#Guts Over Glory

[staff]

Boop Breakdown

Well, you did it. You booped. You booped all over your dashboard with reckless abandon, your finger gnashing away at the boop button, much like a lovely raccoon discovering a glorious half-eaten baked potato. A treasure was presented, and you knew you deserved it. You deserved to boop. Collectively, you booped 142,566,897 times. To repeat: one hundred forty-two million five hundred sixty-six thousand eight hundred ninety-seven boops were had on tumblr dot com the website and the app.

Specifically: 

Normal boops: 119,204,929

Self boops: 12,645,652

Cat boops: 7,925,241

Super boops: 2,095,231

Mischievous, aka evil boops: 695,844

One particularly boopable Tumblr was booped a total of 874,212 times. To be so rich in boops is a blessing. The Tumblr that gave the most boops found it in their heart to bestow 127,073 boops upon those they found worthy. 

Over 500,000 Tumblrs were booped and booped back in return. And for what? What would drive so many to boop? Does Tumblr yearn for the boop mines? Well, yes. And also the guts, the glory, the prestige, and, of course, the badges. Oh, how you worked for those badges:

Booper participants: 229,881

Booper enthusiasts:  85,548

Booper supers:  67,571

Hold your heads high, Tumblr. You booped until you couldn’t boop anymore. You created incredible fanart, invented a whole new genre of -sonas, and even created your own premium, high-end awards. It was noble, it was boop. We hope you boop yourself, and boop for boop. Boop, boop boop? Boop, boop. Boop boop boop, boop boop; Boop! Boop! 

Boop,

Tumblr

[hail-dondus]

Pixar did not have to go as hard as they did with the Kronos Unveiled scene in The Incredibles (2004), yet they did anyway and gave us one of the best scenes in modern cinema. Literally cannot stop thinking about how good this scene is, from the animation to the build up to the soundtrack.

I don’t think I truly understood how dark this scene - and this film - was a child: Syndrome is systematically and strategically luring in superheroes and killing them off in order to test and improve his Omnidroid design… these people were not only supers but they also had family and loved ones too, just like Bob, and one day they would have just disappeared because chances are they weren’t telling people where they were going because it was "top secret" and against the law. They thought they were doing something good, like helping the people in the island, while also getting to relive their glory days, perhaps even paving the way for superheroes to make a proper comeback… only for Syndrome to kill them in cold blood.

Most of these people can actually be seen at Bob and Helen’s wedding in the beginning of the film - they weren’t just random supers, they were their friends, people they worked alongside and cared about. It’s even worse when you realise that Bob probably blames himself because, after all, Buddy/Syndrome was his biggest fan and he dismissed him by not letting him help.

The relief on Bob’s face when he realises Syndrome doesn’t know where Helen is - meaning he also doesn’t know where their children are because he didn’t realise they were married at this point - is so realistic and gut wrenching to see. The relief contrasting with the anguish of knowing how much danger they and their entire family could have been in the entire time without even knowing...it's so well-done, you can literally feel it.

It’s also worth noting that originally the next target wasn’t Mr Incredible but Frozone - that was who Mirage was trailing, hence why his location is “known”. Imagine if she/Syndrome hadn’t realised that Mr Incredible was with him and they’d lured Frozone in instead as planned; he would have gone to the island to fight the Omnidroid 8 in a volcano setting. We saw how being in the burning building dehydrated Frozone and made it impossible to use his ice powers - presumably it would have been the same in the middle of a lava filled volcano, and he’d have been slaughtered just like the other superheroes before him.

This scene shows an entire generation of superheroes - Bob, Helen and Lucius’ generation - wiped out all because Syndrome felt slighted by his hero as a child, because he internalised that slight and let it drive him to revenge. And, if we take into account the deleted alternate opening scene, it’s mentioned that superheroes "aren't supposed to breed” - meaning there’s a likelihood that Violet, Dash and Jack-Jack are among the very few supers of the next generation. I know that it's deleted and so not really canon, but it's definitely a concept to consider, I think.

Then there's the fact Syndrome named the project "Kronos" - Kronos was a God who overthrew his own father in order to take over his rule, and then he ate his own children to prevent them doing the same thing to him. It feels like it reflects Syndrome once looking up to Mr Incredible and even saying "I could be your ward!", meaning Mr Incredible adopting or fostering him - the project name is a metaphor for Syndrome destroying the Supers, especially Mr Incredible, who he viewed as a father figure. The Omnidroids he built killed two birds with one stone: not only was he able to acquire the data to upgrade the robot to its final design, but it also eliminated the real super heroes and so left him as the last remaining "superhero", even though his powers are man-made, not something he was born with.

Not only did he want to become the only remaining superhero by killing the real ones in revenge, he also planned to sell his inventions at some point so everyone can be super - because "when everyone is super, nobody is". It's like a final blow to the memory of the superheroes he had killed.

I've talked too much about this scene but God... I love it so much more as an adult because it's just so chilling to think about. I'm sure other people can put it much more articulately than I just tried to, but I just really wanted to appreciate this scene.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Asking the 141 men “Is it in?”

That's DIABOLICAL, anon. DIABOLICAL. *proceeds to cackle hysterically while opening up a blank Word doc*

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: bratty behavior, swearing, unprotected piv, humor

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“Is it in?” you ask, gripping John’s shoulders as you settle in his lap.

John is silent a long moment before he sighs heavily. “I know what you’re up to.”

His hands slide from the backs of your thighs to your ass. With a firm grip, he lifts you up and off his cock. There’s a gentle ache left behind, and your pussy flexes slightly at the loss of him.

“John,” you moan, knowing that instead of getting what you want, you’re about to get the exact opposite.

“Not playing this game, dove,” he replies, voice assertive but not mean.

John lightly plops you down onto the bed. As you reach for him, he rolls away with a slight grunt, standing tall in all his nude glory. He shifts slightly, his hand grasping the base of his cock. He strokes up and down.

“I’m taking care of this,” he says, nodding toward his erection. “While I do that, I want you to have a good think.”

“John,” you whine, and there is no pleasure in it.

He’s already walking toward the bathroom, his hand still pumping steadily. “When I come back, I might just give you what you want, love.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Is it in?”

Johnny blinks, shifting his weight onto an elbow. “I bloody well hope it is,” he says in full seriousness. Shoving your legs higher, Johnny checks like he’s not even sure himself. “Aye,” he confirms. “It’s in.”

Trying not to laugh, you say, “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” His voice rises slightly. “Am I sure?” Johnny moves his hips back and forth. “Can you not feel that?”

Oh, I certainly can.

“I think so?” you reply slowly. “Do it again.” Johnny does. “Maybe a bit harder?” He does exactly as you instruct, and you have to hold back a groan. Johnny has always felt good inside you, a stretch that’s perfectly pleasurable. “Harder?”

Johnny increases the pace, and you nearly choke on your next inhale. “Harder.”

“You—oh. You’re fucking with me.” He tuts. “Having a laugh, are we?”

“No,” you whisper, and then immediately snort as you cover up your face to keep from bursting out in a fit of giggles.

Johnny shakes his head, and immediately pushes off, flopping onto his back.

“Johnny!” you exclaim, this time unable to contain your laugher.

He points to his erect penis. “Get on. You’re doing the work today.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon doesn’t deserve this, but fucking with him a bit will get you what you want. While you can ask for it, getting him worked up enough to fuck you senseless is just as fun.

“Is it—” Simon sighs. “Is it in?” He repeats your question with a loud sigh, like he can’t believe what he’s just heard. He gestures downward with a nod. “I’m literally in your guts.”

He’s not wrong. You’re on your back, legs spread wide, hips slightly elevated. Simon is kneeling between your legs. It’s not like you’re on all fours. There is a clear view of where your bodies meet. Even if you truly couldn’t feel it, you’d see it.

You shrug, and Simon shakes his head.

“We’re not doing this today,” he mutters.

With a rough growl, Simon dives in, flattening himself over you. You’re completely pinned, trapped beneath his body. His hips snap back, and then drive forward.

“I know you can fucking feel this,” says Simon, grinding his hips against you on the last word.

You try to hold back a moan as his pelvis rubs against your clit.

“Is it in now, love?” chuckles Simon when you finally moan aloud.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle settles between your legs. Leaning in, he goes for a kiss. One hand slides up your outer thigh, turning inward to press your leg into the bed and open you wider for him. Another kiss, and then he’s sliding home, easing himself inside.

He groans, and though you want to groan with him, it takes every ounce of willpower to hold back.

It takes even more willpower to not crack up at the words that come out of your mouth.

“Is it in?”

Kyle pauses, draws back as if he didn’t hear you correctly. “Is it—” He pauses, stares at you a long moment, mouth slightly open and the middle of his brow creased with concern.

You’re about to ask again but then Kyle starts…laughing.

“Kyle?” He rests his forehead against your shoulder, still chuckling. “Kyle,” you prompt. “Is it in?”

This only makes him laugh harder.

With a little shove, Kyle pushes himself off you and rolls on his back, his cock sliding out of your body. He throws his arm over his eyes, still laughing.

“Kyle,” you try again, but even you start to break, a smile spreading across your face.

“You’re,” he wheezes. “Bloody unbelievable.”

[soldiersgirl]

— 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 .ᐟ

summary — life had always been cruel to ben; littered with betrayals, heartbreak, guts & glory. somehow, despite it all, the one thing he thought he had lost and could never experience, turned out to be his saving grace. (inspired by this post)

cw — fem!reader x girl dad!soldier boy, 18+ (hints of sex, wrap it before u tap it) established relationship (married). soft ben, fluff, angst, kissing, daddy kink (kinda), smoking, mentions of daddy and mommy, mentions of ben's trauma and war, mentions of drug use.

word count — 2,138 words

ben couldn't count on one hand the amount of trials and tribulations he had been subjected to over his long, arduous existence, but he needed the other one to hold and keep himself anchored to you.

it had all started out innocently. much like the other members of the boys, you were indifferent to ben. but soon enough, you discovered that you two couldn't stand each other, let alone be in the same room without going at it and screaming about "the importance of having a moral backbone" while he told you to go "shove your fuckin' modern values!" in return. but as time does with most things, it eats away at anger and suddenly, after a long day at the office and going over missions, you would retreat to the roof together and share a cigarette between the two of you. words were rarely spoken, but you grew to understand each other just a little bit more with each inhale and exhale of your shared vice.

his complexity perplexed you and you found yourself wishing to understand the man under the armour. how ben had become soldier boy and lost himself along the way.

during one particular cold night, up on the flatiron building roof, he laid it all out to you. he had told hughie and butcher a few bits, here and there, but you got the full picture. all you did was nod in return, not offering any comments like others did. ben couldn't read you and it freaked him the fuck out. he had quite the knack for getting under people's skin and staying there, gnawing on their insecurities and break them down. but when you comfortingly laid your hand on his and he didn't flinch, he knew there was something about you that he possibly wouldn't find again.

within a few tough and challenging months, for both of you and the boys as a team, you and ben had turned to finding comfort in one another. each night, either at his place or yours, you would intertwine your limbs and entangle your tongues with no care for the world around you. he would get lost in your gentle mewls, your soft pleading as he would pound into you and fulfil all your dirtiest fantasies, without a second thought.

you managed to keep your... situation quiet for a while from the others, knowing that no one would approve of it; why complicate things when everything is a already a nightmare with vought and homelander? but when the boys abruptly came back from a mission and walked in on ben taking you from behind on your own desk; you knew you couldn't keep it under wraps anymore. hell broke loose. insults were hurled. computers were thrown, mainly by ben, and you were both told that it wouldn't last long. but you managed to prove them wrong; much to your own surprise.

loving ben wasn't a walk in the park. nothing about ben was ever easy. but when your fingers interlocked and he bared his soul to you, all his worst nights were worth it. the nights filled with long discussions, ingrained toxic reflexes, harsh empty words.

"you need to cut off the fucking pills, ben! i swear to god, i'm gonna flush them down the fuckin' toilet!" you yelled as you held the baggie over the toilet, shaking them, daring him to come closer.

"you're batshit! actually, insane! i should've listened to butcher when he said i shouldn't get involved with someone like you!" he pointed his finger accusingly, a deep scowl on his face.

always turned into...

"i'll never find someone like you." ben sighed as he cradled you close, your heartbeats in sync and your breaths shallow after you furiously apologise to each other. you peer up at him and caress his exhausted face, loving how he leans in and seeks your touch.

"i love you." you stated. his eyes flew open, revealing his moss-green irises as they softened at the sight of you. he exhaled as if the weight of the world fell off his shoulders and his usual scowl turned into a wide, toothy smile as he rested his forehead against yours.

"i love you too, sweetheart." he kissed the tip of your nose and nestled himself deeper into you. he loved you like he did everything else; fiercely and loudly and he was sure he could never love someone like he did you. until he met her.

for weeks and weeks, this was the moment it had all been leading up to this. the final showdown between ben and homelander. you had felt incredibly nauseous for weeks, watching ben the boys strategise and devise their attack plans. it must the anxiety, the fear of the great unknown beyond their fight. until you couldn't deny it anymore. three pregnancy tests stared back at you, the severity of the situation seeped into your bones and overtaking your senses.

you stepped out and admired ben's broad back as he pulled on his suit, buckled his knee pads and gave his shield the once over before sliding it onto his back.

"are you gonna stand there all day or am i a lucky enough of a bastard to get a kiss from my girlfriend?" he hummed before turning around and giving you that infamous smirk. his smile faltered immediately as he noticed your frail composure and the look of absolute fear etched on your face. "baby. don't be nervous about the fight, come on. don't you trust your old man?" he chuckles before dragging you in and kissing the top of your head as a gesture of reassurance. "i got the boys with me, don't i darling? they've got my back."

they definitely didn't have his back.

"when's your daddy coming, sweetheart?" the kindergarten teacher perched next to the pigtailed girl with those captivating green eyes that everyone couldn't help but compliment.

"sweetheart?" the girl giggled as she eyed the playground, waiting for her dad to appear at any moment, like mum had promised he would today. "that's mommy's name, daddy says so all the time. i'm athena!!" she flashed her toothless grin and giggled even louder.

"ah, yes. sorry, athena. i got confused!" the teacher shook her head and feigned confusion, returning the young girl's smile. as if on cue, the intimidating father figure entered the classroom and the young girl wasted no time sprinting and latching onto his leg as he lets out a low chuckle. he picks her up effortlessly and rests her on his hip as he looks apologetically at the teacher.

"i'm sorry, ma'am." his gruff voice filled the classroom which is usually filled with high-pitched laughs and soft tones. "i got.. held up at work." athena pats her father's stubbled cheeks and let out a shriek of laughter as his free hand pokes at her stomach, his eyes fully on her with a smile to match.

"mr. anderson, it was really no issue. i love spending time with athena, don't worry about it."

"ben. ben is fine." he corrects. "alright. well, say goodbye to miss smith, athena. time to go home to mommy." athena waves wildly as ben offers miss smith a curt nod before leaving the colourful classroom. miss smith couldn't help but laugh to herself; somehow the toughest man became the softest father.

the fight had taken a turn for the worst. everyone had turned on each other. chaos ensued and ben was left with no option to erupt and unleash himself on everyone. luckily, with shaking hands and a trembling voice, you had called grace mallory and begged for her help. for her to make you and ben disappear so you could start again, give him what he always yearned for a loving family. that's how you ended up in south philadelphia, ben's home state. despite his denial to face and confront his past, he knew it was something he needed to be able to become the father he wanted. the father he knew he could be. it wasn't hard to do a better job than his own father, but once he regained consciousness after the fight and you shared the news you were too scared to share before, suddenly... all of ben's betrayals, heartaches and suffering became obsolete. all that mattered was you... and her.

ben wasn't made to work under normal conditions, being in an office and stuck at a desk felt like a punishment. like a wild animal trapped in a cage. he wanted the normal life he knew he could've had if he never had become soldier boy, but no matter what, ben was a weapon before he was a man. while you and athena settled into a comfortable daily life, ben was sent on solitary missions by mallory and the CIA. it was the least he could do after the fuckfest that went down in nicaragua all those years ago, mallory had explained. it was the only way the CIA would agree to help him and his family, so he begrudgingly accepted.

you pulled a pink pyjama top over athena's wriggling form before pulling her in and giving her rushed kisses all over her soft face.

"mammaaaa!" she yelled in defiance as her giggles grew louder and pushed away at your quick, planted kisses. you pulled back, gave her a large smile and brushed her wet hair carefully after her nightly shower.

"mummy couldn't help herself. you're too cute, 'thena." you laughed in return before braiding her hair and tucking her into bed, surrounded by her army of stuffed teddy bears. the soft glow of her sunset lamp cast a warm, orange hue over her cherub face as you gazed into those eyes that you could get lost in.

"can you tell me about where i got my name again, mamma?" athena whispers into her hands, knowing it was already past her bedtime. you open your mouth to tell her no, but a gruff voice from behind interrupts you.

"daddy can do it." ben had been leaning against his daughter's door frame with folded arms and admiring the sight of the two of you, not fully believing how lucky he had gotten. he saunters in, gives you a big kiss on your lips (followed with an "eeew..." by athena) before he sits down carefully on her heart-filled bed covers and holds her tiny hand in his.

"when daddy used to be a soldier, many many years ago before he met you, daddy was in many wars. he worked hard to protect his country and he was always protected by athena. athena helped daddy when he needed to be brave and clever to get the bad people to go back home. like those fuc-." you let out a small cough. he pauses and his eyes flicker to you, as you offer him a warm smile; encouraging him to continue. you let your hand run up and down his back, relaxing him. "fudging commies." he continues. "athena was zeus' favourite daughter, like you are mine." he continues and kisses her small knuckles. "she was the wisest, bravest olympian god and she cared for people, like daddy, when daddy needed it most."

all soldiers need a war, but not the way that ben needed his little athena.

ben's smooth voice had lulled athena into a slumber, her eyes lidded and her lips in a natural pout as her head hung. ben tucked her in tightly and placed a brief kiss on her forehead as you turned off the lights.

"daddy loves both of his girls." he whispers into her hair before quietly leaving her room and joining you in the hallway.

"oh, daddy loves his girls, huh?" you wink and stretch your arms up around his neck. his hands fall naturally into place, on your hips, as you sway slightly together with identical smirks on your faces.

"if you're not careful, sweetheart, daddy will have to teach you a lesson." he gives your ass a light slap.

"how could i say no to you, daddy?" you hum as you bite your bottom lip.

"you're so fuckin' dirty. bet you've been thinking about me all day, haven't you?" he chuckles as you lead him into your joint bedroom, swiftly closing the door behind you and connecting your lips in a frenzied kiss. "daddy will take care of you, sweetheart. lay back and show daddy how much you missed him." ben mutters against your slick lips before throwing you onto your bed and climbing on top of you, his hands gliding across your form and grabbing you with a sense of urgency that you never got tired of.

after all this time, you were still into him, who you watched finally find himself amongst the chaos of his life.

a/n: in my mind, months pass between the boys finding ben and the showdown between him and homelander, rather than only a few days, so that's where this takes place. also couldn't resist writing a girldad! ben as jensen is just the best father ever <3 and still into you is my favourite lovesong ever. hope u enjoyed!

