yoremins

[yoremins]

10 facts about peter parker

— peter parker x f. reader

the ten truths that define peter parker, and somehow, they all come back to you.

word count: 8k

warnings: angst, fluff (this fic is my baby), mentions of minor blood & injuries

masterlist!

Fact one: you made him feel like he belonged.

Peter Parker was five years old the first time he learned that kindness could feel like armor.

Before that, the world had already felt a little sharp around the edges. Not in any big, tragic way—just in the way that lonely things often are. He was a quiet child, soft-spoken and small, the kind of boy who raised his hand in class because he actually knew the answers, not because he wanted to show off. But five-year-olds aren’t subtle, and they’re rarely kind. And in kindergarten, knowing too much felt like a crime.

They called him names and not the creative kind—just the cruel, empty ones. Know-it-all. Teacher’s pet. Weird. Stuck up. He didn’t understand why answering questions made them hate him. He liked the gold stars the teacher gave for getting answers right. Ten stars meant you got to pick from the prize box, and the prize box had bouncy balls and sticky hands and plastic dinosaurs—and Peter loved plastic dinosaurs.

So, he answered the questions. He collected the stars and kept to himself. He told no one when the other kids laughed at him, or called him names, or moved their chairs away from his during circle time. He didn’t want to make a fuss because he really didn’t want to be a problem. He figured it didn’t really matter—he was the one with the dinosaurs, after all.

Then you moved to Queens. New girl, middle of the year, sat right next to Peter Parker like it was the most obvious place in the world to be. You noticed right away—how they treated him. The whispering, the laughter, the way no one ever picked him for partner work. You were loud and opinionated and full of the kind of righteousness only very small people with very big hearts can possess.

“That’s not nice,” you said, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the recess bullies who’d made Peter cry behind the monkey bars. “You’re being bad.”

They laughed at you next. For your sparkly Skechers and your glitter hair clips and your big words, but you didn’t flinch nor did you care. You marched right up to them, stubby finger pointed like a weapon, and gave a speech Peter couldn’t hear from where he sat—sniffling and dirt-streaked on the playground mulch—but could only watch unfold like some kind of tiny superhero movie.

Whatever you said, it worked. Their shoulders dropped, their mouths stayed shut, and they stopped laughing.

And then you turned on your heel, marched back to Peter, and held out your hand like it was a declaration of war and friendship all at once.

“My mommy says you should treat people how you wanna be treated,” you informed him, like it was the law of the land. “You wanna do the monkey bars?”

Peter blinked at you, stunned silent. You were everything he was not. Loud, brave, and radiated like the sun itself. He wasn’t sure he understood why you’d stood up for him, but he knew one thing: he’d never forget that you did.

“I’m not good at them,” he mumbled, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’ll teach you,” you said, already climbing up beside him like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m really, really good at it. Watch me!”

And so you coached him through every bar—each swing, each slip, each triumphant reach. You cheered when he made it to the end, called him “a monkey now,” and told him he earned a prize box toy even if the teacher didn’t give him one.

And that day, on the kindergarten playground beneath a pale blue sky, Peter Parker learned that maybe the world wasn’t so sharp when someone like you was in it.

Fact two: he loved to share and especially with you.

Peter Parker always shared what he loved.

It was how he learned to say I love you, before he knew that love needed words. You, who always sat beside him at lunch no matter who else asked. You, who stomped on bullies and helped him conquer monkey bars and called him “Petey” like it was a badge of honor. You, with your Tinkerbell lunchbox and fruit snacks and complaints about how “bleh” your sandwiches were every single day.

“You’re so lucky,” you said once, dramatic as ever, as you poked through the contents of your lunch like they might magically change if you just believed hard enough. “You get pizza Lunchables and chocolate pudding and Caprisuns. I get turkey. Again.”

Peter glanced at his food—his rare treasure of plastic-wrapped joy—and hesitated only a second before sliding his pudding cup toward you.

“Here,” he said. “You can have mine.”

Your eyes lit up like Christmas. “Really?”

“Really,” he said again, quieter this time. He watched you open the pudding, your face soft with delight. He didn’t tell you that it was his favorite part of lunch. He didn’t need to. Watching you enjoy it felt better somehow like a secret only he got to know.

That was the thing about Peter—he never gave anything halfway. Whether it was pudding or time or the last piece of cake, he gave it all like it meant something. Because to him, it did.

He didn’t come to school the next day. Or the day after. Or after the weekend, either. And by Monday, something in your chest had tightened too much to ignore.

You made your parents drive you to his house. You brought a Snickers bar in case he was sick, because you remembered he said chocolate helped headaches. But when the woman who answered the door wasn’t his mom or his dad, your stomach dropped.

She whispered with your dad. She said accident in a voice that was careful and slow and a little too quiet. And then she called Peter down, and he stood in the hallway with tears in his eyes and his brown curls a little messy, and he looked smaller than he ever had before.

You didn’t say anything. You just hugged him. And he cried into your shoulder, shoulders shaking, fists clutched tight in the fabric of your sleeve like he didn’t know how to let go.

You gave him the Snickers bar without splitting it like you’d planned. He needed the whole thing.

“I’ll get you all the Snickers in the world, Petey,” you whispered.

And you meant it.

Because love, for Peter, always looked like this—shared pudding cups and held hands and a chocolate bar in grief’s quiet aftermath. The kind of love that stays, even when everything else is gone.

Fact three: he blamed himself when you got hurt.

Peter Parker didn’t know how not to care.

Not even when it wasn’t his fault. Not even when everyone told him it wasn’t. Guilt, to Peter, wasn’t about logic—it was about consequence and hurt. And if someone he loved was hurt, then he should’ve done something, should’ve known, and should’ve been there.

It had rained the day you cut your hand—just enough to make the sidewalk slick, just enough to make your shoes slip when the dog you were walking pulled too hard on the leash and you lost your balance. It wasn’t a deep cut, not really, just a jagged little gash from the tip of a fence. It didn’t need stitches, just pressure, a wad of gauze taped tight to slow the ooze. Maybe a Band-Aid later, one with cartoon characters on it, when most of the cut healed. But it bled, bright and insistent, and you cried, and Peter wasn’t there.

He hadn’t been there.

He had heard about it through Aunt May. One call from your mom, and he was already pulling shoes on the wrong feet, gripping the handle of the first aid kit with white knuckles like he could somehow rewind time if he just ran fast enough. The guilt sat in his chest like wet cement.

You opened the door with a confused smile, still wet-cheeked from crying, your voice hoarse but warm. The worst had passed and you were okay, but Peter’s eyes were wide and glossy as if it had just happened right in front of him.

“I came as fast as I could,” he said breathlessly, holding up the first aid kit like a peace offering.

“Peter, I’m okay,” you told him gently. “My parents already patched me up.”

“But you still cried. I can tell,” he said, his voice thinner than usual, like it might crack if he let it. “I should’ve been there to help. I should’ve held the leash or walked with you or—I don’t know, done something.”

“You weren’t even with me,” you reminded him with a giggle, like it made any difference.

But it did. It made all the difference. And yet still, it didn’t.

“I’m supposed to look out for you,” he said, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to the bandage on your hand like it burned him just to look at it. “And I didn’t.”

“I’m a big girl, it’s okay. I’m okay, Petey.”

“Yeah, but—someone else has to make sure you’re okay, okay.”

You gave him a look. One of those raised-eyebrow, lip-squished-together kinds that only kids could get away with without sounding mean. “What, are you gonna fight the sidewalk next time?”

“If I have to,” he muttered.

And the thing was, he meant it. In the way only Peter could—genuine and aching and too soft for his own good.

You laughed. Not to make fun of him, but because it was easier than crying again. “Well then, I hope you’ve got a plan. The fence by Delmar’s is the meanie that did this to me.”

He nodded seriously. “Fence won’t know what hit it.”

And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you patted the spot beside you on your bed and said, “Wanna play trains?”

Peter hesitated. “I don’t wanna hurt your hand.”

“You’re acting like I got stabbed,” you snorted. “It’s a scratch, Peter. I can still play with trains.”

Still, he sat carefully, as if one wrong move might break you. You didn’t say anything about it—just handed him the blue engine and pressed play on the little track, the sound of whirring wheels filling the silence between you.

Peter didn’t stop watching your hand for the rest of the afternoon. Not because he didn’t believe you were okay, but because he needed to see it for himself. Over and over. Until the guilt stopped ringing in his ears like a warning bell. And even though it didn’t, sitting besides you helped his ache.

And maybe that was another fact worth adding—fact three and a half: Peter Parker never knew how not to overthink when it came to you. And for better or worse, he never wanted to learn.

Fact four: he kept every card you ever gave him.

Peter Parker was the kind of boy who remembered everything that made him feel loved.

That’s why he kept it all—every card, every doodle, every post-it with a dumb joke or half-done drawing, tucked carefully into a shoebox under his bed. It sat beneath looseleaf homework and forgotten action figures, but the box was sacred to him. A paper trail of every time you’d ever thought of him just because. Some notes were detailed and silly, others just a word and a smiley face, but of course, he could never bring himself to throw any of it away.

He was always a sentimental kid. Earnest in ways most middle school boys were still trying to hide. He liked having feelings and liked showing them. And even if he'd never say it out loud, he liked that you never made him feel weird about it because he was a boy.

He told himself that was just the way he was raised—by people who loved him soft and loud and without condition. But a part of it, maybe the biggest part, was you.

You saw the world the way he wanted to see it: a place where kindness didn’t have to be earned, where friendship wasn’t some transaction, where love—whatever version of it he was starting to feel—wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

Even when middle school got messy, and people started changing, posturing, growing into their sharpness too fast—you stayed. Somehow, even as the two of you evolved in different directions, you never drifted. You were louder, more bold, more magnetic. And Peter, quiet and observant, content to watch the world from the side of the room, was still the one you always gravitated toward.

You were different in the ways that made sense together like chords in the same song. And Peter never took that for granted.

He loved the way you argued with him—rarely, but always honestly. The way your apologies were real and careful and full of intention. He loved that you fought for him, even when he didn’t ask, even when he wasn’t sure he deserved it. And he especially loved the way your gifts always meant something. Not big, flashy things, but you-things. The kind of things no one else would’ve thought to give.

Like for his thirteenth birthday.

You’d treated him to Delmar’s, ordered him that strange, flat sandwich he liked and pretended not to gag when he ate it, even though your nose scrunched with judgment. You baked him cupcakes with blue frosting and rainbow sprinkles and sang happy birthday just off-key enough to be charming. And then, of course, there was the card.

He opened it slowly and you watched him like it was a performance. The cover had been drawn with marker—stick figures of you and him with ridiculous cartoon eyes holding up tacos with speech bubbles that said "Lets taco ‘bout your birthday!" Inside, there was a note, messy and heartfelt and impossibly you.

Then came the gift: a small keychain with a tiny Lego figure.

“I made a mini me,” you said, pulling out your own keys to show him the match. “So I’ll always be with you. And you’re with me. Cute, right?”

Peter had blinked too many times, trying to slow his smile. He held the little Lego you with reverence, like it was worth more than anything he owned.

“I love it,” he said quietly. And he meant it. God, did he mean it.

Because in that exact moment, somewhere between the frosting and your grin and the miniature version of you swinging from his key ring, Peter realized something he’d been pushing down for a long time.

He loved you. Not just in the way best friends loved each other. Not just as the girl who made him feel less alone. But in the deep, terrifying, impossible way.

And he didn’t say anything.

He just tucked the card into the box under his bed after you left.

Fact five: lying to you was the hardest thing he ever had to do.

Peter Parker was never good at lying.

Even before the spider bite, it just wasn’t in his nature. His face gave too much away and his conscience just made everything worse. Aunt May always said he wore his heart on his sleeve and every secret in his eyes.

So the first time he lied to you, it broke something in him.

A long afternoon at the arachnid exhibit, buzzing with chatter and crumpled permission slips and half-interested students leaning against the glass. You’d wandered off with some other friends, but Peter had stayed behind, lingering by a particularly sleek glass enclosure with a spider labeled something vague and unpronounceable.

The bite was quick and unexpected like a sharp pinch. 

When you found him moments later, rubbing at his hand, eyes glazed and unfocused, you noticed right away.

“You okay, Pete?” you asked, brows knitting with concern.

“Yeah,” he said too fast. “I’m all good.”

It was the first time he lied to your face, but it wouldn't be the last.

You frowned, studying him the way you always did when something felt off. You didn’t believe him—not really—but you didn’t push. Instead, you reached for his wrist and tugged him gently toward the next exhibit.

“C’mon,” you said, voice softening. “We’re gonna get stranded.”

So he followed. Quiet the whole way back. Quiet the rest of the day. And the next. And the one after that.

Peter had never kept anything from you before, but now, everything felt like a secret. The changes came slowly at first. The dizzy spells. The way he’d flinch when the lights were too bright, or wince when someone brushed past him in the hallway. The reflexes. The headaches. The sudden muscles. He didn’t tell you about the spider. Or what came after. He didn’t tell anyone.

And then Uncle Ben died.

The world shifted overnight, making everything soft in Peter harden. The guilt rooted itself so deeply inside of him, he didn’t know where it ended and where he began. And from that grief, Spider-Man was born.

He didn’t tell you about that, either, but you noticed, of course. You liked to say you knew him better than you knew yourself, but when you asked questions and he gave you answers that weren’t answers, your feelings began to hurt.

“I’m fine,” he’d always say, tugging down his sleeves or averting his eyes.

“Bullshit,” you said the night you caught a glimpse of his back when he peeled off his hoodie after a heat wave. You’d been sitting on his bed, tossing popcorn into your mouth, and caught sight of the muscles that hadn't been there before. “When did you get abs?”

His face flushed deep red. He scrambled for a shirt.

“I’ve been working out.”

You snorted. “Peter, I’ve known you since you were five. I’ve never seen you touch a weight. You flinch when you see basketballs.”

“I just… started. Recently.”

You tilted your head at him, not buying it, but letting it go—just like you always did.

And that became the rhythm. A push and a pull. Peter disappearing, coming back, telling half-truths laced with real ones. You let him. Because whatever was happening to him, you knew he was still Peter underneath it. Still your best friend. Still the boy who remembered your favorite flower, who held you when you cried, who couldn’t lie to save his life—except now, he had to.

Except now, it was the only way he knew how to protect you.

Fact six: he almost told you he was Spider-Man about a hundred times.

Peter Parker loved to talk.

Not with everyone—but with you? Always. If something sparked his curiosity, even a little, he’d go off like a wind-up toy. Science facts, theories, niche Star Wars lore, weird animal trivia—he’d just keep going, voice animated, hands moving with it. You never minded. In fact, you loved it. You loved that part of him that was just yours, the way he opened up around you in a way he didn’t with anyone else. Like it was some secret only you got to keep.

And maybe that’s why it hurt him so much to keep the biggest secret of all.

Peter almost told you he was Spider-Man the first time you shoved your phone in his face with a YouTube clip of a shaky, grainy, footage in the city. “He’s so cool,” you’d breathed, starry-eyed. “Have you seen the way he swings around? Like, what the hell?”

He wanted to tell you right then. Wanted to bask in the look on your face when you realized he was the one you were so amazed by.

But he didn’t.

Peter almost told you when you ran into him—as Spider-Man—on patrol one evening. He’d been crouched on a rooftop, catching his breath after a car chase, and there you were, wide-eyed and breathless on the sidewalk. You shouted up at him, asking for a photo and an autograph. He froze. Not because he didn’t want to—God, he wanted to—but because he knew if he spoke, you’d know. You’d hear his voice and immediately clock it. So he just shook his head, let the eyes on his suit narrow like an apology, and swung off before he could do something stupid.

He almost told you when he woke up in a cold sweat one night and called you. Said he just needed to hear your voice. He didn’t tell you that the dream had started with Uncle Ben and ended with his mom, then his dad, and then a blur of screams and sirens and blood. You stayed on the phone until he fell asleep again. He almost told you then, but the words caught in his throat and never left.

There were a million almosts.

And then there was Ned.

High school wasn’t much different from middle school, which hadn’t been much different from elementary. He had you, school, and May. That was enough. But the Algebra 2 teacher had a thing for assigned seating, and by fate or luck or both, Ned Leeds ended up next to him. They hit it off fast with their shared interests, niche obsessions, and dorky humor.

Peter adored you, of course. But the two of you had grown into different shapes. You were more outgoing now, always getting invited to things he wasn’t even aware of until Monday morning roll call. Parties only upperclassmen were at. You fit in anywhere while Peter never quite figured out how himself. With Ned, though, he didn’t have to. They were both outcasts, but at least they were outcasts together.

Peter never meant for him to find out first, though. You were supposed to be the first. Not Ned, not May—you. But life has a cruel sense of timing, and apparently so did Peter’s ceiling. He had just crawled back into his room on the ceiling after patrol when he realized Ned was present, Lego Death Star in hand (and then on the ground).

Still, it stung—letting someone else in first. He’d always meant for it to be you.

He almost told you when you were baking cookies together for the Decathlon bake sale. You were both in your usual spots—shoulder to shoulder in your kitchen, hands sticky with dough, 10 Things I Hate About You playing faintly in the background. You’d made him watch it a dozen times and even though he voiced how annoyed he was, he secretly liked it. He liked the way you talked about it—how Kat and Patrick were opposites but still found their way to each other.

That part always stuck with him. That maybe the two of you could be like that. Someday.

But then you’d said it—casual, like you weren’t about to shatter his whole reality.

“Jason asked me to homecoming,” you said, dropping a perfect dough ball onto the tray.

Peter’s heart stuttered. “Oh.”

He slowed down, rolled the next one too tight. “And?”

“And I said no,” you shrugged. Dry. Nonchalant.

He looked over, heart still thudding. “You did?”

You arched an eyebrow. “It’s not like you have a date.”

Like it was obvious. Like he was already yours.

He almost told you then. That he was Spider-Man. That he liked you. That the reason he didn’t ask sooner was because he didn’t know how to be both.

But he didn’t.

Because the Vulture was still out there. Because you’d already been used against him once—your name dropped like a threat mid-fight, blood roaring in his ears. And that was all it took. He couldn’t tell you. Not when knowing meant you’d be in danger. Not when he cared about you too much to risk it.

So instead, he showed up to your house on homecoming night with a bouquet of pink peonies—the same ones that used to grow on your windowsill in second grade. Your dad answered the door and clapped Peter on the shoulder, grinning like he knew something he didn’t. And when you appeared behind him, hair done up, hands swishing softly around your dress, Peter felt the world tip. He’d already been a goner, but that night sealed it.

He had the whole thing planned: dancing, laughing, stepping on your toes (even after all those lessons with May), and eventually pulling you aside to tell you everything—about the bite, about the suit, about his feelings for you that he hadn’t been able to shake since you were both barely tall enough to reach the monkey bars.

But the night never went the way he wanted.

The Vulture ruined it.

Peter had to leave. And your face when he did—the glossy eyes, the trembling lip, the soft little why? that echoed in his head for weeks after—nearly broke him.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You didn’t even text him after. You just… nodded when he found you the next week and apologized. Told him you understood, even if you didn’t.

You danced with Jason that night. Peter was supposed to do that.

And that was the moment he realized the truth: he couldn’t keep you close. Not if he wanted to keep you safe. So he made the hardest decision of his life.

He chose to walk away. Just enough that it wouldn’t hurt you, but just enough that it would destroy him.

Fact seven: he broke his heart to protect yours (ish).

Peter Parker knew that being Spider-Man came with selflessness.

He knew it from watching Tony Stark, from seeing the exhaustion in his eyes behind the armor and understanding—maybe too late—that sometimes the strongest thing you could do was choose the harder path. He knew it from Aunt May, who held her world together with trembling hands and a brave face after Uncle Ben died, never once letting the weight of it fall on Peter’s shoulders. He knew it in the quiet ways—the late nights, the bruises that didn’t heal fast enough, the promises he made to himself over and over again that if it meant keeping the people he loved safe, then he would be the one to lose sleep, to bleed, to break.

So when it came to you, it was no different. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He started distancing himself in ways he hoped you wouldn’t notice. Answering texts later than usual. Making up vague excuses when you asked to hang out. Avoiding your gaze when you walked into the room and instinctively beelined toward him like you always did. You were perceptive though—you always had been—and it didn’t take long for the space between you to feel obvious, gaping, like it had been carved there with intention.

You didn’t let things fester. You were always the first one to bring things to light, even if it meant an uncomfortable conversation. Especially if it did.

So one afternoon, standing just outside the chem lab, with students rushing past in every direction, you stopped him. With that look on your face—the one that meant you weren’t going to let him dodge this one.

“Peter,” you started, folding your arms across your chest, brows drawn together, your voice firm but still quiet enough to keep it between the two of you. “Don’t lie to me. Seriously. I’m not stupid.”

His throat went dry, and he didn’t say anything right away, just shifted on his feet like he wanted to bolt.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” you continued, unwavering. “Barely texting, skipping out on everything, acting like I did something wrong when I know I didn’t. You don’t just get to go cold and pretend like it’s nothing.”

Peter looked up then, eyes guarded, jaw tense, like he was trying to find a version of the truth that wouldn’t hurt you. But he wasn’t a good liar, not when it came to you. He never had been.

“I’m not���” he tried, but you cut him off.

“You are. Don’t do that, Peter. Don’t act like I’m imagining things just because you’re too scared to say what’s really going on. I know you. And whatever this is, it’s not just in my head.”

There was a flicker of guilt in his expression, and then he looked away, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally spoke.

“We’re not kids anymore.”

Just four words, but none of them sounded like him.

Your heart sank—not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Flat. Detached. Like it was rehearsed. Like it was easier to hide behind something vague and dismissive than admit to whatever was actually happening.

You stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to find the boy you knew underneath the mask he was clearly putting on. But all you saw was someone who had already decided to push you away, and nothing you said could bring him back from it.

“You’re right,” you finally said, voice softer now but still unwavering. “We’re not.”

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t cry or plead for an explanation because you already knew you weren’t going to get one.

“But if being grown up means shutting out the people who love you, then I don’t think it’s something to be proud of, Parker.”

You never called him Parker. It was always Peter, Pete, or Petey when you needed a hug, Peter Benjamin Parker when you were scolding him, Peter Parker when you were worried—but never just Parker. That one hit different. It meant something. It meant you were done asking.

You let the silence stretch between you for a second longer, long enough for him to feel it, and then you turned to leave.

He didn’t stop you and that hurt more than anything he could have said.

Because this wasn’t like the other arguments you’d had before—never cruel, never lasting long, always ending in an apology and some moment of soft honesty to put the pieces back together. But this time there was no apology. Just silence. And you knew, deep down, that the truth he was holding back wasn’t going to be shared with you. Not now. Maybe not ever.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even that he broke your heart.

It was that he broke his own, and somehow still thought it was worth it.

Fact eight: he watched you move on from the shadows.

Peter Parker thought heartbreak was supposed to come all at once—loud and fast like a car crash.

But this one dragged. It lingered in the quiet, like smoke in a room with no windows, like dust that refused to settle.

As much as he pretended not to care anymore, as much as he made himself small in the hallways and busied his hands during class and said he didn’t want to talk about it, Peter couldn’t hide the way it gutted him. Not really. May was the first to notice, her knock gentle on the door at night when the muffled cries slipped past his pillow. Ned started filling the silences Peter used to take up with rambling theories and snarky commentary. MJ told him, flatly, that his eye bags were scary and that he looked like he hadn't seen daylight since Civil War. Even Queens started to wonder if something had changed in Spider-Man—he wasn’t talking, he wasn’t joking, and he hadn’t done a single flip off a fire escape in weeks.

Who was he to think he could actually cut you off like that? That he could walk away from you and not unravel? You were his person—had been, for years. Through every low, every high, every success, every failure. You’d been there before the bite, before the Avengers, before he ever had the idea to be anything more than your best friend with a secret crush and a hopeless heart. But the delusion of heroism, the obsession with self-sacrifice—it warped him. Made him believe that loving you meant leaving you. That protecting you meant making the choice for you, even if it tore him apart.

Even if it killed him to see you laugh at someone else’s joke in fourth period because he used to be the one who made you laugh like that. Even if it killed him to see the keychain of mini him gone from your lanyard. Even if it killed him to spot you from across the room at a party Ned had begged him to go to, leaning in close to a guy he didn’t recognize. Even if it killed him to see your hand—your hand—tangled with someone else’s.

It felt like his heart had been scooped out and left raw, bruised and pulsing with phantom aches. The ache came when you didn’t look at him anymore. When you walked past him like a stranger in the hallway, like he wasn’t the person who used to braid your hair when you were bored or climb through your window on summer nights just to talk. The ache came when he remembered how softly you used to say his name, like it was a secret just for you. And then how different it sounded, sharp and cold, when you called him Parker.

Still, he couldn’t stop. On patrol, when the night was winding down and the streets were empty, he always swung past your window—never on the way, never convenient, but always necessary. Just to see you, to make sure you were okay, and to feel, for a moment, like you still existed in the same world as him.

And when he saw you lying on your bed, talking to your mom through the door, kicking your feet in the air the way you always did when you were comfortable, he felt something loosen in his chest. You looked peaceful again, like the girl who didn’t yet know what it meant to be hurt by him. Like yourself.

You looked up, maybe just a flicker of red and blue, and he swore your eyes landed on him.

He didn’t wait long enough to find out. By the time you blinked, he was already gone.

