want front-row seats if this turns into something. Feels like watching a wolf poke a lion with a stick.”

Jake raised a brow at that. “You think she’s the lion?”

Jinx smirked. “No. She’s the cliff you fall off when you get cocky.”

Behind him, at the squad’s table, it was pandemonium.

Rooster was fully face-down on the table, wheezing into his arms. Phoenix was covering her mouth with her beer like it was a privacy shield. Bob looked worried for Jake’s soul.

“Is he okay?” Fanboy whispered.

“No,” Payback deadpanned. “He’s in a death spiral. But you know Hangman. He’d rather crash with style than bail.”

Back at the bar, Jake pushed off the counter, hands in his pockets, and gave Rogue one last look. Not a flirty smirk this time. Not that cocky, head-tilted grin. Just a long, slow once-over—more thoughtful than challenging.

“See you in the air, Commander,” he said, voice smooth but lower now. Less for show.

Rogue tilted her head. “Try to keep up this time, Lieutenant.”

And damn, did that hit harder than any missile.

Jake walked back toward his squad like a man on fire pretending he wasn’t. Cool strides, sharp shoulders, absolutely dying inside.

He slid back into his seat.

No one said anything for exactly three seconds.

Then Rooster exploded. “DUDE. She just verbally dismantled you and you’re smiling?”

Jake shrugged, finally taking a sip of his beer like it wasn’t now mostly warm. “Yeah, well. It’s kinda hot when someone’s better than you.”

“Better?” Bob blinked. “You’re Hangman. You never say that.”

“She made him say that,” Phoenix said, wide-eyed. “Holy shit. We just witnessed character development.”

Fanboy leaned forward. “Wait. Are you, like… actually into her?”

Jake just stared into his glass for a moment, like maybe it had answers.

Then he muttered, half to himself, half to the tequila-soaked air: “Only a fool wouldn't be.”

And judging by the look Rogue threw over her shoulder—just once, just enough to prove she knew he was still watching—

She knew.

Fanboy nearly fell out of his chair.

“She looked back. She looked back.”

Phoenix didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “That’s not just a look. That’s a warning shot.”

Rooster straightened, wild-eyed. “Is this a Top Gun soap opera now? Am I supposed to be shipping this or reporting it?”

Bob, quiet as always, muttered into his soda, “I think they’re gonna kiss or kill each other. Maybe both. I’m emotionally confused.”

Jake, for his part, took another long sip of beer like he wasn’t being loudly dissected by the world’s most chaotic peanut gallery. But the twitch in his jaw, the barely-hidden grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—it gave him away.

And the worst part?

He loved it.

Because this wasn’t just rivalry.

This wasn’t just ego.

This was a game of wits with someone who not only brought a gun to the knife fight, but had personally built the gun, customized the trigger, and probably named it something badass like Regret.

“She winked at Rooster, but she talked to Hangman,” Phoenix muttered like she was watching a crime thriller. “I can’t tell who’s winning. I just know it’s not us.”

“Nope,” Payback sighed. “We’re extras in this saga.”

“Guys,” Yale said suddenly, eyes wide. “What if they used to date?”

Fanboy gasped like he’d just uncovered the final Horcrux. “Oh my God. What if she broke his heart?”

“I knew he had trauma,” Rooster whispered reverently. “I could feel it.”

Jake dropped his head into his hands. “Jesus Christ, can y’all not.”

Phoenix grinned. “We could not. Or… we could escalate it.”

“Guys, no—”

“To Rogue,” Fanboy declared, raising his beer like a toast. “Breaker of egos. Sniper of pride. First of her name.”

“To Rogue!” the squad chorused, clinking glasses like idiots.

Jake just groaned into his palms as Phoenix added under her breath, “Also, possibly the only person on Earth who could kill Jake Seresin with a wink and still look like an angel doing it.”

Across the bar, Rogue casually tipped her tequila glass once more, the corner of her mouth quirking just enough to say: She heard them.

And Jake?

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

He was grinning.

Because maybe—just maybe—tomorrow?

He’d finally get the chance to fire back.

It was later now—lights dimmer, music louder, the Hard Deck shifting into its nighttime rhythm. Penny had swapped out her playlist for something with more bass, couples had started migrating toward the pool tables, and the air had that sticky buzz of salt, liquor, and barely restrained chaos.

The Dagger Squad had started to loosen up again. Drinks were flowing, stories were being shared, and Bob was in the middle of an uncharacteristically passionate debate with Fanboy about the ethics of leaving your wingman mid-dogfight—thinly veiled shade at Hangman, of course.

Jake had drifted from the group a little. Not far. Just enough.

Enough to lean against the bar, beer in hand, half-turned so he could see the Big Three out of his periphery. He hadn’t approached them again. He wasn’t stupid. One bold move per night was already pushing it.

But she was still there. Rogue.

Laughing at something Jinx said. Her laugh wasn’t loud—it was low, warm, almost secretive. The kind of laugh you earned. The kind that lingered.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, the tip of his tongue resting behind his teeth.

He’d never admit it to the squad—not in a million years—but God, did he want to hear her laugh like that again. And maybe this time, he wanted to be the one to earn it.

“Careful,” Penny said quietly, wiping down the bar beside him.

Jake blinked, surprised. “Huh?”

Penny didn’t look at him. Just kept polishing her glass. “You’re staring. Again.”

“I’m not—” he started, then cut himself off with a sigh. “Yeah. Alright.”

“She’s sharp,” Penny said. “Knows how to read a room. Knows when she’s being watched.”

Jake glanced sideways. “You saying I’m obvious?”

“I’m saying,” Penny said with a little smile, “she knows. And she’s letting you do it anyway.”

Jake looked down at his beer. “That supposed to mean something?”

Penny tilted her head, then shrugged. “It might. But that’s for you to figure out, Lieutenant.”

Before he could respond, a voice called out across the bar.

“Hey, Hangman!” Rooster, already two beers past subtle, waved dramatically. “You joining us or just gonna make heart-eyes at the commanders all night?”

Jake turned, flipped him off casually, and called back, “At least I’m not fantasizing about getting grounded by my superior officer.”

Rooster gasped, clutching his chest. “I respect her, Jake!”

Bob leaned toward Fanboy. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Shut up,” Rooster muttered, red-faced.

Jake turned back to the bar just as Rogue slid off her stool.

His heart stopped for half a second.

She said something quiet to Ruin and Jinx, both of whom nodded. Then—without ceremony, without looking at him—she walked.

Not toward the Dagger Squad.

Not toward the jukebox.

But toward the door.

And she didn’t even look back.

Jake watched her go, every step calculated, unhurried, like she had nothing to prove but everything under control.

Fanboy leaned in from the table, whisper-yelling: “Bro. BRO. That was your chance.”

Jake set his beer down and stood.

“She’ll give me a real one,” he muttered.

Rooster blinked. “What?”

Jake cracked his neck, eyes still locked on the door she disappeared through.

“The next chance,” he said, voice lower now, like a promise. “She’ll give me the next move.”

And with that, Jake Seresin walked back to the squad, silent and electric, a storm waiting to strike.

Somewhere outside in the cool night air, Rogue was already gone.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, she won't walk away first.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

The next morning hit like a punch to the ribs.

Not because they were sore from flight training. Not because half the squad had gone too hard on tequila shots the night before. Not even because Maverick had scheduled them before sunrise like some sort of sadistic bird of prey.

No.

It hit hard because she was already there.

Standing on the tarmac.

Helmet tucked under her arm. Visor glinting in the dawn light. Rogue looked like something out of a recruiting ad designed to make grown men question their entire career path.

And Jake?

Jake was late.

Not by much—but just enough to see her already speaking with Jinx and Ruin as the rest of the squad geared up. Just enough to feel that familiar thrum of tension coil beneath his skin, low and hungry, somewhere between resentment and awe.

Rooster elbowed him. “You oversleep or just needed an extra five minutes to emotionally prepare?”

Jake didn’t even look at him. “Shut up.”

“She’s not even looking at you,” Fanboy whispered, trying not to grin.

“She never does,” Phoenix added, voice sharp with amusement.

“She winked at me,” Rooster chimed in, because apparently no one could let that go.

“Let it die, Bradshaw,” Jake growled.

But he was watching.

Of course he was.

Rogue was in full command mode again. Not barking orders—she never needed to—but the tone she used carried through the air like gravity. Jinx stood relaxed beside her, and Ruin had his arms crossed, mirroring her posture. The Big Three, cold and composed, like predators waiting for the slowest animal in the herd to twitch.

And Jake?

Jake didn’t know what the hell he was anymore.

He wasn’t intimidated.

No, not exactly.

It was worse than that.

He was intrigued.

Obsessed, maybe.

Because she wasn’t the same girl from years ago—the one who did his social studies homework, who blushed when he said her name (when he bothered to remember it), who brought him to an elderly home on her birthday and smiled like it was enough just to be near him.

No. That girl was gone.

She’d burned away somewhere along the years, and in her place stood this version of her—this impossible, untouchable force called Rogue with her perfect posture and unreadable eyes.

[niniwritesxo]

can u write smth ab baby baby daddy!namgyu? i swear it's been rotting my brain lately .. he'd lowkey be toxic too w u but like 🫷😞🫸

‘you don’t hate me’ AU

nam-gyu x fem reader

warning: nam-gyu is like lowkey an asshole that’s it

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

―୨���⋆ ˚

the baby’s finally asleep.

her tiny fists are curled near her mouth, chest rising slow, soft puffs of breath against the silence of the room. you hover in the doorway a second longer than you need to. just watching her.

you feel like you haven’t breathed all day.

the apartment is dim when you walk out,

lights off, one flickering candle still burning on the kitchen counter, its wax dried up into ugly shapes. there’s a bottle half-filled with formula. unopened letters. a missed call from your mom.

you don’t even hear the knock at the door.

you just see the handle turn.

“seriously?” you snap, spinning around, already knowing who it is.

nam-gyu steps in like it’s nothing. like you didn’t tell him last time that if he ever came over high again, you’d call the cops.

his hoodie’s half-zipped. his eyes are sharp, jittery. he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, fingers twitching with leftover energy.

“you left your key,” he says, holding it up with a stupid grin. “thought i’d return it.”

“so you broke in.”

he shrugs. “doors are meant to be opened.”

you stare at him. “are you high?”

“a little.”

“jesus, nam-gyu.”

“relax. i didn’t drive. subong dropped me off.”

“oh, even better.”

he walks in, brushing past you like you don’t even matter, heading for the couch like he owns it. you slam the door shut.

“she’s asleep,” you say through gritted teeth.

“good. means we can talk.”

“we have nothing to talk about.”

he lounges back. “you always say that. then we end up making out against the fridge.”

you go still. “that was a mistake.”

he laughs under his breath, leans his head back against the couch. “sure. mistake with your hands in my hair and your breath all shaky.”

you step closer, arms crossed.

“what do you want?”

“to see her.”

“not when you’re like this.”

he licks his bottom lip, glancing toward the closed nursery door. “she won’t even remember.”

“i will.”

there’s a long pause.

he looks at you now. really looks.

“…you look tired.”

you scoff. “wow. thanks.”

“no, like different. thinner.”

“because i’m keeping a human alive. without help.”

his jaw ticks.

you should stop. but you’re tired. raw. angry.

“and where were you today?” you ask sharply. “we had an agreement.”

“subong needed me.”

“to get high and make one of his stupid music videos in the back of a bar?”

he lifts a brow. “you spying on me now?”

“no. he posted it on his story.”

nam-gyu doesn’t respond.

you take a breath. regretting nothing.