-`♡´- tag list: @bluemerakis @legalmente-loca @faiszt @vmiina @emeraldcrs @briiverse @figthoughts @sl33pylilbunny @jasvtsc @silverwoodlynx @kayleighwinchester @bejeweledinterludes @yooyieu @nperoconelcositoarriba @lanasgirlfr @velvetdandeli0n @iluvdeanwinchester @cowboysandcigarettes @daylighted @valjy @dulcescorderitas @mostlymarvelgirl @syrma-sensei (comment or inbox me to be added)

[jamespotterismydaddy]

Capture the Flag

luke castellan x reader

pt 2

A/N: now that i'm writing for other fandoms, feel free to let me know if you only want to be on a hotd taglist. But now, please enjoy the strongest swordsman in camp halfblood

TW: MAJOR SMUT, slight bondage, rough smut, violence, lowkey dark(ish)!luke

word count: 1,699 words

You want Luke Castellan’s head speared on your sword.

It’s like you spend every minute preparing for capture the flag because of him. He spends every last minute of each game cutting down your teammates and stealing your flag, so now it’s time to change the tactic. You ditch your father’s usual battle advice of going for the kill and hope that defence is the best offence for once. You also pray that he will guide your sword anyhow. So there you stand, guarding your flag with two of your most vicious teammates. You dodge the blue team’s first attack that was supposed to draw you off. You may have a short temper but you aren’t stupid. And you’re more than pleased to see the look of surprise on Luke’s face as he approaches.

“Fucking Ares kids.” He grumbles, sword drawn.

“Were you not expecting me, Castellan?” You ask with a vengeful smirk.

He goes right for you. You’re the biggest threat there but he likes to think you’re not even close to his skill level. You would believe that the man plans to cut you down and then your teammates. He always aims for the glory of it all.

“How’s your team gonna get our flag if you’re here?” He asks as he makes the first swing. It’s much better to start off on offence and he’s the one coming at you.

“Who cares. When you’re done, so is your team.” You block him, hating to be on defence but he’s too quick.

“Gods, you didn’t plan ahead of that? There really isn’t anything in that pretty little head of yours, is there? Other than rage of course.”

  You’re a hothead. He knows it. You know it and it doesn’t take much to rile you up. When you’re riled up, you get sloppy. At this point, you don’t care if he guts you, you go for the little fucker’s ankles. You’re actually surprised when he stumbles from blocking your attack. It’s a stupid mistake, especially for him. Though, you aren’t going to let a chance like this slip by. You keep pushing him back, trying to leave him no chance to think in between swings. He trips over a log behind him, the sword falling from his hand. He has no chance now, not on the ground and you won’t be letting him get up.

“Who’s the idiot now?” 

He looks at you as you approach slowly, taunting him. He then grabs his sword and makes a break for it. You’re too shocked to even keep him down.

What the fuck.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Luke Castellan run from a fight. Not in your 4 years at camp. So you chase after him.

He’s fast, faster than you but you push yourself. He trails away… and away. Then you lose him. 

“Godsdamnit!” You scream into the woods as you jog around where you last saw him. 

You know you can’t stray for long if you’re not fighting Luke so you turn to make your way back to the flag. That’s when he jumps out at you with his sword swinging. You barely have time to block and it puts you off your balance. He swings at you again and again. You fall as you continue to block the merciless strikes. You’re practically holding your sword in the air and hoping for the best. The best doesn’t come as the weapon flies from your hand. He descends on you, straddling your waist as he holds the blade to your throat. He’s smirking.

“You don’t try nearly hard enough.” He says to you. “I know you’re not very clever but hades, my teammates probably already have the flag over the barrier.” 

That’s when you realize how easily you were deceived. Luke didn’t run from you because you bested him; he ran to draw you off. It was a pathetically simple plan and it worked. The heat rises to your cheeks from humiliation. He grabs your two hands and pins them above your head, his grip gentle but also firm.

“I’ll put you in your grave.” You spit out at him.

“Will you now? While I have you essentially restrained?” He’s clearly amused.

You struggle beneath him with all your force but all you manage to do is roll your hips against him, earning a groan from the man. You feel it too, the burning ache between your thighs. You want him. Worse yet, he wants you.

“Let me up.” 

“No. I think you quite like how I have you pinned to the ground.” He smirks.

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re wet.”

He slips a knee between your thighs and rubs it against your clothed pussy. It takes everything in you not to whimper.

“S-Stop.” You stutter out.

“Make me.” He murmurs, continuing to make you grind down on his knee as he leans down and forces you into a hot kiss. You hate how you kiss back, so hungry for him. Your mind is clouded with lust for a moment before you realize the advantage he is giving you. You never technically conceded.

As swiftly as you can, you wrap your free leg around his waist and use your whole strength to throw him off you, startling him enough to free your hands.

“You bitch.” He groans as you jab him in the stomach to try and give yourself enough time to grab your sword but it doesn’t work. He grabs you by the ankle and yanks hard. You slam to the ground right on your stomach. He moves to restrain you by sitting on your thighs so you can’t move your legs and holds your hands behind your back. You clearly didn’t consider how inevitably stronger he is than you.

“Shit.” You whine. His hold isn’t nearly as gentle this time.

“That was a cheap fucking shot.” He says cruelly. He’s pissed now.

“Fuck you. Castellan!” Gods it goes straight to his dick when you call him by his last name. He grips your hair with his free hand and pulls back hard so you have to look at him. You whine again at the sharp pain.

“You just can’t play fair, can you, princess? Maybe I won’t either then.”

 He drops your head and you hear him rustling with something. You realize it’s his belt when you feel the leather against your wrists. He’s binding you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is full of rage but to him, you just sound petulant. 

 “What you need.” Is his simple answer.

He shifts down so he sits, or rather kneels, with your legs between his. He’s amused by your renewed writhing as an attempt to escape. It is pitiful really. Oh well, he’ll have you writhing for a different reason soon enough.

His fingertips glide across your waist, to your hips and then to your thighs, causing your back to arch upwards slightly, your stomach dipping. He brings his lips down to your ear, his voice is deep and lustful as he says, “Your body seems to know what it wants.”

“I’ll kill you.” You promise.

“Oh, i’m sure you will. But right now, you fucking belong to me.” He yanks on your hair again so you have to look at him and your eyes water from the pain. “I think you like me hurting you.” His other hand slips between your thighs to rub your clit and you let out a strangled moan. “For a girl who is so controlling, it’s interesting how badly you enjoy me manhandling you.”

He yanks your pants down and slips your helmet under your hips so your ass stays high in the air with your chest to the ground.

“This is fucked up.” You say.

“You love it. Your panties are soaked.” And he’s completely right. You’ve never been so turned on before but not a lot of men are as strong and good-looking as Luke Castellan.

He pulls your panties down and groans at the sight of your dripping pussy. He begins to palm himself through his pants and unzips them. “You have about three seconds to tell me if you don’t actually want this.”

You are silent and he chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

Before you can even prepare yourself or form a thought, his fat cock is shoved inside of you, splitting you open.

“Ah, Luke!” You moan at the pain and pleasure.

“Gods, this is the tightest little pussy i’ve had.” He begins to fuck in and out of you relentlessly, giving you no time to adjust. “Yeah, you’re good for me now, baby. Such a good little cocksleeve.” He punctuates his last words with hard thrusts, the head of his cock bullying into you each time.

All you can do is repeat his name like a mantra as you get pounded on the forest floor by the strongest swordsman in camp. It’s even worse as he begins to rub your clit again, sending you so close to the edge.

“Never gonna have enough of you after this.” Luke murmurs as he feels you squeezing around him. “My good girl.” 

That’s what sends you tumbling over the edge, bringing Luke with you as you do. He never could’ve kept going, not with the way your walls were squeezing around him. He pulls out almost instantly so he can watch his cum spill out of you. He doesn’t wipe it. He just pulls your panties back on and fixes the both of you up. You’re thoroughly spent, he can tell by the way you pant as he releases your wrists.

“You okay?” He asks as he helps you sit up. He grabs your hands so he can kiss the marks on your wrists. After all you’ve done, that’s the act that makes you blush furiously. 

“Um, yeah.” You breathe out.

“I’ll be nicer next time, I promise. Somebody just had to put you in your place first.” He grins wolfishly.

“Next time?” 

That’s when you hear the horn. The blue team has won again.

He pecks a kiss to your cheek. “Time to claim my kleos.” He says cockily before jogging off to meet his team.

taglist (comment to be added):General: @valeskafics @urmomsgirlfriend1 @girlwith-thepearlearring @darylandbethfanforever9 @lovellies @juhdoche @papichulo120627 @watercolorskyy @ophelialaufey @aerangi

[dark-and-kawaii]

⋆｡˚୨୧˚｡⋆ — Summary: Gojo Satoru fucks you at a punishing pace deep within the public restrooms. You poor thing~ ♡

Gojo knew how to bully that sweet body of yours, knew how to make your eyes roll back as you begged for him to slow down. He had you in such a mean mating press, your legs swung over his shoulders, dangling helplessly in the air. Your body folded as he pressed his muscular frame against yours, roughly fucking his fat cock into that tight little cunny of yours, stretching you out so beautifully.

“S’too~, Satoooru~ f’wlease~...Mn’hurts~ Slo’w d-dooown!!~”

But your body was so honest, your face giving you away as you made the sluttiest moans while looking at him- your tongue lolling from the side of your mouth. You were drooling all over yourself, you poor thing…

The sorcerer smirked, his hand tangling in your hair tighter, making your scalp ache before slamming his hips forward… His other hand going for your throat as his pace grew more brutal, more savage. The way he was using you was nothing short of animalistic- fucking you as if you were nothing more than a mere glory hole, his cock reaching all the way into your womb as his heavy balls slapped against your ass.

“Y’er body has gotten quite honest, hasn’t it? Begging me to slow down while that cute pussy tries and milks me for all I am worth… I can feel ya tightening around me, you know?” He gives a light chuckle, “Y’er strangling my cock so nicely, Princess.” he gives a grunt, hips jerking up into your fluttering cunt, “and making such a mess- squirting everywhere like the little slut you are for me.”

“Ny-noooo, S-sayoruu~ m-my puss-ssy cannn-nnnt, c-cannnn~t take anym-mooorre~, pleeease!!~” you sobbed as tears fell down your rosy cheeks.

As his thick cock split you open further, churning up your insides while rearranging your guts, his winter like eyes darkened, “Ya can and ya will, because I said so. Because I know ya can handle it, baby girl~ so don't lie to me, hm? Not when your body is already screaming how much it loves this.”

Your fingernails bit into his arms, “Toooru~, mn’ ph’wease- pleaseeee~!!! M-my tummy- i-it feels like yet turning my insides sh’out-~! S’too deep~!!!”

You were shaking your head side to side, begging and pleading him with all your might but your deliciously stupid pussy was practically devouring his cock.

How adorable you looked.

Gojo knew, oh he knew well that you were getting off on being used, getting off on being put in your place, getting off on his words alone. Getting off to him filling your abused pussy repeatedly deep within this public restroom. The sound of your lewd body being clapped echoing off the stall walls, knowing full well anyone in the near vicinity could hear how you fell apart on his cock.

You loved this. Loved his cock. Loved being here for his pleasure~ Loved crying out for him as he spilled himself into you? His hot cum flooding your insides- painting your insides the prettiest of white as you made a mess everywhere with your womanly juices~

And he just adored watching his cum spill from your gapping cunt. How his very own seed made a mess between your thighs, trickling onto the public floor for some poor soul to stumble upon.

He smirked, “What a naughty girl you are, making a mess in public like this~.”

You were too fucked out, too exhausted, to do much of anything as you laid there limply. All you could do was give a tired, pitiful moan as his large hands spread your legs wider, exposing that used up pussy of yours even more.

You were going to make him hard all over again. Seeing you so fuckrf out, seeing the mess you made because of him…

Leaning in closer, whispering huskily into your ear, “I don’t think we’re finished here yet-“ he licked your ear, making you whine pathetically, his hands rubbing soothing circles into your inner thighs.

His cock was already twitching to life again, ready for round two.

Oh and what a fun, pleasurable round two it was going to be~

[oreo-creampies]

“𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐭”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬! Monster fucking/hentai logic, hints of a size kink, satoru has two cocks, no say word used, overstimulation/hints of mind break, begging, dacryphilia, reader has horns, biting, cervix/womb fucking (I’m telling you hentai logic), hate fucking but he doesn’t hate you, mean and condescending!incubus!Satoru who loves bullying you and making you cry, succubus!reader, satoru drugs you up, mirror sex, satoru is obsessed and wants to break that pussy, some objectification/heavy degradation, pulling on your horns, squirting, he calls ya mama once, some blood/light blood play

Oreo/fey; This has been rotting in the drafts for a while so take Satoru’s part

Tears trickle down your stinging cheeks. Twisting your hips partly sliding Satoru’s cocks out of your sore cunt. Your clawing at the sheets desperate for relief from his pussy bruising cocks. His speed is spiteful, pace nearly hip-shatteringly brutal.

Your body burns when he laughs. “Awwee you think I’ll let you get away?” Yanking you back onto his cocks by your bruised hips. Your jaw drops, body shutters, toes curl and eyes roll back. The thick ribbed bottom of his cock rubs your g-spot.

Yanking your head by the taunt, bejeweled chain between your twisted horns. Sinking in his thick cocks, pressing you into the bed with a hand on your back impossible to escape his hateful thrusts.

He croons, “Why would I ever let you go when your lil sloppy wet lil cock sleeve takes me so perfectly?” Sliding his finger slowly along the base of your horn sending intense tingles down your spine to your stuffed cunt.

Clenching Satoru, squeezing his fat cocks together inside you. Whining, “You’re-nnn-you’re gonnnnaaannnnn fuuuck me!” Satoru props a leg up on the bed frame, helping him fuck you deeper. Sobbing, “Breakme! Sooooo meaaannnn! I’m sorrrry!”

Smacking your ass twice, your sore cheek throbs sweetly. Satoru croons, “What’s my dumb lil’ toy sorry for?” Squeezing your hip, piercing your skin with quickly sharpening nails.

Relenting when blood trickles down your thigh. smearing your blood and squeezing your soft thigh. Dragging his nails up, leaving stinging thin scratches. Both of his cocks bullying your sore cunt is too much, too big, too deep you're struggling to think.

Bouncing on his cock, skin smacking skin, your wet cunt squelching with each punishing, quick thrust. Slurring your words together, “Anything I did! Fuucccck! Nnnnn!” Satoru twists your arms behind your back, pressing your face into the bed.

Hunching over to bite your shoulder, his sharp fangs rip through your skin. Swallowing a mouthful, licking the drops that seep out when he retracts his fangs. Your pussy quivers, clenching Satoru's cocks as an intense warmth washes over you.

Sneering, "It's cute, you think there is a reason other than cause," rutting his hips harder. "I can!" You're sobbing, thighs trembling, toe-curling mess your bruised cervix into your womb.

It shouldn't feel this wonderful, is he supposed to be that deep? One quick stroke ruins your chances of worrying. Why think about it if you're going to cum on his cocks anyway. The intense blissful high is so close your pussy is trembling.

"Be a good lil glory hole n’ take my cocks!” Squeezing your hip, yanking you off the bed by your horn’s chain. Slamming you down on his cock, you can feel his pulse throbbing in his veins.

Satoru yanks your head to the side, biting your neck, injecting you with his aphrodisiac. Needy burning heat pools in your gut spreading into your spasming, squirting pussy.

Groaning frantically bouncing you on his cock, pounding your gushing cunt. “Squirting on my cock like you wanna me to make ya a mama." Pushing on your bulging stomach. "It's getting me off seeing ya cry cause your sloppy wet pussy is getting too sensitive."

Turning you in front of a floor-length mirror. Admiring how your cunt stretches for his cocks. The soft ribbing on the bottom of his cock tugs your cunt when he glides out.

"The slightest movement makes ya feel like your cumming when I inject too much." Stroking your clit, stuffing your squelching cunt. You're cock drunk on a blissful high, your cunt spasming, clenching him tighter. Sneering, "But you should still be able to handle me right?"

Oreo’s m.list

[22ayla21]

The Lion Without Underwear

When an innocent visit to Leona turns into a face-to-face encounter with the completely naked "king of the savanna," his poor girlfriend is about to experience the most awkward moment of her life.

Leona's room was an exact reflection of his nature: relaxed, cozy, and with a creative mess. A light scent of sand and spices hung in the air, and the sun sleepily filtered through the half-drawn curtains. In this lazy atmosphere, our "kitty" was sleeping peacefully, as befits a lion at midday — sprawled across the entire bed, his arms and legs carelessly flung out.

And — as usual — in his underwear.

Well... he usually slept in his underwear. But today, apparently, he decided that was for the weak.

Today, Leona was sleeping completely naked, covered only by a light sheet.

The girl, in her kind habit, decided to visit him. Everything was going according to plan: she wanted to wake him up, maybe take him for a walk, or just sit beside him.

And she was sure she would find her lazy "kitten" in his usual briefs.

She quietly entered, tiptoed to the bed, and smiled, seeing his peaceful sleep.

"Leona-a..." she purred, leaning over him. "My sleeping beast..."

In response — nothing. He only sleepily twitched his tail, which hung over the edge of the bed and swung lazily in the air.

Smiling at her mischief, she gently pulled the edge of the sheet to wake him up — just a little, so he would stir and grumble in discontent...

But a second later, the realization of the catastrophe dawned on her.

The sheet slipped off... And she saw... Everything.

Absolutely everything.

No underwear. No protection for her innocent eyes. There was only... Him.

In all his primal glory.

For a moment, silence hung in the room. In her head, it seemed a small apocalypse had occurred.

Her eyes widened so much they could probably be seen from the other end of campus. And then a scream erupted.

The shriek was so piercing that even the birds outside the window fluttered from the branches.

Leona, naturally, woke up. Instantly.

"W-what's wrong?!" he mumbled sleepily, sitting up abruptly and instinctively pulling the sheet back over himself. He hadn't fully grasped what was happening when the nearest heavy object — his own pillow — flew in his direction.

"Idiot! Pervert! Lecherous degenerate!" she yelled, showering him with accusations and gesturing furiously, as if exorcising an evil spirit.

"Hey, take it easy, I was sleeping!" he protested, dodging the pillow and the slipper that followed. "This is my room, after all! What did you expect to see? A prince on a white horse in armored briefs?!"

"I expected at least basic civility! At least some underwear, Leona!!"

Her face was burning with anger, and not only her cheeks were red — even her ears were glowing crimson.

And the worst part — she involuntarily assessed.

Oh yes, she assessed. The size.

And — damn the Great Seven — the size was very, very... impressive.