Because heartbreak didn’t hit him in a single moment. It haunted him in all the ones after—when he had to keep loving you in silence, from rooftops and windowsills, knowing he’d become a ghost in the life he used to be part of.

Fact nine: he never stopped loving you. Not even for a second.

Peter Parker always had a soft spot for you.

He was hopelessly, irrevocably, quietly devoted in a way he didn’t fully understand at first—only that he felt it in his chest like something blooming and aching all at once.

You were the new girl that planted yourself beside him like you belonged there. And instead of ignoring him like everyone else, you noticed. You saw him. Said something bold and too brave for your size, stood up to kids twice as loud, and held out your hand like it meant something. That was it. That was the moment. He didn’t know it then—not really—but something permanently shifted.

From that point on, he would’ve done anything to protect you, to keep you safe, and make sure you never felt unloved. That instinct never left him. Not when he got his powers, not when he started patrolling rooftops, and not even when he made the decision to push you away in the name of protecting you.

Even when you stopped walking beside him and started walking ahead. Even when your texts grew shorter to none, your smile less familiar, your tone less soft. Even when you stopped saying his name.

He never stopped keeping an eye on you. He lingered at the edge of school hallways until he saw you get into your rides. Swung by your apartment building at night just to make sure the lights in your window were still warm. He watched from a distance when he couldn’t be close anymore, and tried to convince himself it was enough. That this was love, too.

And then, one day, he noticed someone else walking beside you. A boy. A jacket around your shoulders. A laugh that wasn’t meant for him.

He didn’t know it was official until MJ mentioned it offhand at lunch, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t a moment that cracked something in him wide open. You were dating someone. It was real and it lasted. Weeks turned to months and he kept track without meaning to. If he’d asked you out during last year’s Homecoming like he’d planned, you and him would’ve been celebrating your one-year anniversary right around the time your boyfriend posted the first picture of you two together.

He wanted to be happy for you. He tried. You deserved someone consistent, someone present. Someone who didn’t run out on you when things got hard. But it tore him apart slowly—watching someone else hold the place that was always supposed to be his.

And then one night, months later, he swung past your building on a quiet patrol and saw you through your window. Curled up on your bed, crying and alone.

The sight made his heart seize in his chest. He hated seeing you hurt. Hated that someone else had done this to you. But selfishly, somewhere deep in the part of him he tried not to acknowledge, it meant something to him that you were single again. It meant the door hadn’t closed entirely. Maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t missed his chance forever.

That thought clung to him like a shadow. It followed him through the city, through every swing, every night. Because even if you never took him back—even if you never forgave him—he’d still never stop loving you.

Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Luckily for Peter, fate—cruel and unforgiving as it so often was—offered him a rare moment of grace, like a quiet reward for all he had given up, all he had endured.

You were already in your room when you heard it: a quiet thud against the metal of your fire escape, not loud, but deliberate, like a knock with no knuckles. And when you pulled back your curtains, there he was. Peter. Still suited up, though the red and blue fabric was torn and soaked dark with blood and rain, and his mask hung limp in his hand. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, eyes glassy and rimmed in red.

You slid open the window before you could think too hard about it. “What the hell?” you said, half a gasp, half a demand. “Are you okay? Why are you here?”

It was the first time you’d spoken to him in months—your voice rough with disbelief, sharp around the edge, but soft somewhere underneath it all. Happy that he was there—that he chose to come to you first, without needing to be asked. It meant he still cared, despite everything his actions tried to say otherwise.

He stepped inside like a ghost. “I—I’m sorry,” he breathed, the words catching in his throat. “I should’ve told you everything. I should’ve—God, I was so scared. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

You didn’t know what to say. He was shaking, like something had finally snapped, like all the weight he’d been carrying had collapsed in on itself. And when he sank to the floor—on your rug, in front of your bed, hands still trembling—you knelt down beside him.

“I thought I could protect you by walking away,” he said, voice cracking in the middle, “but I just broke everything. I missed you every single day. And I saw you—saw you with him—and I wanted to be happy for you, I did, but it—God, it killed me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He was crying openly now, not holding back like he used to, not trying to be brave or strong. Just a boy in pieces, falling apart in the only place he felt safe enough to break.

You didn’t say anything. You just pulled him close and held him like you used to—arms tight, fingers in his hair, your chin resting on the top of his head.

“I’m gonna grab the first aid kit,” you murmured, brushing his curls gently from his eyes. “Sit still.”

The familiarity of it was what made it hurt but heal.

You patched him up in silence—your touch gentle, practiced—as if no time had passed at all He hadn’t said a word about the suit, and you hadn’t asked. He came to you, still in it, like that answered everything. When it was done, you sat beside him on the floor, knees knocking, both of you staring out the window. Neither of you said much more that night, just sat there quietly soaking in the presence you’d both been aching for.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, you were in the same place—together, unspoken things still lingering in the air, but not pushing you apart.

Fact ten: you’re still the best thing to happen to Peter Parker.

Peter Parker should’ve known that no universe could keep his world from getting tangled up in yours.

Maybe it was because he was the kind of person who noticed the smallest things—the way your laugh shifted when you talked to different people, how the corners of your eyes crinkled more on one side when your smile was genuine, or how your fingers tapped nervously when you were about to say something important. He memorized those moments like they were precious fragments, each one a secret to hold close, as if any second could be the last. Maybe that’s why loving you was never something he could undo or forget.

Inside your apartment, the air was softer, warmer, quieter in a way that felt safe. A blanket was loosely draped over both your legs, his socked feet tangled gently with yours. Half a pizza sat forgotten on the coffee table, its heat long faded, while 10 Things I Hate About You played quietly (again) on the screen, volume just low enough to make the words fade into the background.

You leaned into him, head tucked softly into the crook of his neck—the way you had a thousand times before, even though it had been so long since you allowed yourself to be this close. His hoodie smelled faintly of rain and detergent, and of Peter himself, grounding you in the here and now. One of his arms curled around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy, absent circles over your t-shirt, almost like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingers.

“I think I could come up with ten things I hate about you,” you said suddenly, voice muffled against his hoodie, half-joking but with a teasing edge. “Starting with you pretending like I didn’t exist for a year.”

He chuckled softly, breath warm on your temple. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “I deserve that.”

You shifted to look up at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re not even going to argue?”

“Nope.” He gave you a sheepish grin, the kind that made you want to shake your head and smile at the same time. “Because you’re right. I was an idiot. An idiot with a big, fat, capital ‘I.’”

A small smile tugged at your lips, amused and maybe a little smug, and you settled back against him. But then he tilted his head, his eyes softening as he looked down at you.

“I think I’ve got ten facts too,” he said quietly, voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But... they’re not about hating you.”

You blinked, heart tightening without quite understanding why. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand, and suddenly, the smile faded from your face as the weight of everything between you settled in. It was Peter—your Peter—still knowing how to floor you without even trying.

A beat passed before he added, softer now. “Actually, there is one hate.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“I saw your keys one day. And you didn’t have the keychain anymore.” He tried to sound casual, like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t been eating at him. “The one of mini me.”

You stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing—disbelieving, incredulous, yet affectionate. “You really are an idiot,” you said, shaking your head. “Those weren’t my keys.”

“What?” he blinked, copying you.

“They were my mom’s. I’ve grabbed her keys by accident more times than I’d like to admit. I never took it off, Peter. I told you—I wanted you with me. Always.”

His expression softened, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face. “Oh.”

You nudged him gently with your shoulder, your voice quieting. “And I saw yours. Clipped to your backpack. You didn’t take mine off either.”

“Yeah,” he said, a little breathless. “Guess I’m an idiot in more ways than one.”

“You’re my idiot,” you murmured, without really thinking.

Peter let out a white laugh, eyes still on you. “Then I’m definitely sure about my ten facts.”

The movie continued playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore. Instead, your eyes flicked to the pizza box on the coffee table, half-open, the last slice waiting patiently. Peter leaned forward slightly to grab it.

“Wait,” you said, reaching out before he could take it. “There’s one left.”

Peter glanced from the slice to you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “It’s the tenth slice,” he murmured, voice soft but playful. “Kind of symbolic.”

You snorted. “Don’t be corny.”

He tore the slice in half, handing you the bigger piece, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m still saving the last slice for you.”

You hesitated, fingers brushing his as you took it. “Old habits die hard?”

His smile was soft, real, and a little wistful—the kind of smile that carries the weight of all the things you don’t say but feel deeply. “Some habits were never meant to.”

Then he leaned in slowly, pressing his forehead gently against yours. His eyes fluttered closed, like he wanted to freeze this moment in time forever. His nose brushed yours, breaths mingling between lips that hovered—close but patient, tender, and unhurried. There was no rush, no need to escape or hide this time. Just you and him, quiet and unbreakable.

You didn’t speak. You simply looked at him—at the soft curve of his mouth, the familiar scar tracing his jawline, the way he still saw you as his favorite person in the entire world, even after everything that had come before.

Then, with careful certainty, he kissed you.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate, not the kind of kiss that tried to prove anything. It was steady and sure, a quiet promise made with the gentlest touch—his hand cupping your cheek, his lips pressing softly into yours, the shaky breath he exhaled against your mouth carrying years of everything unsaid and undone.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead gently against yours again like a puzzle piece, staying like that as if trying to hold the moment still. Because in that stillness—through every scar and mistake, every whispered confession and lingering glance—the only fact that truly mattered was this:

You were still the best thing to ever happen to Peter Parker.

And now—finally—he got to be the best thing to happen to you, too.

[yoremins]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part II

You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.

Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.

But instead, you got up.

Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.

You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”

Great.

You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."

You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.

“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.

You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.

The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”

No. Never.

“...Sure.”

The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”

There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.

Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.

“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”

“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.

The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.

Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.

“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”

Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.

Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.

Forty seconds.

The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.

Thirty-five.

The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.

Too late.

“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”

Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.

The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.

Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.

You wanted to disappear into the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.

“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”

Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”

“I know.”

“And you failed.”

You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.

“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”

You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.

“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.

“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”

Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.

“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”

Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.

As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.

Of course. Of course, it was him.

The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.

His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.

You froze. He straightened.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.

“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.

His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”

You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.

You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”

You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”

He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.

He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”

Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.

“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”

God. No.

Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?

His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.

“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”

He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.

“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.

He noticed.

“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”

You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”

He looked at you then, long and quiet.

“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”

You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.

He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”

You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”

He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.

“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”

His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”

You blinked. “Rooster?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”

You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.

His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.

Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.

“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"

You didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.

You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.

Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.

“But you will.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.

Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”

Days went faster than you were ready for.

You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.

You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.

But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.

It was a new pilot.

She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.

“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.

You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”

“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”

You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.

“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”

You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.

“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”

Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”

She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.

“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.

You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”

She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”

You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.

She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”

Something in your chest loosened at that.

Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.

“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”

Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”

Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.

Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.

You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.

“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.

You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”

“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”

You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”

The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”

The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.

You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.

Your eyes flicked to the screen.

The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00

“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."

The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."

You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”

“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”

You smiled—barely—but it helped.

The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.

“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”

You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.

Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.

“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”

You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.

3… 2… 1…

Deployment successful.

The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.

“Target received,” the system confirmed.

You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”

“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”

You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.

“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.

And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.

You’d finally made it through.

Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.

You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.

“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”

You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”

She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”

Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.

Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”

“Yours or mine?”

She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.

By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.

Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.

There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.

Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.

When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.

By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”

Progress.

“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.

“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”

You stared for a beat too long, processing.

The Hard Deck.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.

“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”

You hesitated.

She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?

Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”

Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.

Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.

You hesitated. “What now?”

She didn’t stop walking.

“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”

You blinked. “That specific, huh?”

Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”

And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.

Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.

A/N:

Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.

And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.

Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.

Tags:

hangmanscoming

leesumii

glowingtree

isla-finke-blog

milkyasteroids

notaceventura

djappleblush

hipsternerd9

impossibleblizzardstudentposts

thesoftdumbass

imineveryfandomever

st4rgirlmar1e

malindacath asked:

lonelysoul50

xozchi

nerdgirljen

kakeurillon

softpia

Please tell me if you want to be tagged.

[yoremins]

a real home

dagger squad x gn!reader

summary: no squadron has ever felt like home before, it hasn’t had the chance, but everything seems different with this one || warnings: attachment issues, fluff, alcohol mentioned || word count: 1412 || masterlist

When you graduated Top Gun, it was the happiest moment of your life. There were no words to describe how years of dedication and hard work had finally paid off for this moment. It had been your dream since you were small and to be able to truly live it was like nothing else.

Then you were given your first assignment, a fill in for an injured pilot that had been grounded for a few months. The lack of permanence attached to your job didn’t even occur to you at that time, it was a actual assignment that you would be competing as a naval aviator from Top Gun. Then the injured pilot recovered and returned and your first squadron had no need for you anymore.

There was a big fuss about you leaving, drinks in a bar and a nice meal out to say goodbye. They showed you the best of them and you truly treasured the months you got to spend with them.

But your next assignment was for temporary fill as well. It was fine, you’d done it before. Temporary didn’t mean you weren’t valued. Except, in this squadron, it kind of felt like it did. They made it very clear that you weren’t part of their unit. You were an outsider, here to fly in the back of formations and leave when your time was up.

There was no drinks when you left that squad, only a handshake from your commander and a mutter about a recommendation for your stellar behaviour and attitude.

It seemed you were the first person on the list for temporary fills and partial positions for the Navy because every assignment you were given was one. You could never call a squadron yours or say you belonged to a unit. You were just the stand in until the right fit stumbled along to replace you. Now that you’d gone so many years without a squadron, the hope of finally having your ow faded with every job you were given. Why would they give you a permanent position now that you could fit and blend so well with any group you were pushed into?

There was one issue with that line of thinking, however. You faked every bouncing introduction, every beaming smile, every connection with your fellow aviators because nothing ever felt real to you. There was no point becoming attached, only to be pulled away. You had learned that after squad number three.

You got the call from your commander for a meeting the day before. It was another assignment, you assumed.

“You’ve been requested in Miramar for the squadron let by Captain Pete Mitchell, callsign Maverick.” Your commander recited and handed you a file containing all the information about your new squadron. “Understood?”

“Yes Sir.”

“You leave at 0800 tomorrow morning.”

Miramar was a few hours south of your current station, one of the very few you hadn’t been stationed at yet. It was also the home of Top Gun, a place you dearly missed. It would be nice to be based there again, being able to watch the cadets perfect their craft. But you also realised that Maverick’s squadron was the infamous Dagger Squad, made up of the best pilots that Top Gun has produced. Why would they bring you into their squadron? Surely they were skilled enough to function if they were down a member.

When you landed, there was already a place for your plane set up with runway attendants pointing you to a gap in the line of F-18’s. That should have been the first sign that this deployment was something different to all the others. No other squadron had your plane in the middle of theirs before, always parked off the side.

The good signs just kept coming as the squadron seemed to pull you into their group the moment you stepped into the common room with them. They would laugh about the weirdest things, whispering explanations of inside jokes to you so you could be included.

You’re hesitant by their camaraderie from the beginning but they leave you no space to object, dragging you out to the Hard Deck, a favourite since your Top Gun days.

The bar brought back all the memories of your younger days, when life seemed just that bit simpler and you never had to worry about belonging anywhere.

Penny leaned over the bar to Maverick. “Who’s the newbie?” She asked him, pointing to you.

“Y/N Y/L/N. They’ve been a floater for countless squadrons, filling in for injuries and call outs. None of their deployments have lasted beyond a year.”

Penny frowned. “How did they end up with you guys? You aren’t down anyone.”

“I requested them.” He explained. “No one should be without a squadron for that long. They finished top of their class at Top Gun and their first squad cashed in a favour they had to get them to fill in for a few months after one of their pilots injured himself. They wanted the best for their squad and they got it. But then Y/L/N had nowhere to go afterwards.”

“That’s tough.”

Maverick nodded in agreement. “I want them to have something that’s not just momentary.”

“A squad.”

“A home.”

The night wears on and you finally say a goodnight, eventually ending up crashing at Phoenix’s place. She’s got some nice digs in the town, nicer than any other Navy housing you’ve been in. You’re still on base housing, not bothering to look for something more permanent if you’ll be leaving in a few months. Leases are a nightmare to get in and out of.

But as the months wear on and there’s no talk or even suggestion of you going anywhere, your mind starts to turning cogs that have become rusted and cranky. It’s finally a performance review with Maverick that sets the machine in motion.

“You’ve settled in remarkably. I looked through your previous assignments and all of your previous commanders had nothing bad to say about. I’m inclined to agree with them apart from one thing.”

You stay silent, waiting for him to say something that will mean the end of your deployment here. Maybe your manoeuvres aren’t up to his par. You’ve been winning the dogfights but that’s not always a reflection of your ability.

“I feel like you’re withholding something from this squad, like you’re waiting for it to end.”

His word feel like a punch to the stomach. He’s finally mentioned the possible end. This is it.

“Your position on this team is permanent, do you understand that?”

“What?” The word slips out of your mouth before you can compose your brain.

“This isn’t another temp position. Were you not told that at the beginning of your deployment?”

Your mind is racing as you take a breath in and as his words settle, it feels like the first breath you’ve taken in years. Is this what breathing is? What have you been doing this whole time? “I was not Sir.”

“Then that would explain why you’re still in base digs. We need to get you a house in Miramar. I’ve been waiting for an application.”

“This is permanent?” You can’t stop the look of worry being etched on your face as you clarify.

Maverick’s eyes soften. “As long as you want it.”

The emotion bubbles inside you, expressing itself as the tears fill your eyes. You hurriedly wipe them before they can fall, trying to act like nothing is happening.

“Thank you Sir. I’ll- I’ll put in that housing request.”

“I’ll look forward to receiving it.”

The key to your new house feels heavy in your hand as you stand in front of the door. It’s something you’ve never had before, another reminder that you aren’t going anywhere. And now, you had a house that was yours, to live and stay in.

You’ve truly settled in, everything where you want it to be when there’s a knock at the door. You open it and half of the squad, your squad you remind yourself, are stood there. Some hold housewarming gifts, most brought alcohol but you know it’s appreciated.

They filter in and your new house is filled with laughter and joy and the sound of beers being cracked and cans opened. Your new house is officially a home and now it truly feels it too.

Sometimes it isn’t the place that’s home, but the people that make you feel like you actually belong.

feel free to send in a request xx

[yoremins]

REMEMBER. gender is NOT the same thing as sex.

gender is what you identify as, while sex is what i'll be having with bob reynolds tonight.

stay informed.

[yoremins]

HARD TIMES !!!

gonna  make  you  wonder  why  you  even  try  !!!!   ⸻   or  ,  the  band  au  .

ROOKIE  '25  feat.  isack  hadjar  as  our  front  man  ,  ollie  bearman  as  lead  guitar  ,  kimi  antonelli  on  keys  ,  gabriel  bortoleto  on  the  bass  ,  and  jack  doohan  on  the  drums  !!

⸻  dying  for  merch  ???  find  franco  colapinto   !!   for  bookings  and  inquiries  ,  don't  be  afraid  to  contact  @.yourusername  on  all  social  media  platforms  ,  via  phone  @  +1  ***  ***  ****,  or  through  the  band's  email  rookie25@gmail.com  !!

want  to  learn  more  about  the  bandverse  ??    the  ask  box  is  always  open  !!    +    opt  in  to  be  tagged  in  the  fics  in  the  replies  !!

HARD  TIMES!  is  an  anthology  series  revolving  around  the  tales  of  reader  and  the  (somewhat  cover)  college  band  ,  ROOKIE  '25.  main  romance  is  isack  hadjar  x  reader,  but  some  fics  will  explore  the  (platonic)  relationships  btwn  reader  and  the  other  bandmates  !!   secondary  ships  mentioned  every  now  and  then  include  bearnelli  and  gabijack.  ⸻  masterlist  below  the  cut.

thinking  'bout  you  ⸻  isack  hadjar  x  reader  ⸻  or,  the  one  and  only  time  isack  manages  to  write  an  original  song.  or  so  you  think.

read  !!!  ⸻  franco  colapinto  &  reader  (platonic)  ⸻  or,  you  think  franco  needs  to  cut  down  on  the  expenditures.  franco  thinks  the  band  absolutely  needs  a  bubble  machine.

do  be  do  be  deep  ⸻  jack  doohan  &  reader  (platonic)  ⸻  or,  jack  really  just  needs  some  gentle  parenting.

more  tba  !!

[yoremins]

oscar’s declassified crush survival guide ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

r/aita · @awenthealchemist asked, “aita (m24) for constantly avoiding my coworker because i’m (hopelessly) in love with them?” & @landoscarino asked, “aita (m24) for being so emotionally constipated that i made my coworker think i hate her because i can’t function properly when she’s around?”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x mclaren mechanic!reader. ꔮ word count: 5.3k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, teensy bit of angst. mention of food; profanity. oscar is so emotionally constipated it’s absurd, idiots in love, miscommunication. title from ned’s declassified school survival guide. ꔮ commentary box: this was initially supposed to just be a ha-ha funny fic (as evidenced by the title!!!) but uhhh. this oscar pic hit my timeline and the prospect of a little angst became a little tew good,, the fact that oscar got two requests of this nature is very telling :D 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬���𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

GUIDE TO: TALKING TO YOUR CRUSH.

Step one: Don’t be weird about it.

Oscar fails this step almost immediately.

You’re standing by the garage bench, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in telemetry notes and gearbox data. There’s a smudge of grease near your jawline—a perfect crescent moon of imperfection that Oscar wants very badly to ignore and also memorize forever. His first coherent thought upon walking in is that the lighting is unfair. Too cinematic. The way the fluorescents hit your skin makes this look like the opening scene of a doomed romance.

He clears his throat. That’s a thing people do when they want to talk. Right?

You glance up. “Morning, Oscar,” you greet. “Car’s ready for install checks. We made a few minor tweaks on the rear wing.”

Professional. Efficient. Like this is your actual job or something. It is. Oscar nods too quickly. “Cool. Great. Rear wing. My favorite part of the car.”

What?

“Right,” you say after a moment’s pause. “Well, we’ve adjusted the flap angle slightly. Should help with balance into Turn 12.”

“Yep. Downforce. Love that stuff. Big fan.”

Step two: Form actual sentences.

He tries again. “I mean, yeah, that’s—that sounds good. Smart. Like you. Not that I think about you being smart. I mean, obviously, you are, that’s why you work here. With me. I mean, not with me, with me. Just… adjacent. Garage-adjacent."

You stare at him.

Step three: Pull the emergency eject before you combust.

“Anyway,” he says, voice cracking like he’s fourteen again, “I’ll just go… check the tire blankets.”

He doesn’t even know where the tire blankets are. To top it all off, he spins too fast and knocks his elbow against the table. The telemetry tablet wobbles. You reach out, stabilizing it with reflexes honed over years of high-stakes pit work.

“Careful.” Your voice is neutral, but your brow twitches. Confused, maybe. Or mildly concerned. You’re not used to seeing Oscar flustered. No one is. He’s known for being unshakably calm. Cool. Tactical, even.

Except around you.

Around you, he forgets how to be human.

He ducks his head and mutters something vaguely apology-shaped before disappearing behind a stack of Pirellis. Once hidden, he presses the back of his hand to his forehead like a fainting Victorian heroine.

Step four: Get it together.

He’s been telling himself for months now that he can handle this. That you’re just a coworker. That it’s fine if his pulse races when you say his name, or if he finds himself inventing excuses to linger near your workstation. He’s an F1 driver. He can do impossible things at 300kph. Surely he can speak to you like a normal person.

But then you smile at him. Or call him mate in that easy way that suggests you don’t think twice about it. That you don’t know what it does to him. And Oscar just short-circuits.

He peeks around the corner. You’re already back to work, focused and capable and utterly out of his league.

Step five: Try again tomorrow.

GUIDE TO: HAVING DINNER WITH YOUR CRUSH.

Step one: It’s not a date. Repeat that. Out loud, if necessary.

Oscar repeats it three times in the mirror before leaving his hotel room. “Not a date. Not a date. Team dinner. Totally normal. Totally fine.”

He still changes his shirt twice.

The restaurant is one of those trendy-but-trying-not-to-look-trendy types. Ambient lighting. Concrete floors. Eucalyptus in glass jars. Half the grid has probably eaten here before a photoshoot. But tonight, it’s just McLaren—engineers, mechanics, and the drivers who secured a front row lockout. A reason to celebrate.

Oscar usually doesn’t come to these. He’s good at the post-race Irish exit. Ghosts away after media, catches up on debriefs, crashes early. He’s got his routines. But then he heard you were coming.

So.

Now he’s here.

And you’re across the table. Not directly—thank God—but diagonally enough that he can see you without making it obvious. (It’s not working. He’s being obvious.)

You’re laughing. The real kind, not the polite kind people do when someone from aero makes a weird joke. You’re talking to one of the tyre techs, relaxed, shoulders loose, sipping from a glass of white wine like you haven’t spent the entire week elbow-deep in machinery.

Oscar can hear the way you say “brilliant” with that low, amused lilt. It hits him somewhere soft and stupid.

Step two: Do not stare.

He’s staring when you glance over. Just a flicker, like you felt him looking. Your eyes meet his.

Oscar immediately looks down at his menu like it personally offended him. “They have food,” he mumbles to no one in particular. 

He hears Lando snort beside him. “Of course they have food,” the Brit huffs. “It’s a bloody restaurant. What were you expecting?” 

Oscar kicks him under the table. Misses. Hits the table leg.