“…you’re pathetic,” you mutter. “still acting like you’re twenty and nothing matters.”

his expression shifts.

slow. cold.

“don’t act like you’re clean,” he says. “you let me fuck you the same night you told your mom we weren’t seeing each other anymore.”

you feel that like a punch.

“fuck you,” you whisper.

he just stands there.

then slowly walks toward you.

“what’s wrong?” he murmurs. “truth too heavy now that you’re a mom?”

you just shove him, hard.

but he just laughs.

“you think you’re better than me now?”

“i’ve always been better than you.”

“yeah?” he steps closer, until your back hits the counter. “then why do you always let me back in?”

your breath catches.

“you don’t get to ask that.”

he leans in.

“why not?”

“because i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

his hand slips around your waist. slow. familiar. awful.

you try to twist away, but he doesn’t let you.

“nam-gyu—”

“you don’t hate me.”

his mouth finds your neck. and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

you hate him.

you hate how your body reacts to his voice.

his fingers press into your waist. he drags you closer.

“you miss it,” he whispers. “miss me.”

you dig your nails into his shoulder.

his mouth crashes into yours.

it’s angry. ugly. all tongue and heat and months of silence turned physical. he presses you against the counter like he wants to carve the memory of this into your skin. like he needs it to mean something, even if it doesn’t.

your hands are in his hair again.

your heart’s still breaking.

and you know when he finally pulls away, when he disappears again, when he ghosts your texts for four days straight. it’ll still feel better than the silence he leaves behind.

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

hoped you liked it <3 thank you for the request 🩷

a/n: english is not my first language, if you spot any misspellings or mistakes my apologies 🕯️

[abbysreal-wife]

No fun

Prisoner!Abby x Cop!Reader

Fucked my way up to the top

Need you baby like I breathe you, baby

Need you, baby, more, more, more, more

—Lana Del Rey

—————-—————-—————-—————-

Summary::

Tags:: blood mentioned, and that’s about it….

A/N:: I saw a TikTok with that damn “mrs officerrrr” sound and I HAD to write abt it.

Little notes!:: I lowk stopped putting smut in my fics ever since that anon said I write it like im inexperienced with woman… like I think about that every week now… ts messed up my whole flow🙏🏾😕 this is also inspired by @look-me her fics are so good I js wanna gobble her up. (She hasn’t posted in a while but yk…)

Currently playing…

—————-—————-—————-—————-——

November 16th 6AM

Lights cut on. Blinding the women behind the metal bars. Abby groaned, she didn’t have a cell mate to worry about, anymore.

Especially after she beat the shit out of Ellie Williams for making a joke about her father.

Isolation for 2 days. That was it.

She was big, scary, some guards were just an inch terrified of this woman.

Abby Anderson.

Her name was known worldwide, well, realistically speaking “prisonwide” if you will.

When it was “free roam” for an hour, she wouldn’t be playing board games, or watching old television shows with the others.

She’d be the odd one out, always working out, keeping her cell organized, declining drugs.

That behavior was known as “weird” around here.

————————————————————————

September 6th your first day…

Everyone knew it was an unspoken rule to talk to the prisoners for over 2 minutes. Especially female cops.

“Why is that?” You asked curiously before taking a few mental notes.

Your other cop friend laughed in your face “Cause, 2 years ago a female cop talked with a prisoner for longer than 30 minutes—and then she ended up pregnant with his baby. So…”

“Oh, — your eyebrows furrowed “that’s, something.”

Sergeant shoved you playfully “no need to worry about that though, you’re working in the female cells”

It started with a simple “what do you want,Anderson?” Over the intercom.

Naw When Abby buzzed into it from her cell your face would light up.

November, 17th 2AM

“Can I sing a song to you?” Her tired voice buzzed through the device, you took your feet off the table and pressed the button, “no, go to bed”

She sighed “you’re no fun.”

3AM

Abby laid flat on her back, before getting an idea. An idea to annoy you.

“You know, Ms officer you’re the only person that answers me when your in office”

“I see why” you replied letting go of the red button once done.

Abby scoffed to herself “so rude—“goodnight”

You didn’t answer.

————————————————————————

November 18th 1PM

The cold tiled room was bare, damp and dimly lit with a washed out. Lamp that hung above the table.

“We need you with Anderson, she won’t talk to any officers and we need answers on why she did this.” Your friend came out of the room, you looked behind her, shoving the last bit of food you had in your mouth.

“What’d she do?” You curiously asked before making your way to the door.

“You’ll see.”

“Anderson.”

You tried to make your voice sound cold. And put on a non readable face.

Her head snapped towards the door, arms crossed across her chest, the white wife beater she wore had been spotted with blood and sweat.

“what took you so long to come here”

“I was on break, eating.”

“Eating what?”

You sighed “things.”

“I thought cops only eat donuts” she joked.

You rolled your eyes, putting the handcuffs on the metal table. “That’s just a stereotype, Anderson.”

“This is about you though. Okay?”

“What did you do, why are they threatening to send you to isolation?” Your tone was concerned as the air in the room changed, your voice raised.

Abby was still cold faced “I slapped the hell out of that bitch Mel. End of story, can I go back now?”

She stood “sit down, Anderson. I’m not done— your voice carried on “why’d you do it?”

Sitting down, she let out a long, deep sigh. The silenced was loud enough to hear the AC running.

“Because, she spread some bullshit rumor about me” you scoffed in disbelief “so you mean to tell me that you took a risk to get isolation just because of a rumor?.. what is this middle school?”

You were frustrated, her gaze softened as she looked away from embarrassment “I’m making them let you off with a warning, one chance only, if you fuck it up that’s your fault” your comment to her was irrelevant in her mind. She’s gonna do it again next week. She nodded anyways.

“Up, up now. We have to head back to your cell” you said grabbing the cold handcuffs off the table, she stood fast turning around as. Your hands worked against her wrist.

Walking out the room was a humiliation act, for once Abby felt little, all the cops and other prisoners staring at her.

Once you two made it to her cell, which also happens to be the cell at the end of the hall. She walked in and rubbed her wrist, it took everything in you to walk away, “wait— her voice spoke out as it echoed throughout the long empty space, you silently celebrated to yourself turning around.

“What do you want.”

She smirked “stay, please?” Please.

Not a very common word around here.

“Abby you know I can’t do th—“

“Is it also true that cops are no fun? Or is that just a stereotype as well” Abby taunted you, instantly, you gave in.

Maybe those 1 hour long conversations over the intercom did mean something.

————————————————————————

A/N:: smut will be in the next fic I post so don’t worry…. Gulp…..

@graciedollie @korn-dawg @liliofabby @lluxentzz @mewl3tte @ellieswife4ever @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @yokedtablet @doodl3wr1t3s @abigail-andersons-wife @andieprincessofpower @abbyanderswife @vyeris @lolitalovess

[written-by-spoon]

Hi! Can ı request something with tokyo debunker?

Where reader confesses them and they reject her. after a while Reader starts talking with someone to move on and they got jelous? With,Leo,Romeo,Ren,yuri,Jin and Subaru Pls? Like angs to fluff/comfort.

(Sorry for bad english)

The Sting of Deflection - Part 1, Yuri ⟢

ᯓ★ Synopsis: After deflecting away your confession, that same ghoul finds himself battling with feelings he tried to ignore. With Leo, Romeo, Ren, Yuri, Jin, and Subaru

ᯓ★ Tags: slight angst, fluff at the end, jealous!yuri, gn!reader, yuri x reader, jiro makes an appearance, yuri's emotional whiplash

ᯓ★ Word Count: 1.5K

ᯓ★ Notes: Thank you for the request! I ended up taking this in a slightly different direction, so I hope you still like it. I also wrote WAY more than I thought I would, so each ghoul is going to get their own post now haha, I also did not expect myself to write this first part so fast - I cannot promise the other parts will be uploaded as soon, but I will do my best ! (╥ᆺ╥；) Anywhooo, story below the cut! :3

── .✦

Yuri’s mind was racing - full of thoughts of his current experiment, the other three on-going projects he has paused, your curse and his never-ending theories for breaking it, watching the time to make sure Jiro gets his treatments when needed, and -

“Yuri, did you hear me?”

Your voice broke through the chaos of his mind, returning him to the present. You were standing next to him, holding a tray covered in various small medical tools for him. You were also shifting your weight back and forth constantly - so much so that the tools on the try began to slide around.

His eyes narrowed at you in annoyance, “Stand still worm! You are going to cause too many interruptions with all of this movement and I will not have my efficiency affected because you can’t get it together! What is wrong with you?” 

You immediately stilled your movements, your body going as stiff and rigid as a statue. “S-Sorry Yuri! I just got nervous because you didn’t respond to me..” You cast your eyes to the side, blush burning your face and the tops of your ears. Yuri observed your behavior with continued annoyance - this conversation was wasting his precious time! “Well spit it out then so we can move on!”

You took in a breath and hesitated before turning back to face Yuri. The disgruntled look on his face made your heart ache. Squeezing your eyes shut, you repeated your confession to him in one quick breath - “Yuri.. Ireallylikeyouasmorethanafriend a-and would m-maybe reallyliketogoonadatewithyou sometime..!”

Yuri’s face immediately flushed a deep red color as his heart began to pound in his ears. He didn’t understand why your confession affected him the way it did, so he reacted the only way he could - by not addressing it at all and deflecting the feeling. He let out a scoff to shake his nerves off, prompting you to peek at him through your lashes. “I am the great Doctor Isami Yuri! It is only natural for you to fall for me! But I simply do not have the time for a worm such as yourself when there are great medical discoveries awaiting me!” He placed one hand on his chest and gestured grandly with the other with those last few words. Standing up, he grabbed the tray from your hands and walked over to a counter behind you, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will no longer entertain interruptions from my work.”

From behind him, he heard you let out a shaky breath, followed by a sniffle - were you crying? A pang of guilt and something far heavier flooded his system, but he quickly shook it off and pretended to busy himself with the tray. You turned towards the door, making your way to leave. But before you shut the door behind you, you hesitated and said “Thank you for listening to me Yuri. I am sorry to have interrupted your work.”

With that, you shut the door with a soft click, and Yuri finally let out the breath he had been holding. He slapped himself with both hands to clear his mind. Why does it bother me so much if they cried? I have more important things to do than worry about such frivolous things. He squared his shoulders, turning around again to continue his work, only to immediately freeze.

The room Yuri was working in was connected to the larger lab, and had two large windows connecting the spaces for observation purposes. Yuri had expected you to have already left, so he was surprised to see you still there, and even more surprised to see you with Jiro.

The taller ghoul was looking down at you attentively while you gestured with your hands - no doubt telling Jiro about what had transpired moments before. He opened his mouth to reply, placing a hand gently in the middle of your back to guide you over to a chair for you to sit. Yuri’s chest tightened at the sight of Jiro’s hand on you and he felt a compelling urge to stomp out there and yell at Jiro to stop - but he held back the impulse, thinking instead about his still unfinished work.

Just as Yuri was sitting down to resume, movement from that area of the lab caught his eye again, making him glance up. Jiro had apparently left you for a moment, but had now returned. He knelt down in front of you and offered you a chilled bottle of water, and a small packet of tissues. You took both from him, immediately opening the tissues to wipe your face. Jiro watched you closely, then leaned over you to reach for the water bottle you had set aside. He opened it in one swift motion, and offered it to you again. This time his opposite hand held your shoulder as you accepted the water and took a drink. 