Not that she was staring on purpose! No! She was an innocent girl! She just had excellent eyesight... And it was almost like — a punch to the gut!

"Uh..." Leona drawled, finally realizing what the matter was. A bruise was already forming on his head from the flying slipper.

"Don't look at me like that!" she shrieked, covering her face with her hands as if that could erase what she had seen from her memory. "It's just inhumane!"

Leona, instead of apologizing as he should, merely snorted, clearly enjoying the situation:

"Hmm. So, impressed, were we?"

"NO, I WAS NOT!" she yelled, but her crimson face said otherwise.

He slowly stretched, rubbing his bruised head, and smirked lazily:

"Well, since that's the case... maybe you should now compensate for the moral damage? Hug a lion, for example?"

"ARE YOU COMPLETELY OUT OF YOUR MIND?!"

"...Or maybe take another look?" he continued casually, stretching in a way that the sheet once again slid treacherously off his hip.

The second scream was even louder than the first.

"I'LL KILL YOU!!!" she roared, bolting out of the room.

Leona collapsed back onto the bed, laughing and burying his face in the pillow. His shoulders shook with laughter, his tail lazily swished across the bed, and mischievous sparks danced in his eyes.

"Ha-ha-ha!" he chuckled to himself. "Well, at least now she knows what kind of lion she got."

And honestly, he wouldn't trade her reaction for even the most well-behaved lady in the kingdom.

[maladaptive-daydreamer-23]

Somethin’ Stupid

A/N: Ahhhh this one hit me like a sack of bricks and I just had to put it in words! It wasn’t thoroughly proof read but I do not care! I was too excited to post it! I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it!

Love, Mal <3

Summary: While making up with Aaron after a fight, you almost say something you can’t take back. He’s determine to coax it out of you, his tactics are… interesting.

Warnings: This is probably the fluffiest fluff I’ve ever written. If you don’t like tickling this is probably not for you. Swearing, an argument, sexual tension. Unspecified age gap

Tags: Fluffy af, emotional hurt/comfort, established(ish) relationship

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader

Word count: 3,565

Masterlist

AO3 link here

The chaos in the conference room of the local station had risen to near deafening decibels and it was only devolving. No one seemed to be capable of coming to a compromise, everyone had their own opinion of how the coming raid should be planned out, and none of the locals were listening to the team. Even amongst yourselves, you were divided.

You and Aaron were divided.

That almost never happened. Unfortunately, today it was happening. He was wrong, you were sure of it. He, Spencer, and JJ thought the best way would be to go in peacefully and talk the unsubs down. That didn’t match the profile. The profile that you all made and agreed on together. That profile says that the unsubs would not allow themselves to be taken alive, that they would go out in a blaze of glory, suicide by cop if they’re caught. You didn’t know how Aaron wasn't seeing that. You, Morgan and Prentiss had all been trying to make the case that you needed to go in hot and heavy, full tactical gear and at least a full S.W.A.T. squad as back up. Catch them off guard, by total surprise and make sure they did not have time to react.

Rossi, the poor guy, was playing the peacemaker.

“Let’s all just settle down…” You could hear his soft voice just barely through the racket. It wasn’t going well for him. No one else was paying him any mind.

You could feel Aaron’s gaze on the side of your face, even as he continued to argue his point to Morgan and the chief of police. You ignored him. In fact you’d started retreating from the room entirely.

He raised his voice at you, spoke to you as though you were a child. Not his… well… you didn’t really know what you were, but even when you were just his subordinate he had never spoken to you like he had a moment ago.

In front of everyone. You’d been humiliated.

Tensions had been high, to be fair, and he had immediately realized he’d hurt you. You could see the regret and repentance on his face, but that was just not good enough right now. You hadn’t meant to undermine him, you really hadn’t and you knew he knew that.

“Would you just give it a second thought Aaron?!” You had asked frustratedly, then pled your case. “If we give them half a second to react they’re gonna open fire and then everyone will be in danger! Especially the victim they still have!”

Looking back on it… You had called him Aaron, which to the police department probably seemed like disrespect. Not to mention that you had been standing toe to toe with him, and your voice had been slightly elevated as well. In your defense you hadn’t been shouting at him, more like speaking loudly in his direction, but it was only so he could hear you over the cacophony of voices that were also all raised well above indoor voices.

But Aaron had practically barked your name. You had been stunned into silence, and the rest of the room had fallen into a brief and awkward silence as he said, “Stand down, now. I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job, I’ve been doing it just fine for longer than you’ve been an agent.”

It felt like he’d sucker punched you, right in the gut. You’d seen the regret—the apology—flooding his eyes, he hadn’t meant it. But your pride was already injured. You hadn’t said another word since, making yourself as small as possible and fading into the background.

You were good at that, being a wallflower, being unseen and unheard.

It was just part of life for you. Until you met Aaron. He had never made you feel small, or insignificant. Not until just now. So you needed a minute to recover and cope, you had drifted slowly to the back of the room and decided to slip out as soon as you could without being noticed. As soon as he freaking looked away from you anyway.

He knew it too. Which was why he was keeping his eyes firmly on you, practically begging you to look at him. But you were going to cry if you did that, so you kept your eyes firmly on the wall opposite you. You’d know if he looked away, his gaze was burning into your skull with an intensity that was making the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Someone whistled, LOUDLY.

“Alright! Knock it off! You’re all acting like a bunch of children, not highly trained professionals.” The Police Chief scolded the entire room, crossing his arms and scowling so grimly it almost gave Aaron’s signature scowl a run for its money.

Aaron’s shoulder dropped briefly as he took a deep breath and addressed the room.

“Okay, let's take a five minute break, cool our heads and come back.” He instructed, and you took that as the perfect opportunity to escape as the crowd began to move. But he was one step ahead of you and called out your name loudly enough that every eye was on you again. “Stay behind for a minute, I need a word.”

You cringed, bringing your shoulders up nearly to your ears as you stopped in your tracks. You had already made it to the door, so you had to turn around and face everyone as you stepped aside and let them all out. Your team gave you sympathetic glances as they exited, thinking you were either in trouble or there was about to be a fight of epic proportions.

They knew there was something between you and Aaron, there was no such thing as a secret in the BAU. You were profilers, you spent nearly every waking moment together for weeks at a time, there was no hiding anything and everything always came to light. So you had never tried to hide it, neither of you had come right out and announced it either but you hadn’t needed to. They often witnessed soft spoken words, gentle touches, sweet smiles and flirtatious banter between the two of you. They were surprised at first, but they really didn’t question it. Now though, you were wishing they didn’t know. Because they’re sympathetic glances held a little more concern than this warranted.

You could hear them, just outside the door, as you waited for the rest of the officers to exit so you could close the aforementioned door. (No need to air your grievances in front of the entire station. You’d had enough embarrassment for one day, thank you.)

“Uh oh, I think Mom and Dad are about to fight.” Morgan joked.

JJ and Rossi groaned, while Reid and Prentiss snickered quietly.

“It doesn’t feel correct to refer to her as ‘Mom’ in this family dynamic.” Reid said matter of factly. “We’re all older than her.”

“Well what should I have said, Pretty Boy?” Morgan asks, and you can feel the joke coming. “Referring to her as the ‘baby sister' makes things really weird, really fast if we consider Hotch the group Dad. ‘Controversially Young Stepmom’ is closer to the truth, but that makes her sound like his midlife crisis, and we know that’s not true. He loves her.”

Woah…

They think he loves you?

Neither of you have ever said the L-word. You didn’t even really know what you were to him. He’d never called you his girlfriend, he never said that you weren’t either. So you just went with ‘partner’ if asked and let people decipher the meaning of the word for themselves.

Aaron cleared his throat and your eyes snapped to his realizing you’d been staring into space as you listened in on your teammates discuss the nature of your relationship with their leader. He smiled softly, apologetically, but you didn’t return it. Not yet.

Your cheeks were burning as you turned to close the door, keeping your back to him a second longer than necessary. Regaining a little composure now that there weren’t any prying eyes on you but his, you took a deep breath before turning to meet his gaze.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” You said, with a little more attitude than you ever would have used in front of other people. To be completely honest, the ‘sir’ was petty, but you were unapologetically mad right now. The blow landed as intended, making him wince and take a barely perceptible step back.

“I deserved that…” He murmured, his eyes so full of regret and remorse it was becoming difficult to stay mad. He knew he had made a mistake and he was truly sorry. You weren’t done nursing the grudge yet though… it may have been a maturity issue, but you didn’t care at that moment. He rounded the table and came toward you, you took a step back, turning away from him slightly. The thing about you both being profilers, is that you could often communicate your emotions with body language alone. Which is why he knew that you weren’t as angry at him as you made out.

Your back was slightly to him, yes, but your chin was tilted in a way that exposed your throat and also allowed you to hear him approaching. You were willing to be vulnerable, to hear him out and make amends. Your arms were crossed, but they weren’t tightly clutched to your body, they were loose. Your shoulders relaxed and your stance relatively open and comfortable. You were playing hard to get, and Aaron was well aware.

His hands squeezed your upper arms gently and you didn’t flinch away, you leaned into his hands. He didn’t further the touch, not yet, he wanted your uncoerced forgiveness first. He just felt the need to be connected.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said it, and it isn’t true. Your opinions are always welcome and I value each one. I’m very sorry.” He said, his tone clear and even, completely sincere.

“Are you sure?” You asked, not ready to forgive just yet, he had embarrassed you. “You seemed pretty serious when you ordered me to ‘stand down’ and pointed out how young and inexperienced I am compared to you… in front of everyone.”

You felt him flinch slightly and then felt slightly guilty, but only slightly.

“I don’t have any excuses, I am so sorry that I embarrassed you–”

“Humiliated me.” You cut in.

“Humiliated you.” He admitted softly, and his voice cracked quietly. Was he? No…

You turned in his arms and faced him, shocked to find his eyes brimmed with tears.

“Aaron?” You whispered quietly.

“I- I didn’t mean to make you feel…” He takes a deep shuddering breath, glancing away for a moment and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “I didn’t mean to make you feel small or young or inconsequential. I know that I did, I saw it all over your face when I said it, and that kills me. I know how hard you had to fight and what you had to overcome to get here, and I never intended to treat you that way, I said it in frustration. I wasn’t even frustrated at you, I just happened to be speaking to you when it boiled over. I’m sorry baby, I was wrong and I need you to know that I think the world of you! You amaze me.”

Now you were nearly crying.

You reached up and wiped his tears away with your thumbs and kissed him gently, pouring every ounce of forgiveness you could muster into him with your lips. You felt his body relax into yours, the tension fleeing like a rebuked demon. You let your body meld with his and his arms came around your waist as he kissed you back.

“I forgive you.” You murmured against his lips, just in case that wasn’t clear.

“Thank you…” He murmured back, deepening the kiss a little further and then pulling away to look at you. “I don’t deserve it, but I’ll accept it anyway because I don’t think I could bear to go into that raid without it. Without knowing that you and I are okay.”

“We’re okay.” You reassured him, then felt a little guilty yourself. “I– I didn’t mean to be disrespectful or to undermine you. Your name slipped out, I’m too used to saying it and I was frustrated as well. But I’m sorry, I should have been more tactful. It won’t happen again, if I have a concern about your decisions I’ll address it privately.”

He smiled at you, his eyes kind and full of… something similar to what was going on in your heart right now.

“Sweetheart, you can address your concerns whenever and wherever you please. My ego is not too fragile to handle that. In fact, I welcome it. I want to know if an order I’m giving makes you or the others feel like you’re not safe. It’s my job to protect you, especially you.” He caressed your cheek with his thumb as he cupped your head in his hands. “Truthfully, I didn’t even process what you said to me, I was too on edge. Could you tell me what has you concerned? I want to hear you out.”

You were absolutely sure that your pupils had shifted into big red hearts.

“God, Aaron. I lo–” You caught yourself, just barely, and bit your lip to stop the words from spilling out.

You couldn’t say that. No matter how true it was. Not when this whole thing was so… confusing? The lines were all blurred and you didn’t even know what this was.

Unfortunately, the pause and the panic in your eyes was telling enough. He was having a very hard time keeping a straight face. His lips twitching in open rebellion.

“You what?” He asked softly, but you could tell he knew exactly what you had almost blurted out with so much breathy adoration that you wished the earth would open up and swallow you whole.

You shook your head and retreated a few steps.

“Nothing.” You said, too quickly, looking away from him to hide your embarrassment. “It’s not important.”

You hear him take a step toward.

“I beg to differ.” He murmured, pure elation in his voice. “I’m gonna need you to finish that sentence, Honey.”

You retreated another step, scrambling for anything to save you from having to admit what you almost said.

“I was only going to say that I love how… emotionally mature you are???” You cringed, and he was not at all convinced, chuckling softly at your fib.

“Well, first of all, I ought to be, I’m entirely too old for you. Second of all, that is not what you were going to say. It was close, but I think it was gonna be a little shorter than that.” He said smugly as he kept coming closer to you and you kept backing away.

“Umm, no you aren’t.” You scowled at him, sticking your arm out behind you to make sure you didn’t run into anything. Slowly making your way around the table. “And yes it was, you’re not a mind reader, just a profiler and even that can’t tell you exactly what I was thinking.”

He chuckles again, his eyes practically sparkling with amusement.

“Then why did you stop yourself from saying it? That was nothing I didn’t already know you thought, you’ve told that before. That you appreciate how I have more emotional maturity than guys you’ve been with in the past. So why not just say it?” He pushes, continuing his slow advance toward you.

“I- I- I just realized that I had said it before and it was a silly thing to say in this situation. That’s all.” You stuttered, then tripped over someone's bag that had gotten left behind.

He reached out to steady you but you recovered too quickly and darted back, knowing if he got his hands on you, he would coax the truth out of you. One way or another.

“You’re a terrible liar Sweetheart, don’t ever play poker. Especially not with Rossi.” He’s grinning ear to ear now and it almost makes you want to just blurt it out, but you’ve made too big of a show of lying to give in now. “Just tell me what you were going to say. I already know, I just want to hear it.”

You shrugged, shaking your head as you made it to the middle of the other side of the long conference table. All fifteen feet of it between you and the door that you were so desperate to escape through. “I don’t know what you want to hear, Aaron. I already told you what I was going to say.”

He shakes his head and sighs, but the grin is still there.

“Fine.” He tuts. “I guess I’ll just have to get it out of you the hard way.”

You saw his body stiffen just before he lunged for you, and you had just a split second to launch yourself off a pulled out chair and onto the table. You took two steps and used the back of a chair to vault yourself off of the table and toward the door.

You almost made it too.

Almost.

Somehow, somehow, Aaron’s arm caught you around the waist just as your fingertips skimmed the doorknob. He used your own momentum to press your chest against the door and pin you to it with his hips and shoulders.

“Goddamn! You are ridiculously fucking fast for a man your age!” You cursed, breathlessly panting from the sudden burst of exertion.

He laughed, his fingers skimming your waist lightly. Oh fuck, not this…

“You are terribly slow for a woman your age.” He teased, his voice rough as he murmured in your ear. “Now, tell me what you were actually going to say, Darling, or I’ll have to get creative.”

You squirmed a little, trying to get free. It was hopeless, he was much much stronger than you and he wasn’t even holding you tightly enough to cause any discomfort.

“I already told you!” You whined.

He clicked his tongue.

“Alright, you had your chance.” He warned cryptically, and then his hands were everywhere, squeezing and pinching and lightly brushing over you until he found exactly what he was looking for.

You let out a squeal of laughter when he found your tickle spot. There were several, but this one, this one was the WORST. You couldn’t stop laughing and he just doubled down.

“Aaron, please!” You squealed. “We can talk about this, like adults!”

He only tickled you more fervently.

“I tried to talk, you left me no choice.” He disagreed. “Tell me what I want to hear and I’ll stop.”

You knew Aaron well enough to know that if you said you were uncomfortable, he would stop immediately. But you weren’t uncomfortable and you wanted to see how this would play out.

“No.” You gasped, another peal of giggles ringing out as he tickled faster. “Aaron!”

“It’s just three little words, honey. That’s all it takes…” He taunted as you wriggled and squirmed like a worm on a hook.

“Aaron please! I cannot breathe!” You panted through your laughter, tears running down your face.

“I dunno, you sure are making a lot of noise for someone who can’t breathe…” He joked, his amusement blatantly clear in his voice.

You gasped, your stomach was tight, your lungs were burning deliciously, you were wildly turned on and that honestly did concern you a little bit.

“I’m literally gonna pee my pants!” You pleaded, laughing so hard that you actually feared that to be true.

“Uh oh, better say those words fast then…” He said, determined not to relent until you gave it up.

You had began to squeak now, you were gasping for breath so hard and you were terrified that you were going to snort if he didn’t stop.

“Aaron!”

“Yes?”

Smug son of a bitch.

“I love you…” You mumbled.

He stumbled briefly, but then redoubled his efforts.

“What was that?” He teased. “I couldn’t hear you. Someone is laughing too loudly. I wonder who that could be?”

“Aaron…” You groaned, and he chuckled, not stopping for a second making you cackle and you were certain the entire station could hear you. “Fine, I said: I love you.”

“A little louder, Honey? You know I’m hard of hearing…” You could feel the smile on his lips against your neck and you knew damn well that he heard you the first two times.

“You insufferable, stubborn, fucking gorgeous old man, I said: I LOVE YOU!!!!” You shouted as loud as your oxygen deprived lungs would allow.

“Finally!” He murmured, as he flipped you around, pressing your back to the door as he crushed his lips against yours in a searing kiss.

Five very familiar voices began cheering just outside the door and you knew they’d been listening the entire time.

But you did not care.

Not as Aaron pulled away from you, just enough that he could look into your eyes.

“I love you too, Sweetheart.” He declared and the fire in his eyes let you know that he meant it.

[lvrrgirlll]

Dublin in ecstasy // wanted to write something silly for st patrick’s day so here’s this (two days late...)

paring: artrick x fem!reader

word count: 3.5k

warnings: oral m and f receiving, spitroasting, drunk sex, hastily proofread lol

a/n: this is highkey all over the place so keep in mind i am NOT claiming this to be my best work by any means lol... just something silly for the holiday (I say that and then I somehow ended up writing 3.5k words but that's besides the point)

The circumstances couldn’t have been more perfect. Art had decided to do a semester abroad in Ireland while Patrick conveniently was playing tournament in Dublin. And better yet, it all lined up over St. Patrick’s Day.

“C’mon man, it’s my fucking day after all,” Patrick insisted as he stretched out his arms as if basking in his own glory. The two men were holed up in Art’s dorm, a single, of course, since the Europeans always seemed to have more class when it came to university living situations.

“You’re playing the day after tomorrow and I’ve got a mountain of assignments I’m behind on. We’re not getting drunk tonight,” Art retorted quickly, shooting Patrick a stern glance. This hard front, though, swiftly melted when Patrick brought his hands to Art’s shoulders, leaning down so he was at eye level as Art sat at his desk.