Step three: If you’re going to suffer, suffer discreetly.

The food comes. Oscar picks at his. Conversation floats around him in waves. Banter, stories from pit wall chaos, someone making a joke about Zak’s karaoke voice. He hears you again before he sees you: a low, amused hum, your elbow lightly nudging someone’s arm as you tell a story.

You’re magnetic without trying. You talk with your hands. You tip your head when you listen. When you laugh, Oscar feels it in his molars.

It should be illegal.

Then the check comes.

“We splitting this or what?” someone asks.

Oscar, caught mid-thought (the thought was “what would happen if I accidentally knocked over this glass of water and needed someone to help clean it up”), says without thinking, “I got it.” 

There’s a brief silence. Then a round of delighted surprise:

“We’ve got a big spender over here!”

“P1 perks, huh?”

“Look at our golden boy!”

Oscar wants to crawl under the table. “I didn’t mean—I just meant—it’s not a big deal,” he protests weakly as he scrambles for his wallet. “I can afford dinner. Occasionally. Once a fiscal quarter.”

Lando claps him on the back. “Generous king.”

Oscar groans, fishing out his card, muttering something about regret and financial ruin. But then you stand. Shrug into your jacket. You touch the back of his chair as you pass, a gesture so casual it might not mean anything, and say, soft and warm: “Thanks, Oscar. That was really sweet of you.”

You smile.

And Oscar?

Step four: Die quietly.

He watches you walk toward the door, your voice joining the others as the team filters out into the night. The air smells like grilled steak and good wine. Lando says something else, probably teasing, but it doesn’t register. Oscar’s still frozen in place.

He tucks your thank-you away like a note in his back pocket. Something small. Something priceless. Something that’s just his.

GUIDE TO: CELEBRATING YOUR CRUSH’S BIRTHDAY.

Step one: Arrive at the garage like it’s any other Friday. Practice sessions ahead. Tyres to scrub. Data to collect. Emotionally perilous scenarios to avoid.

“Did you sign the card?”

Oscar’s brows furrow. The engineer in front of him is grinning like he knows something Oscar doesn’t. Which, clearly, he does. “What card?” Oscar asks. 

“For her birthday. Come on, mate, there’s cupcakes in the sim room and a paper crown someone stole from hospitality.”

Step two: Panic. 

Birthday. Your birthday.

How had he not known? Had it come up and he just—blanked? Had he repressed it, maybe, in some strange bid for self-preservation? Was he supposed to know? Was this a fireable offense?

He drifts toward the sim room, trying to play it cool. (He is not playing it cool.) A few crew members shout greetings to you. One even sings. You laugh, tucked half over your laptop, pen behind your ear, and it does something violent to his chest.

You look good. You always look good. It’s unfair, really. Something about the daylight against your cheekbone, the way your smile tugs to the side when you’re caught off guard. Oscar catalogues these moments in real time, all while internally spiraling.

Then someone asks if anyone has a lighter.

Someone else says, “Oscar, didn’t you say you’d pay for the cake?”

He feels his brain fizzle like a light bulb. This happens a lot around you, apparently. “I did?”

“You did. Earlier,” one of them mechanics notes. “Very loudly, in fact.”

He had blacked out, clearly, and now everyone is looking at him with the coercive energy of people who know he can’t say no. That’s how Oscar ends up standing in the center of the garage, clutching a cake topped with flickering candles like it’s a live bomb.

You’re pulled away from your work and corralled into a semicircle of clapping and whistling. You look bewildered but amused, and then your gaze lands on him. Oscar almost drops the cake he’s apparently footing the bill for.

You smile. Gently. Kindly. Like you don’t notice the way he’s standing too straight, too still. Like he isn’t seconds from combusting.

You blow the candles out in one breath.

The crew cheers. Oscar exhales.

Step three: Try to recover from Step two.

Later, in a lull between tire tests and telemetry readouts, you find him by the stacks of unused slicks. You’re still in your overalls, arms crossed, expression soft. “Thanks for the cake,” you say.

Oscar shrugs, one shoulder up, eyes flicking away. “Wasn’t a big deal.”

“Still. It was nice.”

“Yeah, well. People like cake.”

There is a beat of silence. You nod. Not hurt, exactly. Just—pulling back. Stepping away from the space between you like it doesn’t belong to you both.

“Right. See you at briefing,” you say with a half-wave that’s pitifully awkward. 

Oscar watches you leave. Feels the quiet settle like dust. He wonders if there was a better version of that conversation in a parallel universe. One where he said something funny. Or sincere. Or even just not dumb.

Step four: Contemplate the merits of baking lessons and time machines.

Both feel equally out of reach.

GUIDE TO: TELLING YOUR CRUSH YOU LIKE THEM.

Here is where the steps fall apart.

Where the feelings overtake, trying to squeeze in some nonexistent gap. Where everything that could be doesn’t quite cover for everything that is. 

Here is the thing Oscar Piastri will never say out loud, not to his engineer, not to Lando, not even to the digital diary he sometimes keeps on long-haul flights when no one else is awake: he is having the most emotionally taxing race weekend of his life.

Because of you.

Because you smiled at him on Thursday morning like nothing’s wrong, like he didn’t all but flee the birthday conversation two weeks ago with the grace of a malfunctioning espresso machine. Because you handed him a tablet during FP1 with your usual gentle efficiency, your fingers brushing his for half a second, and he forgot every single line item on the run plan. Because he cannot focus, not when you’re around the car, around him, around.

He’s been trying to keep his head down. Driving smooth. Avoiding Lando’s sideways glances and Andrea’s knowing comments. But he’s a little haunted this weekend. Haunted by the way your laugh travels across the garage. Haunted by the suspicion that this whole crush thing might be undoing him in ways telemetry will never explain.

It bleeds into everything.

He takes corners with the kind of deliberation that feels almost holy. He treats the car like something sacred—like it’s borrowed, like it matters. Like if he takes care of it well enough, it might return the favor. Maybe he thinks if he drives beautifully enough, you might look at him and see more than a stammer and an awkward joke about tire deg.

He’s not proud of it, but he does glance at the pit wall. During pit entry, during yellow flags, during brief moments when the world slows just enough to allow him a glimpse. You’re always focused, always impossible. You never notice him looking, which is probably why he keeps doing it.

Qualifying is a blur. He finishes P1.

P1.

He can barely hear his own breath for how loud everything is. The crowd, the crew, the cheer that rips through the garage like lightning. All he can think about is how you don’t look surprised. He catches it—barely—a flicker of calm satisfaction in your eyes, like you always knew he had it in him. Like it was inevitable.

They take photos of him, hands braced against the halo, head bowed like he’s praying.

He is.

Not to the gods. Not to the MCL39. But to the parts you touched. The bolts you torqued. The wings you adjusted. This ridiculous machine he fell in love with, because falling for the person who builds it felt impossible.

He can love the car, love the process, love the speed. He can show love to everything but the hands that build him up for failure and success.

He thinks about that too much.

He wants to tell you. He almost does. After parc fermé, when the garage is awash in orange and accolades, and he finds you standing just beyond the crowd with your arms folded like always. He walks up, half-drunk on adrenaline and your proximity.

You beat him to it. “Nice one, Piastri,” you say, soft and sure. Your voice is his favorite post-session sound.

And he just—blanks. All he says is, “Wasn’t bad,” like a fool. Like a man who just won pole and still can’t summon the courage to say, I like you. I like you so much it’s inconveniencing me.

You nod, faint smile flickering. Then someone calls your name and you’re gone again, swallowed by tire blankets and telemetry screens and the rest of your life that doesn’t include him.

Oscar exhales. Presses his palms back to the car. Prays again, maybe.

Or just thinks of you. Nowadays, they feel a lot like the same thing. 

GUIDE TO: NOT GETTING JEALOUS OVER YOUR CRUSH.

The thing about emotional maturity, Oscar thinks, is that it always sounds like a good idea until you actually have to practice it. Like yoga, or flossing. Or staying calm when the person you like is laughing with your teammate in a corner of hospitality like she didn’t just cause you to nearly fumble a front wing this morning with one offhanded smile.

He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself distance is good. Necessary, even. He’s tried talking to you. Tried the whole dinner thing. The birthday fiasco. And after all that? Still pathetically infatuated. Maybe this new strategy is the answer. Avoidance, detachment, sheer willpower. 

So far, it’s been working. He’s been diligent. Professional. Leaves the room when you enter, pretends to be very busy with tire data when your voice floats too close. Rewires his brain to treat you like an ambient noise: the quiet whirr of a fan, or the distant hum of the garage. Background.

It’s working until it isn’t.

It’s a humid Thursday afternoon in Barcelona. The whole team has gathered in the McLaren hospitality unit. Engineers swapping notes, marketing handing out itineraries, Lando dramatically recounting some dinner party in Ibiza like he’s auditioning for a reality show. You’re there too, sitting with one knee pulled up in your chair, giggling over Lando’s animated storytelling.

Oscar should look away. He tries. But then you say something, and Lando bursts out laughing, and the two of you lean close in that way people do when they share some unspoken shorthand. Oscar feels it again, then. That thing he’s been pretending doesn’t live under his ribs.

Someone teases, “You two should start a podcast or something. Oscar’s missing out.”

And Oscar—like an idiot, like a boy who’s forgotten every chapter of his own guide—says, with a half-laugh and a mouth moving faster than his brain: “Nah, they’ve got the flirting covered without me.”

There’s a beat of silence. The one that feels like a collectively sharp inhale, like a breath being held, as Oscar realizes this may not have been his best moment. 

Lando raises his eyebrows. Someone coughs. Your eyes shift, and Oscar catches it—the flicker of surprise, the hint of hurt. It hits him square in the chest. “I was joking,” he says quickly, forcing a laugh. “Kidding. Just tired. Jet lag or whatever.”

You give him a small smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. Then you excuse yourself, something about checking telemetry. Your chair scrapes softly against the floor. The room breathes again.

Oscar wants to disappear.

Later, he corners Lando by the espresso machine.

“Hey,” he starts, voice low. “About earlier—sorry. That wasn’t about you.”

Lando sips his coffee, tilts his head. “You sure? ‘Cause it sure felt that way.” 

“It wasn’t,” Oscar says again, firmer now. “You’re not the problem.”

Lando looks at him for a moment. Then shrugs. “I’m not the person you should be apologizing to.” 

Oscar rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. I know. I just—”

He breaks off. His throat is dry. Lando watches him. Patient. Curious. This is how Oscar knows things are particularly bad; when even Lando can clock his shit, then the world must truly be ending in some bird-flapping-its-wings-over-in-Asia way. 

Oscar exhales, then mutters, more to himself than anyone else, “Can you keep a secret?”

GUIDE TO: ASKING YOUR CRUSH OUT (WITH ADVICE FROM LANDO NORRIS).

The only step: Catch her when she’s not holding a wrench.

Oscar thinks this around the same time you duck out from under the chassis, motor oil on your sleeve and a very specific look on your face. Not annoyed. Not exactly. Just very focused. Which, for some reason, is even more intimidating.

“Hey,” he starts, already flinching at how loud it sounds in the garage. “I, uh. Was wondering if you maybe wanted to grab a coffee later?”

You look up, eyes narrowed in a scrutinizing way, before gesturing vaguely to the side pod that’s still half off. “Kinda in the middle of something,” you answer, tone a touch clipped. 

Right. Free practice. The clipped barrier. The unscheduled hands-on aftermath of a moment’s lapse.

“Right,” he echoes, because repetition is his only coping mechanism. “No, yeah. Obviously. Just—later? Not like. A date. Or, I mean—unless you want. It’s fine. I wasn’t planning anything major.”

You stare at him for a second longer than he can reasonably survive. Then you sigh and nod toward hospitality. “You want coffee? We can do that. Ten minutes.”

He shouldn’t feel winded by that. But he is.

The McLaren hospitality is empty enough to echo. Late afternoon sun flares in from the side windows, painting long, golden lines across the table where Oscar sits stiffly, gripping a branded paper cup.

You’re seated across from him, still in uniform. Still with a faint smudge of something along your jaw. He doesn’t point it out.

You take a sip. He takes a sip. There is sipping.

“This is weird,” you say after a moment, not unkindly. “You don’t usually do this.”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “I could surprise you.”

You lift an eyebrow. “This wouldn’t happen to be about that thing you said last week, would it?”

The jab. The Lando thing. Oscar nearly drops his cup, swallows hard, grasps at straws. “Yeah. No. I mean—yeah. I’m sorry. For that. It was… dumb.”

You watch him, quiet.

“I didn’t mean it the way it came out,” he adds. “It was more about me than it was about you. Or Lando.”

You nod slowly. Then tilt your head. “It’s alright. I’ve heard worse.”

That should make him feel better. It doesn’t. You finish your coffee in one long sip. The silence creaks. “Well,” you say, standing, “if this was HR-mandated bonding time, I hope you got to check it off your list.”

Oscar’s stomach sinks. “What?”

You offer him a smile. Tight-lipped. Cordial. Evasive in that already-halfway-out-of-the-door way. “Nothing. Thanks for the coffee.”

And then you’re gone, leaving behind the faint scent of motor oil and roast beans, and Oscar sitting in a chair that suddenly feels much too big. He stares down at his hands.

No matter how bad he thought that might go, it still went worse.

GUIDE TO: COMFORTING YOUR CRUSH ON A BAD DAY.

It’s a shit weekend, full stop. The kind there’s no guide for.

The rain is unpredictable, the car’s balance is off, and Oscar ends up P17 in qualifying after a messy stint that leaves his engineers speaking in apologetic tones and his helmet visor fogged from the inside out. The debriefs go long, too long, and he peels his race suit down to his waist as he stalks through the garage, feeling every part of his body buzz with the kind of frustration that hums in his bones.

He’s halfway to the motorhome when he sees you.

You’re tucked behind some crates near the back of the McLaren garage. Your shoulders are hunched, your head bowed. There’s the unmistakable tremble of someone trying not to cry. It makes him stop cold.

He wants to back away, pretend he didn’t see anything. But he’s rooted. And then he pads over slowly, careful not to startle you. You hear him anyway, looking up too fast, wiping at your eyes in a quick, practiced motion.

“Sorry,” you mumble, eyes already flicking away. “Just needed a minute.”

He doesn’t say anything, just slides down to sit next to you. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. He never means to carry one, but his mum insisted he keep one during his rookie year and now it’s a habit. He offers it to you without a word.

You glance at it, then him. Then take it.

The silence that stretches out isn’t awkward. It’s something gentler. Steadier. The muted thrum of activity around the paddock feels distant from this makeshift alcove. You cry, not heavily, but enough for it to stretch. He stays.

When the tears subside, you laugh a little under your breath. “Bet this is the last thing you need,” you say, voice watery around the edges. You say it like it’s a joke, except it’s not really. 

Oscar blinks. “What?”

You huff out a breath too brittle to be a laugh. There’s something tired in your eyes, but also wry. “Oscar, you avoid me like I’m contagious. You barely talk to me. You make digs about me and Lando, remember? The dinner thing? My birthday?” You shrug. “It’s fine, really. You don’t have to explain. You can’t be expected to like all of your co-workers.” 

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. He feels like he’s back in boarding school again. Clumsy. Helpless. Trying to solve a maths problem with the wrong equation. 

The words don’t come right. They never do when they matter most.

You smile softly, a little sad. “We probably could’ve been good friends,” you say, and somehow that’s the shittiest thing about all of this. 

You stand before he can figure out what to say, his handkerchief balled in your fist. “Thanks for this, though,” you say. “For staying.”

You leave. Oscar stays, hands limp in his lap, wrinkled from the type of day he’s needed to weather. 

Rain taps against the metal siding of the garage. For once, he doesn’t know what part of him feels more soaked: his suit, or the inside of his chest. 

GUIDE TO: CONVINCING YOUR CRUSH TO STAY.

Oscar is riding a high. P17 to P1 is the kind of miracle they talk about in the Bible. 

His visor is still flecked with champagne spray, a towel around his neck, every other teammate slapping his back with unfiltered elation. He grins for photos with the trophy and McLaren’s social media team, answers questions at the press pen with a string of rehearsed lines, all while his brain starts drifting somewhere else entirely.

“The car was good,” he tells everyone, in different variations. The car was perfect. The car was flawless. The car was the best it’s ever been. Underneath it all, he is saying thank you, thank you, thank you to the crew. To you. To the extra work you put in to make sure he could make this impossible comeback. 

He doesn’t clock your absence until the cool-down lap is long over. There’s no familiar click of your boots in the garage, no sharp clap on his shoulder, no dry comment about how he took that one apex like a cocky bastard. No handoff of telemetry sheets. No nods between you and the race engineers. Usually, you’re grumbling about how long podium ceremonies take, arms crossed and grease still on your collar. But now—now you’re just not.

He overhears it from Paul. Offhand, casual. It’s not even directed at Oscar. It’s a piece of information passed on to some intern, and Oscar just so happens to be passing by when he catches your name and hears, “Bit of a shame she’s moving to Lando’s side by the next race.”

Oscar stops walking mid-step.

His towel slips off his neck and hits the floor with a wet, forgotten thump.

He finds you in the shadowed end of the motorhome, half-tucked behind a storage shelf, clipboard in one hand and scribbling notes while half-listening to someone from logistics. There’s a pen behind your ear. Your brow is furrowed in that way that means you’re troubleshooting something in real time. You look like you built the whole operation from scratch. Today, you probably did.

When you notice him, you straighten, expression unreadable. “Congrats,” you say. “P1. Smooth drive.”

“You’re transferring to Lando’s pit crew?” he blurts out, voice just a touch too sharp.

The logistics person excuses themself and hurries off. Rumors of Oscar’s feelings towards you have been greatly exaggerated, and it irks him more than he cares to admit. Even more than you coolly saying, “Yeah. Guess you heard.”

“Why?”

“Just felt like a change.”

It’s meant to come off light. Detached. It doesn’t. Not to him.

Oscar doesn’t believe it for a second. Not when the car felt like it had been designed to read his mind. Not when every corner today had felt like grace. Not when he could feel your work in every single turn.

He says your name like it means something. (It does.)

You look away, your gaze catching on something behind him. “You made it clear you didn’t want me around,” you say. “I figured it’d be easier for everyone if I just... moved.”

Oscar exhales. He wants to pace. He wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you. He wants to review every stupid mental guide he’s made insofar and chart where it all went to shit.

Instead, he starts talking. Or rather—he starts panicking, but with words.

“God, that’s not true. That’s completely wrong. I haven’t hated you. I haven’t even come close. I’ve—” He stops, shakes his head, tries again. Tries harder. “I’ve liked you. I like you. Like, a lot. Too much. To the point where I could barely function normally. So I avoided you, or made some idiotic joke, or froze. I thought I was hiding it. But apparently I just came off like a complete asshole. I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want to make things weird. It got fucking weird anyway. And now you think I hate you, which is just—” He gestures, helplessly. “It’s backwards. All of it.”

He finally stops, chest rising and falling like he’s just come out of the car again.

Silence follows. Heavy and exposed.

You stare at him. Your mouth parts slightly, but you don’t speak right away. When your words finally form, your voice is rough with disbelief. “You have a weird way of showing you like me.” 

He laughs deliriously, his hands dropping to his sides. “Yeah. I know.”

You shift your weight. And then, a little quieter, a little less sure: “I wasn’t exactly straightforward either.”

Oscar’s eyes snap to your face. There’s an uncharacteristic flush of red high in your cheeks. You’re blushing. Why are you blushing? 

“I really thought you hated me,” you admit. “So I kept my head down. I threw myself into work. Every upgrade, every tweak—I just kept thinking, okay, maybe I can’t fix whatever’s between us, but I can at least give you a good car. Something that works. Something that will get you what you want.”

Sometimes, Oscar’s sisters liked to wax poetics about ‘Oh.’ moments. Exactly like that. Capital ‘O’, italicized, full stop with a period. The realizations of all realizations. Epiphanies that hit like a train. Oscar called them all hopeless romantics, but now—

Oh. 

Your confession is a lot more sophisticated than his, but it’s still that. A confession. Rationale for the endless chances, the delicate smiles, the car that put him on the podium most weekends. Before he can overthink it, before he can try and consult the guides that have failed him spectacularly so far, Oscar reaches out. 

Your hands are not soft. They’re rough with work. Calloused, nicked, a little stiff around the joints. Oscar loves them. Oscar loves you. They’re the hands that have made him, the hands that he’s thought of holding for an impossible amount of time. He should tell you that. Instead, he says: 

“You’re something that I want, too.” 

GUIDE TO: DATING YOUR MECHANIC.

Step one: Be subtle about it. 

Oscar likes to think he’s subtle.

He likes to think he’s smooth now, too. That something about crossing that invisible threshold from oh God, I can’t even look at her to I get to kiss her now!!! has imbued him with a serene sense of smugness. 

He brings you coffee when he knows you’ve been up since five. Waits for you after debriefs like it's protocol. Accidentally-on-purpose grabs your hand when you pass tools. You nudge his ankle under briefing tables. He swears you winked at him once in parc ferme, but you’ve denied it. The same way you denied canceling your transfer to Lando’s pit crew because Oscar was, in fact, just someone terribly down bad for you. 

You’re both very professional. Very secret. Very subtle.

Everyone knows.

Oscar hears it in the way Lando coughs pointedly every time he sidles up next to you during a garage walk-through. In the way the rest of the crew suddenly finds reasons to give the two of you space at lunch. In the deadpan way Zak says, “Tell your girlfriend good job on the diffuser setup,” and walks away before Oscar can sputter out a reply.

Oscar insists to Lando that it’s not a thing. “No one thinks we’re dating,” he says one evening, the words muffled around a protein bar.

Lando doesn’t look up from his phone. “Mate, you smiled like it was your wedding day when she tightened your front wing.”

Oscar goes red. Deeply, irrevocably red.

Still. He likes it. The way you catch his gaze across the garage, shake your head just a little like you’re both in on a long-running bit. The way your fingers brush his when you pass him telemetry sheets. The fact that he knows you’ll be there at the end of the day, leaning against the doorframe, helmet bag in hand, looking at him like he’s still something new and ridiculous and kind of wonderful.

He knows it won’t always be this easy. That the season will twist and tighten again, as it always does. That one of you will slip up eventually. That the world might want to chew on this thing that should be worshipped.

For now, Oscar will win races and kiss you behind stackable crates and pretend that no one knows you’re the heart on his sleeve. 

He gets to call it subtle, gets to hold your hand.

And he steadfastly follows the only step that really matters: he gets to be happy. ⛐

[yoremins]

salt.

op81 x reader

summary: it's your penultimate summer at camp half-blood, and you run into a familiar face. wc: 2k cw: near-drowning a/n: ummm hi this is my first fic for oscar and I also wanted to get into the groove of writing chb x f1 aus! have this little one-shot while I get the hang of things (this was NAWT proofread) <3 if you have any questions or kindly-worded feedback, don't be scared to say hi! moodboard!

People always turn to the water when they’re trying to escape something. 

A shitty boss, a hectic work week, a bit of relief after final exams. Or sometimes the risk of drowning still feels safer than whatever awaits you on shore. The ocean’s depths are the sort of deep blue that is so rich and true that it looks like protection. Her width is mistaken for open arms.

This is the error you make when you decide to surf your problems away one day, hoping that maybe catching a wave will take your mind off of the looming spectre of college admissions. Your second-to-last trip to Camp Half-Blood before you’re left to figure it all out on your own. Instead, you come face to face with a wave that rises far too high, and suddenly you're clinging to a piece of coral as it wreaks havoc just above the surface. The sound of rushing water is all you can hear, and your chest is tightening. You’re running out of breath. Fast.

Your head begins to feel light, and the world feels like it’s floating away from you no matter how fast you blink your eyes to try to remain on earth. Just before it all goes dark, you think you hear some kid’s voice. It sounds male, and he’s yelling, but distantly. Maybe he’s actually trying to welcome you into heaven or something. Man, you really wanted to tour Spelman’s campus first, at least…

For the next few moments, everything is dark and warm. A few moments more, and you realize that you’re laying on your back, the warmth coming from soft sand. There’s blue sky, but it is interrupted by the dark silhouette of…someone hovering over you. Your eyes sting with saltwater as you blink slowly. The silhouette speaks.

“Oh, thank God. You alright? Can you speak?”

You try to, but coughs wrack your throat and chest instead as your body expels more water. 

“Whoah, easy there.”

When you can finally get words out, your vocal chords scrape together painfully. 

“Where’s my surfboard?” you rasp.

As your vision clears, the silhouette becomes a pale-looking, wavy-haired brunette, freckled cheeks reddened with sunburn. His eyes look dark at first, but then you realize that they’re really a stormy grey. They squint as he stares at you, perhaps in disbelief that you’ve just nearly drowned and the first thing you ask for is your surfboard.

“It’s swimming with the fishes, I’m afraid. Would’ve dove down deeper to get it for you but,” he shrugs, “you were kinda drowning.”

“Damn,” Your lips jut outwards in a pout as you sit upright, dark elbows dusted with sand. There’s a twinge of pain there as if you’d been cut. You’ll have to check that out later.

“That thing was expensive.”

The boy raises an eyebrow. “Well I’ll be sure to have my priorities straight next time.”

-

You're sweating through your orange Camp Half-Blood t-shirt beneath your armor as you stalk through the forest, hand resting at the hilt of your sword. Three years ago, the beads collecting at your hairline would've had you worrying about the state of your baby hairs, but you had learned to wait until after training to gel them down. There was no point getting dolled up otherwise. You weren't in Aphrodite's cabin - no one cared how you looked.