Yuri’s jealousy returned, full force, while watching the exchange. But it was the comforting squeeze of your shoulder and the small smile that Jiro gave you that sent him over the edge. Before he could really realize what he was doing, Yuri was up and across the room, throwing open the door to the lab. He marched over to you and Jiro, stopping to cross his arms over his chest and demand, “Would someone like to explain what is happening here?!”

You jumped a little, startled at Yuri’s sudden presence, but Jiro just looked up to Yuri nonchalantly. He released your shoulder and used that hand to gesture to you while saying, “They were experiencing emotional distress. As their doctor, it is my job to help ease their symptoms. Tissues to clean their face, water to make sure they stay hydrated after crying, and physical comfort to help bring them down from their state of distress.” 

You clenched the tissue you were holding and glanced down, embarrassment flushing your face. Jiro was being so kind, you couldn’t say no to his help, but you did not want Yuri to find you in this state. However, to your surprise, Yuri reached out a hand to yours and guided you to stand. “Let me remind you that I am their primary doctor, so it is my job to provide such care to them”, he said to Jiro, snatching the tissue packet from his hands. “And it is almost time for your treatment too, Jiro! Go get ready in the other room. I will be there shortly.”

Jiro stood up from the ground, looking between the two of you with a small smile, “Sure, Yuri.”

With that, Yuri grabbed your wrist and led you back into the room where you both were working. He brought you over to the chair he was previously sitting in, and returned to the door to close it quietly. He let out a shaky breath and turned to you, finding you watching him with wide eyes. He approached you, and knelt down in front of you, similarly to Jiro. Opening the tissue packet, he took one out and gently wiped your face with it.

The gesture was so gentle and sweet - making your heart melt. But it also made you confused - Why is he doing this if he just rejected me?

He let out a small sigh and said, “You are probably wondering why my behavior has been so extreme.” You blinked in surprise, Can he read minds too???

He stopped cleaning your face, glancing down, “I reacted to your..confession very harshly, and in a manner that was not true.” He glanced back up, meeting your eyes. You could see pain there, but also something lighter and sweeter, something like adoration. “Seeing Jiro with you made me, a-ahem, j-jealous- which made me realize how much I actually enjoy the idea of, ahem, s-spending more time with you.”

You watched his face flush with blush again. Holding eye-contact, you knew that this time he was telling the truth, and your heart began hammering in your chest. “Do you mean that, Yuri?”

He gently grasped your hand, “Yes, I do.” He looked at you for a moment before standing and flourishing his arms again, “And the great Doctor Isami Yuri never goes back on his word!” 

You rolled your eyes, but also couldn’t help but giggle at his theatrics. Standing quickly from the chair, you were able to grasp Yuri’s face and bring him down for a quick peck on the cheek. 

He jolted away from you, turning an even deeper shade of red all over, stammering out nonsense, “Why-! You- uh, I mean- we? Wait, no- I mean, us- ah-”

You smiled at him, picking up the tray from before and resuming your position next to his chair. “I would be delighted to spend more time with you, Doctor. But first we have an experiment to complete.”

He ran his hand over his face as if to rub off his blush. Giving a quick laugh he replied, “Yes, you are right. Let us continue.” He made his way over, taking his rightful place by your side.

── .✦

[lilithschosen]

I will sell you my soul for another WLW Betty fic

so ~normally~ i would've kept this on the back burner because it's lowkey a request and i'm not taking any right now. however! i did rapidly write this after the other and i'm using this as an excuse to post it teehee :)

don't break promises you intend to keep (ao3)

words: 4105 ship: Betty x f!Reader rating: E (NSFW) tags: smut, restraints, scissoring, Betty is clothed and reader is nakey, i'm anti dirk i'm sorry ok

“You're really pissing me off, dude.” 

Dirk pulls his shoulders back, overextending his posture in an attempt to seem the bigger person. 

“Yeah well,” he sniffs, wiping at his nose with his thumb before pointing at you, “You're a fucking dickhead.”

You bark a laugh and hold your hands on your hips. “I'm not the one screaming at my girlfriend day in and day out. Just fucking dump her or shut it!” 

Harper frowns from the corner, but surprisingly keeps quiet for the time being. 

Dirk looks at her over his shoulder and sneers at you. “Bold of you to bring her into this when she had you bent over the goddamn counter this morning!” 

Harper gasps, stamping her foot with her arms crossed over her chest. “We were on a break, Dirkie. Hardly fair to bring that up!” 

He raises a hand up to silence her, still glaring at you. You can only laugh harder, shaking your head back and forth while you rub your palms against your sweatpants from anxiety. You weren’t expecting Dirk to come back into the laundry room at that exact time. But, some part of you was hoping he would. 

“You're lucky I don't just break these things and leave you all to your bullshit,” you tap at the sunglasses on your face, “None of you would have any resolution to your problems without me and these fucking glasses!” 

Dirk rolls his eyes, throwing his head back. “You're so dramatic, and for what? You got dumped by Nightmare and now you're making it our collective problem?” 

You huff, throwing your hands up as you turn around and stomp out of your laundry room. “Fuck you, Dirk.” 

“Yeah, walk away,” he calls out, following you to the door frame but stopping. He leans over it to flip you the middle finger, “Coward!”

You shove your way through the kitchen, briefly apologizing to Kopi after you collide with her. She responds but you don't catch it, instead just nodding as you go. Beverly and Kopi share a look at one another but shrug and continue tending to their drinks. 

You climb the stairs two at a time, grumbling to yourself with things you wish you'd said in the moment now that the argument with Dirk was over. You care about Harper and absolutely hate how Dirk treats her. There's nothing you can really do with their hot and cold relationship, despite trying your damnedest to get Harper away from him. 

You squeeze past Dorian who barely shifts to the side as you enter your bedroom. You groan in annoyance before falling fast first into the bed. You don't see or hear Betty for a moment and you sigh, turning your head to look around the bedroom for the pink haired woman. 

Timmy waves at you, pawing at his ear on his head. The Hanks goad one another before they all jump off the rack in the closet with a resounding cheer in excitement while Beau tugs at the strap of her satchel across her chest. Ben-Hwa rolls their shoulders back, checking their nails only to look up from them to pucker their lips at you. 

Everyone was here except for Betty. 

You pull the glasses from your face, no longer wishing to see anyone except for her, and tuck them underneath a pillow on the bed. You let out a drawn out sigh, muffling the sound in a pillow, then rest your cheek against it. 

“Need a hug or something right now, Betty.” 

The house is quiet for the first time in ages.

No one calls for you to help them, to listen to them, to do anything. Instead, it's just you, staring up at your ceiling, alone. 

The annoyance you once held for Dirk now slowly drifts away as you feel yourself sink into the soft mattress. You flex your fingers against the blankets, fanning them out while pointing your toes down to stretch every limb. 

While you relax, your mind begins to take over and leads you to a pleasant set of memories. 

Harper with her head between your legs, the hamper lid pushed back so you can run your fingers through her hair. 

Beverly holding a drink to your lips, letting it dribble down your chin. How she licked it up and kissed you after, making sure she didn't let a drop go to waste. 

Dasha bouncing you on her strap with glee, having her arms hooked under your legs to hold you up as if you weighed nothing at all while standing firm in the middle of the office. 

Sophia with her flogger, lifting your chin to look at her while you desperately try to finger yourself on your knees with Zoey and Bobby watching behind you. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, grabbing a fistful of the blankets on the side where Betty always lays. “Where are you?” 

You miss the pink hue the lens of the dateviators provides, but not seeing anyone for once was refreshing. 

You sit up in the bed, turning toward the bedside table where you kept your vibrator. You think on it for a second before tugging the drawer open and removing your ol’ faithful, the rose gold, suction vibe that you could always count on. 

You click the button, checking the battery life. It hums to life, gently suctioning at nothing. You turn it off and flop back to the bed, legs spreading. 

“Dunno if you're here now, Betty,” you call out, “I hope you are, otherwise a lot of you are about to get a performance you shouldn’t.” 

You slip the toy under your sweatpants and underwear, settling it over your clit. You press the button again and increase the speed with two clicks, gasping at how quickly it latches around your clit. 

“Good god.” 

You sink into the bed again with your head between your pillows while you hold the vibrator steady against you. 

You clench around nothing, knees held against the bed as you cant your hips up into the cool air of your bedroom. 

“Betty,” you whine, “Where are you?”

You tick the vibrator speed up another level, groaning at the pressure. You grind into the toy eagerly, lifting your hips off the bed as you moan. 

You pant through a clenched jaw while your knuckles turn white with how hard you're holding the bedding. The same bedding that consists of Betty’s pants. 

You ache at the thought of her, knowing how much she loves it when you masturbate and she plays with your pussy to help you along. 

It feels naughty to know she’s probably now watching but you can’t see her. You bite your lip, twisting your head to the side with a quiet moan. 

You wonder if Betty is here, drooling while you keep the vibrator against your clit, having a very obvious bulge in your sweatpants from what you were doing. 

Removing your hand from your pants and leaving the vibrator balanced against your thigh to keep sucking at you, you reach under the pillow to grab the dateviators. It hadn’t been more than a few minutes since you took them off to now, could she be here already? 

You gasp, feeling the vibrator slip off your clit but manage to resuction even harder, hips jolting up from the bed at it. You struggle to pry the glasses open, shifting them up to your nose while your eyes close. 

“Oh, there she is,” you hear the breathy coo of Betty at the base of the bed, feeling her hands locking around your ankles, “You got in a spat with Dirk downstairs and came up here to calm down?”

She waits a beat for you to respond and when you don’t, she tightens her hold. Your eyes snap open with a groan, angling your head to look down your body to her. 

She’s standing, gazing up at you with her lip between her teeth. Her coat and headband are gone, leaving just the top that mimics your headboard and her plush pants that copy your bedding on her body. 

“You wanna answer me, sweetheart?” she asks, her eyes glinting with mischief, “Or should I have to punish you for getting off without those specs on? You know I hate not being able to touch you now.”

It was one of the things you both discussed after your first night together. Betty confessed her love and overall obsession with you, which flustered you to no end. With it, though, she told you she hated not being able to provide a helping hand when you got off. You agreed that you wouldn’t touch yourself in the bed without the glasses on and have kept the promise ever since. 

Until right now.

She crawls up onto the bed, arms sliding off of your legs to spread out across the blankets slowly while a teasing smirk grows across her face. You whimper, holding your legs closed to keep the vibrator attached to your clit. The focused suction now pinched between your thighs has you grinding up into it, your mouth opened as you pant. 

Betty raises her hand from the bed, wagging her finger back and forth while she tuts. “Seems like someone is getting needy. Isn’t that right, baby?”

She runs her hands up over your hip and between your legs, wrapping her fingers around the vibrator underneath your pants. You shake your head in disapproval, eyebrows knit together as you whine. 

Betty clicks her tongue at you, pouting in faux understanding. She brushes your hair out of your face, cupping your face, pumping her hand up over the bulge in your pants. Betty holds the vibrator down against your clit for a beat before pulling it away entirely. 

“As much as I like that visual, I have another thought.”

“Betty, please,” you whimper with your hips raised, trying to maintain some friction or pressure. The small, gentle spiral of your orgasm dissolves and leaves your cunt throbbing with your fast heartbeat. “I was getting close, that’s not fair.”

The vibrator hums louder now that it has nothing to suck on, thrumming against your inner thigh with Betty leaving it there. She grips your hips, her fingernails digging into the fabric of your sweatpants. 

“Can I take these off of you, sugar?” 