“You don’t wanna help me celebrate my day?” He gave him a puppy dog stare, really trying to break down his best friend’s cool exterior. And he knew deep down that Art could be like putty in his hands if he played his cards right. Art’s eyes scanned Patrick’s dramatized expression, leaving him sighing in resignation.

“Fine,” Art groaned, rolling his eyes. “Can we just take it easy though?”

“Yeah man, sure. Whatever you want.”

Art should’ve trusted his gut when he had even an inkling that they wouldn’t be taking it easy. It was St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin for fucks sake. Patrick had outfitted them both with hastily made (sharpied on) “kiss me I’m Irish” shirts much to Art’s protest.

“It’s gonna be a let down when girls see me in this shirt and then hear my American accent,” Art huffs, tugging at the ends of the shirt.

“Nah man, it’s a conversation starter. You just have to be a conversation continuer. Plus, it’s straightforward. It’s a holiday. Girls will kiss you if your shirt says so.” Patrick seemed very confident about that.

“I’m like one-sixteenth Irish man, this feels like false advertising.”

“Forget about it, it’s not like I’m Darby O’Gill or anything, it’s just a t-shirt.”

Art sighed yet again, feeling more and more like this was a bad idea. His mind changed, however, when he and Patrick saw you from across the pub.

They’d been there for about an hour now, standing off to the side, pints of Guinness in hand, trying to feel out what kind of night it’d be. Of course, Patrick was eyeing nearly every girl in the place, most of them with their strong Irish boyfriends, though, but he wasn’t really interested until he noticed you.

You were notably without a boyfriend, currently arguing with the bartender about the pour on your Guinness. Both Art and Patrick were awestruck. The way you were so passionate was admirable, and it definitely helped that, to the both of them, you were the most beautiful girl in the place.

“I’ll be back, don’t wait up too long,” Patrick murmured, slipping away from Art and towards you.

Art stammered, trying to think of a way to stop Patrick, but Patrick just turned around, reminding him how he wanted to “take it easy” tonight. Damnit. Art was eating his own words.

“You seem like you know your beer,” Patrick mused, trying to seem nonchalant from behind you. You turned and he had to physically restrain himself from letting his jaw go slack. From a distance you were already something else, but up close, even a ladies man like Patrick would be flustered.

“Not really. I just know when they’ve screwed me giving me more air than actual drink,” you joked, taking the handsome stranger in as you turned around.

“I like a girl who knows what she wants.” It was excessively bold, but Patrick had already downed two pints, quickly going on three, and was feeling ballsy.

He watched as your eyes flitted down then, reading the messily written words on his shirt. You giggled. “Are you really Irish? You don’t have an accent,” you asked then, an eyebrow quirking up as you looked up at him.

“As Irish as you want me to be,” he chuckled before shaking his head. “No, really, I’m like 10% Irish. It hardly counts.”

A smirk flashed across your lips as you shot him a devious look through your lashes. “So I shouldn’t kiss you then?” That left him grasping for words, unsure where to take this. Of course, he wanted to kiss you. But his desperation (and slight drunkenness) was getting in the way of his sarcastic, charming banter.

Just in time, though, Art swooped in, much to Patrick’s dismay. “Hi, uh… I saw you from across the room, I just wanted to come say you’re, uh, really beautiful.” Smooth.

Patrick stifled a chuckle, giving Art a skeptical glance from behind you. Art’s eyes narrowed briefly as he glanced at Patrick, a subtle sign that the game was on, but you didn’t miss it.

“Do you two know each other?” You looked between the two of them, brows furrowing as you took a sip of your drink.

They had to give in, of course. The pair formally introduced themselves, gave you the whole spiel about how they go way back and they both play tennis, and Art was sure to mention that he was there for school (selfishly hoping that would impress you).

“So what are you doing in Ireland,” Art asked, ever the gentleman.

“I’ve taken a semester off of school to travel. I guess I’m sort of seeking new experiences; new opportunities, y’know.” You couldn’t help but notice that as you spoke both of them seemed to be hanging off of every word.

“New experiences, huh,” Patrick repeated, smirking before taking a heavy swig from his drink. He didn’t miss the wink you gave him from over the rim of his glass, but he decided to keep any more comments to himself for the time being.

Art kept the conversation going, mostly because he was drunk too at this point and he didn’t want you to leave. You talked for a while, the pub slowly getting more and more crowded (it was St. Patrick’s Day after all), until you were abruptly run into, causing you to spill your drink all over yourself.

“Fuck,” you cursed, the cold of the drink running down your body and soaking right through (and staining) your now see-through white shirt.

Neither Art nor Patrick knew exactly what to do, but Patrick ran to your rescue immediately, shouting at the guy who had run into you. Art had, more passively, made a break for the bathroom, getting paper towels. It was all no use, though. You were soaked; cold, wet, and uncomfortable. And it was looking like Patrick was on his way to a bar fight.

That’s how the three of you ended up stood outside the bar, you clutching your jacket around your body, Patrick pouting about getting you guys kicked out, and Art feeling sorry that he couldn’t help either of you more.

Patrick moved for his pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and holding it in your direction. Though you didn’t typically smoke, you took one. It had been a night. As Patrick held his lighter up to the end of the cigarette, you two exchanged glances, still lust filled despite the unsavory events that got you here.

All of you sat in silence, taking steady drags off the cigarettes until you laughed, a dry, sarcastic little laugh. “Y’know what’s great?” You looked in their direction. “I don’t even live around here. I came cause I’ve got some friends here, but they all ditched me for their boyfriends and now I’ve got to take the bus home like this,” you spoke frustratedly, looking down at your state. That’s when a sneaky little idea came to Patrick.

“Well, my hotel’s only a 5 minute walk from here. Come shower there, you can dry off and then you can take the bus back to wherever it is,” he nearly insisted. Art shot him a look that you couldn’t quite discern, but Patrick didn’t seem moved by it. “What do ‘ya say? It’s not a bad idea…” he gave you those same puppy dog eyes he had given Art before, and damnit, they really did work. Patrick Zweig could convince the Pope to convert if he wanted to.

“Sure. Yeah, ok, lead the way.” Obviously, you knew deep down that this would not just be some sort of act of convenience and kindness, but hey, you weren't really opposed to that.

On the walk over, Art huddled up close to Patrick, whispering endless questions and concerns. "Dude, what am I supposed to do? Walk of shame back to my place while you get to fuck her?" He snuck a glance back at you trying to make sure you hadn't heard him. Patrick slung an arm around him, though, pulling him in closer.

"Don't you worry, Artie," his tone was mocking, but still somehow reassuring. "Let St. Patrick handle it. I have a feeling both of us will be getting lucky tonight." Art rolled his eyes, absolutely sick of the holiday related talk, but he took it in stride, trusting his friend (against his better judgement). It's not like they hadn't talked about sharing girls before. Maybe it really was that Irish luck that had sent you their way.

Back at Patrick's hotel, which was much nicer than you had expected (it was on his parents' dime, after all), you made a break for the shower, dying to free yourself from the confines of your drenched shirt. While you showered, the guys were talking strategy.

"So if it turns out she is only into one of us, then what," Art asked from the armchair in the corner.

"Then one of us gets to fuck her, obviously. If it comes to it, I'd get out of here for you." Art shakes his head at Patrick's crude words. "But like I said earlier, I think we could both luck out tonight. I mean, she did say she was looking for new experiences after all..."

"Right," Art quipped sarcastically. Both of them in their drunkenness had failed to realize that the water had stopped running, though.

"Imagine the noises she'd make...fuck man. And the way she'd probably give you the best head of your life. You saw her lips, right?"

"Jesus, Patrick, you've gotta stop,” Art sighed, a light laugh escaping though.

"But I'm right, right?" A silence lingered between the two before Art looked to Patrick, a goofy smile painted across his features.

"Yeah. Yeah, you are. I wouldn't make her do that, though. I mean, she seems like she'd be more into receiving than giving anyways, y'know..." And Patrick nodded. He knew exactly what Art meant.

Just then, the bathroom door clicked, making the boys' heads snap back in your direction. Now in only Patrick's t-shirt, which he had promptly stripped off and offered you when you got to the hotel, you padded out of the bathroom.

“Shit, did you hear that,” Art asked, embarrassed. Clearly, he couldn’t have been that embarrassed though, his eyes raking down your bare legs hungrily. Patrick, similarly, took no discretion in ogling you, leaning back and smiling like a cat who got the cream.

“You look good in my shirt, babe.” The nickname was maybe a bit much, but then again, when was Patrick ever afraid of too much?

Taking a seat on the bed, you smiled, looking down at the shirt again, chuckling lightly to yourself.

“You’d look better with it off, though…” he mutters under his breath, loud enough so you could hear it.

One thing led to another and now you, Art, and Patrick were all on the bed, Art kissing your neck and along your jaw while Patrick had lifted up your shirt and was paying close attention to your tits. It was unfamiliar, feeling two sets of lips on you at once, but there was something so euphoric about it too.

“Have you guys done this before-,” a slight gasp escaped your lips, cutting you off. “Shared the same girl?” Art hummed a quick ‘no’ against your skin, but Patrick didn’t even move to speak, only shaking his head ‘no’ as he continued to mouth at your hard nipples.

Patrick pulled away, taking a second to watch the way his best friend sucked at your neck, sure to leave a spot. Call him a cuck, but he felt harder than he’d ever been.

Nestling in behind you, he pulled you in away from Art so you were leaning against his bare chest. He dragged his hands up your waist to your tits, massaging them while placing little kisses along your shoulders. “C’mere Art…” he beckoned. Patrick’s big hands reached down, spreading your legs and holding them open.

Art practically scrambled up to you, a hopeless look in his heavily lidded eyes. You’d lost your shirt long ago, now only in a pair of lacy (soaked) panties.

He pulled them to the side, running a finger through your folds. His fingers were cold causing you to inhale a sharp breath. “Fuck…” he sighed, looking over your shoulder at Patrick. “She’s perfect.” Art slipped your panties down your legs, you helping a bit to kick them off your ankles, and pocketed them, not missing Patrick’s look of impressed approval. He leaned down, then, his fingers returning to your slick heat. He prodded at your hole, pushing one, then two fingers in, the feeling of you tightening around him sending a rush to his cock. He pumped in and out at a rapid pace, making your chest heave and your eyes flutter shut.

He leaned in closer to you, tonguing at your clit, absolutely obsessed with the way you were moaning with your head settled back against Patrick’s shoulder. He licked thick stripes along your pussy, fingers so deep inside you that it was hard to keep your legs spread, squirming and whimpering like a mess. “Fuck, Art… t- too much. M’ gonna… fuck, gonna cum.” That only encouraged him, pressing his face into you with so much dedication. You could feel his nose rub against you as he tongued around your hole, still filled by his fingers. Your hands tangled in his hair while Patrick kissed your neck feverishly, still holding your legs open for Art.

When you came, it was ecstasy. You felt like you were melting into Patrick as you leaned back into him, hips bucking up against Art’s face. Your legs were shaking as Art pulled his fingers out, still sloppily licking into you.

“Okay man, don’t get greedy,” Patrick murmured, pushing Art’s head away boyishly and pulling you up to sit up a little more. You giggled, still a little blissed out but wanting more, wanting to impress them.

“Here,” you started, moving onto all fours. “Let me return the favor.” Art was now in front of you, hard as a rock, while Patrick was left behind you, staring at your glistening pussy. You arched your back a little, ass in the air as you looked back at Patrick. “Well don’t just stand there…”

Patrick found his place behind you, the sound of his zipper coming down music to your ears as you worked on ridding Art of his pants. When you looked up at him, he was blushing, and you couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol doing it to him or the situation at hand. He let out a shuttered breath when you slid his boxers down, his length slapping up against his stomach.

You bit you lip, eyeing his cock and noting the way his tip was pink and leaking precum. "Artie," you say, looking up at him doe eyed as if you weren't about to get spitroasted by two best friends.

"Y- yeah..." he replied, looking down at you pathetically, mouth hanging open as he waited for your reply.

"It's really pretty," you lilt before licking from the base to the tip. His eyes screw shut immediately and he makes a sound unlike any you'd heard before.

Patrick, clearly over the praise for Art, though, thrusts into you with no warning, bottoming out quickly and leaving you gasping for air. "Fuck, warn a girl next time..." you sigh as he stills, the feeling of being completely full overwhelming, but exciting.

"I'm so good I need a warning? I haven't even started moving, babe." Patrick speaks with a mocking tone, but you eat it up. Art, feeling left out then, reaches for your jaw, guiding your lips to his cock again. Everything he does, he does with a gentle, polite sort of touch, and you can admire that, especially when it's so starkly contrasted by Patrick.

When you finally take Art into your mouth, it's hard to miss the way his abs ripple while his cock twitches. You could tell he was long when you looked at it, but you realize just how long when his tip is forcing itself against your throat.

Unbeknownst to you, the two boys exchange looks, Patrick mouthing a '3...2....1' before they both started moving in tandem. Patrick's pace was quick and you could feel just how big he was by the stretch. Art, as if he wanted to outdo his friend, was now uncharacteristically bullying his cock down your throat. Though in true Art fashion, he combed a hand through your hair slowly, sweetly, as if he wasn't practically defiling you.

You couldn't help but gag, the sound only encouraging the two men. "She's so tight, man. You've gotta feel her pussy," Patrick huffed.

"You...were...right..." Art panted, lost in the feeling of your lips wrapped around him. "It's like she was made for this..." He almost felt guilty for being so crass... almost. But he was nothing if not easily influenced by his friend.

"Oh- she definitely liked that," Patrick slurs. "She's squeezing me so tight man -fuck." His hands were firmly holding your hips in place as the sound of skin slapping filled the room, his pace unrelenting.

And with each thrust from Patrick, you only pushed further down onto Art, now a drooling, gagging mess beneath him. You could hardly tell now, unable to focus in light of the mess being made of you, but Art kept a hand holding your jaw, caressing it even, as if to silently say 'good girl'.

Noticing your squirming, Patrick knew you were close. He reached a hand around to your clit, thumbing at it in swift circles and grunting like a mad man when you tightened around him. "Fuck, you like that baby? I know you're close... shit- I can feel it."

With Art still stuffing your mouth, all you could do was nod rapidly, pushing back onto Patrick now. Feeling him hit that spot over and over again, you lost yourself a bit, legs getting shaky as you moaned and whined around Art's cock. And then it snapped, that tight feeling in your stomach released as you came hard around Patrick's cock.

Patrick, reveling in the feeling, kept thrusting in and out, each thrust getting sloppier and more shallow. "Shit, don't worry babe," he breathed out heavily. "I'll -fuck- I'll pull out." But right as he moved to do so, you pulled off of Art abruptly, turning to face Patrick shaking your head. Your lips were swollen and glimmering as you shook your head desperately at Patrick.

"I'm on the pill," is all you said, turning back to Art then. You kissed at his tip before taking him back, deep down into your throat. When Patrick pushed back in, it was like the first time again. In pulling out for even a few seconds, he'd forgotten how good you felt, how tight and warm and wet you were.

And when Patrick's hips began to stutter, the feeling of him completely overstimulating you, he made sure to look Art right in the eyes. "Fuck," he gasped, staring right at his flushed, sweating friend as he came inside you, filling you up.

The image of Patrick, jaw slack and making eye contact, drove Art over the edge. Without any sort of warning, you could suddenly feel hot ropes of cum shooting down your throat. He pulled out a bit prematurely, some of his cum spurting onto your lips too, but you made sure to look up at him and lick it up like a champ.

"Holy shit..." he mumbled.

"Holy indeed..." Patrick hummed, pulling out and settling on the bed behind you.

Once you were cleaned up, the three of you nestled into bed, you drifting off in their arms quickly, completely spent from the night's activities. Before either boy could fall asleep, though, Patrick startled Art by ruffling a hand through his hair.

"What's that for," Art asked, bewildered.

"I told you St. Patrick would deliver."

[mapsthewanderer]

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Details: 500ish speed-written words of Caleb getting exactly what he wants for his birthday. We all saw the bulge. I’m sorry, but my brain went straight to feral town the moment I saw that—and apparently, the way I recover from the flu is by writing smut. Again. Jesus Christ. Anyway, this was the first fic idea that popped into the ol’ braincells, so… here it is. Meanwhile, my poor main series? Suffering. As always: This road leads nowhere holy. Turn back if you value the glory of innocence.

Features: nanana freaky Caleb, possessive Caleb, biting Caleb, dom Caleb, (unexpected) missionary Caleb, competitive Caleb, yang energy Caleb and absolutely zero self-restraint Caleb (thank fuq). 18+ porn and no plot. Fem!reader.

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Birthday boy | Caleb smut

You said you were going to leave—half-laughed it, standing barefoot in his living room with your heels in your hand. Caleb told you not to. Said it low, a little hoarse, with sugar on his tongue. One kiss turned hungry. Hungry turned horizontal. You ended up tangled on the floor, legs over his thighs, your dress hitched high and one shoe lost under the couch. Neither of you had gotten what you wanted. Not yet. But you were close—so close—and that was half the problem.

So you try to leave again—try to stand, to say something about getting home before midnight—but he pulls you back, voice low and wounded as he says, “Wow. So that’s it? You kiss me into another dimension and just leave me here? In the final minutes of my birthday?”

And before you can answer, he drags you over the cushions, flips you, and grinds you down into the couch like he’s trying to pin the entire night inside you. “Just stay a little longer,” he says simply. “We can be… quick.”

“You’re being a dummy,” you whisper, even as your hips rock up against him. He groans—already grinding back against you. “Yeah? Keep saying stuff like that, I’ll make it even quicker.”

Suit pants shoved low. Your dress barely pushed up. One strap off your shoulder, his hands under your thighs, pulling until both knees are over his shoulders. “Still technically my birthday. Wanna see what we can fit in before the clock runs out?” He mutters, voice low and full of teeth. You laugh, breathless— “Yes—but—Caleb, we’re dressed—”

“I know,” he breathes, kissing you, rough and greedy with a bite of lemon still on his lips. “That’s what makes it fun.” Caleb slides your panties aside and groans at how soaked you are—the reward of every teasing touch and drawn-out minute. Then he drives in so deep, your vision goes white. The couch screams under the strain of each movement. Caleb buries himself inside you like he’s staking a claim. Then he leans in, forehead against yours, sweat beading at his temple as he groans, “Fuck, happy birthday to me.”

Between thrusts, a slow, obscene lick drags across your ankle—followed by kisses and bites climbing your calf, each one blurring the line between penance and punishment.

“You were trying to leave me,” he pants, voice low and vengeful. “This is what you get.”

And you take it—shaking, couch cushions muffling your moans while he’s snapping his hips into you like midnight is something to beat. “You gonna come before the clock runs out?” he murmurs, voice dark. “Or am I gonna fuck you into the bonus minutes?”