A light breeze picks up and carries with it the smell of murky water. Sure enough, you come up on the lake. Your fingers tighten around the hilt. You had instructions to remain on high alert and—much to your disappointment—defend. Still, the possibility of some twerp coming around here to take a break or grab a sip? Never zero. Maybe you’ll get an easy battle.

The snapping of a twig near the foot of the lake proves you right, and you immediately spin on your heel towards the sound, drawing your sword. It points at the pale, freckled face of a camper you don’t recognize from the previous summer, slick with sweat and flush from exertion beneath a helmet plumed with the opposition’s blue feathers. A section of brunette hair falls over his face, curling just so. His expression is oddly calm, dark grey eyes widened but not darting around. 

It’s…familiar.

Your eyes become saucers. 

“Oh, shit! You’re that Aussie kid from the beach!”

He doesn’t say anything, just shrugs while his hands remain held out in defense. You can see small scratches on his palms and up his arms, likely from thorned plants he’d failed to avoid. His awkward half-smile doesn’t feel appropriate for the current situation given that—if you're guessing correctly—he has neither shield nor sword at his hip. Newbie must’ve lost them somewhere in battle.

You lower your weapon, but don’t sheath it. “Well? Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

“Aren’t you gonna put the pointy sword away before trying to chat me up?” He responds without missing a beat. He shifts his weight on the uneven ground, and you can tell he isn’t used to the weight of his armor. What harm could he possibly do?

You shrug, and finally sheath your sword. “Fine. Name?”

He lowers his hands slowly, his shoulders appearing to relax in what looks like a sigh of relief.

“Oscar.”

“Like…like The Grouch?” you snort.

Oscar presses his lips into a thin line. He’s heard that one before.

“Whatever helps you remember it.” 

The conversation is interrupted by the sound of voices yelling in the distance. One of them you recognize as Kimi’s, who showed up only last summer and was already hell to spar with. Based on the intonation and volume of his shouting, he’s chasing someone down. Oscar tenses, and he toggles his gaze between you and the direction of all the commotion. His eyes seem to plead for help, and you almost laugh. This kid doesn’t know the half of how things work around here.

As the yelling draws nearer, accompanied with the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath frantic footsteps, you draw your sword (not pointed in his face this time) and give him a reassuring look.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let ‘em toss you around…” you mutter the tail-end of the sentence under your breath. “...much.”

A flurry of helmets break through the foliage, the majority of them red save for the poor kid being chased - Ollie from the Aphrodite cabin, you realize. Kimi is the main hunter, and the most enthusiastic at that. He’s followed closely by Doriane and Amna, who look about ready to pounce until Amna catches your eye. Her brows furrow in confusion for a moment, until you throw her a wink. Her expression relaxes, and she smiles conspiratorially. She’s had a few summers to get familiar with your strategy.

Kimi, not so much. 

“You are fraternizing with the enemy?!?” he yells, letting Ollie clamber away from the group. It doesn’t matter, he’s running in the wrong direction anyway. Owlish brown eyes settle on his new target.

“Chill out,” you yell back. “This is Oscar. He’s new here, but he saved me from drowning a couple months back.”

You look back at Oscar, tilting your head towards your teammates as a signal to step in front of you. He does, even waving at them tentatively. You thank the gods above he’s stupid.

“Hey Oscar,” Amna greets with a knowing grin. “Know who your godly parent is yet?”

“Uh, no,” Oscar scratches the back of his neck, “I’m stuck at the Hermes cabin, for now.”

“Good. Means they can’t protect you.”

He pauses, eyes widening. “Wait, what—”

Your sword is at his throat before he can even finish the sentence.

“Sorry, buddy. We’re taking you hostage. You’ll show us the way, right?”

-

Poseidon must have a sense of humor, because Oscar gets claimed in the bathroom that very same day. 

See, Chloe wanted revenge after he’d apparently chucked his shield at her during Capture the Flag. According to her, Oscar ran to hide inside of a bathroom stall with his tail between his legs. But the moment she corners him - just as they're about to get into a

“fair fight”? 

WHAM!

Chloe gets slammed into the tile wall by a powerful stream of toilet water. By the time she came to, Oscar was staring at something above his head. She followed his gaze, and her jaw dropped.

A trident.

Now Oscar sits by himself at table three, staring down into his plate like it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen. Chloe passes by him to get to the Ares table with a scowl, but gives him a wide berth. Everyone steers clear. You feel bad for him - knowing how these things go, the bathroom debacle likely wasn't his fault. 

You take a final bite of your pizza slice before rising from your seat, the decision already made before either Doriane or Amna can stop you. The two girls just look at each other and giggle.

When he looks up at you, you notice that Oscar's eyes already have bags underneath them.

“Must've been a weird day for you.”

He shrugs. “Believe it or not? I've had weirder days.”

You take a seat next to him on the warped wooden bench, and realize he unfortunately does smell a bit like toilet water.

“You've survived this long while being Big Three. I can imagine.”

His brows knit together. “ ‘Big Three’?”

“Poseidon, Hades, Zeus,” you rattle off as if you've given this speech before. “The Big Three. Makes you smell extra tasty to monsters.”

Oscar's expression darkens at the mention of monsters, his eyes darting back and forth as the gears in his head begin to turn.

“Interesting,” is all he says after a moment of pause. 

You give him a teasing grin. “You do know who those three are, right? I don't have to explain basic Greek mythology to you?”

A tiny grin plays on Oscar's lips. 

“No, I know. And here I thought I was just a really good lifeguard.”

Your smile settles into something more earnest as you push back a stray braid. 

“Thank goodness you're not, otherwise I don't think either of us would've made it here for the summer.”

Oscar is quiet for a moment, looking down at his lap before speaking again.

“...Do we really have to do the sacrifice thing?”

You laugh, the question reminding you of yourself. “Yup, every time. Whether you think they deserve it or not. I've already given up a slice of pizza.”

He nods slowly. 

“Shame. This steak's really good.”

Oscar gets up with his plate in-hand, moving toward the fire where he dumps the remainder of his meal. The flames rise a little when he does so, lapping it up. You swear the flames seem alive sometimes. 

“Thank you, by the way,” you tell Oscar once he returns. “Never said it properly.”

“What for?”

You laugh and give him a light smack on the arm. “For saving my life, idiot!”

He goes red at the realization, which makes you laugh even harder. 

“Sorry,” Oscar tries on a more comfortable smile. “Still reeling from getting sprayed with toilet water after being in an active hostage situation.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You're not still hung up on that, are you?”

“It’s literally my first day!”

“So? I had to battle Chloe on my first day. Ever had to fight off an overconfident Ares kid? She nearly skewered me.”

Oscar winces. “So I'll have to get used to that then.”

“Probably. I'm sure you'll make some friends though,” 

You elbow him, and he doesn't try to defend himself. “I'll try not to let my cabin mates jump you next training session.”

“You said that last time.”

“Hm. True. Pinky promise?”

You raise your pinky finger. Around it is a silver ring with a tall, noble-looking owl on it, its wise face illuminated by the orange flames.

Oscar stares at it for a moment, then meets your eyes. He wraps his pinky around yours.

“I hope you know that's like, legally binding.”

“I don't make promises I can't keep.”

Doriane’s voice cuts through the din of noise.

“Hey, lovebirds! Lewis is starting the sing-a-long!”

You roll your eyes, snatching your pinky back as quickly as possible. Sure enough, you can hear the strumming of the counselor’s guitar. 

“I gotta go. You gonna be alright, Grouch?”

Oscar blinks. “What did you just call me?”

You shrug as you swing your legs over the bench, “You said whatever helps remember your name. Your name's Oscar, and you barely smile. It's too easy, man.”

“I'm never gonna live that down, am I?” 

“Nope!”

You don't see Oscar watching your retreating figure as you jog back to the Athena table, a big, goofy smile spreading on his face.

[yoremins]

it ain't right, and it ain't natural.

hades!lh44 x black!reader

summary: you return to the underworld after six months above ground, and are met with a world--and a man--that you no longer recognize. a/n: uhhh kinda freewrote here because the idea flew into my head suddenly and I just love the image of Lewis as a more reluctant but efficient ruler of the underworld who just wants his wife to love him lol. this one's angsty. haven't done that before. enjoy!

That was not six months, you thought with a huff.

It felt like only a cough and a sneeze separated you from summertime; you could've sworn you'd just had taste of well-aged dandelion wine on your lips while bathing in the sun on your own balcony a mere second ago. Now, you watched with a frown as the sky blackened overhead with the smog from your husband's sprawling factory came into view, black as the coal coming out of the mines.

The hem of your spring-green dress swish-swish-ed around your boots as you stepped off the train, the clanging of mine workers' tools getting louder and louder the closer you got to your destination. The chill of incoming winter already began to nip at your skin, making you pull your white fur coat tightly around yourself. You ran the pending conversation with the man through your head. Something, something, production costs. Blah, blah, bottom line. The mint. The mills. You'd have to get some fruit of the vine imported if you were gonna make it through the winter.

The smell of distant smoke and fog seemed to recede as you stepped into the building, climbing the spiraling steps up to his office. That familiar frosted door window greeted you, the name HADES in bold letters painted neatly across. The glare from an electric light illuminated the name, casting an ominous glow over the door in an otherwise dim hallway. That's new, you thought.

It was unlikely that the god had arrived yet at such an hour, and he usually kept the door unlocked on the day your train rolled in every six months in some distant attempt at offering an olive branch.

"What's mine is yours," he'd said with a hint of a smile, which quickly faded when you replied flatly, "All this could never be mine."

Still, you occasionally sat in it while sipping imported moscato, the sight of factory roofs the closest thing you'd ever get to a view.

You tried the brass doorknob, which gave way to reveal a sight that nearly made you drop your suitcase. Your expression tightened.

"You're early."

"Well," your husband, dressed in a tailored velvet burgundy suit, leaned forward in his seat. He tried on a thin smile. "I've missed you."

You rolled your eyes, already about to spin on your heel to leave. "I'll be in my suite--"

"Hold on a moment," he held up a ringed hand with measured calm, but the crease between his brows suggested a bit of restlessness.

"I wanted to show you something. Come with me, I think you'll find it quite interesting."

You sighed as he rose from his seat, adjusting his lapels. He moved with a grace and quickness that used to be reserved for swing dancing, once upon a time. His feet barely made a sound as he made his way towards you, despite the hard leather dress shoes on his feet. One never heard him coming, but you could feel his presence. Like a ghost.

That's why you caught a couple of workers jump and scatter as soon as Lewis entered yet another one of his vast factory rooms with you in tow. But something was quite different about this one.

"Why's it so damn hot down here?"

Lewis was too busy proudly taking in the loud bustle of the place to notice you fanning yourself off with a grimace. He folded his hands behind his back.

"I got bored while you were away, you know. So I've built a foundry for metalworking," he looked down at you and winked. "It's as hot in here as you make me."

Standing stiffly, you didn't respond to the joke. Your gaze had been drawn to the shiny reflective mask of one worker pouring a barrel of molten liquid into a cast. It looked like a waterfall of lava cascading over black cliffs. There were thousands of these barrels, and you started to wonder if this is what mortals imagined hell to be like. Sweat had begun to gather and moisten the fabric of your dress where your armpits were, making you shift uncomfortably.

"I'd like to leave now," you said tersely. "I'm startin' to chafe."

Lewis pressed his lips into a thin line, as if he had expected this response but was disappointed nonetheless. "Alright."

For the first time, the feeling of icy wind slicing against your face was a bit of a relief as you descended the factory steps, your husband not far behind.

The steps spilled out onto a newly-laid sidewalk. The heels of your boots click-clacked against the white concrete until you stopped suddenly. You looked around, furrowing your brows as you scanned the empty street.

"Where's the carriage?"

You heard rare chuckle from Lewis as he moved past you towards a large black machine, smooth black paint reflecting bits of streetlight. It had matching leather seats and wheels much smaller than your carriage, with a steering wheel in front. He leaned on it and crossed his arms, grinning with self-assurance.

"We've done away with those. This is an automobile. It's got replaceable parts made in the factories and an engine. Instead of horses, we've got horsepower. Isn't it splendid?"

He must've noticed the way your eyes narrowed, because he got up off of the car and extended a hand towards you. You took it gingerly, allowing him to open the door to the passenger's side.

Unfortunately, you did have to admit that the ride into town was much smoother than it would've been had you taken the carriage. Of course, there were still a few horse-drawn carriages left on the streets, but you saw flashes of finely-dressed couples in vehicles identical to your husband's. Only flashes, though. Gods, everything passed by so fast in this thing.

Lewis took his foot off of the gas and began to cruise once you entered town. You had to shield your eyes from the gawdy flashing marquees and neon signs that accosted your senses. Those definitely weren't there last winter.

You couldn't believe it--darkest time of year, and it was brighter than daylight. Not the golden sunlight that you would bring back with you in six months time, but a cold, headache-inducing mockery. Lewis drove one-handed now, his left arm hanging leisurely outside of the vehicle. His satisfied smile as he pulled over in front of a movie theater created a spark of rage within you. Did he think you'd be impressed by this?

"Is there a carnival happenin' down here that I don't know about?" you remarked with a scowl.

"Laid down a power grid, now the whole town's got electricity. Can you imagine it? Light in the pitch-black wintertime, 24/7!"

He turned to you with a look in his eyes that you hadn't seen in a long, long time. Wonder. It used to make them sparkle back when he would show you his plans, the factories a mere idea on parchment paper. Your expression softened, if not only a tiny bit.

"Don't see why it ought to be as bright as day in the evening."

Lewis' face fell, and you felt a faint pang in your chest. "Well, my guys work well into the night. It's more convenient--"

"It's unnatural," you snapped. "And it's givin' me a headache. Take me home, Lewis."

He spoke more carefully now. "I just...thought you might like it if it wasn't so dark all the time."

"You thought wrong."

"Come now, a bit of extra light couldn't possibly be that bad." Irritation had begun to seep into his voice now, but you couldn't help but go on arguing.

"It damn sure could be, the way I see it. Light ought to come from the sky--"

"I did all of this for you, Persephone!"

A few heads turned at the sudden outburst, his voice wavering at the tail-end of the sentence. He sighed, suddenly very interested in staring at the floor of the car and messing with his signet ring, solid gold with a blood-red ruby in the middle.

Then he continued more quietly, "It gets lonely, waiting for you. Then when you finally return, you manage to make me even lonelier. It's very impressive."

You turned away, massaging your temples. "Just take me home, Lewis."

He placed a hand on the wheel before pausing.

"I will, but tell me this one thing. What have I got to do to get you to look at me? To speak to me? You know I'd give you anything you asked for in a heartbeat. Why make it so fucking difficult?"

A long silence stretched between you, filled only with the sound of horse hooves, lively chatter, and the rumble of automobiles. Whenever Lewis felt you slipping farther away from him, he built mills and factories to fill the distance. As if assembly lines of dead souls would bring you any closer. You wanted that young man you met in the garden back. The one who was so nervous on your first date that he couldn't think to do anything else but sink down onto one knee and kiss your hand. How was that so hard to figure out?

You scoffed, "It's not difficult at all. I never asked for your fancy machines, or your electricity. And I certainly didn't ask to be cooped up behind some iron wall--"

An edge crept into his voice. "That wall is there to protect you."

"Sure. And my boots have got wings that'll let me fly away."

Lewis turned to you. "Is that what you want? To fly away?"

When you turned to meet his eyes, they were glassy with hurt.

It always felt good to take a good stab at him in the moment. To say something nasty and cutting before slamming the door in his face. Now, stuck in this car, there were no doors to slam behind you or walls to separate. It was not so fun to have to watch him bleed. You sighed heavily.

"Well I don't know. I'd certainly like to fly away from," you waved a hand vaguely in the air, "This."

His expression became cold and hard before he turned his eyes to the road ahead. He said flatly, "Then I'll find someone else who won't."

You were unable to hold back a bitter laugh, unbecoming of a goddess of spring. "Good luck."

The ride back home was very quiet.

[yoremins]

Just Ask Me

Summary: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x fe!Reader -> Hangman is used to getting what he wants, so what happens when he doesn't get you?

Disclaimer: Softer moments, Dagger Squad being a family, Hangman being taught a lesson or two though, Reader is Phoenix's best friend, Jake and Reader find common ground, getting lost in the store. Mentions of bullying and shitty friends but Jake helps out. Light swearing. Kinda a strangers/unlikely friends to lovers situation.

It was no secret Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin always got what he wanted. 

He was the best of the best in the air force, he had enough charm to fill an entire mythical city and he wasn’t too bad on the eyes, either. 

So, when you rejected him it was safe to say he didn’t know what to do. 

Of course, he’d been rejected before. But that was mostly in moments where he wasn’t actually trying. Maybe a quick ‘hey’ and a smile at a bar and there was a chance the girl would walk away. But leading you into a conversation, giving you his best smile and receiving one in return…

He’d never been rejected at that point. 

“No, thank you.”

Jake faltered for a moment. 

Nobody had ever been that polite in rejecting him, either. 

“But can I help you with anything else?”

Jake shook his head. “N-No, ma’am. Have a nice night.”

You smiled. “You, too.”

Jake kept looking back at you as he walked back to the rest of the Dagger Squad. 

“What’s the matter, Bagman? Crash and burn?” Phoenix asked. 

Jake didn’t say anything. Just walked back and sat on the edge of the pool table, his eyes still on you. Then he felt himself laugh; mostly because he was confused. 

“Yeah.”

Phoenix smiled, holding out her hand to Rooster. “Hand it over.”

Reluctantly, Rooster slapped a twenty dollar bill into her hand. “How do I keep losing to you?”

Phoenix examined the crisp bill. “Because I’m just better.”

Rooster rolled his eyes but Jake’s eyes remained on you. What had he done wrong? 

He’d seen you looking over at the Dagger Squad. You’d even looked in his direction a few times. So, after he went and got his drink, he walked over and struck up a conversation with you. You talked with him. He smiled. You smiled. It was going well. And then…no thank you. 

What had he done wrong?

Pocketing the twenty dollar bill, Phoenix reached for her jacket and handed the pool cue over to Jake. He took it, his eyes still on you. 

What had he done wrong?

“Well, this has been fun, boys, but I’ve got a go.”

Rooster turned to her, Jake finally peeling his eyes away from you. “Where?”

“Meeting a friend.”

“You have friends?” Jake asked her. 

“Funny.” 

However, as Phoenix stepped down and onto the bar floor, she didn’t turn towards the doors. Instead, she walked straight over to you. 

“What’s she doing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe thanking her.”

Jake just rolled his eyes, his entire body suddenly on high alert. But as both Jake and Rooster watched Phoenix with you, they realised rather quickly that this wasn’t your first meeting. 

Then they watched as you packed up your things, throwing your bag over your shoulder. You, and Phoenix, looked directly over at both of them and waved. 

Jake felt a shocked smirk grow on his face as he watched you and Phoenix leave, but Bradley was the first to laugh. 

“Oh, my god.” Bradley clapped him on the back. “She’s never going to let you live it down.”

“Come on, let’s just play.” Jake said as he stood up. But his eyes returned back to you as he did so, watching as you and Phoenix left the bar laughing. 

That’s what he did wrong; he went after Phoenix’s friend. 

And Rooster was right; Phoenix was never gonna let him live it down. 

Jake figured he’d never see you again. He’d never seen you before and Phoenix had never mentioned you so he could only presume you’d come in to visit her. But he did see you again. 

Four days later, just a little after eight in the evening, Jake ran into you. Quite literally. 

Turning round one of the aisles, Jake ran into a shopping cart. 

“Ooh, sorry.”

“Oh, my god. I’m so sorry.”

Looking at who had just ran into your cart, you were met with a familiar face. And he seemed to recognise you, too.

“You…”

Letting yourself relax, you smiled. “Hi, Jake.”

“You know my name?”

“You did introduce yourself and Phoenix has told me a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope?”

You shrugged. “Some stories are more entertaining than others, but…” You saw the flash of panic across his face but then you chuckled. “I’m kidding. I’m Y/n, by the way.”

Stretching over your cart, you held out your hand. He shook it. 

“Nice to finally meet you, I guess.” Jake replied. You laughed a little with a smile, averting your eyes from his for a moment. Jake’s eyes followed yours and landed inside your cart. 

“You throwing a party or something?”

It took a moment for it to click with you. “What? Oh, yeah. No, no. No party. I’m actually- I’ve just moved.”

“Here? To San Diego?”

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah. Job transfer.”

“That sounds…”

“Stressful?” 

Jake nodded, admitting the truth. “Yeah.”

You nodded, moving your cart out of the way. “Well, it is. But everything is going well so far. Ooh, you wouldn’t know where the bedsheets are? I’ve been in here an hour already and still haven’t come across them.”

Jake nodded. “Yeah, they’re just down here. I’ll take you to them.”

So, walking beside him, he walked you across the store. 

“I feel like I’ve been put in a dryer and then put back on my feet. I have no idea where anything is in this store.”

Jake chuckled. “I felt like that. Each store had a different layout than the ones I was used to. But, you make enough late night runs for a box of pens, you tend to find your way around.”

“Figured it would have been for protein powder or something?”

Jake shrugged. “That, too.”

You felt yourself laugh a little. 

“They’re just down here.”

“Fabulous,” you almost exclaimed as you took in the rows of different materials and colours. 

“You’re probably best getting something light. The days are gonna be heating up pretty soon. It can get cooler at night but cotton is probably gonna be your best friend.”

You nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Scanning the shelves, you picked out a few different ones. However, the final one remained on the top shelf. Then it fell onto its back. 

“Shit.”

“Here.” Lightly pushing the cart out of the way, Jake reached up and pulled it down before handing it to you. 

“Thanks.”

Standing in front of you, Jake smiled. “Anything else I can help with? I mean, I probably know this store like the back of my hand by now.”

Looking up and down the aisle, you made a decision. “Furniture packs?”

Walking backwards, a pleasing smile on his face, Jake extended his arm. “If you will follow me, Ma’am.”

For the next thirty minutes, Jake helped you find everything you were looking for in the store. All the while, you both talked. Swapping a few short stories on how you both came to San Diego, where the best pizza places were, and how you’d met Phoenix. 

By the end, Jake helped you pack up your groceries and walked you back to your car. 

“So she just pushed them into the pool?”

You nodded. “With as much force as she could. They never bullied me again, though. After that, we became inseparable.”

“Well, I can tell you, she hasn’t changed much.” Jake placed one of the bags into the back of your car. “I mean, probably less pool pushing. Though, she probably thought about it during training. But, still.”

You chuckled. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

Finally packing up your car and placing the cart back into the shelter, Jake quickly rounded your car and opened your door before you could reach for the handle. 

You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Here to serve, ma’am.”

You chuckled, rolling down the window as Jake shut your door. 

“Thank you, for your help.”

Leaning on your door, Jake shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”

“Guess I’ll see you round?”

Jake nodded, trying to hide his smile. “I guess so. I hope so.”

You smiled. “Goodnight, Jake.”

“Night, Y/n.”

As Jake walked back to his car, he watched as yours rolled away and headed in the opposite direction back down the street. 

Jake saw you again just a few days later when he walked into The Hard Deck. 

You and Phoenix were sitting in one of the booths at the back, talking. The rest of the Dagger Squad were dotted around the place. Some at the bar, some out at the back and some by the pool table. 

And as he walked over to the bar, his eyeline falling back on you as even just the thought of you sent something pounding in his chest, Rooster came and stood beside him. 

“Doesn’t matter how many times you try, Phoenix won’t let you.”

Jake puffed air from his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bradshaw.”

Rooster just smirked, tracking Jake’s gaze from where it kept flicking across the room. 

“I think you do. Or else you really are as stupid as you look.”

Clapping him on the back once more, Rooster disappeared with his beer bottle towards the pool table. 

“Penny, my dear.”

Paying for his drink, Jake seemed to check himself over. 

“You look handsome.” Penny smiled as she dried a bar glass. 

Jake felt himself laugh a little. What was he doing? You were just a person. And you’d already said no. 

With a little more confidence, Jake headed towards the pool table and took up a cue with Coyote. But after two games, his confidence took a shot when Phoenix stood from the booth and you followed her. 

Both of you lent against the fence barrier and watched as they each moved around the table, taking their shots. 

And each time you were in Jake’s view, he missed his shot. 

“Getting rusty, Hangman?” Bob asked, already having noticed what effect you seemed to have on Jake. 

Glaring at Bob, Jake tried his best to focus on the shot. But there was something still stopping him. So, taking another look at you, Jake saw you looking at him. 

You raised your eyebrows a little, silently questioning him. Then you took a slow drag of your beer. 

Standing up, Jake cleared his throat and avoided the looks from the rest of his squad as he moved around the table. It took him a moment, but he finally made a successful shot. 

That continued for another two rounds until Jake found himself unable to even look at you without his stomach doing enough flips to send him dizzy. 

So, pushing Hangman aside, Phoenix took his cue and the game continued between her and Rooster. 

“How’s the move coming along?” Jake eventually managed to find his voice, though his eyes remained on his feet. 

“It’s…coming.”

Jake looked up at you. “That bad, huh?”

You shrugged. “I’m getting there. It’s just taking a little longer than I thought.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Flatpack furniture with no instructions.”