You nod and she smiles at you, winking. Betty removes your pants, dragging them down to your knees before moving down your legs to slip the cuff at the end over your feet, then takes them off entirely. She walks her fingers back up your leg, skating her fingertips against the hem of your underwear with a happy sigh. 

“And these?” she slips her fingers into the waistband, tugging them away from your body. “They’re hindering my plans, you see.”

You want to respond, be cheeky, flirt with her, but you’re aching and soaked. It’s eating away at your resolve. 

Betty waits a beat before you nod frantically. She quickly sheds them from you and tosses them onto the floor along with your sweatpants. 

“I’ll never get over this,” she groans through her teeth, scratching into your pubic hair with her fingernails, “I love how you keep it down here, I wanna play with it when you’re sleeping.” 

She swirls a thick curl of your pubic hair around the tip of her finger, smiling as you grumble with frustration. Your legs fall open, one knee landing on Betty’s legs and the other hitting the bed with a soft thud. Betty laughs at your dramatic antics, the light noise and how her breasts jiggle against her top almost distracts you from how much you need release. 

“I was thinking of trying something, if you’re into it.”

She flattens her hand against you, inching down from your pelvic bone until she can cup your slick core. You take a sharp inhale, rolling your hips into her fingers as your eyes unfocus. 

Betty leans down, still having her other hand on your face. She turns you to look at her, your eyes locking immediately as she smiles at you. 

“I want you to hold onto the headboard,” she strokes your cheek for a second before she lifts her hand from your face and grabs onto your wrist. She guides it up above your head and has you grab the underside of it. “With both hands.”

You quickly follow your orders, grabbing the underside of the headboard with your other hand. Betty pats your forearm, then sits back on her heels. 

“How are you with being restrained, sweetie?”

You swallow hard at the question, eyes wide. Betty has a subtle flush on her cheeks, biting on her bottom lip with her head tilted in question. You blink, trying to get the sentence right before you speak it. 

Licking your lips, you clear your throat. “I’m okay with whatever you want, Betty.”

The blush on her cheeks grows darker as she stares down at you through her heavy-lidded eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Betty climbs off the bed, her bare feet hitting the hardwood of your bedroom floor. She kneels to grab at the bunched up sheets at the bottom of the bed and stands, wrapping them into a thick, makeshift rope. 

“You know,” she begins, climbing back onto the bed, “I thought about taking cords from Sophia, something from her whip or whatever she has lying around in the attic.”

Betty dangles part of the sheets over the headboard, taking the bottom of it to wrap around one wrist. She ties you tight against the headboard, but jiggles your arm to make sure it wasn’t too tight. You give her a little thumbs up, watching her with rapt attention.

“That’s where I was, by the way. When you trudged up after your bickering with Dirk downstairs. I was in the attic with Sophia, coming up with this very plan.”

Your lower lip trembles, moaning at the thought of your domme giving Betty ideas of what to do with you. Betty breathes a chuckle, tying your other wrist to the headboard and repeating what she did with the other. You let go of the headboard entirely, your arms forced up by the sheet. 

“She told me that her “little wretch” loves being restrained,” Betty tries to say it with the same tone Sophia does when she calls you that, but struggles to nail the same power Sophia carries. It hits differently when Betty says it. “I never saw you do anything with restraints, but I know everything else you like.” 

She reaches between your legs and grabs your vibrator. You perk up, eyebrows shooting to your hairline. You expect her to hold it against your clit, to finish what you started. Instead, she clicks it off.

“Fuck.”

Betty flashes a toothy smile at your reaction, placing the vibrator down on the bed. “You’ll get what you want, baby. Not just yet though.”

She straddles you, knees on either side of your hips. You instinctively try to grab her hips, wanting to grip her and touch her soft skin, grazing your fingers over your curves. The sheets thud against the headboard and you huff at them, looking up at your hands stuck in place. 

“I know, baby,” Betty coos at you, running her hands up her sides sensually while you can only watch. “I’ll touch myself for you since you can’t.”

She rubs against the sides of her breasts, squeezing them together and leaning down to make sure they’re in your face. You whine, craning your neck as far down as you can manage but to no avail. 

“You just had to wait for me, sweetness.” 

Betty gives you a teasing smile, living for every second of this moment. She pulls her top up over her chest, then sneaks her arms out so it lays around her neck. Her tits drop out of the top, letting gravity pull them down and they hang in your face. 

For every night you spent writhing beneath your sheets, Betty was there just without you knowing. 

She'd replicate your movements each time. How you would sometimes grasp at your own breasts and roll your nipple from side to side while you rubbed your clit. Or even when you'd fill yourself with your fingers, head thrown back in ecstasy between the pillows, begging to no one for release. She'd copy it all and pretend she was fucking you, or vice versa. 

Betty was never picky, just always happy to receive or give whenever the need arose.

Every orgasm that shook you to the core that she had to watch, listen, and eventually touch herself to. Every single instance when you had no idea she was even real. 

It was torture. 

Now, was her chance to prove how much torture it truly was.

Your lips tighten into an o, wanting to wrap them around Betty’s pebbled nipples. You thrust your hips up into her ass as a last ditch effort for stimulation, letting out an obscene moan as you feel your clit able to get the barest of friction from her pants. 

Betty gasps, rocking into your hips. She falls forward, planting her hands on either side of your shoulders. She clenches around nothing and grinds into you again. 

“Oh fuck, baby,” she whines, tossing her head back to ride you, “I thought you were gonna be good for me. This is supposed to be about you.”

You buck up into her again, lip curling up in a snarl, sending her forward with a yelp. Her tits bounce and you manage to swipe at one of her nipples with your quick tongue as they move. She laughs through a moan, moving a hand from the bed to grip your hips underneath her. Fully sitting up and moving her chest from your face, you frown. 

“As much as I’d love for you to play with these,” Betty pins her tits together by holding them with her biceps, a trail of drool falls from your lips at the visual of them, “I told you only I could touch myself.” 

She drags her hand up from your bare hip and splays it against your belly, using your abdomen as a way to keep her steady as she groans. She rocks into you again, twisting her hips to angle herself to grind against her pants while using you. 

“Oh, baby,” she gasps, nodding at her own movements. You shake at your bindings and grunt knowing damn well you can't touch her. “I'm so wet for you, can you tell? So fucking wet, all for you.” 

You try to buck into her again, wanting to feel yourself rubbing against her pants but she centers herself to maintain her easy rhythm and not allow you to move. 

Betty moans out a string of obscenities, eyes nearly closing completely as she grinds against your bare cunt. 

“Every night, you'd get off by yourself and I'd watch,” she rasps. Sweat begins to bead on your brow while your skin grows hotter. Your arousal begins to run down your inner thigh as she continues. “I'd touch myself, waiting to hear you scream my name but it never came while you did.” 

She scraps her nails down your stomach a bit before pressing her palm down while she rides harder and faster. 

You dig your heels into the mattress, desperate to use it as leverage to get her to touch your swollen clit. You want to cry, so overstimulated but so turned on. 

Betty laughs, head hanging low as she grinds her hips into yours with a fervor. “Say my name, baby. I need to hear it come from your sweet mouth.”

Her eyes open as she looks through her lashes at you. You try to meet her hips with each roll of them and you manage to, only missing the rhythm a couple of times before you pick it up. 

She slips her leg down off your hips, nudging your thigh with her knee until she can guide you to lift your leg up and over hers. She wedges herself firmly between your legs, holding her clothed center against your nude core. 

The tears spill as your lip quivers, unable to hold back your drastically heightened emotions now that she's fucking you directly. 

“Betty,” you whimper, blinking back any remaining tears. “Betty, I'm sorry. Betty, I need you so fucking bad.”

She moans at how you plead her name like it was a  prayer for reprieve.

“That's it, sweetness,” Betty grinds into you hard, grabbing your knee to hold your leg up and give her something sturdy to keep her going.

“Keep saying my name. It sounds so perfect when it's coming from your mouth.” 

She reaches down to grab you by the chin. Betty swipes away the tears that fell from your cheek with her thumb with a warm smile. Your heart feels like it’ll burst out of your chest. Then two fingers slip past your mouth as she drags her clothed center over yours. 

Your hot, wet mouth sucks on Betty’s digits eagerly. Your tongue forces them apart, pulling them further into your throat until you gag on them. 

Betty spreads her fingers in your mouth, fingernails poking into the insides of your cheeks. She forces your lips up over your teeth and you gargle out a moan. 

“Say my fucking name, baby.”

“Betty!” 

She throws her head back, ripping her fingers out of your mouth as she furiously rubs against you. You feel your arousal soaking into the fabric of her clothes but neither of you care.

You strain against the restraints still, wanting nothing more than to grab at Betty’s ass and keep her down while she grinds against you. 

Her body ruts into yours frantically, bouncing up and grinding down hard until she chokes on her noises. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, eyes fluttering shut as she falls to pieces on top of you. 

You lift your other leg up to rub into her back, the only way you can manage to comfort her while she's blissed out. 

The need to orgasm falls to the back burner, watching in awe at the goddess above you. You take in each individual freckle across her cheeks and nose, especially the ones across her chest. 

Betty whimpers and whines in her throat, teeth digging into her bottom lip so hard you fear she'll draw blood. 

When her eyes open, she exhales with a hot, breathy laugh. She blinks, rocking into you slowly while her eyes roll into her head again only to open them once more. 

“I think I ruined my pants,” she stills, the splayed hand on your lower stomach curls into a fist, “I'm not sure if it was you or me, actually.” 

You smile up at her, still nudging your knee against her. “You're so beautiful, Betty.” 

She beams at you, her pink hair out of place and frizzy but still looking perfect as always. Her face is flushed, sweat running down her face and dripping off her nose. She exhales slowly, calming her rapid heartbeat. 

“You’re a good workout, sweetheart,” she jokes, “Nothing like some cardio in bed to get you going.”

You roll your eyes and she leans forward, taking your lips against hers with a sweet kiss. You hum against her lips, smiling. She breaks the kiss and brushes your noses together. 

Betty reaches up for the bedsheets holding your arms up and gently unties each of your wrists, rubbing at the indents left behind from how much you tried to break free from them. As you’re able to take your hands back, she interlocks your fingers together with hers. 

“You’re too good to me, you know. I know you didn’t get off like you’d hoped to.”

You shrug, squeezing your hand against hers. “Had something more important to attend to.”

Betty shifts against you, untangling your legs, and flops down next to you in her usual spot. She throws a leg over your waist and rests her head on your chest. You nuzzle into her mass of pink hair at the top of her forehead, your lips pressing a gentle kiss to her hairline. 

Your clit throbs with a dull reminder of what you wanted, but you sigh happily with Betty in your arms like this. 

“Maybe I’ll make it up to you in the morning before everyone wakes up.”

Her hand trails up your torso, drawing a wide circle around one of your nearly painfully hard nipples. A whimper dies in your throat as she chuckles.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, woman.”

[halcyonghoul]

They Get The Job Done

summary: Let it be known to all Siblings of the ministry that when multiple ghouls start to take interest in a mundane task you’re completing, it never ends well. pairing(s): platonic reader x nameless ghouls, dewdrop x aether implied if you squint warnings: n/a word count: 1,443 a/n: This is my first time writing in years but I was inspired by a joke post I made on twitter yesterday. As always the characters mentioned are inspired by the fictional characters as created by Ghost and in no way depict the real people behind the masks. Find this and my other works on AO3

Let it be known to all Siblings of the ministry that when multiple ghouls start to take interest in a mundane task you’re completing, it never ends well. 