You cry his name as you come—loud, broken, full—and he follows with a ragged grunt, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, deep and hot and messy. The pressure gives way to slick warmth flooding you, and with your back arched into the cushions and your dress bunched around your waist, there’s nowhere for it to go but down. Cum seeps out in slow, wet trickles—sliding between your legs, soaking into your dress, into the couch beneath you. He exhales like he’s been gutted, then slowly lowers your legs, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher, mouth hot and reverent on your thigh.

“11:59” he says hoarsely, mouth still on your skin. He smiles against you—smug, breathless, and completely insufferable.

“Nailed it.”

You laugh, trying to catch your breath, still pinned beneath him. “Birthday’s over.”

He hums, trailing kisses down your leg. “Maaybe. But I’m pretty sure it still counts if you come again in honor of my birthday. Like a grace period. An encore.”

You start to roll your eyes—until he thrusts again, hard enough to make you gasp. He grins, biting back a groan as your overstimulated body jolts beneath him.

“You said you’d stay over for my birthday. So stay.” A glance at the clock, a wicked little smirk. “Ten seconds—more than enough to make you mine again. And you’re gonna feel every one of them.”

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Art credit: Guiding Hazard Manhwa, Mao Hanru on X

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[avengxrz]

the golden boy becomes the fool ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part five]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 22.3k words (i am so sorry)

summary: jake seresin was the golden boy, then there was you, the fool. he had everything—charm, swagger, a future carved out in medals and glory. you were the quiet one, the weird one, the girl he used and tossed aside like a joke. years passed. ranks changed. you rose. he stayed the same, until suddenly he didn’t. thrown back together in the sky and on the ground, bitterness turned to tension, and tension lit a match neither of you were ready to put out. old wounds were reopened, truths finally spoken, and under texas stars, it wasn’t the fool who broke—it was the boy who begged. and now everyone’s asking the same thing: how the hell did the golden boy become the fool?

warnings: angst, unresolved tension, sexual tension, emotional monologues, past bullying, mutual pining, late-night realizations, texas farm setting, childhood trauma, muddy chaos, jake seresin being painfully in love, emotional breakdowns, slow burn, redemption arc, accidental co-showering, stubborn idiots in love, soft!jake, rogue being a baddie, found family feels, one (1) dog named bingo, and a swing set that saw everything. oh, and did we mention? angst.

notes: finally we are in the last part. to be honest, this was supposed to be just two parts and look where we are… part five. thank you so much for the love, for screaming with me in the tags, for the asks, for everything. i cried writing this. like actually. and oh, did i mention that we will have an epilogue? yeah. buckle up again, babe. it ain’t over just yet

part one , part two , part three , part four , epilogue

masterlist

your call sign is rogue.

- Jake - 

Somewhere between Rogue’s final words in the boardroom and the low hum of the air conditioning unit above, Jake started drifting. Not physically — no, his boots were still planted, his arms folded like always, that cocky lean still balanced just right. But in his mind? He was spiraling. Because now, now it was starting to dawn on him: this wasn’t about petty ranks, or her showing off, or the universe punishing him for being an asshole once upon a time. This was about how badly he’d fucked up, and how thoroughly she’d risen from it.

At first, he told himself she was bluffing. That she couldn’t possibly be that good. That maybe this was still the nerdy girl who lit up when he remembered her birthday and blushed when he asked if her puppy was still alive. Then she started talking tactics, commanding a room full of aviators and admirals like it was second nature. And it hit him like Gs to the chest — this was not some lucky rise. This was calculated, earned, forged in fire and fury. Meanwhile, he’d spent the years coasting on talent and charm, grinning his way out of reprimands and leaving his wingmen to hang when it counted.

Then came the real gut punch: the memory of her birthday. Not the part with the cake or the puppy. No — the look on her face when her parents smiled at him. The look that said this is the closest you’ll ever get to mattering to me. And he’d still walked away. Walked away like she was nothing but a sweet girl who wanted too much, too fast — when in reality, she was everything he could’ve hoped to become. And he humiliated her.

Back then, it was so easy. He made jokes at her expense because they made his friends laugh. He forgot her name on purpose just to watch her cover up the hurt with a smile. He told himself she wasn’t important — but only because he didn’t want to admit that she was. And now, here she was: outranking him, outflying him, outclassing him in every possible way. Meanwhile, he was sitting in a debriefing room, unusually silent, drawing side glances from Fanboy and Phoenix like he might be having a stroke.

Jake didn’t know when the silence stopped being peaceful and started feeling like drowning. The squad was talking around him now — soft jokes, nervous energy, half-assed optimism — but it all sounded far away. Because in his head, her voice echoed louder than the rest. The calm command of it. The sharp edges hidden beneath the steel. The way she said, “I was just warming up.” And he couldn’t stop wondering — how much of her command came from pain? How much had he put there?

And worst of all… if this was revenge?God help them all.

But what if it wasn’t? What if she never needed revenge — because she won?

And yet, part of him still clung to denial like it was his last parachute. Because if this wasn’t revenge, then it was worse. If this wasn’t personal — if she wasn’t targeting him — then he didn’t matter at all. That would mean she wasn’t even thinking about what he’d done. That she had risen without him in the picture. That he was just… collateral.

The truth burned more than he wanted to admit.

He’d always been the guy. The one everyone remembered. The one who smiled too wide, flew too fast, talked too much. The one who could get away with anything — until now. Until her. Rogue. The name echoed in his skull, rough and wild. He remembered the way she used to sit quietly, the way she’d light up at every crumb of attention he tossed her. How easy it was to take her for granted. Now, she didn’t flinch when he spoke. She didn’t chase. She didn’t even blink.

And yeah — fuck, maybe that’s what rattled him the most.

She was steady. Cold as steel. Calculated, poised, terrifying in her control. Meanwhile, he couldn’t get through a single day without watching her hands, waiting for a glance, parsing every word she said like it held some secret message just for him. But it never did. Not anymore.

He started wondering when the scales had tipped. Maybe it was during the dogfight — when she’d pulled that impossible maneuver, practically bent the laws of physics, and left him choking on altitude. Or maybe it was earlier. That moment in the hangar, when she looked at him like a stranger. That moment when her voice dropped to a whisper and she said, “You were trying to keep up. I was just warming up.”

God. She hadn’t just outgrown him, she’d left him in the dust.

And what stung wasn’t just the pride. It was the sudden awareness that everything she was — everything she’d become — had happened without him. She had built this legacy on the bones of what he broke, and now she wore it like armor. Commanded fleets. Designed the Gauntlet. Wore the Navy’s respect like it was stitched into her uniform. And he?

He was still trying to figure out how the hell he lost her before he ever even had her.

Meanwhile, the squad kept throwing him glances, poking him for reactions he didn’t give. Rooster said something, probably another crack about how hot she was. Jake didn’t even flinch. His mind was too far away, somewhere between regret and awe, caught in the eye of a storm that had her name written all over it.

He’d laughed at her once — humiliated her in front of friends. Told her she was just some PoliSci nerd who got lucky being around someone like him. Now he was the lucky one, just to breathe the same air. And the worst part? She didn’t seem angry. Didn’t seem wounded.

She seemed finished. Finished with him. Finished with the memory. Finished with needing anything from Jake Seresin. And that terrified him more than anything else in the world.

He didn’t hear when Payback called his name the first time. Barely registered it the second. It wasn’t until Phoenix threw a pen at his chest that he blinked, jolted back into the present like a man surfacing from deep water.

“Jesus, Seresin,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

He wanted to laugh. If only she knew.

Because truthfully, he had. She was flesh and blood, standing tall in that flight suit — but she was also a phantom of every stupid thing he’d ever said, every choice he couldn’t take back. And now she haunted him in the worst possible way: by thriving. By being better. By being so far above him it felt like a cosmic joke.

Jake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not without unraveling.

He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the debriefing screen even though nothing was playing. He didn’t know how to explain it — the way guilt had sunk in slow and mean, like a knife twisting over years. Back then, he’d thought she’d bounce back. Thought she’d grow out of it, forget about him, find someone more her speed. Not...turn into someone who made admirals hold their breath. Not outrank him. Not be the best goddamn pilot he’d ever gone up against.

He wasn’t used to losing. Not in the air. Not in life. But this? This wasn’t losing. This was a reckoning.

And what made it worse — what really clawed at the insides of him — was the realization that she wasn’t trying to make him feel it. She wasn’t looking at him with revenge in her eyes. She hadn’t dragged the squad through hell just to watch him squirm.

No. She was just doing her job. Brilliantly. Mercilessly. Like she was born to wear command on her shoulders. Like he’d never mattered at all.

And that was the twist of the knife.

Because if she had hated him, maybe he could’ve worked with that. Anger, he could handle. Fury, he could fight. But indifference? That kind of silence? It was the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

So he sat there, quiet. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. While the others whispered and stretched and griped about the Gauntlet, Jake was somewhere else. Lost in a memory of a birthday candle, a puppy named Bingo, and the girl who had once looked at him like he hung the stars — back when he barely even knew her name.

And now? Now the whole damn Navy knew hers.

Rogue. Hell of a call sign. Hell of a woman.

And hell, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he’d ever stop paying for the day he decided she wasn’t worth remembering. But where the hell did she go?

That sunshine girl — the one with messy notebooks and a smile that could power a damn jet engine — where did she vanish to?

Jake pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing the headache behind his brow to quiet down. His teammates were still talking, vague mutters about the next flight schedule, about fuel consumption ratios, about anything but her. But for him, there was nothing else.

Because when he looked at Rogue — Commander Rogue — he didn’t just see the sharp angles and medals and ruthless authority. He saw echoes. Shadows. Glimpses of someone who used to bake brownies for old folks and let him copy her social science notes just because he’d grinned at her once. God, she was so easy to please back then, wasn’t she? All it took was his attention — even if it came wrapped in mockery, even if it was half-hearted, even if it hurt.

And now?

Now she looked through him like he was just another report on her desk. Just another cocky pilot who needed to be broken down and rebuilt.

Jake stared at the faint scuff marks on his boots, letting the silence stretch.

Maybe that sunshine girl didn’t disappear. Maybe she’d been scorched to ash. Burned out by the very heat of his cruelty, until all that was left was steel. Maybe he’d looked at gold and called it dirt. Maybe he’d clipped her wings, thinking she’d never fly without him, and she turned around and soared so far above that now he was the one grounded.

He didn’t deserve her warmth. He never had. But damn it — he missed it.

He missed the way she used to tilt her head when she talked about theories he didn’t understand. He missed the way her voice cracked just a little when she got too excited, the way her eyes sparkled when she believed in something. And even if he’d never admitted it back then, he missed how she believed in him.

Jake hadn’t realized how dark his world had gotten until she walked back in — not with her sun, but with a storm.

She was lightning now. And maybe that made sense.

Because sunshine forgives.

Lightning remembers.

The debriefing room was thick with tension and silence, stale air and the kind of fatigue that only came from barely scraping through a day like Hell Day. The squad sat in various degrees of slouch and stretch, groaning and muttering like overworked soldiers in a trench. Jake hadn’t said a word since the last evaluation — not even when Fanboy elbowed him gently and whispered some sarcastic remark about being emotionally constipated. He just sat there, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded, thoughts swimming miles away from this room and the people in it.

Then the door opened.

He didn’t even look up at first — probably Hondo coming to collect one of them or Mav stepping in to remind them to hydrate. But the sound of boots, the tempo of those confident steps, pulled at something in Jake’s chest like a thread unraveling from old cloth. He lifted his head, just in time to catch a flash of black flight suits — Rogue, Ruin, and Jinx — walking past the debriefing room window. Their faces were unreadable, all business and command, and there was something in the set of Rogue’s shoulders that made Jake’s body move before his brain even caught up.

He shoved out of his chair with such force it squeaked across the tile. He didn’t excuse himself, didn’t check if he stepped on someone’s boot — and based on Payback’s startled grunt, he probably did. He nearly tripped on the step down from the raised platform but caught himself with a sharp curse under his breath. The squad stared, confused and half-concerned, as Jake threw open the door and bolted into the hallway.

“Commander Rogue!” he called out, voice cracking slightly with urgency.

The three of them stopped.

Rogue turned first, her expression unreadable, eyes sharp under the harsh fluorescent lights. Ruin raised a brow, exchanging a look with Jinx, who just crossed his arms and waited.

Jake jogged toward them, slowing only when he was close enough to speak without yelling. His breath came in fast, uneven pulls, and he hadn’t even thought about what to say. All he knew was that if he didn’t talk to her now, if he let her slip away one more time, he’d lose something he couldn’t name.

“Can we talk?” he asked, trying to sound composed, failing miserably.

Rogue didn’t answer right away. She glanced at her watch, then looked over her shoulder, clearly weighing something. “We have somewhere to be,” she said, her tone clipped but not cold — efficient.

“Please,” Jake added, and that word came out quieter, almost desperate. “Just five minutes.”

Ruin let out a low hum and tilted his head toward Jinx. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Jinx replied, already stepping back.

“We’ll give you the room,” Ruin said to Rogue, then cast Jake a warning glance — not threatening, but definitely cautious. Like he was letting Jake borrow something precious on the condition that he didn’t break it.

Once the two men turned away, Jake followed Rogue in silence as she led the way down the corridor, toward the temporary officer’s office the Big Three had been using since their arrival. Her strides were purposeful, heels of her boots clicking softly against the polished floor. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. And for the first time in his life, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he should.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, the kind that sounded louder when tension clung to the air. Rogue walked ahead, moving toward the desk at the far end of the room, her posture still poised and unreadable. Jake lingered just inside the doorway, blinking as he took it all in — the quiet space that somehow screamed the presence of three elite operators even in their absence.

It wasn’t a sterile office. It was lived in.

To his left, a small side table had three neatly stacked folders, the corners dog-eared from frequent flipping. One had a cracked navy emblem, the kind only handed out at high-clearance briefings. Above it hung a photo — an unfiltered snapshot of the Big Three: Rogue in the middle, standing tall between Ruin and Jinx. All three were in flight suits, helmets under their arms, the open sky behind them.

Their grins were wide, real, the kind captured between war and silence. Rogue had her sunglasses shoved into her hair, and the wind had caught her braid just enough to give it movement. Jake stared at it longer than he should’ve.

Near the couch — a beat-up leather one that sagged slightly on one side — were two hoodies tossed lazily over the armrest. One read “Death Before Dishonor” in cracked white letters. The other had Get Wrecked stitched in scarlet red on the chest, clearly Ruin’s sense of humor bleeding through.

On the coffee table sat an abandoned protein bar wrapper and an energy drink can with its tab popped but barely sipped. A flight helmet sat beside it — Rogue’s. Her call sign, ROGUE, stenciled across the side in thick matte letters, scuffed and worn at the edges.

Jake's eyes trailed along the shelves. No dust. Books on naval tactics, missile systems, aerospace combat strategy — well-used. A sticky note stuck out of one of them, the handwriting tiny and precise. He couldn’t read what it said from here.

And pinned to the board by the desk was another photo. It wasn’t labeled, but Jake recognized the location — somewhere in the Middle East, by the look of the sand and the sky. The three of them again, this time wearing gear heavier than regulation. Bulletproof vests. Goggles pushed to their heads. War paint smudged and smeared with sweat. Rogue stood at the front, chin lifted. The leader. Always had been, hadn’t she?

Jake swallowed hard. This wasn’t some office thrown together for convenience. This was their ground. Their turf. It was built off years of flying, of bleeding, of trusting each other with their lives over and over again. He was just a guest here. A trespasser with a fractured past and guilt-riddled shoes.

She didn’t tell him to sit. She didn’t offer him water or some smooth way to start the conversation. She simply turned, leaned back against the desk, crossed her arms, and looked at him with unreadable eyes — the same way she had that night she’d left him speechless on the hangar floor.

“Talk,” she said, not cruelly. Not kindly either.

Jake stared back, hands clenching at his sides. God, where the hell did he even begin?

Jake hesitated, the words stalling at the back of his throat like they were jammed behind the pressure of years unspoken. Rogue didn’t blink. Her gaze was a scalpel, sharp and still, dissecting him before he even opened his mouth. She didn’t need to raise her voice — her silence already screamed volumes.

“I just…” He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and shifted on his feet like a guilty schoolboy caught cheating on a test. “If this is about what happened back then—”

“It’s not,” she cut in, calmly. Coldly.

Her voice was even, professional, clipped in the way only officers who’ve given too many post-op debriefings know how to deliver. She didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t soften. She simply corrected him like he was misreading a report.

Jake’s jaw twitched. “It’s not?”

“No.” She stood upright now, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer — but not intimately. She didn’t let him forget where they stood. “You think this is some kind of personal vendetta, Seresin? That I clawed my way through the ranks, designed an entire Navy-certified evaluation gauntlet, and got assigned command on a strategic permanent squadron initiative just to settle an old score?”

He opened his mouth — a reflex — but couldn’t say a damn thing.

She didn’t wait.

“I am here because I earned it. Because I bled for it. Because I sat through mission after mission where people didn’t come back, and I made sure the next ones did. That’s why Warlock signed off. That’s why Cyclone listened. That’s why Maverick respected my word when I said I’d take the lead.”

Jake swallowed, shoulders tensing. “I’m not saying you didn’t—”

“But you are.” She narrowed her eyes. “By assuming this is about you, you’re reducing years of work, risk, loss, and leadership into a high school grudge. You’re disrespecting me. You’re disrespecting Jinx. Ruin. Every damn WSO and pilot who built this alongside me.”

The words hit like thunder — quiet, steady, but impossible to ignore. Jake felt himself shrinking under the weight of them.

“And just so we’re clear,” she went on, voice lowering, more controlled now — like a storm sharpening to a blade, “even if I wanted revenge, I would never risk my integrity, my crew, or my career for it. Unlike you, I don’t use people as stepping stones when I’m running scared.”

Jake flinched. It was subtle, but Rogue caught it. She always caught everything.

“I’m not here to ruin Maverick. Or the Dagger Squad. I fought for them. I reviewed every file, every hour of flight data. You think you’re the only one who cared if they stayed? If this squadron was approved, I fought for it harder than any of you realize.” Her voice cracked slightly — not with emotion, but with restrained fury. “You don't know how many times I had to defend this program. And not once — not once — did I use you as my reason for being here.”

Jake finally found his voice, quiet and thin. “Then why did you say yes to this talk?”

“Because Jinx and Ruin would have called you a coward for running after me in the hallway,” she said, dryly. “And because part of me hoped… maybe you’ve changed.”

She looked at him — really looked — and something unreadable passed through her expression, too fast to name.

But then it was gone, and she stepped back behind the desk.

“You’ve had your say, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

“No,” Jake said, louder this time — steadier. “I’m not leaving.”

Rogue’s hand froze halfway toward a folder on her desk, her fingers curling slowly as if resisting the urge to throw it at his head. Her brows lifted, that calm mask cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of disbelief — or maybe it was disgust.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not leaving,” Jake repeated, jaw tight, eyes fixed on hers. “Not until we settle this.”