Jake folded his arms. “But it’s a side table.”

You laughed. “It’s got twenty-six pieces.”

“What?!”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jake watched you for a moment as your attention went back to Phoenix and Rooster as he beat her. 

“Can’t be better at everything.”

Phoenix laughed. God help Rooster. 

“We’ll see.”

Leaning into Jake, you whispered. “She’s gonna kill him.”

Jake smiled. He knew that to be true. But as they broke in the next game, Jake turned back and looked at you. 

“God, you’re beautiful.” He thought to himself before another set of words left his mouth. 

“I could help you.”

“What?”

“With your furniture. I could help you.” Jake clarified. “I’ve got a couple free days coming up and I’ve got nothing else to do. I could help.”

You peeled back for a moment, your eyes flicking over every inch of his face. You smiled a little. “You’d do that?”

“I know we didn't meet under the most conventional circumstances, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you.”

You studied Jake for a moment. 

“Okay.”

That was how a week later, Jake had turned up at your home with Phoenix in tow. Once she got wind of Jake offering to help you, she’d already given him a warning. 

“I know you like to flirt-”

“I’m not flirting.”

“But she’s my best friend. So, if you hurt her in any capacity, I will end you.”

Jake shifted in his seat. “Duly noted.”

When Phoenix let herself into your home, she called out for you. 

“Upstairs! Please tell me one of you can read Swedish!”

Looking at each other, Jake and Phoenix realised what they’d got themselves in for. 

Three hours later, the three of you were sitting on your office floor figuring out how to build your wall library. 

“How can something have this many pieces?”

“How can two fighter pilots with engineering degrees not know how to build a library?”

Jake sat with the instructions in between his legs, reading back over the pictures. 

“Wait. I think I’ve got it.”

Phoenix sighed before pushing herself up to stand. “Well, while you get a handle on that, I’m gonna order food.”

As she left the room, going into your kitchen to find the menu, you stayed with Jake. 

In the time Phoenix was gone, you and Jake sat feet to feet across from each other and had built the first half of one bookcase. 

“Will it stay?”

Silently both you and Jake prayed that it would hold as you both let go at the same time. Risking it, he shook it a little. But it remained intact. 

“Yes!”

High fiving, you both continued to build the rest. 

“Alright, food’s ordered. I’m gonna pick it up. Are you two gonna be okay while I’m gone?”

You nodded. “We’ll be fine. Ooh, Nat, make sure they give me extra dip this time. They forgot it last time.”

Phoenix took her orders and left. 

“Do you really have enough books to fill this thing?” Jake asked as he fastened some of the screws down. 

“Yep. Is that sad?”

Jake shook his head, which surprised you. Even before you’d met him, the way Phoenix had talked about him made him sound like the only book he’d ever read in his life had probably been in an English class in highschool. Even then, you doubted he’d have actually read it. 

“No, not at all. I think it’s pretty cool.” 

“Do you like to read?”

Jake looked up at you, a light expression on his face. “You sound surprised?”

“Wha- no. No, not surprised. Just…” You tried to search for a word to use. 

“Relax, it’s okay. I get it. I don’t seem like the type who reads.”

“But you are.”

Jake agreed, starting on the second bookcase with your help. 

“Loved reading since I was a kid. Obviously, I preferred books with planes in ‘em but…it was an escape. A world where I didn’t have to sit in class and be given the future profession of office worker.”

You smiled, finding joy in listening to him. There was passion in his voice as he told you about his childhood books. You even found you’d read some of the same ones. 

“I don’t get much time to read now. Mostly, it’s just textbooks.”

“You’re welcome to borrow one, anytime. God knows I have more than I know what to do with.”

Jake smiled, graciously. “Thanks. And, I promise, if I ever borrow one, it will be returned in the condition I found it.”

“Ah, a true book lover.”

Sharing a pleased look, you and Jake stood and started to shift the book cases around the room. And you tried not to get too distracted at the fact he could pick one up on its own. 

Granted, they were light. But you had tried and the best you, or anyone that wasn’t militarily fit, could do was shuffle it along the carpet in increments. 

With Jake holding the ladder steady, you drilled the hook into the wall before he lifted the bookcase back up and you secured it in place. 

By the time you reached the third one, Natasha had opened your front door again. “Got the food! I’ll set it up in the kitchen!”

Hooking it into place, you admired the finished product before carefully walking back down the ladder. 

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

Both of you stood back and admired the empty cases. 

“Just need the shelves.”

“And the books.”

You smiled. “And the books.”

However, it was downstairs where Jake came to learn of how many books you actually owned. 

Midway through eating pizza, you opened up the walk in pantry door and pulled out a cardboard box. 

“Let me help.” Natasha told you, but with strain in your voice you declined. 

“I’ve got it.”

It landed on the counter with a thud. Opening up the folded lid, you were all greeted with the smell of books. 

What followed was another two hours of mapping out shelves and organising books into alphabetical order. Something Jake seemed to do pretty quickly. 

“Not just a pretty face.”

Thanking them a thousand times over for their help, you watched as they drove back to base and you were left to tidy what you could. 

However, the next day you found yourself with a surprise visitor. 

You were midway through rearranging the furniture in your living room when someone knocked on your door. Opening it, you found Jake stood on the other side. 

“Hey.”

“Hey, sorry. I know I should have called-”

“It’s no problem. What’s up?”

Jake looked at his hands nervously. He was holding a box of lightbulbs. 

“I had some extra in my garage and thought you might wanna use ‘em. They’re only collecting dust and it would save you a trip to the store so-”

You smiled. “If you know how to fit them, I’ll happily accept them.”

“Really?”

You nodded. “I would fit them myself but if my family finds out I went near a light socket, I think they might actually send me to my grave.”

Jake laughed, “Why?”

Inviting him in, you closed the door behind him as you explained the story. 

“It happened when I was 12. I was helping my dad change a couple of the lightbulbs in the house and I'd seen him do it enough times that he trusted me to do it myself. Only, each time I did, I kept getting electrocuted.”

“No.”

You nodded. “You’d think it’d be a fluke. Faulty wiring or something. But, dad tried – he did nothing different. But it worked. I touched a bulb and it blew up. I tried again when I was 17 and it happened again. At college, me and my roommates tried. All worked for them and blew up for me.”

“It’s a good job I know how to change a lightbulb then.”

As Jake got to work doing that, you went back to rearranging your living room. However, when he returned, he stood in the hallway for a moment. 

The sofa was at a diagonal in the middle of the living room. The side tables were at opposite ends, and you seemed a little lost. 

“Do I want it to be cosy, or more open?” You asked, out loud. “Open means there’s more airflow, but it also means I’m left with this massive empty space.”

“Why not try it both ways? If you don’t like it, switch it back.”

With his help, you did it both ways. And neither worked. 

And there weren't many ways left for you to arrange your living room. So, you flipped a coin. 

Open it was. 

Finally moving everything back into its place, you and Jake collapsed on the sofa. 

“Who knew moving could be so stressful?”

“More stressful than piloting a plane going a thousand miles an hour?” You asked. 

Jack nodded. “Okay, you’ve got a point. Hey, when do you start your new job?”

“Technically, I already have. I work from home three days a week. Because of the move, I don’t actually have to go into the building until next Wednesday.”

Jake looked at you. “Wanna do something that isn’t rearranging furniture?”

“Yes.”

Standing up, he held his hand out to you. “It requires standing?”

He chuckled. “I’m afraid so. Come on.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Taking his hand in yours, you did your best to ignore the butterflies you felt float along your stomach. But standing almost chest to chest with Jake Seresin made those butterflies go from floating and fluttering their wings to an entire tornado being created. 

“Grab your jacket. Meet me on the porch?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Two minutes later you locked your front door and walked with Jake to his car. Once more, he beat you to your door and opened it up before he closed it for you and walked around to the driver’s seat. 

Twenty minutes passed before he was pulling up outside the Hard Deck. 

“I don’t think it’s open.”

Jake hopped out of the car, as did you. “It’s not.”

“Then why are we here?”

“You’ll see. Follow me.”

Walking up to the door, it opened up and you both walked inside. Anytime you’d been at The Hard Deck, it had been packed to the walls. But at that moment, it was empty. 

“Penny?”

Walking backwards out of a swinging door, Penny came through carrying a heavy box. “Oh, good. You’re here.”

Without warning, she dropped the box into Jake’s arms. Getting a steady grip, he hoisted it a little higher. 

“I’m picking Amelia up from school. They’re hosting an emergency PTA meeting so I might be back late.”

Jake shook his head. “No worries. We can keep the bar going til you get back.”

Penny smiled. “Thank you.”

As Penny grabbed her jacket and left, Jake said nothing but saw the look you gave him. 

“You’ve wrangled me into work?”

Jake shrugged, a shit-eating grin on his face that he was struggling to hide. “Maybe.”

You chuckled and followed him outside to the back deck. “There’s no ‘maybe’ about it.”

Jake shrugged again as he looked out to the sandy beach and the slow beating waves. “Can’t deny it’s a slightly better view, though.”

You looked out at it. “Yeah, that’s true.”

Sitting down on one of the picnic benches, you sat across from Jake whilst he pulled things from the crate. Napkin holders, sauce bottles and salt and pepper shakers. 

And for the next hour, you both sat in the cooling sun filling each one of them. 

“So how long have you been helping Penny?”

“A while now,” he told you. “It started out as an after-work detention.”

You felt a small laugh rise up. He was a grown man being given detention. 

“Oh, no. What did you do?”

“I left my wingman behind. Mav couldn’t get through to me, so he sent me to Penny.”

“And did she?”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. Well, her and Amelia did. Penny told me more about what happened between Mav and Goose.”

“Rooster’s dad?”

Jake nodded. “They flew together but died after an emergency went wrong. Mav was torn up for months. He’s better now, obviously, but…it stays with him. Then Penny made a point to me; I’ve never lost a wingman. I’ve left plenty behind, but I’ve never lost one.”

You screwed the cap onto the salt and pepper before taking another two and filling them. 

“And then the first full day I spent here – before I’d just spent afternoons or late nights. But it was my first full day. Penny got called away to the docks after she dropped Amelia off at the mall; she was meeting friends for her birthday.”

Pushing some more napkins into the holder, Jake packed it back into the crate and moved onto the next.

“Only, an hour later, Amelia came through the front doors with tears streaming down her face.”

Slowing down with the refilling so you could spend longer with Jake, you continued listening to his story. 

“Her friends had ditched her. One of the other girls had turned up and basically took over everything and made sure to leave Amelia out of it. She didn’t want to call her mom and she knew she’d be busy, so she came to the bar.”

The image of Amelia wiping her tears away as quickly as they fell would probably never leave him. Anytime he’d met Amelia she’d been happy – and she’d been practically bursting with fireworks when her mom agreed to let her go to the mall with her friends. 

“That was when things started to change for me.” Jake told you. “Seeing Amelia the way she was. She’d been left behind on her birthday, of all days. And not one of her friends called her.”

“They didn’t know she’d gone?”

Jake shook his head. “She tried to find them. She searched the whole mall until one of the security guards stopped her. ‘Told her he’d seen a group of them leave ten minutes before.”

“No!”

“I knew it wasn’t the same; losing someone in the air and being left alone on your birthday. But it made me realise something. I was like her friends. If something had happened to my wingman…I wouldn’t have known. It makes me feel bad, the fact it took Amelia being left alone on her birthday for Mav’s message to get through to me, but it worked. Haven’t left my wingman since.”

You smiled a little as you looked at him. “So what did you do when Amelia came back?”

“Well, she sat at the bar top doing her homework for an hour before I managed to get it out of her why she was back early. Then we made a day of it; I made her favourite foods and taught her how to make a cocktail. Penny would never let her behind the bar but after the day she’d had, how could I say no?”

“I’m guessing Penny doesn’t know about this?”

“She knows about it now. Amelia had to make a science project and her mixology seemed a little too advanced for someone who’d never been allowed behind a bar.” 

“And you agreed to make a cocktail?”

Jake hesitated for a moment. “Well, it was a mocktail. I might be a rule breaker, but I am responsible.”

Once you’d both finished restocking, you went back inside with Jake and placed one of each thing onto the tables, whilst he carried the crate beside you. 

“You said this job was after-work detention. Is it still?”

Jake chuckled, lightly, and shook his head. “No. That ended a while back, but I asked Penny if I could stay on. I help out every now and then. Fills my day when I’ve got nothing to do and,” Jake looked around. “I don’t know. There’s something nice about seeing this place calm. Penny’s put a lot into this place and we all respect it.”

Watching Jake admire the place around him, you smiled. His gaze finally landed back on yours and his expression softened as he looked at you. 

You moved onto the next table, and the next, and the next, in quiet silence. 

But as you reached a familiar booth, Jake felt the memory rush back to him. But as you scooted across the seat to place the menus and items together, a question left Jake’s lips before he could fully stop himself. 

“Did you know who I was when we first met?”

You looked back at him a little confused. “What?”

Jake looked around a little just to simply move his feet. Why had he asked? Fuck it. He’d already asked. 

“The day I hit on you. Well, tried. Did you already know who I was? From Phoenix?”

You relaxed a little, realising what he was talking about. “I didn’t know your face, but…yeah. I’d heard stories from Phoenix. She also warned me that if one of you were going to hit on me, it would have been you.”

“Is that why you said no?”

You tilted your head a little. You’d gotten to know Jake over the last two weeks and something told you he wasn’t asking because he was trying to heal his ego. 

“Why do you want to know? Truthfully?”

Being under your comforting gaze in that moment made Jake feel heat rise directly from his feet. 

Taking a deep breath, he told you why. 

“Because I want to know if you said ‘no, thank you’ because of me, or because Phoenix warned you away.”

For a moment, you smiled and Jake didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t mocking, or amusement. 

Scooting out of the booth, you stood in front of him. 

“Jake, I said ‘no, thank you’ because you did what every dude in a bar does. They walk up, no matter how nice their smile is, and expect that after a conversation I’ll give them my number. If Phoenix had wanted to warn me, she would have shown me your picture. If a guy wants to go on a date with me, he should just ask.”

Jake stood there for a moment a little dumbfounded. So, if that night he’d just walked up to you and asked you on a date, you would have said yes? If he’d asked you in the supermarket, you would have said yes? 

Did you still want to-

“She’s telling you to ask her out, idiot.”

Whipping his head to the side, Jake found Amelia at the bar unpacking her school bag. Jake’s eyes flicked over to you for a moment. You were looking at Amelia with a thankful smile before turning back to look at him. 

After nearly giving himself whiplash a couple of times, Jake’s gaze finally landed back on you, a light smirk on his face. 

“Y/n.”

“Yes, Jake?”

“Would you like to get dinner with me tonight?”

“As in a date?”

Jake nodded, and you smiled. 

“I’d love to.”

[yoremins]

Medical Emergency

Summary: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Fe!Reader -> When Jake gets a call asking to pick you up from the hospital, it's safe to say he's confused. Especially considering neither of you were known for getting along with the other.

Disclaimer: Enemies to lovers, brother's best friend, descriptions of being ill (nothing fully specified, just fainting a lot, low blood sugar and hormones), swearing, fluff, steamy moments, he takes care of you. This has been in my w.i.p for a while now so it's kinda a long one. Not Proof Read.

It was safe to say Jake was confused to find out he was your emergency contact. 

It was known to most people in the town that you and Jake weren’t exactly the best of friends. The hatred started all back when he was brought into Top Gun the first time round. Before he suddenly became the best, of the best of the best. And each year he came back, it only got worse. 

Neither of you would be surprised if everyone in San Diego knew about how much you and Jake didn’t get along. 

So, yeah. Getting a call from a Nurse called Emma telling him he needed to come and pick you up from the hospital…he was confused. 

He’d spent most of the day training the new recruits at Top Gun. He was on base when he got the call, but twenty minutes later, he was parked outside the hospital and was being shown to your room. 

“She’s to take two of these every six hours for the next three days. If she has any drastic changes; dizziness, nausea, vomiting, etc. Bring her back. But she should be okay.”

He hadn’t even been told what had happened. 

Then he saw you. 

On a typical day, your hair was either up or down. You typically wore bright colours since the kids in your class like to point them out and name them. And even at the end of the week when you’d walk into the Hard Deck, Penny already having your drink waiting for you, and you’d look tired and ready to go to bed, you were still…bright. Put together. 

But from where he was standing, you were dressed in grey sweats and a Top-Gun hoodie. Most likely, you thought it was your brother’s. But from the worn hole around the edge of it let Jake know it was his. One your brother had never returned to him. 

You looked…like you needed to be comforted. 

Your hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail at the base of your skull. Any hints of make-up had been long washed away. Your nail polish was chipped, if not already peeled from your nails. 

Finally slipping your shoes on, you stood slowly. You looked like you needed to sleep for a year, and maybe take another nap for eight months. 

“Just sign here and here and then you’re free to go.”

Jake watched as the nurse’s words just about registered in your ears before you slowly picked the pen up from her hand and signed your name at the bottom of the paper. 

Reaching to grab the rest of your stuff, Jake almost swooped forwards. “I’ve got it.”

You just nodded. “Thanks.”

Any other day, you would have told him you could do it yourself and tell him to fuck off. 

He picked up your overnight bag and, with a hand at the bottom of your back, led you out of the hospital. 

“This way.”

You followed him back to his car and once he knew you were safe inside the passenger seat, he rounded the car and got into his seat. 

“I did tell them just to call me a cab. You can just drop me off down the road. You don’t need to-”

“I’m not letting you walk home.” He told you. “What’s your address?”

Part of Jake wished you’d fight him more about walking home. At least that way he’d know you were actually okay. He still would have driven you home, but…he wanted you back. 

Typing your address into his phone, he followed the sat-nav. 

By the time he pulled up outside your house, you were asleep. He waited for five minutes, letting you sleep whilst he researched and read the prescription you’d been given. 

Then he looked up at your house. You had to have a spare key. 

Carefully, he left his car and walked up your path. He looked in all the typical places until he found a small patch of wood from your porch coming loose. Inside was your key. 

So, opening your door and carrying your things inside, he came back for you. 

Unbuckling your seatbelt, he placed one of your arms around his neck before placing his own arms around your back and under your legs. 

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

And you did. 

Shutting the door to his car with his back, he carried you into your house, shutting your front door with his foot before taking you into your bedroom and laying you on top of your sheets. Looking around, he found a basket of blankets just under your window. 

However, as he covered you up, he checked your temp with the back of his hand. You seemed okay. 

Then you reached for him. 

It was only for a few seconds, but you held his hand before your body fell back to sleep. 

Before he left your room, Jake got you a glass of water and left your window on a latch. And then he stayed. 

Kicking off his boots by the door, he locked everything up around your home before laying down on top of the guest bed with a million and one questions circling around his head. 

Why was he your emergency contact? What had happened? Why didn’t anyone else tell him you were in the hospital for, clearly, more than a couple of hours? 

You spent the next two days in and out of consciousness. The hospital told Jake not to worry and that it was a good sign you were sleeping. He’d wake you every couple of hours and give you your tablets. 

And each time, you’d wake up with the same confusion of how and why he was in your house. And then you’d remember. And apologise. And thank him. Before he’d tell you to lay back down and get some rest. 

By the time you came round, you woke up to texts pinging on your phone. 

How could you not tell me you were dating someone?

We SERIOUSLY need to catch up about this when you’re back in. 

Your boyfriend called the school. Why is this how I’m finding out you’re sick?

Get better soon, honey xoxo

Also, don’t worry about the kids. I’ve got your class covered. 

One of your fellow-teacher best friends. You and her had joined the school as teachers in the same year. She had been away on a cruise for the last two weeks. 

Slowly, everything that had happened over the last two days came flooding back to you. They had called Jake. He had come to get you at the hospital. He kept waking you up. Had he stayed that whole time? Was he the one to call your school?

Pulling yourself from your bed and heading to the bathroom, you caught a look of yourself in the mirror. You looked…rough. And also the exact same as you had when you’d left the hospital. Maybe there was a little more colour in your cheeks. 

And you did feel better. 

The room felt still and you didn’t feel like throwing up all your insides out, despite being unable to do so. 

Drying your hands on the towel, you made your way through your home. Things were…tidy. Militarily so. The last time your place, although tidy, had looked militarily tidy had been when your brother had visited you before he got deployed again. 

So, either, he was here now. Jake was still here. Or you had a ghost haunting your house that just so happened to be in the Navy. 

Walking down the stairs, you found a pair of boots at the bottom of your stairs. They definitely weren’t yours. 

Then you heard someone in the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread and chicken noodle soup wafted through your home. 

It was a minute or two before Jake spotted you. It felt like a fever dream, watching him in your kitchen, dressed normally, a towel slung over his shoulder as he slid the bread buns from the tray to a cooling rack. 

“Oh, hey. You’re awake.”

You nodded. “Did you cook?”

“How are you feeling?” Jake made his way over to you, his hand coming to touch your forehead and cheeks. You swatted his hands away. You could have sworn you saw him smile after you did it. 

“Get off me, I’m fine.”

Jake smiled as he watched you make your way to sit down on the opposite side of the kitchen island. You looked way better than you had done when he saw you in the hospital. 

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.” He told you, continuing to slide all but one of the bread buns onto the cooling back. The final one, he dropped onto a plate before dishing out a bowl of the soup. 

“Eat up. You’re gonna need your strength.”

You looked at the food in front of you. “You made this?”

“I made it.”

You looked at him sceptically. “Is this how you plan to kill me? She was weak, your honour. I just wanted to help her.”

“Why would I take care of you for three days and then kill you? It’d be easier if I did it in three days.”

“So you did think about it.”

Jake rolled his eyes and handed you a fork. “Just eat.”

You couldn’t lie, it was one of the best meal’s you’d had in a long time. And as you ate, you looked around your home. Your books had been tidied away and back onto your shelves. All except two. One you were part way through reading and one that was…almost finished. But not by you. 

You didn’t notice as Jake watched you take everything in. Your books, your pots of pens. You dish towels, your spices and other baking ingredients. Some had even been put into the jars you had been meaning to fill back up. Then you noticed the smaller things. Like how he’d put up the wooden signs in your kitchen you’d been planning to do for months, and how he’d cleaned…everything. 

It looked like he’d done a complete renovation of your place whilst you’d been knocked out. 

Then you noticed the pile of papers on your kitchen counter. 

The English and maths tests you’d given to your class a few weeks ago. You hadn’t finished marking them. 

But Jake had. 

You took the top paper and looked it over. 

“Did you mark these?” You flipped through the pages. Not only were they marked, but they were marked correctly. They even had a sticker on each of “well done” or “great stuff”. 

You heard Jake chuckle. “I am a teacher, too, you know.”

“You’re a…Top Gun instructor. Not a third-grade teacher.”

“I do suppose I am over qualified to help but-”

You shook your head. You hadn’t meant for it to sound so insulting.

“No, I-I mean, thank you. But you didn’t have to do this. Any of this.” You gestured around your home. “You already did enough bringing me home.”

“I wanted to ask you about that. Why was it me that brought you home? Surely you have people who you actually like, to be your emergency contact?”

Tyler watched as you fell silent and searched for the words to tell him. 

“You’re…not.” Taking a breath, you looked up at him. “They…they tried a couple of people. They couldn’t make it. One of the nurses knows Penny so called and asked if she had anyone’s number who I knew. I did try and tell them to just call me a cab.”

He let your words settle over him. 

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who else did you call? Who didn’t pick up?”

You listed them off. Most were people in your family and a couple of friends. 

“I would have fought them on it but-”

“I’m glad you called me.” Jake admitted you. And it struck you. “Give me your phone.”

You slid it over to him. And he called his number from your phone. 

“If anything like that happens again, I want you to call me.”

“Jake-”

He shook his head. “You’re not fighting me on this. Fight me on everything else. Anything else. But not this. Call me.”

So you just nodded. “Okay.”

“Good. And eat up, too.”

You did. “You say that as if we’ve got some place to be.”

“We do.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

Twenty minutes later he practically shoved you into your bathroom en-suit telling you to shower and get changed. 

“I thought my nurse was meant to be kind.”

“I am kind!” He said. “And I’m not a nurse. And I’m a friend.”

You laughed a little at that one. 

“I’ve seen the inside of your junk drawer. I’m your friend. I have to be, or else I don’t have a word for it.”

He did have a point on that. Your junk drawer…even you hadn’t seen the inside of that thing in at least a year. 

So, after getting dressed, taking the last of your antibiotic and forcing some kind of health smoothie Hangman had made you with the blender he found at the back of your cupboard, you found yourself back in the passenger seat of his car. 

“Where are we going?”

He said nothing, just smiled and pulled the aviators from his collar and put them on before starting his engine and for a moment you wondered if that was what he did when he got into his jet. Flash his million-dollar smile before starting his jet engine and taking off into the sky. For a moment you wondered what it would be like to watch him land and look over at you just like he did. 

But then you forced yourself back to reality. 

This was Jake Seresin, aka Hangman. Given that name because he hangs his team out to dry. 

But he didn’t leave you. 

In fact, he was the only one to show up. 

And the first to stay. 

You read the road signs as best as you could until you realised where he was taking you. 

“You know there is a beach like ten minutes from my house.”

He nodded. “I know. But you’re there all the time. You’ve seen that patch a thousand times. This is different.”

“How? Isn’t all sand the same?”

He shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe. But they always say the beach can work a thousand miracles. Come on.”

It was a five minute walk to the bottom. 