Your day had started simply enough. A short list in your pocket of minor repairs needed to be done around the Abbey, the ministry’s toolbox in hand, and you were off. The first item on your list was repairing a loose door frame near Papa’s office. The sound of the drill had attracted the attention of a wandering ghoul- Phantom- who stopped to ask you questions as you worked. You didn’t mind the company or the questions from the younger ghoul. It made the work go by faster and he was always pleasant to interact with. Soon the task at hand was finished and you moved onto the next task, now with a ghoul shadow. The sun blazed down on the pair of you, but the conversation stayed lively as you went about explaining the process of repairing a crack in the greenhouse siding to Phantom. He squatted in the dirt next to you, nodding along to your spiel animatedly. You were too occupied with the spackle in your hands to notice how the quintessence ghoul’s eyes wandered every so often to the open box of tools at your feet.

As the day wore on you found yourself with what seemed like an entire pack of ghouls trailing behind you. Mountain joined you and Phantom as you finished with the greenhouse. Soon, your small band of adventurers caught the attention of Rain and Dew, which then caught the attention of Aurora and Cirrus. While conversation and batting Dew’s hands away from power tools made the day seem to go by faster, despite the extra hands with you, the curious swarm made each task take longer to complete. The pack was more than content to stand over your shoulder and observe rather than help (Mountain did screw in a loose lightbulb just out of your reach at least). By the time you finished your to-do list you were covered in a layer of dust, dirt, and sweat. Taking a look at your watch you let out a small yelp realizing you were going to miss out on dinner if you didn’t hurry. “Thanks for the help today, guys! I’d say I couldn’t have done it without you, but we all know that’s a load of shit. See you around!” You cheerfully exited the group of sort-of repair ghouls and rushed towards the Sibling quarters. You were so distracted by the ghouls and your tardiness that you hadn’t realized you left behind your bag of tools as you headed back to your room to freshen up for the evening. Dew shared a conspiring grin with Phantom as your figure retreated down the hall. 

As soon as you were out of earshot the pack of ghouls dove for the toolbox in a frenzy, grabbing whatever they could get their claws on and scurrying off with their prizes. 

Mountain thought he was helping you out by straightening that crooked nail haphazardly holding a picture frame up until he hit his thumb, dropped the hammer, and cracked the worn tile below his feet. Rain, ever the helpful ghoul, tried to take over for Mountain so the earth ghoul could nurse his wound. In the process of hammering, the water ghoul managed to drive the nail into a water pipe beneath the wall. Water was streaming out like a fountain and anything Rain tried to get it to stop made the leak worse. Eventually, panicking, he grabbed a larger picture off a nearby wall and put it over the leaking spot. He and Mountain slowly shuffled towards the ghoul den while water started to leak through the ancient oil painting. 

Phantom stood tall, electric drill in hand, as he stared at the breaker box in front of him. During his tour around the Ministry with you, the room full of electrical equipment was his favorite. He had stopped paying attention half way through your explanation of the task in favor of poking wires and making note of which ones shocked him. The drill had been another favorite of his and he was delighted to get his hands on it once you left him and his fellow ghouls unsupervised. The ghoul revved the drill, getting used to the weight of it before he held it up and pressed it against the breaker. With a little bit of pressure it ate through the metal, sending an electric shock through the quint. With a loud pop, spark and puff of smoke from the breaker the power in the entire wing of the Abbey flickered off around Phantom. “...Cool!” the ghoul gasped out as he tried to blink the lingering feeling of shock from his system. 

Copia muttered to himself as he shuffled stacks of paper around his desk. His time as a Cardinal made him no stranger to clerical work, but his current change in job title made every document feel like torture. The lights in the newly renovated office flickered once, twice, before completely going out. The man let out a deep sigh, cursing his twin brother under his breath for good measure, before standing up and exiting his office in favor of finding the source of the sudden power outage. 

Elsewhere in the Abbey the ghoulettes were wreaking havoc with an electric nail gun; Aurora and Cirrus in a lively round of target practice with the various items they came across. Siblings and members of the clergy ran and ducked as they passed through the hallway on the way to their next destination, narrowly missing a nail to the head, leg, or other body parts. An unlucky cardinal barely escaped, his biretta crucified on the wall behind him. Cirrus blew on the chamber of the nail gun like a cowboy in a Western and pretended to holster it in her belt, satisfied with her work. Both ghoulettes were distracted from picking out their next target by the smell of smoke and loud cursing across the courtyard. 

Aether had followed the smell of smoke out of the infirmary and was not surprised in the slightest to find Dewdrop staring at a hole in the wall, screwdriver in hand, blinking at the fire spreading along a water pipe. The small fire ghoul opened his mouth to defend himself but it died in his throat as Aether held up a hand in warning. Aether calmly, but swiftly, went back to the infirmary to collect the fire extinguisher and came back to see Dew prodding the fire with the screwdriver. The fire had spread down the pipe creating the need for the quintessence ghoul to stick his upper body in the hole to try to douse the flames. He overestimated the amount of weight the wall could hold and the ghoul went crashing down as drywall cracked under him. Stuck in a downward dog position, half of him sticking out of the wall, is exactly how the ghoulettes found him. 

Dewdrop was doubled over with his hands on his knees, crying with laughter at the predicament his fellow ghoul had found himself in. “If you missed me that much, Aeth, you could have just texted me,” Dew choked out between laughs, “Can’t say I don’t appreciate the view.” Angry banging from the inside of the wall from Aether made Dew’s laughter grow louder

Cirrus had taken to poking Aether to get the larger ghoul to squirm, ignoring his pleas to help him out of the wall. Aurora had just taken the nail gun from Cirrus and aimed it at Aether’s defenseless backside when the ghouls heard someone clacking down the hallway towards them.

Copia strolled by the quickly escalating situation with his arms clasped behind his back, whistling quietly to himself. Upon seeing their former Papa approaching, Aurora slowly lowered the nail gun in her hands and Dewdrop hid the screwdriver behind his back. The ghouls smiled innocently as if Aether wasn’t still stuck in the wall, the smell of smoke wasn’t lingering in the air, and the fire ghoul wasn’t wiping his eyes and shaking from the effort of holding back his laughter. The Frater Imperator stopped to take one look at his ghouls, turned on his heel, and continued down the hallway. Before he rounded the corner he called, “The chair in the Papal office has a wobbly leg. Feels like it may break. One loosened screw should, eh, do the trick.” 

Dew looked at the two ghoulettes, patted Aether on the ass, and took off running down the hall to Papa Perpetua’s office.

[fenimores-book-nook]

Aromantic visibility!!

~ June 29th & 30th ~

Pride just happened for me! It was great and so fun; I wore my Aromantic flag like a cape and had my little handheld Asexual flag in my hand, waving it around. :) How this Pride worked was, there was a parade of a bunch of people that you watch and then at the end of it you can join in a walk to the building that the event is at. It is a long walk and feels even longer in the heat. But honestly, only on the way back to your vehicle, if you parked near the beginning of the parade. The walk there doesn't feel long, yes it's hot but it doesn't really matter or bother me much because I'm enjoying myself so much. I love being around the people at Pride because everyone seems to just be so full of love. It's beautiful. Plus, it's so fun with my friends.

I had mentioned in an earlier post that I wished there were more Aromantic things at Pride events I've been to and I do wish there was more this time. BUT! I saw someone else walking by me with an Aromantic flag tied around their neck like a cape too! I got so excited to see someone else that's a part of the Aro community as well! I also did see some homemade ceramic pins that were really cool and one was painted Aro colors, so that was awesome!

All in all, it was a great Pride and I'm so happy I got to go. Especially go with my AroAce things for the second year in a row. That may be like an, okay, and? thing, but for me it feels big. My sexuality and romantic orientation journey has been through a lot. A lot of confusion and acceptance work and just a lot. So the fact that I went to Pride using Aromantic Asexual last year as well as this year is just comforting to me. Of course it's 100% okay to change; sexuality is fluid!! But it's just a part that makes me proud to be who I am. :)

Alright, we're gonna switch into a more rant-styled writing. (yes, it is a different day than when I started this, shh) It's still in the AroAce category, but I need to get this out there. First: THE IMPORTANCE OF YOUR SEXUALITY AND/OR ROMANTIC ORIENTATION DOES NOT RELY ON THE ABILITY THAT OTHERS HAVE OR DO NOT HAVE TO UNDERSTAND IT. AND IT ALSO DOES NOT MAKE IT ANY LESS REAL IF SOMEONE WOULD RESPOND IN A WAY THAT WOULD INSINUATE THAT IT ISN'T REAL. BECAUSE IT IS.

Okay. Sorry for yelling, but it needed to be said to prepare you. Also, I feel like I should add a WARNING: this post includes mentions of arophobia and if you aren't comfortable with that, you don't have to read on! Take care of yourself. <3

I wouldn't even necessarily call this a rant, it's more like a, hey, I didn't realize that this was actually really arophobic at the time, but now I do and I'm working through it. Also, shared experiences help people feel more seen! Even if it wasn't a great experience, you aren't alone in it. <3

So, I had a friend in high school and I really liked this friend at the time (platonically, of course); they were a fun person to be around. So much so that I wanted to go to prom together but in "the most platonic way possible." I actually used that phrase on the sign I made to ask them with. Should've been pretty obvious how I felt about them, but whatever. In between the time I asked them and when prom was, we had a choir trip. This was also around the first time I was realizing I'm Aromantic. On that trip, there was this weird dance they had for the students that didn't really interest me so I mainly hung out at a table until this friend asked if I wanted to go walk around. So I was like, sure, I'm bored. We found this really pretty area with a big window where you could see the cars go by. And we just sat there together, chatting and chilling. It was a nice time at the moment, but looking back on it knowing what I know now, does not give me the greatest feeling. While we were hanging out there I told them that I had been researching about Aromanticism and thinking that it felt like me. I couldn't tell you what their response was at that time, but a later response kind of told me that they didn't take anything away from that conversation.

That later response came not super long after that. They told me that they liked me. After I had said I was pretty sure I'm Aromantic. And at the time, I was just very confused. There were some other things that played a part that made me even more confused but I just responded with something like, hey, sorry I don't like you like that. I don't like anyone like that. I'm Aromantic. You're still my friend. That's simplifying it a lot, but you get it. Then, I wasn't feeling anything other than confusion, awkwardness, and a whole lotta uncomfy-ness. Now, I mainly feel angry. They completely disregarded this huge part of me that I was discovering. It's infuriating. Especially because it was at the start of my Discovering I'm AroAce Journey.

So, mainly I just wanted to kind of talk about that. And how indirect arophobic still can hurt and have an effect on people. It's easy to dismiss small comments or situations that you play off as, oh, they don't really understand it, so it's fine. But no, it isn't fine. Anyone could look up what Aromanticism means. And even if they still don't understand it after that, that doesn't give them the excuse to play it off as something that isn't real. Or treat it like it's not real. Because IT IS. OBVIOUSLY. I'M LIVING PROOF THAT AROMANTICISM IS REAL. AND SO ARE YOU IF YOU ARE ALSO IN THE AROMANTIC COMMUNITY.

So, really, the point of this post is to bring light and importance to how badly the Aromantic community needs more visibility. And that's not to say other communities don't, there are countless ones who need more visibility as well.

Anyways. Don't let what others say or refuse to understand dictate how you feel about your identity. You deserve to be out and proud about who you are, whatever that may look like! It's different for everyone. If it's wearing something with your flag on it, or showing up to every pride event there is, or writing blog posts about it (wink, wink), whatever it may look like, it's beautiful. As long as you aren't hurting yourself or others, it's amazing. You are amazing.