“What exactly do you think there is to settle?” she snapped, voice sharp now — the edge of command laced with a storm of personal fury she had long tried to bury under layers of discipline. “You think this is unfinished business? That I owe you some kind of closure? After what you did?”

Jake blinked. “We never talked. Not really. I—I didn’t know what you were going through—”

“And you never asked!” she cut him off, stepping out from behind the desk so fast the chair rolled back with a soft groan of its wheels. “You never once asked me what was happening. Not when you humiliated me in front of your friends. Not when I handed you your damn project so you wouldn’t fail your class. Not when you let people mock me like I was some punchline.”

Her voice trembled on that last word — not from weakness, but from years of venom held tightly in the back of her throat. Jake took a step back, stunned, like he hadn’t expected her to still be carrying all of it. As if his sins were something time alone could wash away.

“You really think I’ve been up at night plotting revenge on you?” she laughed bitterly. “Jake, I forgot you for years. Or tried to. I erased you because it hurt too much to remember what it felt like to believe someone saw me… and then watch them toss me aside like I was nothing.”

“I never meant to—”

“You did mean to.” Her voice dropped. “You wanted your friends to laugh. You wanted to feel cool. And I was just… collateral.”

Jake’s mouth parted. The words he’d rehearsed, the apologies he’d thought might help, all died in his throat. Because she was right. And now, standing in front of her — not sunshine anymore, not soft and sweet, but steel and thunder in a commander's uniform — he realized that even if she forgave him, he’d never stop being ashamed of who he’d been.

But shame didn’t stop his anger from flaring. “Then why the hell did you fight for us to stay, huh? Why go through all this if you don’t even give a damn anymore?”

“Because I do give a damn,” she hissed. “Just not about you. This isn’t about your guilt, or your closure, or your redemption arc. I fought for Maverick because he deserves better. I fought for that squad because they have potential, even if they’re reckless idiots. I didn’t do this to prove something to you—I did it because it’s my job.”

She stepped closer, her voice low now, seething. “So don’t you dare stand here and twist my work into some schoolyard drama you never outgrew.”

Jake stared at her — lips parted, breath heavy, like he was about to say something else.

But Rogue just looked at him like he was a memory she’d already burned once.

Then, flatly: “Are we done?”

Jake didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, like the words were caught somewhere between pride and regret, tangled in barbed wire he didn’t know how to pull free without bleeding for it. Then he exhaled, sharp and quiet, and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“No,” he said finally, voice rough. “We’re not done. Not until I say what I came here to say.”

Rogue gave him a look—dry, sharp, dangerous. But she didn’t speak. She folded her arms and waited, a soldier in command, daring him to step wrong.

Jake let out a shaky laugh, eyes not quite meeting hers. “You think I don’t know I was a dick back then? Because I do. I know it every time someone looks at me like I’m some goddamn hero, and all I can think about is the girl who smiled at me like I was worth something—and how I spat on that.”

He stepped closer, the weight of his boots heavy on the office floor. “I was stupid. I was selfish. I thought you were just this weird, sweet, nerdy girl who’d get over it. But you didn’t. And I didn’t. And now you’re standing here in a uniform that outranks mine, giving orders, saving asses—including mine—and all I can think is, damn. I deserve this.”

He paused, chest heaving.

“But I don’t want them to pay for it. Not the squad. Not Mav. They didn’t screw up—you didn’t screw them over. I did. And if this whole thing is about revenge, if it’s some twisted full-circle karma, then fine. I’ll take it. I’ll walk away. Hell, I’ll quit the damn Navy if that’s what you want.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. Like a man who finally saw the ruin he left behind and realized too late it had bloomed into something unstoppable.

“But don’t punish the rest of them because I was an asshole.”

There it was—Jake Seresin, laid bare. Not smirking. Not cocky. Just raw and scared and desperate to fix a wound he never thought would still be bleeding.

Rogue didn’t flinch. Not once. She stood there, spine like steel beneath her flight suit, arms still folded like she was holding herself back from hurling something—maybe the truth, maybe a fist.

“Oh, so now you want to fix it?” Her voice was low, razor-sharp. “Now that your cushy little ego is bruised, you suddenly care about consequences? Jake, you weren’t just an asshole. You made me the punchline. You played with someone who would’ve walked into fire for you.”

Jake opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a hand, like a blade. “You humiliated me, in front of your friends. In front of myself. You knew how I looked at you. You let me do your work. You let me believe you cared.”

She was breathing harder now, eyes burning—not just with anger, but betrayal, exhaustion, something bone-deep and old. “And now, what, you want a neat little bow on it? A ‘sorry’? A ‘let’s not ruin this for everyone else’? I have news for you, Lieutenant—this is my job. I don’t play god. I don’t hold grudges over people’s careers. That’s you. That was always you.”

Jake flinched at that—visibly, quietly. But she didn’t stop.

“I didn’t design the Gauntlet for revenge. I did it because I’ve nearly died out there. Because I've watched people burn up in the sky because someone wasn’t ready, someone wasn’t honest, someone thought charm was a substitute for leadership. So don’t you dare stand here and ask me to go easy on a team that still flies like cowboys with something to prove.”

Then, softer—but only slightly, and somehow more terrifying for it—she said, “This isn’t about you anymore.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “It was never about me, huh? Then why are you still this angry?”

Her silence was immediate and blistering.

When she did speak, her voice was calm. “Because I expected better. Because once upon a time, I thought you were going to be great. And now all I see is someone still trying to crawl out of the wreckage he made.”

Jake stared at her, speechless.

And then—

“I’m not doing this,” she muttered, pushing off the desk and heading for the door. “You want to talk like adults, you know where to find me. But this pity parade? This guilt-fueled performance?” She shook her head. “Spare me.”

She reached the door, hand on the handle.

“Wait.”

His voice cracked. Not loud, not sharp—just hoarse and human. And that alone made her pause. Just for a breath.

Jake crossed the space between them in two strides. Not to block the door, not to touch her—he didn’t dare—but just enough to make her stop. Just enough to say it.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Not like she was surprised. More like she was exhausted. Like she’d waited years to hear those words and now that they were finally spoken, they rang hollow in the air.

Rogue turned, slow and deliberate. Her eyes swept over him, scanning for the trick, the loophole, the out. Because Jake Seresin never just said sorry. Not without a catch. Not without a punchline.

And yet—there it was. No grin. No wink. Just a man who looked like he’d finally run out of ways to pretend he hadn’t wrecked everything that mattered.

“For what?” she asked.

He faltered. “For... everything.”

“That’s not an apology,” she snapped. “That’s a blanket statement. That’s what people say when they want to be absolved without being accountable. So try again, Lieutenant. What exactly are you apologizing for?”

Jake swallowed. His throat felt tight, raw.

“I’m sorry for using you,” he said. “For making you think you mattered to me when I didn’t even have the guts to admit you did. I’m sorry for letting other people laugh at you, for laughing with them. I’m sorry I was a coward who needed someone like you to lift me up, and the second you did, I kicked the ladder out from under you.”

Her arms had dropped to her sides now, fingers flexing slightly. But her expression didn’t soften. Not even a little.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize who you were until you were already gone,” Jake finished, quieter now. “And I’m sorry I still think about you every damn day, even when I know I don’t deserve to.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone. Rogue stood still, unreadable, a statue carved out of every moment he’d let her down.

Then, finally, she spoke. “You don’t get to apologize and expect forgiveness like it’s some kind of trade.”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t expect anything.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I’m not giving it.”

Then, as if she were brushing the entire moment off her shoulders like dust, she stepped toward the door again. “And don’t worry about dinner tomorrow,” she added, almost too casually. “It’s totally fine if you don’t come. Really.”

Her hand hit the door handle. No hesitation this time. And with her back still to him, she said, “I’ll see you in the sky, Hangman.”

The door closed behind her, and Jake was left standing in the space where a second chance used to be.

Jake walked the corridor like a man returning from war—shoulders squared, boots heavy, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked granite. His flight suit felt too stiff, too hot, like it was suffocating him from the inside out. Every footstep echoed in his ears louder than it should’ve. He didn’t look back. Not once. Not after the door closed behind her. Not after she said his call sign like it was just another name on her checklist. No emotion, no hint of what he used to mean. Just Hangman. Just another damn pilot.

By the time he reached the debriefing room, the sound of the others inside bled into the hall—low murmurs, the scrape of boots against tile, someone cursing under their breath about the heat. He paused for just a second outside the door. One beat. Two. Then, with a sharp inhale, he threw on the only armor he had left: a smirk.

Jake swaggered into the room like nothing happened. Like his heart wasn’t a bruised peach inside his chest. His chin was up, his grin sharp as ever, and when Coyote shot him a look—half worried, half suspicious—he just flashed a wink and dropped into his seat.

“Miss me?” he drawled, leaning back like he hadn’t just been torn apart in a quiet office two halls over.

Across the room, Rooster gave him a narrowed stare, but didn’t push. Bob glanced at him and then at Phoenix, silently asking a question neither of them knew how to phrase. Even Fanboy and Halo had gone quiet, watching him like he might combust if touched too hard.

At the front, Maverick stood with his arms folded over his chest, Hondo just to his right. The air shifted when they noticed Jake’s return, but Mav didn’t comment. Instead, he cleared his throat, stepped forward, and nodded once, firm.

“Alright,” he said, tone clipped. “I just finished a conversation with Commander Rogue.”

Jake’s smirk twitched. He didn’t move otherwise.

“She reviewed every maneuver, every decision, every comm log. Every one of your flights during the Gauntlet,” Maverick continued, his eyes moving from one pilot to the next. “And she’s made her recommendations.”

There was a collective inhale. The kind that filled the room with a buzzing anxiety, a quiet thrum beneath the silence. Phoenix sat straighter. Rooster leaned forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him. Jake kept his mask on, resting one ankle over his knee like he didn’t care. Like he hadn’t just begged her to forgive him, and failed.

Maverick’s voice dropped a note lower.

“She was thorough. And blunt.”

Of course she was.

Jake didn’t flinch. He just smiled wider.

There was a long, loaded pause as Maverick closed the folder in his hands. The sharp clap of it echoed in the room, followed by a beat of silence. Then he looked at them all—really looked—and the ghost of a smile twitched at the edge of his mouth.

“She approved it,” he said.

It took a second to register.

Then it hit them like a missile.

A breath released collectively around the debriefing room, like a pressure valve had finally been turned. Maverick didn’t say it outright, but the weight in his voice, the lack of disappointment in his tone—it was enough. They had passed. Maybe not all with flying colors, maybe not without bruises or scars to their egos, but they were still standing. Still in this. And more importantly, still a squadron.

Phoenix gave a low whistle and leaned back in her chair, throwing Bob a look that said, I told you we’d survive. Bob just blinked, dazed but visibly relieved, like he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Fanboy fist-bumped Payback under the table, a quiet gesture that still earned a grin. Fritz clapped Halo on the shoulder, muttering something about “not getting shot out of the sky” being cause for celebration. Even Omaha and Yale, usually reserved, broke into rare, crooked smiles.

Hondo chuckled from the side, and Maverick just gave a tired, proud nod. “Commander Rogue said you all passed—barely, but you passed. She said she’d rather keep a team that learns than perfect strangers who don’t.”

“Yo,” Coyote said, twisting around to face the rest of them, “I say we celebrate tomorrow. Properly. Barbecue at the beach?”

“I second that,” Rooster chimed in, already looking way too excited. “We got through Rogue’s personal hellscape and lived to talk about it. That’s worth a drink or five.”

Harvard raised an eyebrow, nodding thoughtfully. “And food. A lot of food.”

“I’m not grilling again,” Halo warned, deadpan. “Last time y’all nearly set the sand on fire.”

“That was Fanboy,” Payback said quickly, pointing an accusatory finger. “He thought kerosene was cooking oil.”

“It was labeled confusingly,” Fanboy argued.

Jake stayed quiet, still sitting in that deceptively relaxed posture, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. He chuckled along, but it was thinner, a little too practiced. When Rooster elbowed him in the ribs and asked if he was in, he just offered a lazy shrug.

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

The squad kept tossing out ideas—who’d bring what, who’d be in charge of music, how many coolers they’d need for beer—and somewhere in the blur of chatter, someone casually mentioned inviting the big three.

“They’re part of the team now, right?” Yale said, tapping his pen on the table. “Might as well include them.”

“Yeah,” Fritz added. “Maybe if we feed them, they’ll go easy on us next time.”

“They don’t eat,” Fanboy muttered dramatically. “They feast on our fear.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes but smirked. “Still. Wouldn’t kill us to ask. Especially Commander Rogue—”

No one knew tomorrow was her birthday. No one but one person.

Jake’s jaw tensed, but his smile didn’t falter. He nodded absently, muttering something noncommittal about “good idea.” But behind his eyes, gears were turning. Because he knew. He remembered the date before he remembered her rank, before her call sign was etched into his damn skull.

She wasn’t just Rogue. She was his sunshine. Once.

The Hard Deck buzzed with its usual late-night charm, lights dim and golden, music humming beneath the rhythm of laughter and beer bottles clinking. Dagger Squad clustered around a corner booth, half-shouting over each other about marinades, playlists, and who was bringing what to tomorrow’s beach barbecue. Penny was behind the bar, laughing as Fanboy attempted to mix his own drink and nearly set off the soda gun. It was loud, chaotic, and warm.

Meanwhile, Jake Seresin sat perched at the far end of the bar, staring into the amber depths of a half-finished glass. He wasn't sulking, exactly—but he wasn’t glowing either. His usual charm, the cocky swagger, the teeth-and-dimple grin—it was all there, but thin as tissue paper. A performance. He'd laughed when he was supposed to, nodded at plans he didn’t plan to join, and now he was here, hiding in plain sight with his jaw tight and his eyes distant.

Maverick had been watching him for a while. Quietly. Patiently. He nursed his own drink nearby, leaned against the bar with that weather-worn stillness of a man who had lived through things most people only feared in theory. Eventually, he stepped over and sat down beside Jake without a word. For a few minutes, they both just watched the room, letting the weight of the silence settle between them.

Then Maverick spoke, low and without fanfare. “You alright, Hangman?”

Jake didn’t look at him. He smirked instead, lazy and easy. “Peachy, Cap.”

Maverick nodded slowly. “Sure doesn’t look that way.”

Jake finally glanced sideways, his eyes guarded but not cold. “I’m good. Just tired. Long week.”

“Yeah,” Mav said, letting the word stretch with meaning. “Hell of a week.”

Another beat passed. Jake swirled the whiskey in his glass and chuckled under his breath. “You gonna do the whole mentor thing now? Sit me down and tell me I’m spiraling?”

“I’m not your therapist,” Maverick said calmly. “But I’ve been where you are. Stubborn. Stupid. Pretending like nothing’s wrong when everything’s falling apart.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. Then he exhaled hard and said, “I was a real asshole to someone once. A long time ago.”

“Just once?” Maverick joked, and Jake snorted.

“Alright, wise guy.”

Maverick let him speak, didn’t press. Jake tapped the edge of his glass, his gaze locked on nothing in particular. “She was... good. Kind. A little weird, honestly. Smart in a way that scared me. And I made it my goddamn mission to ruin that.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“I thought I was being funny. Cool. I don’t even know why—I think I just... couldn’t handle it. So I humiliated her. Over and over. Like it was a sport. And she still looked at me like I hung the damn moon.” Jake’s voice dropped. “Then one day, she stopped.”

Maverick was quiet. Then he said, “And now?”

Jake shook his head. “Now, she’s—” But he cut himself off.

Mav already knew. He didn’t need the name. Didn’t need the full picture. He’d seen the way Jake looked at her during briefings. The way his bravado twitched when Rogue walked into the room. The way he clammed up every time her voice took command. Maverick was a lot of things, but he wasn’t blind.

“You remind me of myself,” Maverick said softly. “Back when I was your age, I made a lot of choices that cost me things I didn’t know I’d miss until they were long gone. There’s a danger in thinking we’ve got time. In thinking we can burn bridges and still cross back over later.”

Jake didn’t respond, but he didn’t deflect either.

Maverick took another sip and looked over at the squad laughing across the room. “This job—it’ll take everything if you let it. Your body. Your mind. The people you love. You gotta decide what matters, Jake. And if someone mattered to you, even once—don’t let pride be the reason you lose them for good.”

Jake finally looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, he just nodded.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Maverick saw it in his eyes: he knew.

Jake looked away again, his mouth tightening, shoulders drawing in ever so slightly. He ran a hand down his face, fingers catching on the edge of stubble like he could scrub away the guilt gathering beneath his skin. His voice, when it came, was quieter—almost foreign to him. “But what if it’s too late?”

Maverick’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then it’s too late,” he said simply. “But you still show up. You own what you did. You stand there and take it. And maybe they never forgive you. Maybe they slam the door in your face.”

Jake’s lips pressed together. The idea clearly unsettled him. He was used to being liked, even when he didn’t deserve it. He was used to being the golden boy.

“But,” Maverick went on, tapping his finger against the bar, “you do it anyway. Because that’s what we do. That’s what aviators do. We don’t get to cherry-pick the consequences of our actions. If you left damage behind, you don’t run from it. You clean it up. Even if the person never lets you back in—you clean it up because it’s the right thing to do.”

Jake nodded once, but there was a bitter curl to his mouth. “You ever say something so cruel, you still hear it years later? Like it’s stuck under your skin?”

Mav didn’t smile. He didn’t soften. “Yeah. I have. Still do. Every damn day.”

Jake stared down at the bar top. “I didn’t just screw up. I killed something. She—God, Mav, she looked at me like I was a stranger the other day. Like she didn’t even remember the boy I used to be.”

“And maybe,” Maverick said gently, “that boy wasn’t worth remembering.”

Jake flinched. But it wasn’t meant to hurt—it was meant to land.

Then Maverick leaned in, voice low. “But you’re not him anymore. Are you?”

Jake didn’t answer.

“Figure out who you are now,” Mav said. “Then go be that person. Whether she forgives you or not? That’s on her. But the man who walked in here tonight... he’s got a chance. Don’t waste it.”

Jake didn’t move for a long time. The clatter and laughter of the Hard Deck carried on around them, but it was like he wasn’t in the room at all.

Then, finally, he nodded. Just once. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”

Maverick watched him for a moment longer, his eyes distant like he was seeing something from long ago, something that never really left him. Then he breathed out slowly, leaned back on the stool, and nodded toward the exit.

“Go now,” he said. “Before the years stack up like bad debt and you realize you can't pay it off.”

Jake blinked. His brows drew slightly together.

“Don’t wait for the right moment, Jake. There isn’t one,” Mav added. “Just the one you choose. I waited too damn long, you know? Penny—she didn’t make it easy. I’d hurt her more than I had the right to, but she still showed up. And I…” He shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “I was a goddamn coward. Kept thinking I’d fix things tomorrow.”