“Is it usually this empty?”

He looked around. “There’s usually a couple more people, but yeah. This is usually it. Not many people drive this far down. They think it’s not the best but to me…couldn’t be more perfect.”

“Huh.”

“What?” Jake asked, looking at you. 

You continued looking out to the water. You shook your head. “No, nothing. Just…never thought you’d be the sentimental type.”

“Well…I’m not.” 

You looked at him. 

“To most people.”

It was at that moment you felt a small crackle. Either in your chest or your gut, something crackled. And you felt the blanket of hatred you had for Jake Seresin start to fade. 

His call sign might be ‘Hangman’, but you had a strong feeling that when it came to those he cared about…he tried his best to stick around. And even if he couldn’t, he’d make a memory of them to last a lifetime. 

 For the rest of the day, you spent most of your time lying on the beach watching the waves or reading your book, which he had packed. And it was…one of the best days you’d had in a long time. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“What?” Moving the book from his face, Jake looked at you from beneath his shades as you lay on your stomach beside him. 

“This? Less than a week ago I’m pretty sure people would have made money on you and I killing each other. Why are you helping me?”

“Because you need it. And I’m pretty sure anyone else would believe you when you say that you don’t.”

“And you don’t believe me?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know you.”

You scoffed. “What do you mean you know me?”

You watched as he smiled and tried to kill the butterflies in your stomach. 

“Y/n.”

You were still getting used to the fact he was using your first name. Usually it was your last, or some sweet nickname like ‘Sweetheart’ that would grate through your entire body. 

“You spend most of your time making sure everyone feels okay and is doing okay. The only time you actually let your feelings know is when you’re taking shit to me. You deserve a break. You deserve to take one before your body forces you to have one.”

Hearing his words as he spoke, you slowly sat up until your back was to the water and you were fully facing him. 

“Plus, your brother asked me to look out for you. And I’d rather not suffer his wrath again.”

Okay, that had to be complete bull. Your brother’s wrath when it came to protecting you, that was true. But why ask Jake of all people given he knew your history and track record with him. 

And what did he mean by again?

You barely had time to ask all of your questions before you watched him stand up, throwing his book closed to the ground. You mentally scolded yourself for letting your eyes wander all over him. 

You weren’t blind to the fact Hangman looked, well, like him. A daring smile, enough charm to charm even the most sourest of people and the body to go with it. But before today, you had been immune. At least, you considered yourself immune since the blanket of hatred that you held for him seemed to block plenty out. 

Worst of all, he caught you. 

You knew he caught you because of the smirk on his face and the chuckle that escaped his broad chest. 

“Shut up.” You groaned, forcing yourself to stand. “I’ve been in the hospital. My immune system is temporarily weakened.”

“It isn’t the first time I’ve caught you, Sweetheart.” Seresin drawled just as you looked at him both annoyed and confused. And maybe slightly offended that he thought you had, before today, purposefully checked him out. 

But he just laughed. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

“But what about our stuff?”

“It’ll be safe. I know most of the people on this beach, they’ll make sure nothing happens to it.”

Taking your hand in his, he led you down the beach, under a small cove and through to the otherside where some rocks were covered in seaweed and sand. 

And for a while, you and Jake explored the place. You’d never been this far down the beach so finding out it existed was a bonus. Finding seaweed to pop and watching the crabs crawl across some of the rocks was fun. 

You’d never stop to take a break. Straight out of college, you’d begun teaching. It had been in your home town until your brother got accepted into Top Gun. And, with an internalised fear of losing him, you moved out to San Diego. You knew after a while he’d be stationed somewhere else, but you’d managed to find a home there. And when your brother was stationed not too far from his Top Gun base, the rest of your family moved closer. 

Since then, it has been helping them get settled, tutoring their children after spending all day teaching. It was sleepless nights spent alone at home, living off the quickest food you could make because you simply didn’t have time to cook. It was running yourself so far into the ground that the one person who you never thought would even step foot into your home was the only one to show up and give you enough space to actually relax. 

So watching crabs walk along the rocks was fun. 

And hearing your name, and calling out his name above the waves, without hatred or malice behind it, was fun, too. 

“Come and look at this.”

Carefully, you made your way over the rocks, trying your best not to slip and hit your head. And you did so, until the last rock before you joined him. 

Letting out a small yell as you reached out to try and catch yourself, he threw out his hand and caught you. 

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Can you stand?”

You lowered yourself to a lower rock, still holding onto his arms before letting go and allowing yourself to take his hand and help you up the rest of the way. 

“What am I looking at?”

It was a starfish. 

The rest of the day, you and Jake explored the shore, skipped rocks on the calming water, sunbathed and even took a swim in the water. 

By the time the sun had set, you found yourself sitting with him on the hood of his car, a pizza box between you both, watching the planes fly from the airport. 

A week ago, if anyone had told you that you would have done any of this, especially with Hangman, you would never have believed them. 

“Thank you, for your help.” You blurted out as you watched another plane fly into the sky. 

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do.” You wanted him to listen to you. “Given our track record for being nice to each other, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you didn’t turn up at the hospital to bring me home. But you did. And you made sure I didn’t fall into some kind of coma after it. And today you gave me the first day, I think, ever, where I’ve not done a thousand things for somebody else and enjoyed what I was doing. So, I do need to thank you for that.”

“Are you saying…you…like me?”

You couldn’t stop the smile on your face, but you tried to force it away. “Okay.”

“No, no. I mean, this is a miracle.”

“You’re tolerable.” You corrected him. 

Smiling, he took another slice of pizza. “You like me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You like me. I am now your friend. We are now friends.”

You shook your head, holding in a laugh. “Just shut up and eat your pizza.”

It was safe to say after that, that everyone was shocked at the dynamic between both you and Hangman. 

They had all gotten so used to the insults and borderline flirty comments you’d both sling each other's way, it had become like white noise. So, when it was gone and replaced with laughter and smiling, it gave everyone a terrified feeling. 

“I’m guessing they’re not here yet.”

Penny shook her head as she poured another pint. With a smile, she nodded over to the other end of the bar. “They’re over there.”

Twenty minutes later, it had become like a social study for everyone in the bar to watch you and Jake. 

“Do you think they fucked? Got all that pent up energy out?”

Coyote shook his head. “No, he would have told me. How long have they been like this? Maybe they’ve been hypnotised into liking each other?”

Rooster shook his head. “The hypnotist left like three months ago. Maybe they’re…faking it. Do you think they heard us talking about them last week? About who would kill who first? Maybe they’re teaming up so nobody wins?”

Penny shook her head as she wiped down the bar. “Well, whatever it is, it’s a nice change. She looks a lot happier. They both do. Who knows, maybe next we’ll be holding a wedding here.”

“Not their wedding?” Rooster seemed shocked. “Penny, they were about three insults away from killing each other three weeks ago.”

“Love is blind, as they say.”

For the rest of the night, people watched you and Jake sat together. Seresin and Y/l/n. Hangman and Sweetheart. 

And then they watched as you walked home. 

Together. 

It was safe to say everyone was shocked to their core. For the first time ever, there had been a night where both you and Jake had not only been in the bar at the same time but had also sat together for the whole night, and not once killed each other. 

Verbally or otherwise. 

“You know, you’re not as big of a dick as I thought you were Seresin. Tonight was a nice change.”

“I have been known to be kind once in a while.”

“Keep this up, you might be fit to see another day.”

“So might you.” Jake replied as he watched you climb the steps of your front porch. “I meant what I said, about taking a break. You deserve one, Y/n.”

You took in what he said with a small nod before adding. “You know, it’s still freaking me out, you even know my first name.”

“If it helps, the nurse had to tell me.” He said. “Guess I’ve called you by your last name so much, I forgot your first.”

“Is that why you keep saying it? So you don’t forget?”

He shrugged, a slight smirk on his face. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You know, it is okay if you forget it once in a while.”

Jake smiled a little at that. “How could I forget the name of the woman who once dumped three shots of tabasco sauce into my drink?”

“Hey, you can’t prove that was me.”

“Hey, the bottle was in your hand.”

You unlocked your door. “I still plead not guilty.”

“Whatever you say, Sweetheart. Sure you’re okay on your own?”

You nodded. “I’ll be fine. Besides, don’t you have an early start in the morning?”

He nodded. “Even so. Call me.”

“Goodnight, Jake.”

“Night, Sweetheart.”

He waited for you to lock your doors before he got into his car and drove back home. 

The following weeks continued the same way. If anybody who was anybody saw you and Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin together, in the same room, talking. They would stop and watch. 

Never in a million years did anyone expect you and Jake to talk, never mind actually become friends. 

Each Friday, you met each other at the bar. You both have a drink. You’d both sit and talk. Maybe some of your old ways were still there with each other, but there was less “25 to life” about it and more “affection” in the words you both said. 

However, it nearly gave people an aneurysm when they thought you were both actually dating. 

Two people who were thirty seconds away from physically fighting each other every day had gone from, well, that, to…to…to dating?

It couldn’t be…could it?

And the rumours that had been spread by one of the bar regulars, after she’d spotted both of you grocery shopping together before spotting Jake’s car leave from the top of your road hours later, were only fueled when they heard about what happened at the school. 

It had been months since you fainted and you had been getting better. You felt better, you felt like you had more energy. And with Jake’s help you started to feel like a person again. A person who wasn’t wholly consumed by their work constantly, whether they were ten miles from the building or not. 

Except, one morning, you woke up and felt…off. 

Something wasn’t right. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something didn’t feel right. Maybe your period was coming early. It has been doing that lately. Surprising you when you least expected or wanted it. 

Just a few weeks ago, it had arrived early once again. And the pain you’d felt in the days before nearly floored you. And when you hadn’t showed up at the bar like you’d agreed to with Jake, he came looking for you. That night he’d taken a quick trip to the grocery store after you told him what happened. He looked after you. Made sure you were okay. The next day, he drove you back to the store and you stocked up on supplies and snacks. 

It was also later that night when he surprised you by making dinner. 

Opening up your fridge, you took one of the healthy smoothies that Jake had left you the last time he’d come round, before packing it into your bag and heading to work. 

Your queasy feelings only got worse. And then…you felt it. 

Sticking on a documentary for your class, you took your phone and slowly made your way towards the teachers bathroom, stopping off at the next class. 

“Can you keep an eye on them for a couple of minutes?” 

Your best friend nodded. “Course’ honey.” Before asking her TA to go next door. 

“You okay?”

You tried your best to look okay, despite everything you were feeling inside. 

“Yeah. Yeah. I will be.”

As the TA headed next door, you made your way towards the bathroom, then dialled his number. 

“Hey,” Jake said as he answered. “Just about to call you. They’ve got a showing of The Wizard of Oz tonight at the theatre, if you wanted to go-”

“Jake.”

“Are you okay? What’s happened? Is everything okay? Is it your brother-”

“Every…” You swallowed thickly before carefully lowering yourself onto the floor with your back against the wall, and unlocking the door. “Everything’s okay, it’s just…”

Jake had a strong feeling he knew what was happening. “I’m on my way. Where are you?”

“School bathroom. Teacher’s.”

“Okay.” You could hear him leaving his office and getting into his car. “Is the door unlocked?”

You didn’t answer. 

“Y/n.”

“I’m here.”

Jake breathed. “Y/n, Sweetheart. Is the door unlocked to the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Does anyone else know you’re there?”

You explained what happened as best as you could. 

“Just, please get here soon?”

“I will, Sweetheart. I promise. I’m almost there.”

You didn’t know how long had passed but it wasn’t long before you heard your name being called out by Jake. 

Pulling the door open a little from the floor, Jake ran towards it and peeked inside. There you were, sat with your knees close to your chest, against the wall. 

He stepped inside before crouching down. 

“I-I’m sorry I called. I just-”

Checking you over, Jake cupped your face. “Hey, no. No. I’m glad you called me. You can always call me. How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy. It’s better now but still like the room is spinning. And I’m not harnessed in.”

“Okay. Do you think you can stand?”

You gave a small nod. “Maybe.”

Helping you up, Jake took your hands in his and you stood up. 

“Come on, we’re getting you checked out at the ER.”

You would have fought him on it but considering the last time it happened they kept you in overnight, you went willingly. 

Thankfully, you didn’t pass out even when the dizziness and the nausea felt like they were getting worse. 

By the time the doctor saw you, she did all of the routine checks before turning and looking at Jake and back to you. 

“Is there a possibility you could be pregnant? I’ve seen a lot of couples come in here with similar symptoms and-”

Oh shit. 

“Oh, no. I-I’m not. And he’s not-”

“We’re- We’re not together.”

A few more awkward moments like that filled the next couple of hours until both yourself and Jake seemed to give up on correcting people. 

By the time they discharged you, they told you your blood sugar levels had dropped and your hormones were beginning to change with your cycle. Along with the advice to try and reduce stress. 

Driving you home that night, Jake made a detour. Towards the diner and then towards the beach along The Hard Deck. 

It was quiet for a Tuesday evening, but yourself and Jake just sat and ate dinner whilst watching the water push in and pull out constantly across the sand until eventually, laying your head on his shoulder, he placed his arm around your own. 

“Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

“Thank you for calling me. Are you feeling any better?”

You nodded, gratefully. “Just a little tired, that's all.”

“I’ll drop you off at home, soon, if you’d like.”

You nodded then looked at him. And before you could stop yourself, you asked him; “Would you stay with me? Tonight? If you can’t- or if you don’t want to-”

“I’ll stay.”

“A-are you…sure?”

Jake nodded, a faint smile on his lips. “I’ll stay with you.”

You didn’t know what else to say other than thank you, so pressing a light kiss to his cheek, you said as much. “Thank you.”

You could have sworn you saw him blush as he smiled and looked down. “Anytime.”

It was odd really, laying beside the man you thought you’d be telling your kids about when you were older. About how much you hated him and how much he hated you, and why neither of you could sit next to each other at the Thanksgiving table every year. 

Jake had decided to stay in your guest bedroom, but the minute you heard him lay down in his bed, you felt…awake. Not wide awake. You were still tired. But you weren’t settled. Something inside of you wanted to be closer to him. 

So, after an hour of laying on your back, staring at your ceiling and listening to the distant shore line, with the odd rumble of a car’s engine running up and down the road every now and again, you got up. 

Jake had left his door open. If you shouted for him, or needed him, he would be able to hear you. Usually, he’d be out like a light, waking up at the smallest of noises. But this time, he couldn’t sleep. 

Instead, his mind was going over the fact you had called him when you were at work. And the fact that he enjoyed it when you were with him. That he was the one you chose to lean on. And the fact that he wished he was down the hall with you at that moment, then lay alone in the dark in your guest bedroom. 

Then he heard you. 

From the dim, moonlit hallway, he saw you. 

“Hey, everything-”

“Can I stay with you?”

Already half way up, Jake paused for a second. Then nodded. “‘Course. Come ‘ere.”

Walking over, Jake pulled the covers back and you climbed under them before feeling his arm wrap around you. And your arms came around him, one over his shoulder and round his neck, the other by his side. 

Instinctively, he pulled one of your legs across him and held it there whilst his other arm remained securely around your back, holding you to him. 

“Is this okay?”

He felt you nod and he nervously swallowed. 

“Are you okay, Sweetheart?”

In a quiet voice, your breath against his neck, you answered. “Better now.”

Pressing a kiss to your head, you nuzzled into each other. 

“Good.”

Not too long after that, you both fell asleep. 

And when you both woke up, neither of you wanted to move. 

If this had somehow happened six months ago, you probably would have thrown each other to the other side of the room. But it wasn’t six months ago. And you’d come to know Jake as…Jake. Who took care of his friends, and made sure everyone was okay and was kind and caring and…a lot of other things you didn’t want to think about at six o’clock in the morning. 

And the way he was looking at you at that moment made you think about other things that you didn’t want to think about. 

“What are you thinking about?” Jake asked after a few moments of watching you study him. 

“That you need to stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you…like me.”

Jake smiled. “I do like you, Sweetheart.”

“Jake.”

Then, for a moment, everything felt…serious. His tired smile dropped a little from his lips as he looked at you. 

“Do you trust me?”

You felt your heartbeat pick up in your chest and for a moment, you wondered if he could hear it. 

“Yes.”

Tucking your hair behind your ear, you felt him cup your cheek. “Y/n…”

He seemed nervous. 

“Can I kiss you?”

If you had let yourself think about it long enough, you never would have guessed Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin, who went after whatever, and usually whoever he wanted, would ask if he could kiss. You’d always assumed that he was so confident in life and with women that he’d know. That he’d see the small signals. Or even the loud ones. And just…kiss a girl. 

But no. 

He asked. 

And something in your gut jumped. 

So you answered; “Yes.”

Nervously, he licked his lips before he leaned in. And kissing him felt…weird. Because it felt…normal. Unlike anything else you’d felt in your life. 

You managed to pull him closer, until he was leaning above you. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

From there, the softer, searching kisses slowly faded away and turned into something more. More wanting, more needing. Feeling his hands move down your body before he gripped your hips, and pulled you closer to him and carefully slid them back up until the fabric of your t-shirt began to bunch together. 

Feeling him press into your thigh, you let out a small noise that was only swallowed by his kiss. Swiftly, he pulled you across him, your legs straddling his lap before he sat up. Once more, he pushed the hair from your face and took you in, in the rising daylight. 

No words were spoken out loud, but everything was said. 

Leaning down, you kissed him again before letting your own hands move down his chest and towards the hem of his t-shirt. Except, just as he pulled you closer by your waist, his hips rocking into you, you both jolted at the sound of his alarm. 

“Sorry.” Jake quickly turned and switched it off. You were both going to be late for work. 

“If we don’t get ready now, we’re gonna be late.”

Looking at him, you didn’t know fully what to say. It had just been the hottest make out session of your life, with a guy six months ago people would have bet money on you killing. And you’d both been cock-blocked by his alarm. 

“I’ll meet you here, after work?”

That made you smile. “Okay.”

Then he did, too. “Okay.” Before throwing his phone to the side and pulling you down to kiss him. But as you pulled away, he groaned, trying to pull you back to continue but you walked a good three feet away from the bed. 

“Can’t be late, Hangman. You’ve got pilots to teach.”

With a coy smile, he was standing in front of you within seconds before lifting you onto the dresser behind you. This time, it was you trying to pull him back when he stopped kissing you. But he just stood back and let out a small chuckle. 

“We’ve both got students to teach, Sweetheart. We stay here any longer, they’re both gonna miss us.”

One final kiss to your lips, he stood back and practically ran away before you could grab hold of him. 

Twenty minutes later, he was showered and dressed for the day and had poured you a coffee to-go as well as packed you another smoothie and grabbed your lunch for you before you’d come downstairs, dressed and began loading the last of the exam papers into your bags. 

He dropped you back off at work, however, when you realised he was waiting in the parking lot for you to enter, you left your bags by the pillar and walked back. With his window already being down, you leaned in and kissed him, feeling his hand cup the back of your head. 

“See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

The day for either of you couldn’t have felt longer. And by the time Jake came walking through your back door, dropping his bag onto one of the pantry hooks, he couldn’t have been more relieved to see you. 

And for a moment, he just watched you as you sat on the sofa with crossed legs, flipping through a textbook and making notes. Softly, he approached you from behind before wrapping his arms around your shoulders. 

You smiled. 

“Hey, Sweetheart.”

“You’re back.”

You felt him relax against you. “Finally.”

“There’s some food. I made you a plate in the oven.”

He pressed a kiss to your head before walking towards the kitchen. “I would have cooked.”

“I know, but I needed the distraction.”

Waltzing back inside holding onto the warm plate, he smirked as he popped a fork-full of veg into his mouth. You could already feel your cheeks heating and from the look on his face, he could see it clear as day. 

“Distraction from what?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Nothing, huh?”

At some point, he put down his plate and rounded back to the sofa, standing behind you before pressing soft kisses into the side of your neck. 

“Jake.”

The way you said his name went straight to his dick. 

As he moved your hair, you leaned to grant him more access. A satisfied smirk came to his lips as he watched your legs move to straighten out. 

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, Sweetheart.”

Eventually, you felt Jake move away but he appeared again, lowering himself in front of you. Taking the textbooks and notes from you and placing them on the coffee table behind him, he leaned forward and pulled you in to kiss him. 

“Have you been thinking about me?”

Feeling his hand move up your thigh and towards your shorts, you leaned in closer. “Have you, Sweetheart?”

“Yes,” your voice came out breathy. 

“Is this okay?”

You nodded. 

“I need words, darlin’.”

“Yes. Yes, it’s okay.”

As time passed, the small part of you that was still able to function started to ask questions. Like why you had hated him so much in the first place? And how you almost missed…him. 

And by the time you woke up in the morning, Jake practically wrapped around you like a boa constrictor, you had come to a new conclusion. 

You didn’t hate him anymore. 

You hadn’t hated him for a long time. 

All opinions you had of him, especially after a night of mindblowing sex, had been shot out of the water. 

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin was no longer the man you thought he was. The man you had come to know and lo- 

The man you had come to know was a man that showed up. And stayed. He was someone that took care of the people he cared about. He was someone that would fix things in your home without you asking. He was someone that cooked meals, even if it was almost one o’clock in the morning and you were craving a grilled cheese. He was someone that, even after sex, took care of you in a way nobody had ever even thought about doing before. He was someone that you could trust and respect, and did so. 

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin was a man that had proved your theories wrong and he was a man that you realised you were falling for. 

And in some ways, that scared you. And in some ways, it didn’t. 

Because, for as much as he could be so sure of himself. So bold. So confident, it bordered on cocky. You were also sure of him. Sure that, if he was feeling the same things you felt, that he wouldn’t let you hurt yourself when you fell, but rather he’d catch you. 

And it, surprisingly, didn’t take him very long. 

By the time you woke up in the morning and headed downstairs, freshly dressed in a worn Top Gun hoodie and a pair of sleep shorts, you started making breakfast. However, as you stood at the stove, flipping the bacon, you felt a newly familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind. 

Dropping his chin to your shoulder, Jake pulled you close to his chest. 

“Good morning.”

“Morning’.” He drawled. “Whatcha’ cookin’?”

“Bacon and eggs. There’s also toast in the toaster.”

With a smile, Jake pressed a kiss to your exposed collar which caused you to let out a small giggle before quickly turning the stove off. 

“You’ve gotta be careful, Hangman. You’ll make me burn breakfast.”

He hummed a response. “I had a couple other meals in mind.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

With his hands on your hips and his lips on your neck where you suspected he’d just left another hickey, he slowly turned you around. “I can think of one.”

Finally facing him, he kissed you as you fumbled with the last temperature gauge and turned it off. Picking you up, he carried you away from the counter near the stove to the one complete opposite. 

“You’re driving me insane dressed like this.” He mumbled against your kiss. “Wearing my shirt.”

“Your shirt?” You asked as his lips moved to your neck. 

Looking at you for a moment, half drunk on your kiss, he nodded. “Didn’t you know, Sweetheart? This here is mine.” Pinching some of the fabric between his fingers he shook it as he told you so. 

You laughed. “No it’s not.”

He nodded. “God's honest truth. Your brother stayed at mine one night after he’d gone out drinking. Lost his shirt, don’t ask me how. Stole one of my hoodies. Never got it back.”

“How do you know this is yours?”

With a smile, Jake showed you the small hole that you’d made a little bigger over the years from when you’d get nervous. “This right here. Loose thread got caught in a cabinet I was fixing in my room. Pulled at it too hard. And…”

Jake watched as your expression changed a little, hungry for more of his touches, as he pushed his hand slowly up the inside of your- his hoodie. 

A slight smirk, he pulled at the side tag and showed you. And it baffled you how you’d never noticed before. 

J.H.S

“See. But, I have to say, Sweetheart. It looks better on you than it ever did me.”

And as he was looking at you, he asked you something else. “Let me take you out on a date. A real one. You know, seeing you like this…I never want to see anyone else like this but you.”

“Jake…”

“I’m being serious. Sweetheart, I want you. And not just temporarily.” Then he looked away as he said the next part. “I’d get it…if you didn’t want that. God knows you and I don’t have the best history when it comes to even getting along but-”

“I want to date you.”

He looked up at you. 

“I want to date you,” you repeated. “Believe me, half of the time I don’t get it myself. How we’ve gone from one extreme to the other, but I know…I know I want you around.”

“I want you around, too.”

“So, yes.”

Jake smiled. “Yes?”

You smiled back. “Yes. Take me out on a date, Jake Seresin.”

Leaning forwards, he kissed you. And before long, your hands started to feel for the hem of his shirt before pulling it over his head. 

It was safe to say, when you and Jake walked into The Hard Deck in the evening after your official first date, hand in hand before he pressed a kiss to your lips, a lot of people were shocked. 

And lost a lot of money. 

But Penny won it all. 

She knew the minute Jake saw you, and your brother scolded him, that something would happen. After all, Hangman was known for going after what he wanted. She just never expected to have to be the one to force you to be in the same room and for that room to be a hospital.

[yoremins]

I wanna feel what love is

Summary : You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can’t stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded… until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/groundsystemstech!reader

Warnings : mutual pining, jealousy (brief flirtation), sunshine x quiet introvert, playlist flirting, he’s loud for both of you

Words : 5K

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

There was a certain stillness to the sim bay when you were in it—not silent, exactly, but quieter in a way that wasn't just about decibels. It was the kind of quiet that made people talk softer when they walked by you, as if your presence created a ripple of calm in the mechanical hum of monitors and diagnostic lights. You weren’t unfriendly. Just focused. Precise. A whisper in a world of voices raised too loud too often.