To end on a cute and happy note; look at this cute Aro illustration I found on Pinterest:

<3

Go be you proudly!

With absolute LOVE,

Thalia <3

[interstellarsystem]

Nonhuman expressions of affection are great. Purring. Exposing weak points as a show of trust. Head bonks. Preening and chewing. Nuzzling. Biting. Intertwining tails. Feeding each other. Little chuffs, chatters, beeps and squeaks. Fluffing up of feathers, fur or other things. Dancing to impress. Cleaning their fur, scales, feathers or skin. Sharing body heat. Ears pointing toward those you care about to show your full attention is on them. Slow blinking.

[myokk]

fast sketch of my one-shot with Ominis💓

legilimency

Word count: 1.700

Rating: M (language)

Ominis Gaunt is a lost case - lost to the whims of one very determined Gryffindor sitting at his side.

They sit in the back of the History of Magic classroom, the only two students not lulled to somnolence by their professor. He: trying his hardest to focus on Professor Binns’ droning (easier said than done). She: trying her hardest to distract Ominis while not being entirely sure of being successful or not (easier attempted than understood).

Professor Binns is completely insufferable, of course. Ominis wonders if the ghost is as blind as he is: Binns willfully ignores the fact that all of his students use his class as an excuse to get a nap in (maybe he simply doesn’t see them sleeping - only one of many reasons why Ominis has decided he could never be a professor), rambling on and on in the most boring way possible. As if he were trying to be as dull as possible (maybe he does it to avoid interacting with the students which…can’t be to blame). In a different life, Ominis could see himself quite liking the subject, but as things stand he despises it.

Especially now.

Ominis fervently wishes that he could fall asleep.

Then, he might avoid hearing her thoughts - they’re consuming him and he can’t ignore them as much as he would like to.

Normally, he loves this class - not the subject, obviously - but the class itself, for the sheer fact that it is the only time where he gets some peace and quiet. Everyone’s minds nice and quiet and shut off for the time being while they sleep. Although he has gotten used to ignoring the thoughts of everyone around him, their various voices mixing and mingling with each other into a dull thrum in the back of his mind, it is nice to have some quiet once in a while.

But right now, with everyone asleep except for the Gryffindor at his side, her thoughts are so loud it’s like she’s screaming at him.

So here he is, wishing he could fall asleep, leave the class, maybe turn off the infernal legilimency that has haunted him his whole life.

(His parents and Marvolo insist it’s a gift handed down from Slytherin himself, just like the Parseltongue Ominis despises. It is not. It is a curse.)

He is stuck listening to her.

It doesn’t help that she seems to have caught on to him - something he had managed to avoid until now. Nobody else, not even Sebastian or Anne, has ever suspected a thing. But, in all fairness, those two are extremely loud and say every single thought that passes through their minds out loud even when they should remain quiet, and nobody else has had the opportunity to spend enough time with Ominis to begin to suspect anything.

Until her.

He had to go and let that blasted girl worm her way into his life, not leaving him alone ever, always looking for excuses to talk and ask his opinion, and being so intelligent that he wanted to invite her to study with him and talk with him and…

Since it happened a few nights ago, he hasn’t stopped cursing himself for that stupid offhand comment he made. They had been studying in silence in the library together, by the history books where nobody else ever ventures (thank you, Professor Binns), and he could have sworn that she asked him if he was finally going to walk her back to her common room (he blames a lack of sleep and wishful thinking for this mishap). His traitorous face had flushed and he had jumped at the chance to escort her - maybe she would let him carry her bag, or… - only to feel his whole body go cold and his stomach drop when her response wasn’t what he’d expected.

A pause: then: a confused voice: ‘Ominis, I didn’t say anything.’

His Gryffindor wasn’t stupid like Gryffindors were normally wont to be. He knew her, and he knew that after his monumental mistake, the gears in her brain were turning and he was terrified that somehow she had figured it out.

(His Gryffindor?)

She had been unusually quiet around him since then, although he bitterly noticed that she was still acting normally with everyone else. Still finding every opportunity to punch Sebastian in the shoulder and laugh with Anne, still whispering with Natsai about Merlin knows what, still…

But she had been avoiding Ominis. He couldn’t stand it.

Well, avoiding him right until this stupid class, when she had to go and sit right next to him (ignoring the fact that she always sits next to him in History of Magic, that everyone already has and adheres to their unofficial seats), and he can’t ignore her.

She’s pretending to take studious notes, but he knows better. The scratching of her quill blending with the droning of Professor Binns’ voice but not drowning out her thoughts. They float above the other noises, her voice sweet and piercing. Ominis wonders vaguely what she’s actually writing, because he’s positive it isn’t notes.

Professor Binns looks so sexy right now with his medieval hat, talking about…whatever it is he’s passionate about. I wonder if he would let me talk to him after class without floating through me like he normally does…

Ominis is determined not to react. She’s obviously trying to bait him. But…what if she is attracted to Professor Binns? Is he an attractive man? At the thought, the fist that’s resting on top of his desk clenches, but he works to make sure his face remains impassive. Apart from a twitch of his lips, he thinks he’s been quite successful.

She: huffing and shifting in her chair, her robes rustling as she crosses her legs. He: keeping his head facing forward, steadfastly ignoring her.

She changes tactics.

Maybe she’s just as insufferable as the other Gryffindors, after all.

I wonder what Ominis would say if he knew I woke up moaning today after a dream about him -

He shifts slightly in his seat, hoping that she’s so busy taking notes (who’s he kidding) that she won’t notice his discomfort as his trousers tighten -

…the girls in my dorm have been bothering me nonstop about who I’ve been mooning over but I don’t want them to…

His hand is in such a tight fist it’s a wonder he’s not breaking any fingers as he tries to remain as still as possible, but his traitorous arousal is making her thoughts harder and harder to ignore. Had he ever been able to ignore her?

…his tongue was deep inside me as I screamed his name…

He feels his face heat up at the thought - where had she learned such vulgar language? - and his whole body stiffens. He’s sure that she can feel the tension and warmth radiating off of him in waves but that…she…his insane little lion keeps shouting at him in the silence of the classroom. She’s now stopped all pretense of taking notes and is sitting stock still.

…his cock deep inside of me as…wait…what else did I hear Garreth say to Leander that night?…um… She shifts uncomfortably, her knee grazing Ominis’s as she moves to squeeze her legs together. It’s all he can do to not groan and remain impassive. Oh god…I…what’s that feeling? This was just supposed to get back at him for probably - maybe - reading my thoughts and I’m officially insane because how would he even be able to do that?…his ears turning red from embarrassment are so adorable and I can’t stand this anymore and…

Ominis tries his hardest not to move his head in her direction. His jaw flexes. Maybe he can drown her out if he starts reciting potions ingredients, or if he focuses on what Professor Binns is saying, but even he knows its futile. He’s hanging on to her every word - thought? - and his head slowly turns in her direction as she keeps going.

…does he know how much I think about him? Oh god, what if he dreams of me the same way I…

He slams the open book in front of him shut, the loud noise causing Sebastian to jerk awake and babble incoherently for a moment before slumping back over his desk, drooling and snoring lightly. Nobody else in the class seems to notice except her of course. Blissfully, she has stopped talking - thinking - and he can finally -

It’s no use. He needs to get out of there. She has invaded his mind and…What if she starts up again with her filthy thoughts that are bleeding into his own and -

Did he hear me? I didn’t actually think…oh god, can he hear me now? What have I done?

Ominis very slowly brings his hand over to where he knows hers is. The quill falls out of her hand and he hears a sharp intake of breath at their contact. His fingers trace her knuckles and then he slowly trails them up her arm. His fingertips are so sensitive that he could swear that he feels every thread that he passes, her skin warm and alive underneath the fabric. Then to her neck, her throat bobs and he feels her erratic heartbeat. Finally, he reaches her face. She remains very, very still as his fingers brush over her features for the first time.

He has never touched someone like this before.

Her skin is like velvet, soft everywhere he touches. Now that he knows what it feels like he’s not sure he can go back to before. His fingers trace the curve of her eyebrows - he finds that her nose is straight before it flares up a tiny bit at the tip - his fingers ghost over her impossibly soft lips. He drags his thumb across her bottom lip as her tongue darts out to wet them. It’s impossibly intimate and the world has melted away and it’s just the two of them in that moment.

He leans forward.

“Ominis, I…” she whispers, stricken.

His hand moves to tuck some of her loose hair away from her face - does she always wear it like this? - and his lips brush against her ear. He inhales deeply, her sweet smell invading his senses. She shivers under his touch and he breathes, “I heard everything.”

[sneakyboymerlin]

It’s 2025 and people are still putting posts that absolutely SHIT on rare pairs in favor of their popular ships in the rare pair tags. Keep that shit out of rare pair tags! We don’t care to see you talking about how your ship is better! 🥱

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

Immense willingness to write VS absolutely shot visual/word processing that makes it hard to read: battle to the death right now

[crystal-verse]

Day 11 - Surrogate

[brief and vague mentions of pregnancy and childbirth. featuring lyna's parents, and queerplatonic relationships between the two of them and the exarch]

It escapes them, some days, just how lucky they are to have Dulna and Vaimet by their side. Then, of course, he is reminded, by a stray word or some thing he'd forgotten that one of the two had dealt with in his stead; by a stray pat on his shoulder, or the way one of the two would so casually yet carefully press a shoulder against one of his.

He is very close with the two, the Exarch -- Raha, though the name is feeling less and less his each day -- knows. The two had been the first to meet the Exarch, really, back when they were just Raha, an unnamed Mystel of some amount of power. They are perhaps the only ones to know his face, here in Norvrandt; all those who had met him in those initial years, so confusing and chaotic with the Flood having been so soon, are either dead or no longer remember them, and the Exarch cannot help but be grateful for it. They are more and more strange, living without aging, ageless and timeless just like the crystal that crawls further and further up their arm and shoulder, and while the Exarch knows that 'tis to prevent any recognition on the part of either Warrior of Light when they are eventually summoned. . . it is also a small source of comfort, keeping their face hidden, being an anonymous face to match their simple role. (Or -- 'twas supposed to be a simple role, at least.)

Dulna and Vaimet have never betrayed that trust, either -- they are always naught but professional when in public, the commander of the guard and his second-in-command who are ever loyal and respectful of the Crystal Exarch's time and duty. But behind the closed doors of the Tower, the two shed those roles like masks, the same way that the Exarch lowers his hood and is simply Raha again, for however long it lasts. There is comfort, between the three of them. Raha does not know quite what he would call it, but they are -- close, certainly. Not lovers, no -- they are well aware of what romance feels like, what infatuation swelling in their heart feels like (for they still love Sae'pheli'ehva, all these many, many years later) -- but neither is it quite friendship. There is friendship there but it is. . . it is different, somehow. (Raha hesitates to say closer, as if this relationship -- whatever it is -- is inherently better than friendship, as if romance is inherently better, but Raha does not know how to phrase it.)

It is not romantic love, at the least. Raha is certain of that. The Exarch, themself, had been the one to officiate Dulna and Vaimet's wedding, at their own shared request, and they know that just as they do not view the two in that light, neither do either of them view Raha like that. Still -- still, there is closeness. A deep bond, enough that Raha trusts them with his face, with his name, even. (He has not spoken of his past, but. . . they do not pry. When the memories grow too heavy, enough to choke, Vaimet will sit with him, oftentimes humming something beneath his breath, and will sometimes shift Raha to sit with his head pressed against Vaimet's chest, to hear the heartbeat. When Raha cannot carry the weight of all the grief he is forced to bear, Dulna will talk of whatever comes to her mind, until Raha is tethered in the current time and can breathe a bit easier.)