Jake glanced over at Penny then. She was behind the bar, her hair up in a loose bun, laughing at something Bob had said. The light above her shimmered against her skin like she was glowing from the inside out. Jake saw the way Maverick looked at her—the way his whole world tilted ever so slightly toward her, like she was north on a compass.

And that’s when it hit him. Jake Seresin had never looked at anyone like that. No—scratch that. He had once. Years ago.

When she wore a stupid party hat and carried a puppy in her arms, surrounded by candles and family and cake and joy. When her laugh sounded like sunlight. When her hand found his under the table and he thought, this is what forever might feel like.

And now she walked past him in command stripes and called him Lieutenant.

- You, Rogue - 

The Texas sun filtered through the windshield like an old friend, golden and familiar, and yet you kept your sunglasses on—not because it was too bright, but because the ache in your eyes hadn’t quite left since you left North Island last night.

You had taken the first flight out, the earliest one available, and didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Not to Rooster, who had made you laugh more than he should’ve been able to. Not to Coyote, who’d offered to carry your bag. And certainly not to Jake Seresin, who had stood in that damn office with those wide eyes and that desperate voice, thinking a single I'm sorry could sew up everything he’d ripped open.

Now, your hands gripped the steering wheel of your mom’s old truck, the same one you learned to drive in when you were seventeen, and the tires hummed against the backroads you used to know like the lines of your palm.

Tall grass danced in the breeze on either side of you. Fences leaned where they always had, weathered by years and still standing. You didn’t need a map for this part of the world—this was home. This was where the sun rose slow and the air smelled like cedar and freedom.

You’d gotten the text early this morning. Change of plans, sweetheart. We’ll celebrate at the old house. Bring an appetite. And maybe don’t wear white—your brother’s bringing the horses in.

You’d smiled at that. It had been a long time since you'd driven this stretch of road. Since you’d seen the wild dogs running along the fence lines or the rusted mailbox that still had the dent from when Jake once hit it with his truck mirror on a dare.

God. Jake.

His voice had replayed in your head all night. That man—no, that boy—had stood in front of you like he still had a right to your time, to your air, to your name in his mouth. And for a second—just a second—you had wanted to believe him.

But the past doesn’t just disappear. Not when he’d humiliated you. Not when you had spent nights trying to convince yourself you were imagining it all. Not when he walked away back then and pretended you didn’t matter.

And now? Now he begged you to let him settle things. As if your pain could be negotiated.

You clenched your jaw, adjusting the volume of the radio, letting the old country songs wrap around your thoughts like smoke. You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You weren’t doing any of this for him.

You’d come this far—become this woman—for yourself. Because you had learned how to command rooms, how to fly faster than anyone else, how to hold your head high even when your heart burned like hell.

Meanwhile, the familiar arch of trees opened up ahead and the house came into view. The white porch. The worn shutters. The yard where you used to set up obstacle courses for your bike and trip over your own feet. The same swing still hung from the oak tree.

You exhaled. Today was your birthday. And for once, it wasn’t about proving anything to anyone.

You were home.

You parked the truck in the dirt patch just to the left of the barn, dust kicking up behind you like the ghosts of old summer days. The door creaked when you opened it, a familiar sound that tugged at the corners of your mouth despite yourself.

Everything was the same. The chipped blue paint on the fence. The faded plastic chairs stacked by the porch. Even the smell—warm earth, hay, a hint of rosemary from your mother’s garden—smelled like memory.

You stepped out slowly, boots crunching on gravel, and tilted your head up to the sky. Texas blue. Endless and unapologetic.

Inside, you could hear your mother laughing with someone—probably your brother—and the sizzle of something on the stove. You didn’t go in just yet. Instead, you wandered around the side of the house, past the rusted wind chimes, letting your hand trail along the familiar wooden siding like it could anchor you to something real. Something before everything.

Before the Navy.

Before Top Gun.

Before Jake Seresin broke your heart and then had the audacity to stand in front of you like a damn open wound pretending he could heal something he didn’t even understand.

You paused by the swing. It swayed gently in the breeze, unbothered by the years. You sat, slowly, gripping the rope like it might tether you back to seventeen—the girl who had once looked at Jake like he’d hung the stars. She didn’t exist anymore. But sometimes, on mornings like this, she whispered from somewhere deep inside you.

And God, the nerve of him. Standing there with his pretty mouth and that I’m sorry like it meant something. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Not really. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t just what he said to you that day back then—it was what he didn’t say. The silence that followed. The way he turned away and never looked back. Until now.

Now, when you’d become someone. When you wore medals and held rank and had the power to ground squadrons with a signature.

Now he wanted to talk.

But you weren’t that girl anymore. And this wasn’t about him.

You smiled despite yourself.

Rising to your feet, brushing your palms on your jeans, you turned back toward the house. The sun was warm against your back. The air smelled like cinnamon and barbecue and honeysuckle. You weren’t ready to let Jake back in. Not yet.

But you were ready to celebrate the woman you’d become.

Because today? Today was your damn day.

The screen door hadn’t even finished creaking shut behind you when the stampede began.

Little feet slapped against the worn floorboards as your nieces and nephews burst from the hallway like a pack of wild horses. They were bigger now—older, louder—but still the same blur of joy and sugar-smeared cheeks as they flung themselves at you.

“Auntie!” one of them shrieked, and your heart cracked open just a little more.

You caught two in your arms, staggering slightly with the force of their enthusiasm. The oldest tried to look cool but you saw the grin tugging at his mouth before he lunged in for a hug too. 

Behind them came your mother, wiping her hands on a dish towel and already reaching for your face like she had to confirm you were real. “There’s my girl,” she whispered, voice a bit too watery. Your father, quieter as always, stood just behind her, but you knew the emotion was there in his eyes. He pulled you into a brief but firm hug.

Then came the rest.

Your brothers—bigger and broader than you remembered, one already holding a beer, the other pretending not to tear up. Your grandparents, slow but steady, offering words of pride in their soft, worn voices. Aunts and uncles who made jokes about medals and jet fuel, cousins who squealed and poked fun at your rank while hugging you tightly.

You barely had time to breathe.

Laughter bloomed in every room. The table groaned under the weight of food. Music played from the old speakers by the window, some twangy country song you hadn’t heard in years but could still hum along to. You were home. And for a moment, just a moment, the ache in your chest dulled. Just sunshine and sweat and summer in Texas.

Until—

“Damn, y’all didn’t tell me she was gonna look this good.”

The voice sliced through the haze like a whipcrack.

Low. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your whole body locked up.

No.

No.

No no no no no.

You turned so slowly you could feel the blood drain from your face before it even reached your toes.

And there he was.

Jake Seresin.

Standing in your childhood kitchen like he belonged there.

Wearing a plain white t-shirt clinging just a little too well to his broad chest, jeans slung low on his hips, and scuffed cowboy boots that had seen more dirt than you were ready to admit you missed. His blonde hair was slightly messy, a bit damp, and his face was flushed like he’d just come in from outside. Like he’d been working. Or running. Or maybe pacing in nervous circles wondering if you’d show up.

He had sweat on his neck.

Your mother, traitor that she was, beamed from beside the stove. “He’s been here since this morning! Helped fix the gate. Fixed the porch swing, too.”

You stared at her, unblinking.

Jake met your gaze from across the room, and he smiled—slow and dangerous and laced with something like hope. “Hey, sunshine,” he drawled, like it hadn’t been years. Like he hadn’t broken your heart. Like you weren’t standing in front of him with a thousand unspoken things catching fire behind your ribs.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

So many people in this room.

So many things you could throw.

Your mouth dropped open before your brain even caught up with your body. And what came out next was entirely involuntary.

“What the fuck—”

“Ay!” your mom snapped, voice sharp as a whip. “Language!”

Jake had the audacity—the actual gall—to throw his hands up in mock dismay, laughing like this was a damn sitcom. “Yeah, sunshine,” he added, all wide-eyed innocence. “There’s kids present. Watch your language.”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then your eyes narrowed, lips curling back into something not quite a smile. “You’re joking,” you muttered under your breath, fury simmering under your skin like a Texas thunderstorm just seconds from breaking loose.

“Oh, she’s definitely not joking,” your older brother said, already backing out of the kitchen with his beer like he wanted no part of this incoming Category 5.

Your little niece tugged on your sleeve. “Auntie, who is that cowboy?”

Jake winked at her, all smooth charm and self-satisfaction. “I’m Uncle Jake, darlin’. I used to—”

You cut him off with a stare that could curdle milk.

He grinned wider.

Your hands clenched at your sides. You had dreamed of this moment—Jake Seresin begging at your metaphorical altar. Groveling. Crying. Maybe slipping on a banana peel and falling into a pile of cow dung while you sipped sweet tea on a porch swing, untouched and unbothered.

Not this. Not him in your house. Not here, where the walls still whispered childhood secrets and the air still smelled like soil and sun. This was your place. Your safe haven.

And now it was full of him.

Jake, standing there like he belonged. Looking at you like he always did—like he saw you. All of you.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you hissed, stepping toward him as your family slowly scattered, sensing something heavy crackling in the air.

Jake shrugged, casual as hell. “Your mom invited me. Would’ve been rude to say no.”

“Would’ve been smart to say no,” you muttered.

Your mother clucked her tongue again from the stovetop, giving you the kind of look that had once kept you from sneaking out after curfew. “He’s our guest, sweetheart. Be polite.”

Jake leaned against the counter, watching you like you were a particularly beautiful storm he couldn’t wait to chase. “Yeah,” he echoed, voice dipping lower. “Be polite, Rogue.”

You wanted to throttle him.

Instead, you straightened your shoulders, took a breath, and gave him the most saccharine, venom-laced smile you could muster.

“Welcome to the party,” you said, voice dripping with southern hospitality and suppressed rage. “Try not to choke on the cake.”

You were going to kill him. Not figuratively. Not symbolically. Kill. The kind of murder you could only get away with because you were loved—deeply, endlessly—by nearly everyone in this yard.

And the worst part? He knew it.

Jake Seresin, with that stupidly white t-shirt clinging to his chest like sin, was roaming your childhood home like he’d grown up beside you. Laughing with your uncle, throwing a ball with the boys, helping your grandpa adjust the damn barbecue coals like he belonged there.

No. Nope. Not today, Satan.

You turned sharply on your heel and marched straight to the little ones—your nieces, your nephews, your cousins’ kids—because at least they wouldn’t ask questions about why your ex crush who shattered your heart into military-grade shrapnel was casually flipping ribs in your backyard.

“Auntie, can you help us with the lemonade stand?” little Mila asked, tugging on your hand, her curls bouncing as she ran ahead.

“Yes, baby,” you sighed, following her like she was your designated emotional support human. “Let’s go make a small fortune before the grown-ups get too drunk to notice they’re tipping us real money.”

She giggled, and just like that, your shoulders dropped a little. Being around the kids always did that. They didn’t care who you were in the sky. They didn’t know about commands or squadrons or callsigns or men who left you when they promised they wouldn’t. They just knew you made the best strawberry punch and that you gave the biggest pushes on the tire swing.

So, you spent the next hour ducking the ache in your chest by being useful. Fixing the lemon mix, adding way too much sugar because Mila insisted, handing out tiny cups to your cousins and childhood neighbors.

You caught up with your Aunt Lou, who still talked with her hands and smelled like gardenia. She pinched your cheek and asked, “When are you getting married?”

You almost choked on a grape.

Meanwhile, your uncle pulled you aside and told you the crops were better this year. Your younger cousin asked about the Navy—not about Jake—and your Granfather gave you a nod of approval that still meant everything.

You wove in and out of the crowd like muscle memory. This was your world. These were your people. This house, this land—this life—shaped you. It was sacred.

And yet, he was here. Like a shadow clinging to your sun.

You did everything to ignore him. Didn’t glance his way. Didn’t listen to the sound of his laugh or notice how often he kept checking where you were. You refused.

But there was no escaping it—the hum in your chest, the crackle in your spine, the way your whole damn body knew he was watching you.

And you’d be damned if it didn’t set you on fire.

He just had to do it.

You were halfway through helping the kids repaint the old wooden lemonade sign—your hands streaked with pastel pink and yellow, your hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun that still had wisps falling loose from the Texas heat—when you heard the familiar sound of children’s laughter crescendo into a shriek of delight.

That’s when you looked up. And saw him.

Jake Seresin, all tall and smug and golden, crouched low in the grass with Mila balanced on his back like a tiny, squealing cowboy. Her tiny arms were stretched like wings, and he was galloping across the lawn on all fours, making horse noises—actual horse noises—as the other kids chased after him.

“Giddy-up, Hangman!” one of the boys shouted between wheezes.

“Yeehaw!” Jake whooped, and it was so stupidly charming you almost forgot to hate him.

Almost.

The kids adored him. Of course they did. He was a walking Disney Channel character with cowboy boots. He let them climb him like a jungle gym. He gave Mila his sunglasses and called her “Commander Cool.” He high-fived every single child like he was campaigning for mayor of the backyard.

And then—then, as if the universe weren’t cruel enough—he glanced over. Right at you.

Eyes locked.

He grinned.

Not the cocky, I-know-you-want-me grin. No. This one was softer. Almost bashful. Like he knew he’d been caught being good and didn’t mind it.

You blinked.

Your heart hiccupped.

Then you glared.

Hard.

His grin widened like the absolute menace he was. He gently helped Mila off his back, ruffled the boy’s hair, and made his way toward the drink table like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just disarmed you with joy and children and that damn dimple.

You turned back to the sign and scrubbed at a smudge of pink paint like it had personally wronged you.

He was trying to worm his way in. You could feel it.

And worse?

It was working.

Of course he wasn’t done. Jake Seresin never quit while he was ahead. Not when there was a mountain to climb or—more accurately—a woman to win back with the same stubbornness that once drove you up the wall and straight out of his life.

You kept your back turned to the lawn, laser-focused on helping Mila paint the corner of the lemonade sign. It was something about the way her tiny fingers clumsily held the brush, her tongue poking out in fierce concentration, that almost made you forget he was still here.

Almost.

Because then you heard him.

Not his boots—he was good at hiding his approach when he wanted to—but his voice. Low, sweet, casual.

“You missed a spot.”

You didn’t even need to look up to know he was standing behind you. You could feel the heat of his presence like sunlight pressing against your spine.

“You’re gonna smudge the paint if you keep hovering like that,” you muttered without turning around.

Jake crouched down beside you, just close enough for his arm to brush yours.

“You sure? Looked like you needed help.”

You gave him a pointed glance. “I don’t need anything from you.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did. Just figured you’d want a break. It’s your birthday, after all.”

You scoffed, dipping your brush back into the pale yellow paint. “Didn’t think you’d remember.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out something folded. Paper. You recognized the edges before he even handed it over.

The sketch.

Your sketch.

The one you’d done on a napkin years ago—of the farm, of the porch swing and windmill and stars. You thought it had been lost in the fallout. Turns out, it had been with him all along.

“I carried it,” he said softly, not trying to smile this time. “Through Pensacola. Through Fallon. Hell, even had it on me in Lemoore. Kept it in my flight bag.”

Your fingers trembled around the brush. You swallowed. Hard.

“Why are you showing me this now?” you asked, voice too thin, too fragile for your own liking.

“Because I’m not good with words,” he admitted. “But I kept this. Every time I saw it, I thought of you. I still do.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw the paintbrush at his stupid, perfect face. But Mila giggled beside you and tapped your arm with a tiny yellow-streaked hand, and somehow, somehow, you kept it together.

You inhaled slowly.

Then, like a switch had flipped, you plastered on a calm smile, turned your head just enough, and whispered:

“You’re still a jackass, Seresin.”

Jake smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m your jackass. Right?”

You didn’t answer. You stood, handed Mila the paintbrush, and walked off without a word.

He stayed crouched there, that damn sketch still in his hands, watching you walk away like you were the last star in a dying sky.

You told yourself you weren’t going to look.

You swore you’d steer clear, keep your head down, stay with the kids or the cousins or literally anyone who didn’t make your pulse do Olympic sprints in your throat. But no. Of course not. Of course you looked.

Because he was on a damn horse.

And not just on a horse—riding it like he was born in a saddle, one hand casually gripping the reins, the other resting lazily on his thigh. He sat straight, easy in the way only someone who knew what they were doing ever could. His shirt clung to his back just enough to make you forget how to breathe, a thin sheen of sweat darkening the white cotton at the collar and down his spine.

You hated him.

Jake Seresin, of all people, had the nerve to look like a goddamn cowboy catalog cover while chatting with your brother, who was laughing like they’d been best friends since elementary school. They were talking about something mechanical—tractors maybe? Fencing? You couldn’t hear, too far across the yard, but Jake tipped his head back to laugh and your brother clapped him on the shoulder like he belonged there.

Like he’d always belonged there.

“Stop staring,” your cousin whispered beside you, eyes full of amusement as she handed you a glass of sweet tea.

“I’m not,” you muttered, sipping too fast and promptly choking on the ice.

Your cousin didn’t buy it for a second. “Mmmhmm. Girl, you might as well be writing his name in the clouds.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from the corral, back toward the porch, your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached. But the image was seared behind your eyes now—Jake’s long legs, the easy grin he threw at your brother, the way the sunlight kissed his cheekbones as he swung down from the saddle like it was nothing.

You didn’t want him to be beautiful. You didn’t want him to fit in so easily here. This was your space. Your home. Your family.

And yet… he wore it like it had always been his, too.

You pressed a hand to your chest, felt the traitorous flutter there, and cursed under your breath.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’d deal with this. With him. With all of it.

But right now? Right now, you needed to not melt into a puddle on the damn porch.

Girl, listen—he had no business being that fine.

You’d tried. Swore up and down to every relative, every sticky-fingered kid clinging to your legs, that you were not going to fall into the trap that was Jake Seresin and his dumb, gorgeous cowboy energy. You were here to celebrate your birthday, not combust into flames.

But then—then—he did something unforgivable.

He took his shirt off.

It started simple enough. He was helping your uncle haul a bale of hay from the shed—one of those heavy ones, wrapped tight, stacked tall. You watched from the shade of the porch with narrowed eyes and a paper plate in your hand, just trying to enjoy your damn macaroni salad. You weren't even looking at him. Not really. Just... in the vicinity.

And then the man tugged at the back of his shirt, lifted it clean over his head, and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck like this was a Marlboro ad come to life.

Time paused. The sun wept. Your fork clattered onto your plate.

Tanned skin, broad shoulders, that stupid tattoo on his shoulder blade you used to trace with your fingertips in the dark—all of it was on full display. His abs weren’t just abs; they were architectural. Like if God had sculpted a man from summer heat and Southern charm and said, “Yup. That’s the one that’s gonna ruin her peace.”

He slung the hay over one shoulder and laughed at something your cousin said, the sound low and smooth, dripping in Texas. Then he spit to the side—spit, for God’s sake—and somehow even that was hot.

“What in the cowboy smut novel is this,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face.

Your mom passed behind you and gave you a little hum of amusement. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d say someone’s got a type.”