Bradley Bradshaw was not quiet, he was everything but quiet.

He was energy and swagger and sun-soaked charm, tall and golden, never without something to say. Usually something funny, sometimes something stupid, but always with that boyish confidence that made people laugh even when they didn’t want to.

And for some reason, lately, he kept orbiting around you.

Today, it was coffee.

You barely registered the footsteps until he was standing beside your desk, one hand curled around a cup, the other sliding the second one in front of you with practiced ease, like he’d done this before, like he’d made this part of his day.

“Hazelnut,” he said, voice low but cheerful, like you two were already in on some inside joke as he offered you the sweetest smile. “With oat milk. Thought I’d take a gamble, you look like an oat milk kind of girl.”

You paused mid-keystroke. Your eyes flicked up to his face—those soft brown eyes, wide and too curious for their own good—then down to the coffee. ‘Oat milk kind of girl’, what the hell does that mean ? Anyway, you took it without hesitation, your hand wrapping around the warm cup like it was familiar, though it wasn’t. At least not yet.

A quiet breath left your lips. “Thanks.” You murmured, voice just above the whir of the nearby fan: soft, clipped, barely there.

Then, you turned back to the screen, like the moment had never happened at all. Bradley stood there a beat too long, blinking once, then scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish kind of grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…Cool.” He said to no one in particular, and walked off. Glancing back once to see if you looked at him again.

You didn’t.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

By the time lunch rolled around, the mess hall was its usual mess of uniformed pilots, engineers, and stray conversations about upcoming tests and simulations. Bradley slouched into a seat beside Phoenix and Bob, stealing a chip off Bob’s tray like it belonged to him.

“She never talks,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, watching you across the room as you sat alone, quietly eating, headphones on. You were scrolling something on your tablet—a manual, probably, or flight logs. You looked like you’d be anywhere else if you could, and still, you glowed in your own strange, distant way. Like a lighthouse in fog.

Phoenix didn’t even blink. “Whisper ? That’s her whole thing.”

Bradley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but she literally never talks. I’ve said good morning to her for like four days straight and got exactly two words in return. One of them was ‘thanks.’ The other was ‘hmm.’”

“She doesn’t waste words,” Bob offered gently. “I like that about her.”

“Yeah, but how does she communicate ? Like, with other humans ? Does she just telepathically vibe what she wants across the room ?”

Phoenix smirked. “You’re not mad she’s quiet, you’re mad she’s not talking to you.”

Bradley opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He glanced across the cafeteria again. You were sipping the coffee he brought. Slowly. Still the only one you’d had all day. He watched the way you bit your lip, thinking intensely. How your hair fell back when you let it go, slightly hiding your face. But suddenly, a question popped in his head. “Why do we even call her whisper ?” He said still looking at you, not really waiting for an answer, more to make a statement.

“We talked once,” started Bob, cutting the brunet off from his observation. Rooster turned his head quickly, interested in what the blond had just told him. “Said she was a former pilot. Real good one too.”

His interest peaked, “Former pilot ? I thought she was a ground systems tech.”

“Well she is now.” The blond said. “But she used to fly, so people still use her call sign. Top of her class, sharp as a tack. Then she switched to ground—said she liked the quiet shadows better than the spotlight in the cockpit.”

Rooster took a slow sip of his glass of water, thinking about what his friend had just told him. “Guess I’ve got a mission then.”

Nat raised an eyebrow, “What kind of mission ?”

“To get her talking.” He answers, grinning like a kid who just found a new puzzle. 

Bob laughed. “Good luck with that one.”

But that didn’t discourage Bradley, not even a little.

The sim bay had the kind of buzz that never quite went away—humming computers, faint whirring fans, a voice or two in the background reviewing telemetry. It was comfortable in a mechanical sort of way, and you liked it that way: your space, your rhythm, your quiet corner of the world. You were back at your console, headphones on, lips parted ever so slightly in focus as you adjusted a variable in the flight response program.

Bradley Bradshaw, on the other hand, existed in full color. He lingered in the doorway, pretending to look for someone, but mostly watching you work. He moved like someone born in the sun, all wide smiles and long limbs, always cracking a joke or throwing a casual wink in someone’s direction. So, when his boots thudded up beside your desk for the second time that day, coffee in hand again, you felt him coming before you even saw him. You slipped one of your headphones off as he stopped beside your desk, and he couldn’t help but smiled at the anticipation.

“You always drink coffee after lunch,” he said, setting the cup beside your keyboard like it was already tradition. “But I figured I’d switch it up. This one has vanilla instead of hazelnut. Dangerous, I know.” He chuckled for a bit.

You paused, glanced at him, and took the cup with both hands like it might vanish if you didn’t. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word barely above a breath.

He smiled like it was a full sentence. And then, to your surprise, he didn’t leave. He leaned against the edge of your console, arms crossed. “So… do you always have your headphones in, or is that just to avoid me ?”

You blinked, looked at him—not startled, just unreadable. Then: a quiet, short answer.

“No.”

His brows lifted. “Oh ? So it’s not personal.”

“No.”

Another beat passed. He was clearly trying to decide if that was good or bad.

“What do you listen to ?”

“…Music.”

That made him grin. “Wow. The mystery deepens.”

You looked back at your monitor. You weren’t trying to be cold, you just didn’t know what to do with all that energy, all that focus pointed at you like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

Still, he stayed.

“What kind of music ?” he asked, voice dipping into something gentler.

You hesitated. “…Instrumental.”

“No lyrics ?”

You shook your head.

“Okay. So you like stuff that doesn’t talk much. That makes sense.”

There was a tiny flicker at the corner of your lips. Not quite a smile. But almost. Bradley caught it like it was gold dust.

“Are you from around here ?” he tried again, as casually as he could.

You shrugged. “Sort of.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You glanced at him. “It is.”

He chuckled, arms dropping as he leaned a little closer to your screen, trying to read what you were working on. “You calibrating the response latency on Phoenix’s sim log ?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna explain it to me like I’m five ?”

“No.”

He laughed—this full, warm thing that drew glances from two other pilots on their way out. You didn’t laugh with him, but you did nod, slow and almost amused as you went back to work. And that was something. Bradley stared at you for another second. Then, without a word, he picked up the half-empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since morning and pulled a black Sharpie from his back pocket.

He scribbled something near the rim, just above the sleeve, and set it gently back beside you. You didn’t look up. But you didn’t tell him to go, either. He turned and left with a smirk playing at his lips.

Once you were sure he was gone, you reached out, fingers curling around the cup like it was something private. You turned it, just slightly. In dark, careful handwriting, it said:

‘Don’t worry, 

I talk enough for both of us.’

You stared at it for a second. Just long enough for the smallest smile to touch your lips—the kind you’d never let him see.

Not yet.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was buzzing, already alive by the time you stepped through the doors. Half-empty beer bottles, familiar voices crashing over each other like waves, Phoenix’s laughter echoed from the pool table and a Springsteen song rumbled from the jukebox. Bradley was already there, leaning back at the bar, flashing that easy, sun-warmed smile at anyone who passed. As usual, he was dressed in an open Hawaiian shirt with a simple white T-shirt, his aviator pair on the tip of his nose, and his stupid moustache making him looking good as ever.

You hovered at the threshold longer than you meant to—long enough to wonder why you came, short enough that no one noticed—then slipped in quietly, the familiar hum of chatter wrapping around you like a cocoon. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. You weren’t afraid of noise, just tired of being swallowed by it. But tonight, something pulled you in. Maybe it was the ache of loneliness that crept in when the hangar emptied you. Or maybe it was just the memory of Rooster’s smile earlier that morning, when he handed you coffee just to hear your thank-you. 

“Watch this.” Bradley said to Phoenix, next to him, as he saw you cross the room.

“You're gonna make a fool of yourself.” She laughed as he stood up, walking with a determined step towards you.

You found your usual corner near the window, sliding onto a stool with your drink and earphones already tucked in your jacket pocket. Not quite ready to drown out the noise, but ready to keep some space from it. You hadn’t even settled on a stool before a shadow fell beside you.

“There she is,” Bradley drawled, smooth and pleased, sidling up beside you with his usual beer in hand. “Didn’t think this place was your scene.”

You glanced at him sideways, eyes unreadable, and shrugged. “Got bored.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning one arm on the table next to you, his attention all yours. “You in a bar full of pilots ? That’s not boredom. That’s anthropology.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe I’m observing.”

He grinned wide, taking that as a win. “See ? She does talk.” He says loud enough so Nat could hear it.

You didn’t reply. Just looked at him with wide eyes and sipped your drink, letting the silence settle again.

Bradley seemed content to fill it. “You always just… listen ?” He asked, watching over the rim of his bottle.

You gave a small shrug. “Someone has to.”

His eyes softened, “I like your voice.” He said unbothered by your silence. 

That pulled something from you—the tiniest exhale of laugh, gone before fully formed. But he caught it, and his grin widened even more when he saw your cheeks getting slightly red. “There it is,” he said, mock-dramatic. “A sound. We’ve got confirmation of life.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in it.

Across the room, near the jukebox, Fanboy nudged Payback and nodded toward you both.

“Ten bucks says he won’t get her to say more than four words tonight,” Fanboy said.

Payback chuckled. “I’ll take that bet. Bradshaw’s relentless.”

Back at the corner, Bradley didn’t care. Didn’t even notice. He was too focused on you—on the way your fingers traced the rim of your glass, the way you listened like it mattered. Then, he seemed to be slowing down, leaning against the edge of your space like he might stay there all night.

“You ever drink anything stronger than water ?” He asked, nudging his empty bottle toward your glass.

“I had whiskey last week.” You murmured.

Bradley arched an eyebrow. “One whiskey ?”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. “Two.”

He laughed, the sound full and bright, startling in the close space between you. You turned slightly toward him, just enough to give him your attention—not more, not yet.

“I think people forget you have a voice,” he said, his tone quieter now, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I mean, I see you every day. Running diagnostics, fixing our busted egos in the sims, headphones always on. But nobody really talks to you.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, fingers tapping the base of your glass.

“Why’d you stop flying ?” He asked suddenly, not unkindly. Just… curious.

You glanced away for a beat, surprised he knew that, then shrugged. “Liked control more.”

Bradley’s smile softened, fading into something more thoughtful. “You ever miss it ?”

You paused. Then, so quiet he almost missed it: “Sometimes.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just looked at you, like he wanted to remember the sound of your voice exactly as it was. Then someone brushed past you on the way to the bar, a blonde woman in a sundress, tall and glowing, with a spark in her eye and a laugh that cut clean through the room. Confident in a way that glittered, she moved like she already knew who would be watching her, and her eyes locked onto Bradley.

You caught the way his eyes settled on her. Not just a glance, but a long, lingering stare, the kind that said he was interested, curious, maybe even impressed. His usual playful charm softened into something quieter, more focused, like he was seeing something worth leaning into, and for a moment, it was like you weren’t even in the room.

Anyway, he stayed with you a little longer. 

And unconsciously, you gave him more than usual tonight—a full five minutes of quiet conversation, soft answers barely audible beneath the noise, a trace of a smile when he teased you about something you just said. It was the most you’d spoken to him outside the sim bay, and for a moment, it felt like something shifted. Like maybe he saw you a little more clearly now.

Then your glass emptied. You stood slowly, nodding toward the bartender on the far end. “Be right back.” You took his empty bottle in your hand, without asking him. 

He thanked you and straightened, stretching his arms back just enough for the fabric of his shirt to pull across his broad shoulders. The movement was effortless, the kind of thing he didn’t even know he was doing. “Don’t disappear on me.” He called, half-laughing, as you stepped away, weaving through shoulders and laughter. You didn’t answer, just slipped into the crowd, quiet as ever. 

You didn’t see the blonde until you were halfway to the bar, but he saw her. She brushed past you with the kind of scent you couldn’t name but somehow noticed. And by the time you looked back, his eyes were already on her. Focused. That warm, open grin of his softened into something more curious, the kind of look he gave to things he wanted to figure out—the same look he gave you earlier that morning. When she glanced over and smile, he smiled back like it was instinct. The blonde placed a hand on his forearm, light and lingering, nails painted in a summer pink. And he didn’t move an inch away. 

He tilted his head, smiling down at her like they’d known each other longer than thirty seconds. That familiar warmth in his eyes—the one he gave you—was now entirely hers. Your grip on his bottle tightened and you turned back toward the bar, but not for the bartender anymore. Instead you set the bottle and your glass gently on a vacant corner. 

“Doesn’t need his beer anymore.” You muttered under your breath. 

“Ditching the golden boy already ?” Phoenix’s voice came from beside you, light but knowing. 

You didn’t flinch, just gave her a small shrug, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past the jukebox. “He’s got company.” You said quietly. 

She followed your gaze. Her expression didn’t change, but you caught the way she exhaled slowly, like she wanted to say something. Instead, she offered a soft nudge to your shoulder. “Come shoot a round with me. Before Bradshaw says something stupid dumb and ruins both your nights.”

You nodded once, grateful, and let her steer you away—away from the laughter from the blonde, from the part of you that had started to hope he’s look for you first.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The next few days passed in a blur of drills and simulator runs, but something was off. Bradley felt it before he even saw it. A shift in the air, subtle and sharp. The way people say you can sense a storm rolling on, not by the thunder, but by how still the birds go. 

You were still there in the sim bay every morning, like clockwork. Still perched at your console with your headphones draped around your neck, fingers flying over diagnostic keys. Still responding to reports, confirming flight data, calling out corrections with crisp professionalism. 

But you weren’t there. Not like before. 

You didn’t glance over when he leaned on the edge of your desk with his usual swagger, coffee cup in hand, teasing tone ready. You’d just take the cup without eye contact, said a flat, “Thanks”, and go back to the screen like he hadn’t just offered you the sun. 

No smile. No soft voice. No quiet moment like before. Bradley stood there a second longer, watching you scroll through diagnostics. The first time, he brushed it off. Maybe you were tired or busy. The second time, it tugged a little. But the third ? It started to sting. 

“Rough morning ?” he asked that day, testing the waters. He watched you from just a few feet away, trying to catch your expression through the edge of your hair. But you didn’t even blink. Didn’t even lift your head. Just muttered, “No”, and continued typing. 

Bradley lingered awkwardly for a few seconds longer, waiting—for a smile, a glance, anything. But you never looked up. He left the coffee on the corner of your console and walked away like a door had closed behind him.

And it stuck with him. It gnawed at him all day. During simulator drills, debriefs, even lunch where he barely touched his food, through endless conversations with teammates where he found himself half-listening, distracted by the feeling of something slipping out of reach. By the time evening rolled around, he couldn’t shake it. He found Phoenix on the flight deck catwalk, where the sky was bruising purple, and the air still carried salt and heat.

“What did I do ?” He asked impatient.

She didn’t looked away from the horizon, “To who ?”

He looked at her like it was obvious and sighed, “Whisper.”

Now she looked at him, one brow lifted. “You mean besides not shutting up around her ?”

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “No, I mean lately. She’s been…” He exhaled hard. “Different. Cold.”

Phoenix tilted her head, giving him a long, pointed look. Then she asked, “You really don’t get it ?”

His expression didn’t change, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “Get what ?”

“She saw you Bradshaw.”

He blinked, “Saw me what ?”

Phoenix pushed off the railing, folding her arms. “You flirted with some random at the Hard Deck right after spending all night talking her out of her shell. And she saw you. Every second of it.”

Bradley’s mouth opened slightly. “What ? No, I wasn’t— I just talked to her for a second—”

“Bradley,” Phoenix’s voice dropped, serious now. “She was holding your damn beer to get you a new one. She wanted to come back to you.”

He stopped. Actually stopped. Like the weight of those words landed straight on his chest. “I didn’t…” He scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He muttered.

She softened a little but didn’t let him off the hook. “Didn’t have to.” She waited a beat, then said more gently, “She’s quiet, not stupid. You think that kind of girl opens up to just anyone ?”

He didn’t answer. Because he was thinking about the bar now. About the way your eyes had briefly flicked toward him when the blonde leaned in. About how your expression had shuttered before he could even recognize the look behind it. 

Phoenix watched him closely, then nudged his shoulder. “So. Fix it. Or at least don’t make it worse.”

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

Two days went by.

Long enough for Bradley to feel every inch of it—in the clipped responses, in the polite nods, in the way you passed him in the corridor like he was another file to be sorted and ignored. 

And it was driving him insane.

Because you weren’t the kind of person to shut people out impulsively. You were calculated, quiet, deliberate in everything you did. And this coldness wasn’t sudden. It was chosen. Thought through.

Which meant it hurt.

He spent hours turning it over in his head, reliving that night at the Hard Deck, the way you’d said ‘Be right back’ like it meant something, like you were truly planning on coming back to him and not just disappear as he thought you would. And how he’d let himself be pulled into a meaningless moment with a girl he didn’t even remember the name of. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Not until Phoenix spelled it out for him in painfully clear words.

So now he sat with that. The guilt, the frustration, the quiet hollow ache of knowing he’d hurt someone who barely let people close to begin with. And he wanted to fix it. But with you, big gestures didn’t work. He knew that. You didn’t want spectacle, you wanted sincerity. Something simple. Something honest.

So that morning, before anyone else was in the sim bay, he left a flash drive on your console. No note. No explanation. Just slid it onto the edge of your desk beside your water bottle and walked away without a word.

You noticed it the moment you sat down.

A plain silver drive, no label. But when you hovered over the files on your screen an hour later, curiosity finally won over.

“Songs You Should Smile To — A Rooster Original”

You stared at the name for a long moment, your finger paused above the track list. You didn’t open it right away. Didn’t smile, either. Just… paused. Then clicked. The first song was soft, warm around the edges. The kind of sound that lingered like late sunshine on concrete. It played in your headphones for exactly thirty-eight seconds before you stopped it. Then closed the window. Then unplugged the drive.

You slipped it into your pocket like it was something fragile.

Later that day, while the rest of the pilots were out on deck, Bradley circled back into the sim bay. You were alone at your station, typing quietly, brows drawn together as you reviewed a diagnostic thread. He lingered by the edge of the console—not leaning in like usual, not crowding your space—just there. Treading softly.

“Hey,” he said gently, scratching at the back of his neck. “Did you, uh… open it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “Yeah.”

That was it.

A single syllable, flat as an ocean on a windless day. You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer a smile. Didn’t even glance his way.

Bradley hesitated, thumb rubbing the edge of his palm. “Cool,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just figured… you might need a better soundtrack. Y’know. For… stuff.”

No reply. No warmth. Nothing to hold on to. You didn’t ignore him, but you didn’t give him anything, either. And that was somehow worse. He lingered for a second longer, then gave a small nod and turned away. Chest tight, mouth pressed into a thin line.

But he didn’t see the way your fingers curled slightly as he walked off. The way your eyes flicked toward the flash drive, still safe in your pocket. Or even the way you waited until the door hissed shut behind him before reaching for your headphones again.

You started the playlist over. From the beginning this time.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was loud that night. Louder than usual. Full of laughter, clinking bottles, half-sung choruses to half-remembered songs. Bradley was already two beers in when he dropped onto a stool by the bar, half-listening to Hangman brag about something no one cared about and trying not to look toward the door every few minutes like some hopeful idiot.

You hadn’t showed up yet. 

He told himself he wasn’t looking. That he didn’t care. That it was just a normal night, and he was just enjoying the bar like everyone else. 

But then he heard it.

The song.

Soft drums, rising gently above the noise, his heart stuttered.

“I want to know what love is” by the Foreigner.

It wasn’t one of the Hard Deck bangers, not on Penny’s usual rotation. It was his song. The first track on the playlist he gave you. One that made him grin when it came on during drives, made him think of wind in his hair and summers that never quite ended. It wasn’t loud enough to cut through pool games or Payback’s booming laugh across the room. But loud enough for him to hear it.

He blinked, turning toward the jukebox automatically.

And there you were.

Alone, standing quietly with one hand still resting lightly against the machine, like you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to touch it. Head bowed just a little, listening. You looked soft in the amber glow of the neon bar lights. 

Playing his song.

Bradley was on his feet before he could stop himself. He crossed the floor slowly, weaving through the crowd as his pulse ticking somewhere behind his ribs, watching you with a quiet disbelief. You didn’t turn until he was almost beside you. Then, finally, your eyes lifted to meet his. There was something unreadable in your expression: something brave.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

“I liked this one.” You said simply, your voice barely louder than the song. 

Just that.

No buildup. No grand declaration. But your voice was warmer than it had been in days, and your eyes held a softness he hadn’t seen since before that night at the bar. And Bradley melted. A breath escaped his chest like relief and hope all tangled into one. “Yeah ?” He asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I thought you might.”

You gave a tiny nod, barely there. “Had it on repeat all night.”

He smiled then. Really smiled. The kind that stretched across his face like a sunrise. His heart clenched in his chest, and for once, he couldn’t find a smooth comeback. Just stood there, quiet in front of the quietest person he knew, feeling every word like it had weight. 

 “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For that night. I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to…”

“I know.” Your eyes didn’t leave his.

And then—finally—you smiled. Bradley exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since that night. You looked at him for a long time, longer than you ever had before. The jukebox kept playing as the music wrapped around you both like velvet.

Bradley laughed under his breath, “There it is.”

The jukebox’s glow flickered softly across your face, casting colors that shimmered like stained glass: red across your jaw, blue across your lashes. You were looking at him like he’d said something sacred. Like he hadn’t messed it all up.

Bradley’s throat tightened. His hands ached to move—to reach for you, to tuck that strand of hair behind your ear, to do something—but he didn’t. He didn’t move. Didn’t trust himself not to screw it up by rushing. So he stood there, holding his breath, watching you like he’d watch a sunrise he was afraid to blink through.

And you… you just looked at him for a moment longer. Eyes calm, unreadable, but soft. Then slowly—so slowly he almost thought he imagined it—your hand reached up. Fingers brushed lightly against the collar of his shirt, then steadied there, like an anchor. You leaned in, hesitant, but sure, eyes locked on his, not breaking even once. Bradley’s breath caught. His lips parted just slightly. He still didn’t move.

But you did.

You kissed him.

Not tentative. Not shy. Not loud, but louder than anything you’d ever said before. It was soft, but certain, the kind of kiss that said everything you never did. And Bradley melted into it. When he finally kissed you back—deeper, more grounded, hand slipping gently around your waist—it felt like exhaling after months of holding his breath. Like gravity stopped pulling and just let him float.

And in the background, Kelly Hansen sang on : 

I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me…

[yoremins]

𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

(a bradley bradshaw x reader medical au)

Four years of undergrad. Four years of medical school. Working two jobs just to support yourself. Finally, you're where you want to be, joining the Emergency Medicine residency programme at Miramar General. Unfortunately, with Miramar comes Bradley Bradshaw. Arrogant, ambitious, and descended from medical royalty, he's had everything handed to him on a silver platter.

There's a fine line between love and hate. And you and Bradley walk it exceptionally well.

warnings: 18+, mdni! this fic will contain graphic medical descriptions and explicit sexual content

playlist // moodboard // sneak peak // meet the cast

how to save a life - first days are always difficult. they're even more difficult when you yell at one of your new colleagues in the parking lot half an hour before your first shift

now you got me - you're settling into your new job at miramar general, and getting to grips with your many co-workers. there's one that seems to cause you more grief than the others combined - bradley bradshaw

don't tell me - a series of nightshifts forces you into far closer proximity with bradley than you'd like

coming soon!

[yoremins]

EO31: kimi’s guide to surviving the apocalypse

EVE’S 2K CELEBRATION 🎤: 100 tips on how to avoid certain death at the hands of the undead, as curated by local survivalist expert kimi antonelli …… ft. way down we go by kaleo & hell’s comin with me by poor man’s poison

pairing: esteban ocon x reader

contents: apocalypse au, bearcon, kimi and reader have a sibling/parent dynamic, violence, sprinkles of angst (it’s the apocalypse people), very self-indulgent chloe chambers mention, google translated italian and french, open ending.

word count: 5.5k

“You’re an idiot. Such a huge idiot. How do you say idiot in Italian?”

Kimi squints his eyes against the morning sun, your shadow partially shielding from it hitting him directly in the face. There’s dirt near his mouth, twigs in his curls, and ugly scrapes from his arms down to his legs. What concerns you most, though, is his ankle sitting below you at a very odd angle. Maybe it’s just you. You tilt your head, hoping it’s just you.

Kimi doesn’t move to stand up. He just stares up at you from the ground, his shotgun just a few feet away. He shrugs. “Idiota.”

“Idiota, yeah,” you say. “Sei un idiota.”

“You mentioned,” he responds dryly.

You arch an unimpressed brow. He’s giving you attitude—you can hear it in his tone. “Because it’s the truth,” you stress. Sometimes, you miss those moments after you first met Kimi. Soft-spoken, rightfully mistrusting kid who looked at you like you were made of steel. Indestructible. Infallible. Who clung to your every word and command. Who never gave you attitude.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Dumbass. How do you say dumbass in—”

“Idiota.”

Your patience frays. “Explain to me in what world you thought it would be a good idea to get on the roof with a shotgun. Really walk me through it.”

“There was a zombie outside the fence,” Kimi says as he’s rolling a twig between his fingers now, as if you’re not standing in front of him. “I wanted to practice shooting at a distance.”