(It is not romantic love. It does not have to be. Raha loves them regardless, whatever this relationship might be.)

Perhaps they should be less surprised, then, at the request that is made of him.

"We want a baby." Dulna had said, one morning, with little preamble.

Raha raised merely blinked in response. ". . .alright. Were you wanting to adopt one of the orphans from the Sin Eater attacks. . .?"

Dulna looks at him as if he is stupid. Perhaps he is. "No," she says, enunciating carefully, "we want a baby."

"I'm. . . afraid I don't grasp your meaning?" Much more of this and Raha will be truly well and baffled.

Vaimet huffs, quietly, his shaking shoulders the only sign that he is repressing further laughter. "We want a child of our own blood." He explains, leaning his weight on one leg. "And I cannot sire a child, on account of lacking the necessary parts. So we need a surrogate."

"Ah. Well, I can. . . see about who would be willing to. . .?" Raha trails off, shrinking in on themself slightly as Dulna's expression only gets stonier.

She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. "Raha." (He does not startle at the name, but there is a fluttering in his chest regardless.) "You beautiful, beautiful fool of a man."

"I'm. . . sorry?" Well. Now Raha is baffled.

Vaimet, then, seems unable to restrain himself any longer, finally laughing loud enough that he is breathless for several moments. "We want a baby." He repeats. "And we want you to be the surrogate."

They -- "ah." Raha says, simply. They then proceed to scream into their hands.

After Raha has finished making a fool of himself, and Vaimet has finished laughing, and Dulna has sighed the last of her exasperated-if-fond sighs, the three properly sit down and plan how they are going to go about this. (Raha is awkward enough about it to make Vaimet laugh, and Dulna snicker at them, so even if Raha is horribly embarrassed the entire time, 'tis at least worth the smiles. And -- 'tis not as if the three of them have not seen each other naked, various times, between the damage from fights and needing to patch one another up or simply wishing to forgo the heavy layers of clothing amidst summer heat, so it's really the point of the whole thing that has Raha so embarrassed to begin with.)

It's Dulna that shall bear the child, they decide -- well. Vaimet and Dulna decide. Raha is mostly happy to be included, after he has eventually gotten over the awkwardness (as much as he ever will, at least). Vaimet is captain of the guard and presumed to be the same as any ordinary man by those who do not know him well enough, and Dulna is willing enough to take some time off from the regular guard rotation, once the pregnancy gets into its later months.

(Raha is still embarassed the entire time, but -- they do feel so very honored, that Dulna and Vaimet would trust them with something like this. And happy, of course, always happy to spend time with the both of them, individually or together.)

Time passes. The general public assumes that Dulna's child is Vaimet's -- and why should they not? 'Tis not as if there is anything to say otherwise. (And 'tis not like there is any stigma or judgement against those like Vaimet -- but Vaimet is older than a fair few of the Crystarium's citizens, by now, and values his privacy just as much as the Exarch does.) For the ease of avoiding any rumors, the Exarch does hope that the child will resemble Dulna more. (Raha hopes that his own Viera blood, however much of it there is, will shine through and hide any traits that would suggest a Mystel parent. Better for all their privacy if the child looks naught but Viis.)

Dulna and Vaimet toss about possible names for the child, through the months, but Vaimet is insistent that Raha should get a say, as well. Dulna reminds them that Raha will be involved in the child's upbringing regardless -- as if Raha would forget that. In the end, 'tis Vaimet's idea for the child to take the latter half of Dulna's name, for Raha's idea to name them Lyna. Dulna, smirking victoriously, declares that she does not care for whatever the gossipmongers may think, so long as their child (their child, claiming Raha as Lyna's parent just as much as Vaimet and Dulna are, and it makes a fragile little warmth bloom in Raha's chest) grows up happy, and loved, and cared for.

"We can claim you're their grandfather." Vaimet jokes, one stormy day when all are in their dwellings -- a rare day, where the Light is not quite so blinding.

"And what would that accomplish?" Raha raised an eyebrow, curious. "I assume that Lyna will discover the truth eventually, if they are not raised knowing it." They wrinkle their nose at a sudden thought. "I certainly would not like it assumed that I am a parent to either of you."

Vaimet only shrugs. "Well, we don't want them calling you father in public." And that is the issue, isn't it. The masks, and the roles. As far as anyone knows -- as far as anyone can confirm, at any rate, which has to be good enough -- they are simply Vaimet and Dulna, happily wed couple expecting their first child, employed as heads of the Crystarium guard, and the Crystal Exarch, kind but distant from all, a mysterious mage who's face and name is unknown to all. "Besides, you have taken time to interact with the other orphans and various children -- you've enough grandfatherly airs about you, when you want."

Before Raha can respond to that, Dulna cuts in. "We will figure it out when we get there." She declares. "For now, let us just enjoy the rest, hm?"

And so the time continues to pass. (Vaimet, Dulna, and Raha work on that idea, some -- the Exarch most certainly can put a grandfatherly aura about him, when he wants. Vaimet near laughs himself sick at it, and Raha can't help but join in. The many orphans, certainly, are grateful for the attention from their so very respected Exarch, and the orphanage caretakers, and the Settlement Council, are glad for their own brief respite from work as the Exarch takes time to care for the children for some hours out of a week, every now and then.)

(Raha worries, as the months go by, about what Lyna would inherent from them. If they would inherit anything at all. Would they get the curve of his nose? The pale shade of his skin, so unlike Dulna's deep reddish brown? Would Lyna get the red of Raha's hair, or the upward slant of their eyes? Would they get Raha's own full lips, or would they take after Dulna with thinner ones? Would there be any Allagan blood made present, in Lyna? Would their eyes be the one thing to mark them as being Raha's?)

It is another stormy day, when the child is finally born. Vaimet paces circles in the small washroom they had absconded to, the three of them, muttering under his breath, while Raha's hand is held in Dulna's white-knuckled grip. It is over rather more quickly than any of the three of them had expected, but it leaves them all exhausted -- nonetheless, there is nothing more memorable than the cries of a newborn infant.

Lyna's ears are clearly Viis, as is their short stub of a tail. Their skin is paler than Dulna's, but still a rich brown, and the downy fur on their ears and head is an off-white color, a pale echo of Dulna's near-black shade of purple. They sneeze, and open their eyes, and Raha can feel the breath leave his lungs. Lyna's eyes are a purple the color of Lakeland -- this, too, they did not inherit from him. Allag has no claim on them, despite his contribution to their parentage. There shall be no other sanguine-eyed individuals in Norvrandt, or on the entire First. Raha weeps, and they do not know if it is in loss or in relief.

[musicalmoritz]

I want to make it very clear that I do not have writers block, the only reason I haven’t finished that Aoinene fic yet is bcuz I’m lazy af. And because my sister keeps asking to hang out every time I sit down to work on it and I can’t break the sacred bond of sibling time🍎

[archaeren]

How I learned to write smarter, not harder

(aka, how to write when you're hella ADHD lol)

A reader commented on my current long fic asking how I write so well. I replied with an essay of my honestly pretty non-standard writing advice (that they probably didn't actually want lol) Now I'm gonna share it with you guys and hopefully there's a few of you out there who will benefit from my past mistakes and find some useful advice in here. XD Since I started doing this stuff, which are all pretty easy changes to absorb into your process if you want to try them, I now almost never get writer's block.

The text of the original reply is indented, and I've added some additional commentary to expand upon and clarify some of the concepts.

As for writing well, I usually attribute it to the fact that I spent roughly four years in my late teens/early 20s writing text roleplay with a friend for hours every single day. Aside from the constant practice that provided, having a live audience immediately reacting to everything I wrote made me think a lot about how to make as many sentences as possible have maximum impact so that I could get that kind of fun reaction. (Which is another reason why comments like yours are so valuable to fanfic writers! <3) The other factors that have improved my writing are thus: 1. Writing nonlinearly. I used to write a whole story in order, from the first sentence onward. If there was a part I was excited to write, I slogged through everything to get there, thinking that it would be my reward once I finished everything that led up to that. It never worked. XD It was miserable. By the time I got to the part I wanted to write, I had beaten the scene to death in my head imagining all the ways I could write it, and it a) no longer interested me and b) could not live up to my expectations because I couldn't remember all my ideas I'd had for writing it. The scene came out mediocre and so did everything leading up to it. Since then, I learned through working on VN writing (I co-own a game studio and we have some visual novels that I write for) that I don't have to write linearly. If I'm inspired to write a scene, I just write it immediately. It usually comes out pretty good even in a first draft! But then I also have it for if I get more ideas for that scene later, and I can just edit them in. The scenes come out MUCH stronger because of this. And you know what else I discovered? Those scenes I slogged through before weren't scenes I had no inspiration for, I just didn't have any inspiration for them in that moment! I can't tell you how many times there was a scene I had no interest in writing, and then a week later I'd get struck by the perfect inspiration for it! Those are scenes I would have done a very mediocre job on, and now they can be some of the most powerful scenes because I gave them time to marinate. Inspiration isn't always linear, so writing doesn't have to be either!

Some people are the type that joyfully write linearly. I have a friend like this--she picks up the characters and just continues playing out the next scene. Her story progresses through the entire day-by-day lives of the characters; it never timeskips more than a few hours. She started writing and posting just eight months ago, she's about an eighth of the way through her planned fic timeline, and the content she has so far posted to AO3 for it is already 450,000 words long. But most of us are normal humans. We're not, for the most part, wired to create linearly. We consume linearly, we experience linearly, so we assume we must also create linearly. But actually, a lot of us really suffer from trying to force ourselves to create this way, and we might not even realize it. If you're the kind of person who thinks you need to carrot-on-a-stick yourself into writing by saving the fun part for when you finally write everything that happens before it: Stop. You're probably not a linear writer. You're making yourself suffer for no reason and your writing is probably suffering for it. At least give nonlinear writing a try before you assume you can't write if you're not baiting or forcing yourself into it!! Remember: Writing is fun. You do this because it's fun, because it's your hobby. If you're miserable 80% of the time you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong!

2. Rereading my own work. I used to hate reading my own work. I wouldn't even edit it usually. I would write it and slap it online and try not to look at it again. XD Writing nonlinearly forced me to start rereading because I needed to make sure scenes connected together naturally and it also made it easier to get into the headspace of the story to keep writing and fill in the blanks and get new inspiration. Doing this built the editing process into my writing process--I would read a scene to get back in the headspace, dislike what I had written, and just clean it up on the fly. I still never ever sit down to 'edit' my work. I just reread it to prep for writing and it ends up editing itself. Many many scenes in this fic I have read probably a dozen times or more! (And now, I can actually reread my own work for enjoyment!) Another thing I found from doing this that it became easy to see patterns and themes in my work and strengthen them. Foreshadowing became easy. Setting up for jokes or plot points became easy. I didn't have to plan out my story in advance or write an outline, because the scenes themselves because a sort of living outline on their own. (Yes, despite all the foreshadowing and recurring thematic elements and secret hidden meanings sprinkled throughout this story, it actually never had an outline or a plan for any of that. It's all a natural byproduct of writing nonlinearly and rereading.)

Unpopular writing opinion time: You don't need to make a detailed outline.

Some people thrive on having an outline and planning out every detail before they sit down to write. But I know for a lot of us, we don't know how to write an outline or how to use it once we've written it. The idea of making one is daunting, and the advice that it's the only way to write or beat writer's block is demoralizing. So let me explain how I approach "outlining" which isn't really outlining at all.

I write in a Notion table, where every scene is a separate table entry and the scene is written in the page inside that entry. I do this because it makes writing nonlinearly VASTLY more intuitive and straightforward than writing in a single document. (If you're familiar with Notion, this probably makes perfect sense to you. If you're not, imagine something a little like a more contained Google Sheets, but every row has a title cell that opens into a unique Google Doc when you click on it. And it's not as slow and clunky as the Google suite lol) (Edit from the future: I answered an ask with more explanation on how I use Notion for non-linear writing here.) When I sit down to begin a new fic idea, I make a quick entry in the table for every scene I already know I'll want or need, with the entries titled with a couple words or a sentence that describes what will be in that scene so I'll remember it later. Basically, it's the most absolute bare-bones skeleton of what I vaguely know will probably happen in the story.

Then I start writing, wherever I want in the list. As I write, ideas for new scenes and new connections and themes will emerge over time, and I'll just slot them in between the original entries wherever they naturally fit, rearranging as necessary, so that I won't forget about them later when I'm ready to write them. As an example, my current long fic started with a list of roughly 35 scenes that I knew I wanted or needed, for a fic that will probably be around 100k words (which I didn't know at the time haha). As of this writing, it has expanded to 129 scenes. And since I write them directly in the page entries for the table, the fic is actually its own outline, without any additional effort on my part. As I said in the comment reply--a living outline!

This also made it easier to let go of the notion that I had to write something exactly right the first time. (People always say you should do this, but how many of us do? It's harder than it sounds! I didn't want to commit to editing later! I didn't want to reread my work! XD) I know I'm going to edit it naturally anyway, so I can feel okay giving myself permission to just write it approximately right and I can fix it later. And what I found from that was that sometimes what I believed was kind of meh when I wrote it was actually totally fine when I read it later! Sometimes the internal critic is actually wrong. 3. Marinating in the headspace of the story. For the first two months I worked on [fic], I did not consume any media other than [fandom the fic is in]. I didn't watch, read, or play anything else. Not even mobile games. (And there wasn't really much fan content for [fandom] to consume either. Still isn't, really. XD) This basically forced me to treat writing my story as my only source of entertainment, and kept me from getting distracted or inspired to write other ideas and abandon this one.

As an aside, I don't think this is a necessary step for writing, but if you really want to be productive in a short burst, I do highly recommend going on a media consumption hiatus. Not forever, obviously! Consuming media is a valuable tool for new inspiration, and reading other's work (both good and bad, as long as you think critically to identify the differences!) is an invaluable resource for improving your writing.

When I write, I usually lay down, close my eyes, and play the scene I'm interested in writing in my head. I even take a ten-minute nap now and then during this process. (I find being in a state of partial drowsiness, but not outright sleepiness, makes writing easier and better. Sleep helps the brain process and make connections!) Then I roll over to the laptop next to me and type up whatever I felt like worked for the scene. This may mean I write half a sentence at a time between intervals of closed-eye-time XD

People always say if you're stuck, you need to outline.

What they actually mean by that (whether they realize it or not) is that if you're stuck, you need to brainstorm. You need to marinate. You don't need to plan what you're doing, you just need to give yourself time to think about it!

What's another framing for brainstorming for your fic? Fantasizing about it! Planning is work, but fantasizing isn't.

You're already fantasizing about it, right? That's why you're writing it. Just direct that effort toward the scenes you're trying to write next! Close your eyes, lay back, and fantasize what the characters do and how they react.

And then quickly note down your inspirations so you don't forget, haha.

And if a scene is so boring to you that even fantasizing about it sucks--it's probably a bad scene.

If it's boring to write, it's going to be boring to read. Ask yourself why you wanted that scene. Is it even necessary? Can you cut it? Can you replace it with a different scene that serves the same purpose but approaches the problem from a different angle? If you can't remove the troublesome scene, what can you change about it that would make it interesting or exciting for you to write?

And I can't write sitting up to save my damn life. It's like my brain just stops working if I have to sit in a chair and stare at a computer screen. I need to be able to lie down, even if I don't use it! Talking walks and swinging in a hammock are also fantastic places to get scene ideas worked out, because the rhythmic motion also helps our brain process. It's just a little harder to work on a laptop in those scenarios. XD

In conclusion: Writing nonlinearly is an amazing tool for kicking writer's block to the curb. There's almost always some scene you'll want to write. If there isn't, you need to re-read or marinate.

Or you need to use the bathroom, eat something, or sleep. XD Seriously, if you're that stuck, assess your current physical condition. You might just be unable to focus because you're uncomfortable and you haven't realized it yet.

Anyway! I hope that was helpful, or at least interesting! XD Sorry again for the text wall. (I think this is the longest comment reply I've ever written!)

And same to you guys on tumblr--I hope this was helpful or at least interesting. XD Reblogs appreciated if so! (Maybe it'll help someone else!)

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

for whom good omens is being written

Hey maggots and the rest of the fandom, it's the Good Omens Mascot here. Today I read a post about this tweet:

The accompanying video genuinely made me cry. And I've been thinking about this for a long while, as far back as February, when I saw a lot of conflicting opinions on what people wanted from the third season. It really is true that no matter what you do, some people will be dissatisfied. But what matters is that Neil is writing this for Terry.

And I was reminded of some paragraphs from the Good Omens TV Companion, which I'd read in Amazon's sample excerpt of the book. I know this is a long post, but I really truly do think you all need to read these, I've done my best to select only the most important parts. Here you go:

'His Alzheimer's started progressing harder and faster than either of us had expected,' says Neil, referring to a period in which Terry recognized that despite everything he could no longer write. 'We had been friends for over thirty years, and during that time he had never asked me for anything. Then, out of the blue, I received an email from him with a special request. It read: “Listen, I know how busy you are. I know you don't have time to do this, but I want you to write the script for Good Omens. You are the only human being on this planet who has the passion, love and understanding for the old girl that I do. You have to do this for me so that I can see it." And I thought, “OK, if you put it like that then I'll do it."

'I had adapted my own work in the past, writing scripts for Death: The High Cost of Living and Sandman, but not a lot else was seen. I'd also written two episodes of Doctor Who, and so I felt like I knew what I was doing. Usually, having written something once I'd rather start something new, but having a very sick co-author saying I had to do this?' Neil spreads his hands as if the answer is clear to see. 'I had to step up to the plate.' A pause, then: 'All this took place in autumn 2014, around the time that the BBC radio adaptation of Good Omens was happening,' he continues, referring to the production scripted and co-directed by Dirk Maggs and starring Peter Serafinowicz and Mark Heap. ‘Terry had talked me into writing the TV adaptation, and I thought OK, I have a few years. Only I didn't have a few years,' he says. 'Terry was unconscious by December and dead by March.'

He pauses again. 'His passing took all of us by surprise,' Neil remembers. 'About a week later, I started writing, and it was very sad. The moments Terry felt closest to me were the moments I would get stuck during the writing process. In the old days, when we wrote the novel, I would send him what I'd done or phone him up. And he would say, "Aahh, the problem, Grasshopper, is in the way you phrase the question," and I would reply, "Just tell me what to do!" which somehow always started a conversation. 'In writing the script, there were times I'd really want to talk to Terry, and also places where I'd figure something out and do something really clever, and I would want to share it with him. So, instead, I would text Terry's former personal assistant, Rob Wilkins, now his representative on Earth. It was the nearest thing I had.'

(...) As Neil himself recognizes, this is an adaptation built upon the confidence that comes from three decades of writing for page and screen. But for all the wisdom of experience, he found that above all one factor guided him throughout the process. 'Terry isn't here, which leaves me as the guardian of the soul of the story,' he explains. 'It's funny because sometimes I found myself defending Terry's bits harder or more passionately than I would defend my own bits. Take Agnes Nutter,' he says, referring to what has become a key scene in the adaptation in which the seventeenth-century author of the book of prophecies foretelling the coming of the Antichrist is burned at the stake. ‘It was a huge, complicated and incredibly expensive shoot, with bonfires built and primed to explode as well as huge crowds in costume. It had to feel just like an English village in the 1640s, and of course everyone asked if there was a cheap way of doing it. 'One suggestion was that we could tell the story using old-fashioned woodcuts and have the narrator take us through what happened, but I just thought, “No”. Because I had brought aspects of the story like Crowley and the baby swap along to the mix, and Terry created Agnes Nutter. So, if I had cut out Agnes then I wouldn't be doing right by the person who gave me this job. Terry would've rolled over in his grave.'

And, finally, this paragraph:

"Once again, Neil cites the absence of his co-writer as his drive to ensure that Good Omens translated to the screen and remained true to the original vision. 'Terry's last request to me was to make this something he would be proud of. And so that has been my job.'"

I think that's so heartwrenchingly beautiful, and so I wanted you all to read this, too, just in case you (like me) don't have the Good Omens TV Companion. It adds another layer of depth and emotion to this already complex and amazing story that we all know and love.

Share this post, if you can, please, so that more people can read these excerpts :")

Tagging @neil-gaiman, @fuckyeahgoodomens and @orpiknight, even if you've definitely read these before :)

[dlxxv-vetted-donations]

Help support Reema's academic career and family

This post will no longer be updated, see here instead.

URGENT: We have 281 hours to get Reema registered in university. Done!!!

My other promotion lists

Updated: Sep 22

Update Sep 20: This campaign is NOT done, Reema is waiting for her campaign manager to raise it to $25,000. A short-term goal is CAD $1,800 for a new laptop (including gfm and banking fees), but this is a projected estimate and I'll have a clearer number when I get more details.

Member(s): @reemash46 (shadowbanned), @reema16 (shadowbanned), @reemagaza (Reema), IG: reema_shurr (confirmed hers, see under cut for proof)

Verification: Operation Olive Branch Masterlist #18

Payment methods: Credit/debit, Paypal through my Kofi (Be warned that Paypal takes a cut. I will post proof of donation within 24h under the 'receipts' tag)

Donation match: $5 CAD (see under cut), $5 CAD

Summary: Reema is an evacuated Palestinian studying pharmacy abroad in Egypt and just paid off her tuition. She needs additional funds to care for herself and her family back home.

Current progress:

CAD $ 15,514 20,051 / 25,000

CAD is weak compared to other common currencies. Your donation can go a long way.

Campaign details:

Reema is the cousin of @mohamedabushaban06 (source). A few days ago, I made an emergency promotion to get Mohammed registered for college abroad here (It's not urgent anymore but he can still use support).

She's a 4th (out of 5) year pharmaceutical student currently studying abroad in Egypt after her school in Gaza was destroyed. Pharmacy school is difficult but she has a high average.

She just fundraised enough to pay her tuition for all her remaining schooling (see fund allocation section) and will start her semester on Sep 21, 2024.

The campaign goal was raised to $25,000 and the additional $5,000 will go towards academic needs and Reema's family back in Palestine.

She needs a new laptop after losing her old one.

Fund allocation:

All the original $20k is for paying off all of Reema's remaining schooling. There was a rush to get her from $15k to $20k to pay off her current semester due to banking complications. Her campaign manager was not in Canada until very recently and could not access the funds already in the campaign.

Even now, the manager can only send $1,500 at a time. At the time of writing this (Sep 22), I'm not sure when Reena can access the $15k and she isn't online often because she has the flu.

MISC:

Sep 10: Donation match $5 CAD

Reema on IG confirms the Tumblr is hers