“And you had to get on the roof to do it?” End of the world, and teenagers are still the same. You sigh. “Did you at least kill it?”

He nods, and this time he looks up to you, as if subtly seeking approval. You suppose that in the little self-sufficient ranch you’ve made for yourselves, there’s no one else to give it to him. “Yeah. After, like, four shots.”

You consider it for a moment. “I should just leave you like this for wasting three extra bullets.” You sigh again, tired, even when it’s barely dawn. You’re pretty sure not even the chickens are awake yet. You extend your hand to Kimi, who has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “Can you stand?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, I can—” you pull him up to his feet, only for his entire body to recoil, his face twisting in pain. “Shit, fuck, shit—no, no, put me down.”

You hurry to help him down, biting down your cheek to stifle the chant of fuck, fuck, fuck that threatens to spill out.

“Let me see.” You take his shoes off—great shoes, that he thankfully hasn’t outgrown yet. Then, you roll up his pants and take off the wool socks he made himself to get a view of both his ankles. You’re already not liking what you’re seeing—not when his right ankle already looks more swollen than his left one. Not a good sign. “Okay, tell me if this hurts.”

You put a little pressure around the bone, and Kimi flinches, his body instinctively trying to pull away. “Mhm, yeah,” he says, voice high-pitched and pained, “it hurts.”

You hope your face doesn’t give away just how fucked this makes you.

“Okay,” you start, slowly. Calculating. Assessing. “Best case scenario? You just sprained your ankle.”

“That’s the best case scenario?”

You swallow the truth before he can ever see it lingering at the tip of your tongue. You don’t want to tell him that it might not be sprained—that it might be broken. Because for all the commodities you’ve built and secured for yourselves, a broken ankle is not bad, it’s horrible. Barbed wire might keep zombies away, but that’s only if they’re not in hoards. Not to mention raiders—and there’s nothing more dangerous than desperate humans. You’ll be damned if anything happens to Kimi while you could’ve prevented it—but a broken ankle? Just outside your fence of barbed wire and iron-string traps, that’s a death sentence.

With slow and small steps, you help Kimi up to the second floor of the house—technically not ideal for him, but it gives Kimi a vantage point that doesn’t leave him immediately exposed to any outside threats. Once he’s on the bed, you grab a pillow and put it underneath his leg before continuing to examine it with more detail.

“It’s really starting to bruise…” you murmur, and you immediately notice the worried tinge that you accidentally let slip. You glance at Kimi, hoping he didn’t catch it. But he’s grown—much to your chagrin. He’s a smart kid, who doesn’t need you to spell out what’s happening. “We can use the cloth from one of your old t-shirts as a makeshift gauze. But you’re definitely gonna need some painkillers, otherwise it’s gonna hurt like a bitch and start swelling and get ugly.”

“I didn’t know you had a medical degree,” Kimi chirps.

“I really don’t need that tone from you right now.” You run a hand across your face, thinking. It’s unavoidable. “We knew this was gonna happen eventually.”

Accidents are bound to happen. And despite the fact that you’ve managed to fabricate a nearly self-sufficient lifestyle, it had always been an unspoken understanding between the two of you. You both knew that sooner or later you’d need resources—resources you can’t acquire from your little farm.

Appropriate medical equipment, for example.

Kimi is already shaking his head before you ever get a chance to say it. “No.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“You’re not going to the city alone,” Kimi says with a sternness that almost surprises you. “Are you insane?”

“The city’s not that bad anymore.”

“You are not going alone,” he repeats, and only then do you notice the faint trace of panic that laces his words.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be careful.” You reach for his hand; an attempt to be comforting. “And I’ll be back before sunset.”

Kimi stares at you, really stares at you—like he’s trying to telepathically convey how much he absolutely hates this plan. In the end, he just huffs, pretends he doesn’t care—even when you can read it in the tense set of his jaw. You hear the soft padding of his tabby cat as she strides into the room and hops onto Kimi’s bed, curling into a ball at his lap. Meche purrs the second Kimi scratches behind her ear. “Just…” He twists around and pulls out small book from his nightstand, hands it to you while avoiding your gaze. “Take this with you.”

“Kimi—”

“Please?”

Brown eyes peer at you pleadingly. You swallow, ignoring that heavy feeling that settles like stones on your chest. Instead, you turn your attention back to the book he’s handed you. You blink at the title. “Kimi’s Expert Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse?”

“It’s a survival guide!” he says, a little more enthusiastically than you would’ve expected. It startles his cat.

“Yeah, I gathered that.”

“It was either that or Home is Where The Hatchet Is.”

You laugh, and you relish how that seems to bring a smile to his lips. “It’s got a nice ring to it.” You put it down, fingers brushing away a few stray curls of his. “It’s a one day trip, Kimi,” you say, gently. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

His stare hardens. “You’re done for.”

“What?”

“Page number two. Number two.”

You open the book on the second page.

Pro-tip #2: Everyone’s seen horror movies. Don’t be an idiot. Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

You raise an unimpressed brow. “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t falter. “Deadly.”

“I’ll be fine.” You wave him off, tucking his book into your jacket pocket. “Just don’t get too bored without me here.”

Kimi turns his attention back to Meche, more nervous than he lets on. “I’ll try,” he says dryly, and the cat meows in response.

The trek to the city isn’t long. It is, however, very annoying to make—even more so when you’ve got no company. Back during the first years, going to the city was as good as signing a death sentence. There were still too many survivors inside the buildings and houses, which in turn led to infections spreading—which then led to hordes and hordes of zombies wandering aimlessly from block to block. Definitely not ideal. But based on what you’ve been hearing on your only functional radio and those few trips you’ve done with Kimi, the city isn’t nearly as infested as it once was.

You’ll count your blessings where you find them.

Still, the road is long and uneventful, so you take it as a chance to browse through Kimi’s secret project. His penmanship could do some work—though you suppose you should just be thankful he knows how to write. He was young when the apocalypse started—too young. 

You avoid the thought by stopping on a random page. Pro-tip #12: Only travel during daylight hours and, if you plan on staying, always secure a place before sundown.

Sensible. Useful, even, if you had woken up from a comma and missed the past few years. Still, you don’t let it deter you from reading on.

Pro-tip #48: Listen to the radio, but never respond. Chances are other survivors will be either looters, scavengers or raiders. Don’t take the chance.

Pro-tip #87: Music is good for morale, but even better at attracting zombies. Make sure to use it responsibly and safely.

Pro-tip #31: Under no circumstance investigate weird lights or sounds. We’ve all seen horror movies. (Refer to: #2)

Pro-tip #9: Speed and stealth will be your two main advantages. Use them. Quick and quiet wins the race.

The trek goes by quicker than you originally expected. You tuck away Kimi’s book, making sure the corners don’t fold inside your jacket pocket. As expected, the city is desolate. Ivy tangles around shop windows and broken down cement blocks. Cars that have been long-forgotten line the sides of the road—a red Honda Civic, a white Toyota Camry, a Ram Pickup that would be useful, if you had any access to gasoline. There’s a billboard hanging from the roof of one of the shops—a faded and yellowed ad for some soda you can’t even remember the taste of. You continue your walk, steady and familiar. You step back onto the sidewalk, where bright-bordering-neon green moss stares back at you from the cracks on the ground. A dumb, childish voice inside your head tells you that it’s unfair, that how can moss thrive while Kimi’s in bed with a broken ankle? You step on it out of spite.

Entering the pharmacy isn’t hard—not when all that remains of the window is the aged frame. You avoid the shards of glass on the ground, quietly entering the store. Most of the shelves are near-empty, ransacked during the first weeks. You suppose you should be grateful there’s anything at all.

By the back shelves—the ones that seem to be better stocked—you spot a pair of crutches. You lay down your gun and take one, inspecting it in your hands. It could be useful—though you doubt it’ll be easy to take them back on foot. Still, you make mental notes of the overall shape and weight distribution, intending to try and make one for Kimi that’s similar to the real deal. You go to put it back, before deciding to slide it underneath the shelves. Who knows? Maybe you’ll come back for them another day. Finders keepers and all that.

Off by the side, you spot a gray fracture boot that’s a size too big, but after realizing that it fits inside your pack, you take it. There’s other miscellaneous items you take as a precaution—more gauze, athletic tape, and a tucked away tube of cream that claims to reduce swelling. Painkillers are next, and though they are expired by months, you figure they’ll still be good for something. You suppose you should be thankful there were any at all.

This should be good, right? If anything, this trip has turned out better than you could’ve ever anticipated. You’re zipping up your pack when you hear a can being kicked. You duck down, hearing an undead groan from somewhere nearby. Close. Too close. 

It takes you a second to realize your gun is still on the floor and beyond your reach. It takes you another second to register that there’s more than one pair of footsteps.

The groan behind you makes you spin around—too little, too late. The scent of rotten flesh makes you recoil while decaying, graying fingers reach out for you. You scramble back, stupid, stupid, stupid. Surely leaving your weapon out of reach is chapter number one on Kimi’s book.

Your back hits the shelf and bottles with pills come tumbling down. The zombie in front of you unhinges its jaw, yellowed teeth sharp and inhuman. It groans again, hands reaching for your ankle and pulling you towards it. You twist and kick to no avail, desperately searching around you for something you can use to fight back. Its jaw widens to a degree that no human ever could, bringing your ankle up to its teeth to get a taste of your flesh. No. No, no, no. 

As a last ditch effort, you reach for the crutch you had tucked underneath the shelves, yanking it out and hitting the zombie squarely in the face with it. The zombie stumbles back with a screech, though the hand around your leg seems to tighten. 

“Let go!” you hiss, flailing like a fish above water. “Let go!” 

The zombie grabs the crutch from your hands and pulls it with a force that is uncharacteristic of any other undead corpses you’ve encountered in the past years. It chills you to the bone.

It feels pathetic to die like this. Unearned. The frustration of it is easily overlooked for the ice-cold fear that settles over you. The zombie tilts its head with a creaking sound, eye sockets empty and hollow, and realization slams into your ribcage with a disorienting force. It’s against tender flesh, vulnerable, that you realize—Kimi will be on his own. Waiting for someone that will never come home. The zombie stands over you now; you can see its bones from where the flesh has rotted away. Years surviving zombies and the question still stands—are you still you, once you become one of them? Do you still have memories, or ghosts of your past life? It leans closer to you, and you still fight, you still kick and swing your arms for an opening that never comes. Once you’re hollow flesh, a carcass of whom you were—will you still remember a boy with curly hair and a bright laugh? Or will that be gone too?

You hear a gunshot, miraculous, and the undead now-definitely-dead body topples over you ungracefully. You feel something sting against your shoulder, and you recoil in disgust. You roll over, pushing the zombie’s body away from yours.

You look up now, heart still racing in your ears and struggling to make sense of what happened, exactly. You turn, only to spot two men standing on the opposite side of the hallway—or, more accurately, one man and one boy.

The man is the first to step forward, fire axe in hand. He has dark hair, tousled, face dirty with grime. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, with an accent you don’t care to place. He lowers the gray scarf covering the bottom-half of his face. 

“Yeah,” you say, breathlessly, still reeling from the fact that they just saved your life. You swallow. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Let me help.” The man offers you a hand, and you reach for it without thinking twice. The boy stands behind, still keeping his distance. He’s the one with the gun in hand—the one who shot the zombie. The boy doesn’t spare you a glance, not for a second—instead, his eyes follow the older man with sharp attention. 

His hands feel rough under yours, calloused with what can only be years of having a vise-like grip on his axe. It feels grounding, a reminder—that for all their kindness, the world isn’t what it used to be. That it will never go back to what it once was.

You pick up your pack in an attempt to be nonchalant—as if Kimi’s health and recovery doesn’t downright depend on its contents. 

“What’s your name?” the man asks.

“Chloe.” The lie is an instinctive response. No room for hesitation. Chloe was a girl you met a few weeks into the apocalypse. She was nice enough—had a good head over her shoulders. You’re not sure whether she’s still alive. Either way—she probably won’t mind you temporarily stealing her name.

“Horrible things,” the boy behind him says, gaze still firmly set on the man. It feels neglectful, in a way. Irresponsible. Especially when you’re a stranger to them, someone who could be a potential danger. “I thought the others had already gotten rid of all of them.”

You furrow your brows. “The others?”

“Our camp,” the man closest to you supplies. “We’re stationed a few streets down.” He lets go of your hand, and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that unsettles you. Something you can’t place. And maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t properly interacted with a human being other than Kimi in over a year—either way, you’re not taking chances. “You don’t look familiar. Are you from the camps too?”

You turn your head just a second, only to scan the ground for your gun. “Yeah. Yeah, just up north,” you lie, finally spotting the barrel of your weapon next to one of the metal racks.

The man hums, and you’re already backtracking to reach for it. “Yeah, thanks for saving me, but I really should—”

“Camps up north, right?” he repeats, and there it is again—that unsettling, unnamable thing that makes you pick up your weapon with a quicker pace. “You know, it’s funny,” you hear a click, “Because last we checked, this city ran out of survivors a long time ago.”

The cold metal of your gun doesn’t make you feel any better. Not when odds are stacked against you. “There are no camps,” you say. Which would make them—

Scavengers.

Shit, Kimi was right.

“Stand up,” the kid with the gun says, and even you’re not stupid enough to try and make a break for it. “And don’t make any sudden moves.”

The man narrows his eyes, searching you with a scrutiny that you should’ve had the second they showed up. Living on the farm has made you complacent. It’s dulled your instincts—a blade that barely cuts anymore. “Where are you really from?”

“Nowhere,” you respond a second too quickly. Then, to amend, you add, “I’m just passing through.”

“She doesn’t look like a nomad,” the boy offers, the bottom half of his face still covered with a dark brown scarf. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You look smart,” the man says, head tilted. There’s a look in his eyes—a tenderness, maybe, that has since grown teeth and claws. “Smart people don’t travel alone.”

You shrug, trying to play off the rising panic you feel in your chest. It’s two against one—and it’s only then that you realize the strategy behind this whole encounter. The one closest to you has an axe, while the one that stands further behind has a gun. It doesn’t matter which one you go for—the other will get you in a blink. 

“You talk a lot for someone traveling with a kid.”

He raises his gun, and you briefly wonder whether using the scarf is an attempt to hide his boyish features. They’re both tall enough to be intimidating as is. “Watch it,” he hisses.

“Hit a nerve there,” you say, and the boy narrows his eyes at you.

“Ollie,” the man says, with a tone that feels all-too familiar. Stern. Protective. He turns his attention back to you. “How many people do you live with?” 

You shrug, your hands still raised for them to see. “Like I said, it’s just me.”

He tilts his head. “Then who’s the medical equipment for?”

Shit. Think fast, think—

“Me.”

“You?”

Ollie shakes his head, barrel of the gun still very much aimed at you. “She’s lying, Esteban.”

“I’m not,” you insist, mind already turning for ways to get yourself out of this. “Just because the world ended doesn’t mean I no longer get my period.” Esteban looks at you skeptically. “What? You want me to show you?” You reach inside your pack. It’s a bluff—not a very good one.

“Fine,” Esteban says, a little too quickly. Embarrassedly. “Fine.” 

It occurs to you that they’re two men on their own—men that probably haven’t heard about periods since the apocalypse started. “Suit yourself.”

“What are you thinking?” Ollie asks, taking a step closer now.

“I’m thinking if she is not from the city, she is probably stationed somewhere in the area.” Esteban does a once-over of you, eyes lingering on your face and clothes, before dropping to your hands. “Somewhere safer than here.”

“I’m really not,” you try, but catching your reflection on one of the metal racks, you see it. For all the messiness that came from struggling against a zombie, you’re still cleaner than either of them are. Your clothes are in better condition. Your cheeks look rounder, fuller—like you haven’t been starving as of late. He must’ve clocked it the second he saw you.

“The way I see it, you’ve got two choices, Chloe,” Esteban starts. “Either you lead us to your little safe haven, or Ollie shoots you and we take your things.” He shrugs. “Your call.”

Not much of a choice there. Next time, you’ll be sure to pay more attention to Kimi’s book. Really take it to heart. As if hearing your thoughts, Ollie’s eyes trail down towards the outline of the book inside your pocket.

“What’s—”

“Back up,” you say, voice sharper than before. Ollie raises his brows, a brief suspicion taking over his expression before Esteban places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Se concentrer,” Esteban says in a steadying tone. Ollie nods once. The older man turns his attention back to you. “I don’t suppose I have to explain to you that if you try anything, we shoot. You make a move too suddenly, we shoot. You lead us anywhere else that isn’t where you came from and—”

“Let me guess: you shoot?”

Esteban tilts his head, and there’s a smugness there that grates at you. He reaches into his pocket for a scrap of cloth that uses to tie your wrists together. “Look at you, already getting a hang of things.” He pulls up his scarf back over the bottom half of his face, and gestures towards the broken-down entrance of the store. “Allons-y.”

Glass crunches underneath your boot, hands tied in front of you as you lead the way, Ollie and Esteban just a few paces behind. The way you see it, your options are very limited. You have the medical equipment Kimi needs—though you should’ve known it was all too good to be true. You could guide them away from the house, but who knows how long you’d be gone? How would you get back? Kimi wouldn’t wait long before going to look for you—you can’t have that. Your best bet is leading them, then using your shotgun that’s back at the house to shoot them down.

Behind you, falling in steady stride, you hear Ollie whisper, “Hey, Esteban?” A vague hum of acknowledgement follows. You turn your head slightly. “What’s a period?”

Esteban’s back stiffens. “I am not answering that.”

The rest of the walk back is quiet. You don’t make an effort to talk to either of them, while they seem to be carefully attentive of your every move. You don’t say anything after crossing the river—only once you can see the wire fence Kimi and you worked on three years ago.

“This is the place,” you say, gesturing with your tied hands. “I need my keys, though.”

Esteban nods once, as if to say, slowly. You carefully reach for your backpocket, taking out a small keychain and unlocking the metal door. Ollie steps in first, leaving Esteban half a step behind you. 

“Whoa,” Ollie says, and you see him lower the barrel of his gun. As soon as he steps into the garden, his eyes widen with amazement. He blinks, lowering his scarf—which reveals those boyish features you were expecting. You shouldn’t be surprised that he’s just a kid. You shouldn’t. “Did you build this?”

You shrug. “Eh. In part.” You can still feel Esteban lingering behind you, keeping his wary gaze on you like a leech.

“This place is cool,” Ollie tells Esteban, and the lightness of his voice sounds disturbingly unfamiliar—like the boy in front of you isn’t the same one from the city.

“There’s a few chickens back in the pen,” you mention offhandedly, casually gesturing with your tied-up hands.

“You have chickens?” Ollie rushes towards the area you pointed at, making Esteban briefly turn his gaze away from you to call him back. Finally—your opening. This time, you don’t hesitate. The second Esteban is distracted, you knock your head back and into his nose with all the force you can muster.

Pro-tip #67: Your best bet will always be to avoid hand-to-hand combat, but on some occasions you won’t be given the liberty to choose. When that’s the case, always go for the nose.

You don’t register Esteban’s shout. You barely feel his blood dripping onto your neck before you’re bolting towards the entrance to the house. You slam the door open, hurrying upstairs before either of them can blink.

“Hey! Stop!”

You hear footsteps behind you as you come barreling into Kimi’s room.

He jumps, his eyes wide as he stares at your disheveled frame. Meche hisses at you from his lap—and really? That cat is always playing favorites.

“What’s—”

“Where’s the shotgun?” you huff out, hand gripping the door. Kimi doesn’t manage to answer before you spot it by his bedside. Atta boy. You lunge for it as steps come rushing just outside the door. Your body slams against the wooden floor, movements rash and imprecise as you aim at the door, ready to shoot.

The first one out the door is the older one, Esteban—who’s holding a bulkier shotgun at you. There’s blood smeared across his jaw and upper lip, eyes narrowed with intent to kill. You’d never admit it out loud—but his survival instincts seem to be much sharper than yours. He doesn’t even spare a moment to glance around the room, no. His dark eyes are dead-set on you. He doesn’t lower his gun. Neither do you. 

Then, Ollie comes barreling in, looking just as disheveled as Esteban with the axe now in his hand. Ollie, however, does take in the room with a quick scan. His brown eyes land on Kimi, and you immediately shift your aim towards him.

“Drop it!” Esteban shouts, shotgun cocking.

“Step away from him,” you bark, jaw clenched and aim unflinching.

But neither of the kids seem to be paying either of you any mind. Kimi straightens on his bed, earning a meow from Meche. “Ollie?”

“Kimi,” Ollie says, stunted, face caught somewhere between confusion and relief.

Kimi blinks once. Twice. Then, he turns his head towards you with an expression that says you’re embarrassing me. “Could you, like, not aim your gun at him?” he asks. “…Please?”

Well, dinner is incredibly awkward. Not that Kimi nor Ollie seem to notice. In fact, they both seem to have completely forgotten they are not the only ones at the table. Kimi beams and explains how the two of you have gotten the house running, while both Ollie and Esteban shovel spoonfuls of their plates into their mouths. You simply opt to stare, distrusting.

Kimi still has food in his mouth when he tilts his head at Esteban. “Hey, what happened to your nose?”

You snort, earning a not so discreet glare from the man sitting across from you. Kimi raises a curious brow, to which you respond with a small shrug. “Yeah, what happened to your nose?”

Dinner seems to wrap up quickly after that. The sun is starting to set, rays of molten gold seeping into the living room through the window. 

“Can I show Ollie around?” Kimi asks, hopeful. It startles you, seeing a flash of the boy he was when you first met him. 

“There’s a fracture boot inside my pack and a bottle of painkillers,” you say, pointing with your spoon. “You can go, but only for as long as you take two of them and Ollie helps you put on the boot.”

Kimi nods eagerly. “We can do that,” he exclaims, and Ollie stands to help him up, pulling Kimi’s arm over his shoulder. The two of them stumble out of the room, not wanting to waste a second of daylight.

“They clearly like each other,” Esteban finally says, voice gravelly.

“Yeah,” you say, feeling as the gentleness starts to seep out of your tone. You narrow your eyes at him. “You threatened to kill me.”

He shrugs, his plate scraped clean. “We saved you before that.”

You consider it for a moment. Mull it over. “Ollie is Kimi’s friend,” you state with an air of finality. He looks out of place—there’s still blood and dirt on his face. His clothes are worn, sporting tears and holes you could probably fix. You sigh. “You can stay. Temporarily. As long as you can show me that you can pull your weight.”

Esteban snorts into his glass. You raise a brow, unamused. He puts the glass down, as if sobering up. He exhales, extending his hand to you. “Truce?”

You glance down at his hand, before shaking it. “Truce.” You stand up, taking your plate and Kimi’s with you. “You should shower,” you say. “You stink.”

Esteban blinks, brows twitching. “Shower?”

“Yeah,” you say. “The hot water is limited though, so don’t abuse it.”

“Hot water?” Esteban repeats, and it takes you staring at him to snap him out of it. He nods, too eager, and clears his throat. “I mean—understood.”

“Good.” You pause. “And Ollie is your responsibility.”

Esteban chuckles, unfazed. “Always has been.”

You linger for a moment—just a moment. You take in his current state, the hollowness of his cheeks, his worn clothes, the fact that both he and Ollie are very clearly malnourished—and you briefly wonder how close you and Kimi were to that before you managed to secure this place. A place that had picture albums belonging to the previous owners—people that are probably long dead by now.

You blink, and the mental image is afternoon fog, weaving through the trees and the river. You swallow, and without sparing another glance at Esteban, you start climbing the stairs.

“Shower’s mine first, though!”

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you. You lock it, cautiously, silently. The mirror has a crack that spreads into spiderwebs of multiple reflections of you. They all stare back at you, grime and dirt still clinging to your skin. 

You stare back at your reflection, and you can feel your heart beating uneasily. Waiting. Your chest constricts.

Your muscles feel stiff as you pull down the collar of your shirt. Your chest rises unevenly—and the six reflections of you on the cracked mirror seem to hold their breaths.

You knew it would be there—you knew it the moment it happened. 

It’s not deep, you try to reason. It’s surface level. Salvagable.

The bite mark is centered on your shoulder—ugly, festering. You can make out the imprint of teeth on your skin. Panic rises inside your stomach, pushing down against your ribs. Surface level or otherwise, you know what a bite from a zombie means. 

Death. 

Inescapable. Unavoidable. Terrifying.

You still have time. A week, maybe two—maybe less. Your breathing feels constricted, like there’s pressure against your chest. The room spins around you. You blink, and your reflection is the zombie from the city. Unhinged jaw. Hollow eyes. Yellowed teeth. It’s you.

A knock on the door makes you jump. Kimi calls out your name. You run a hand across your face, pulse unsteady. “Yeah?”

“Do we have extra towels?” Kimi asks, voice muffled.

“Yeah—in, in my closet.”

“Va bene,” Kimi says, and you hear him limping away. 

A week. Maybe two. Not enough time to get everything in order—not nearly enough to make sure Kimi is set with everything he needs.

You let go of the collar of your shirt, hiding the bite. It pulses on your flesh, slowly but steadily rotting your skin from within.

Pro-tip #1: Zombie bites are a death sentence. Never, under any circumstances, let yourself be bitten. 

[yoremins]

[yoremins]

sports are so stressful and for what. i’m not a gambler, i don’t know any of these people personally, why does my tummy hurt.

[yoremins]

Thunderbolts* desktops

[yoremins]

champagne soaked oscar 🫶🏻