“I don’t,” you snapped. “He just… looks hydrated.”

And maybe you were not.

Because now he was leaning on the fence, shirt still off, muscles flexing as he talked to your older brother like they were planning your family’s next barn renovation. His fingers tapped absently on the wooden post, drawing your eye down, down, down—

“Need a drink?” someone asked beside you.

You didn’t even know who said it. You just nodded and reached for whatever they had.

Water. Wine. Holy water.

At this point, you’d drink it all.

You just needed to breathe.

The house was full. The yard was fuller. There were children sprinting like tiny missiles across the porch, uncles hollering about the grill, your mother fussing about potato salad and forks. And him. Jake Seresin, the unholy Texas mirage, was walking around shirtless like he didn’t just ignite your central nervous system every time he smirked.

So you slipped away—quiet as a whisper—toward the old well tucked behind the barn, the one your grandfather built with his bare hands. It was quiet there. Still. You could almost hear your heartbeat, feel the wind in your hair. That familiar creak of the wooden bucket, the low hum of cicadas in the grass. You rested your hands on the worn stone edge and exhaled.

Just one minute. One moment of peace. No chaos. No memories. No him.

“You always ran off here when you were mad,” came the voice behind you—smooth, low, and damn near sinful.

You didn’t even jump. You just groaned.

“For the love of—” You turned. “Do you own a shirt?”

Jake Seresin stood there in all his shirtless, sun-kissed glory, arms crossed casually over his chest. There was a sheen of sweat on his collarbones and a devil-may-care look in his eyes that made you want to throw something at him. Preferably your dignity.

“Probably,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “Didn’t think I’d need one. Not when it’s this hot out.”

“Go away.”

“Can’t. Kinda like the view.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to ignore the way your pulse leapt. “If you’re here to flirt, try again when you aren’t radiating ‘country boy thirst trap’ energy.”

He grinned. “I don’t remember you complaining about it last time.”

“Yeah, well…” You looked back at the well, swallowing hard. “Last time, I was young. Stupid.”

Jake took a few more steps until he was right beside you, the heat from his body sinking into your skin. He didn’t touch you. Just stood close enough that the air felt charged—like lightning waiting to strike.

“I was stupid too,” he said, quieter now. “But not about you.”

You froze. His voice was lower, more honest. The kind of voice you remembered from nights wrapped in his arms beneath a quilt of stars, when he whispered promises against your skin he never had the courage to keep.

You looked at him then, really looked.

And for a second, it wasn’t Commander Rogue or Lieutenant Seresin standing in that golden Texas sun.

It was just you. And him. 

The silence between you shimmered—tight, fragile, electric.

Jake was too close. Too warm. Too Jake.

You could smell the sun on his skin, that familiar scent of old leather, cedarwood soap, and whatever reckless sin made him walk around like that in broad daylight. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady, while your own lungs forgot how to work. Every nerve ending in your body was on high alert, tuned to the space between his mouth and yours.

He wasn’t touching you—but god, it felt like he was. Like his heat had fingers, like his gaze was dragging along your collarbone and down your spine. Your grip on the stone edge of the well tightened.

“Still mad?” he asked, low, like he was trying not to spook you.

You turned your head slowly. “Is that a serious question?”

Jake gave a soft, crooked smile—the kind that used to undo you, back when you were foolish and seventeen and let that mouth talk you into the backseat of his truck.

He leaned a little closer. You felt it before you saw it: the flex of his arms, the slight roll of his shoulder as he planted a hand against the well, boxing you in. Not forceful. Not trapping. Just... a little too intimate. A little too familiar.

“You’ve always had a temper,” he murmured.

“And you’ve always been an arrogant jackass,” you shot back, heart pounding.

He chuckled, deep in his chest. “Yeah. But you used to like that.”

You hated the way your body remembered. The way it leaned just slightly into his space before your brain caught up and screamed, abort mission. You turned your face away—big mistake. His breath brushed your cheek.

“You used to like me,” he added, voice like gravel dragged through honey.

“I also used to believe in Santa Claus.”

That made him laugh. And god, that laugh. You remembered it in the worst ways—in dark barns and truck beds and your childhood bedroom when you swore you could keep a secret from the whole damn town.

You tried to step back. Your shoulder hit his arm.

He didn’t move.

Instead, his eyes dipped lower, taking in the line of your throat, the heat flushing your neck. You could see it then—the moment his cocky little grin faltered. The shift. The hunger. Like he’d just remembered the exact sound you made when his hands were on your hips and his mouth was on your skin.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, voice raw now. Quiet. “Even when I should’ve. Even when I didn’t deserve to.”

You felt your pulse slam against your ribs.

But you didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Not when every inch of you was screaming, don’t kiss him don’t kiss him don’t kiss him—

“Auntie!”

The two of you snapped apart like teenagers caught behind the barn, you nearly bumping your elbow on the stone lip of the well. Jake blinked, disoriented for half a second, before scrubbing a hand down his face and stepping back.

A herd of small feet came rushing around the corner, your nieces and nephews tearing toward you like a tactical strike team. One of them had a cowboy hat too big for his head; another clutched a popsicle that was now just red sugar water dripping down her arm.

“Auntie, Auntie! Come play tag with us!”

“Uncle Jake’s it!” one shouted, smacking Jake on the hip and running away squealing.

Your jaw twitched. “Uncle—what?”

Jake gave a helpless shrug, smirking like the devil himself. “Guess I got promoted.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve known them for less than twenty-four hours.”

“And yet I’m already the favorite,” he said, casually starting to jog after the kids, chest still annoyingly bare, voice all sugar and sin. “You better keep up, sunshine.”

You glared at his back as he disappeared into the trees behind the barn, chased by three of your brother’s kids and what felt like the rising heat of your own blood pressure.

The worst part? You wanted to follow.

God help you.

By the time you caught up to them—shoes soaked, jeans streaked with specks of damp soil—Jake had already been tackled into the grass by a pack of laughing children. One clung to his back like a baby koala, another tried pulling his boot off, and the youngest had climbed onto his stomach with a triumphant yell of, “Victory!”

“Help,” Jake groaned dramatically, his hands pinned by tiny, sticky fingers. “I’m under attack. Man down. Send reinforcements.”

You stopped short at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over your chest, breath stilling for half a second.

God, he looked... absurd.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, catching in the droplets of water clinging to his hair. His white shirt from earlier had vanished—long forgotten or maybe tossed aside somewhere in the chaos—and his jeans were now grass-stained and muddied at the knees. One of the kids had drawn something across his chest with blue chalk, and another had clearly poured water from the bucket left beside the well.

Jake Seresin, golden boy, Navy pilot, hotshot of North Island—absolutely wrecked by five small children.

It made something in your chest ache.

“Stop staring and get over here, Lieutenant Commander!” he called from the ground, giving you a lopsided grin. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

“Not likely,” you said, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

And then the smallest—Avery, your niece—sprinted up, grabbed your hand, and beamed up at you.

“Come on, Auntie! You’re on my team!”

You were halfway through the word “Wait—” when Avery yanked you straight into the mess.

Your boots sank into the mud with a wet squelch. Your balance wobbled. And then, like some twisted cosmic joke, Jake reached up and tugged—lightly, playfully—on your wrist just as you tried to catch yourself.

You landed with a soft oof right beside him in the grass. Mud splattered up your arms and soaked through your shirt.

“Jake!” you gasped.

He blinked innocently. “Oops.”

Before you could lunge for him, he was already rolling out of your reach, laughing, the kids cackling with delight as they jumped in after him.

And suddenly, like it hadn’t been years of anger and silence and ghosts between you, like there weren’t a thousand things unsaid still lodged in your throat—you were laughing, too.

The sound was light. Real. It hadn’t been pulled from you like a demand or forged like armor. It just… slipped out.

Jake looked over from where he lay sprawled on the grass, hair wild, dirt on his cheek, and something almost reverent in his gaze.

“Sunshine,” he murmured under his breath, so quiet even the wind barely caught it.

You didn’t hear him.

But maybe, just maybe, part of you felt it.

- Mom -

From the edge of the porch, camera in hand, your mother watched the chaos unfold in the muddy clearing with an expression somewhere between wonder and suspicion. She stood still, the warm light of late afternoon catching in her silver-streaked hair, her apron smudged with flour from the pies cooling behind her.

She hadn't meant to come out here. Not really. She just wanted to get a peek at the noise—children squealing, someone yelling “mud war!”—and maybe call everyone in for lemonade. That’s all. But what she found instead made her stop dead in her tracks, heart twisting in her chest.

There you were. Laughing.

Muddy from head to toe, grass in your hair, sleeves rolled up, chasing after one of your nieces with wild joy in your eyes that she hadn’t seen in—God, how long had it been?

And right beside you… him.

Jake Seresin, the Texas boy with charm sharp as spurs and a reputation that had, once upon a time, made her raise an eyebrow more than once.

He was covered in mud too, shirtless and grinning, water dripping down his jawline as he hoisted your nephew up in the air like it was the easiest thing in the world. One of the kids had drawn a smiley face on his back with marker. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t care.

Her breath caught.

And then it happened—you stumbled back from a slip in the wet grass, and Jake reached out without even thinking, catching you by the waist, steadying you as if his body still remembered the shape of yours. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, startled. He said something she couldn’t hear, and you rolled your eyes, trying to shove him off—though not very hard.

Her fingers moved before she even realized.

Click.

One photo. Then another. Then another.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But there was a knowing tug in her chest—like an old song she hadn’t heard in years playing quietly in the background of her thoughts.

You looked like a girl in love.

And Jake? Well… he looked like he had just remembered what it felt like to come home.

She lowered the camera slowly, eyes never leaving the pair of you, and smiled just a little to herself.

“Maybe,” she murmured under her breath, “just maybe.”

- You, Rogue - 

You didn’t mean to fall.

One second you were lunging after your nephew, hand outstretched to snag the edge of his shirt before he could escape the muddy ambush you and your niece had planned. The next, your foot slid in the wet grass, your arms windmilled, and then—

You were airborne.

“Shit!”

You barely got the word out before someone caught you mid-fall, arms wrapping around your waist, the rest of you crashing against something—someone—solid and stupidly warm and annoyingly familiar.

“Gotcha,” Jake drawled right against your ear, like a cowboy catching a tumbleweed.

And just like that, he had you. Picked you up. Just… scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all. His bare chest was damp from sweat and hose water, his jeans soaked and clinging to strong thighs, and you hated the way your breath caught at the feel of him. At the sound of his damn laugh when your muddy hand smeared across his shoulder.

“Put me down!” you shouted, squirming in his grip, even as the kids screamed with laughter around you.

“Nope,” he grinned, spinning with you in his arms. “You look like trouble, darlin’. Gotta keep an eye on you.”

You slapped at his chest, legs kicking. “You’re the one with a smiley face on your back, you idiot!”

He paused mid-spin. “Wait—what?”

You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound cracked out of you raw and surprised. The chaos around you—the kids yelling, someone spraying a hose again, your brother hollering something from the porch—it blurred into a warm blur of color and sound as Jake finally dropped you gently onto a pile of soaked grass.

You landed on your butt with a graceless thud, hair a mess, shirt clinging to your back, and mud streaked down your arms. Jake stood over you, grinning like the damn sun, and offered you a hand like a gentleman.

You took it.

Just to pull him down with you.

He yelped, hit the ground with a grunt, and for a second—just one heartbeat-long second—you both lay there, breathless and laughing, side by side in the summer haze, the world spinning around you in children’s shrieks and distant music and the smell of grilled corn and cut grass.

You turned your head. He was already looking at you.

The sky above was impossibly blue. His eyes were impossibly green. And for a split second, you swore the whole damn world slowed down.

You didn’t kiss him.

But God, it was close.

- Jake -

Jake wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Maybe it was the moment your laugh cut through the summer air like something ancient and wild, or maybe it was when your muddy hand smeared across his bare chest and you didn’t apologize—just glared at him like you were still that girl who could outmatch him in every way that mattered. Maybe it was earlier, back when he caught you mid-fall and realized that you still smelled like salt and sunshine and the kind of life he never thought he deserved.

Whatever the hell it was, it hit him like a bullet. Fast. Deep. Irreversible.

You were in front of him now, yelling something at one of the kids, your hair sticking to your neck, droplets glinting on your skin like gold in the dying light. The sun hit you just right—like it always had—and he felt that ache all over again. That same gut-punch he felt the first time he saw you grin under the Texas sky years ago, before he messed it all up with his arrogance, his ambition, his own damn fear.

Meanwhile, you were so alive. That’s what wrecked him. It wasn’t just your smile or your voice or the way your jeans hugged your hips—it was the way you moved like you belonged here. Like the earth and sky were built around you. You weren’t just beautiful, you were real. Real in a way most things in his life weren’t.

Then you looked at him. Brief. Barely a second. But you looked at him with those eyes—sharp and guarded and unknowingly soft—and Jake knew. He knew, in the most terrifying, infuriating way, that he was in love with you. Not some crush. Not some what-if. Love. That stupid, all-consuming kind.

He kicked at the grass, trying to shake the thought loose. Tried to convince himself it was the sunstroke or the adrenaline or the leftover tension from every unsaid word between you two. But it wasn’t. It was just you. And the quiet knowing that the second he saw you again, this version of you—commanding and sun-drenched and laughing through mud and kids and chaos—he was a goner.

And worst of all? He didn’t know if he deserved even a second of it. Not after everything. Not after the years. But damn if he didn’t want to try.

Jake Seresin swore the sun had nothing on you.

He’d spent years in cockpits, chasing horizons, burning through the sky like he had something to prove—and maybe he did, back then. But none of it, none of the blinding sunsets or golden-glow mornings that kissed the edges of the world like something out of a dream, ever touched what you looked like in this moment. Hair messy and pulled half-back with a strand falling loose against your cheek. Mud on your knees.

Shirt clinging to your spine in the heat. And that smile—God, that smile—sharp as ever, soft where no one else got to see. He remembered it. He’d never forgotten. It haunted him in the quiet and crept into his thoughts on missions and long flights, the ghost of it grinning like it had unfinished business.

Meanwhile, you were laughing with your cousin’s kid, crouched in the grass like you belonged to the wild. You flicked water at Jake and didn’t even look his way, too focused on teasing the children, too alive to notice the way his entire world tilted. It was maddening. It was holy. It was like watching the kind of woman poets write about and soldiers carve names into locker doors for—except you were real. And you hated him. And maybe he deserved it.

He ran a hand through his hair, watching as you stood up and stretched, the sun hitting the line of your waist in a way that made him clench his jaw. It should’ve been illegal. That easy sway in your hips. That tired but proud glint in your eye like you knew you ruled this little corner of earth and had no plans of giving it up.

Then you bent down to scoop a toddler into your arms, spinning her, laughing as she screamed with delight. And Jake…well, his knees almost gave out.

Not because he imagined you holding his kid like that—though, Jesus Christ, he did—but because it reminded him of everything he’d tried to shut out.

How warm you could be. How dangerous it felt to love someone who glowed from the inside out. And how badly he wanted to earn even an inch of that warmth again.

He tore his eyes away, just for a second, just to breathe—but it was no use. You were everywhere. In the sky. In the dirt. In the back of his goddamn mind. A storm in boots and a baseball cap. A fever he could never shake.

And Jake Seresin was parched. Starving. Hopelessly, humiliatingly thirsty—for a woman who looked at him like he was a closed chapter. A footnote. But still…he stayed. 

Because watching you now, sun-kissed and mud-streaked and all fire? It was the closest to heaven he’d ever gotten.

Jake didn’t realize when the noise around him faded—the laughter, the barking dogs, the clatter of beer bottles and ice buckets—until all that remained was the soft lilt of your voice somewhere across the yard.

You were bent at the waist again, helping one of your nieces wash off a muddy hand, and the light struck your profile like it was painting it for keeps. He could trace every angle by memory. He had, once. Quiet nights in his bunk. Long flights with nothing but time and guilt.

And now, the fantasy was whispering again.

It started small—just a flicker in the back of his mind. You in that kitchen you’d once dreamed about. Windows wide open. Coffee brewing. A dog at your feet. Then it deepened.

A blur of tiny footsteps racing across a hardwood floor, squeaky with morning. A giggle that sounded like you. A scowl that mirrored his. And then you, barefoot in the hallway, holding a sleepy-eyed toddler on your hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake blinked hard, suddenly warm beneath his collar. He wasn’t the kind of man who let himself want like that. Not anymore. But the image burned anyway—you and him in a little house tucked somewhere quiet, the kind of place where he could build what he never thought he deserved.

Maybe a swing in the front yard. Maybe a pickup in the driveway with a car seat in the back. Maybe he plants lilies along the fence because you once offhandedly said they were your favorite, and the look on your face when you saw them? Worth every sunburn and scraped knuckle.

He’d never even bought a girl flowers before. Never stayed long enough to learn what they liked. But with you? Lilies. White, soft, stubborn things. Grew in the sun. Survived the storms.

Just like you.

Meanwhile, you stood up and laughed again, brushing your hands off on your jeans. One of the kids tugged at your hand, pulling you back toward the yard, and Jake felt something in his chest twist. Not ache. Not quite. It was want—raw and deep and bigger than anything he’d felt in years.

He wanted to be the one you turned to. The one who carried in the groceries and kissed your temple just because. The one who gave you lilies every damn birthday, no matter where he was in the world. The one you leaned into when the world got loud.

Jake Seresin wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t that simple.

But God, for the first time in his life, he wanted to try.

And if you’d let him—just give him one more chance—he’d give you the whole damn garden.

He didn’t notice you walking up at first. He was too far gone, stuck in that half-dream where your hand fit perfectly into his and the world was quieter, softer, wrapped in summer cotton and the scent of lilies. But then your shadow crossed his boots, and your voice—sharp, familiar, home—sliced clean through the haze.

“Seresin,” you said, firm as ever.

He blinked up, caught like a deer in headlights. Your arms were crossed, your brows drawn together like they always did when you were irritated. There was a smudge of dirt on your cheekbone, a streak of dried mud on your shirt, and somehow you still looked like you could knock the wind out of him without even trying.

You didn’t wait for him to come up with something clever.

“You’re muddy,” you said, blunt and unimpressed. “Go clean up. Dinner’s soon, and my mom will actually murder you if you track dirt onto her porch.”

That tone. That exact brand of annoyed-but-secretly-concerned that made him grin before he even meant to.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Jake drawled, lazy and smug, “you always talk this sweet to your guests, or am I just special?”

Your eyes narrowed into something that could’ve cut steel.

“Don’t push me, Hangman,” you warned, voice low. “You are already on thin ice.”

He lifted both hands, palms up, like he was some innocent cowboy who’d never done a damn thing wrong in his life.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But you didn’t smile. You just gave him one last glare—like a warning shot—and turned on your heel. Your boots squelched softly in the dirt as you headed back toward the house, leaving him blinking after you, still half-caught in the image of you in a sundress and muddy boots, tossing him that same frown thirty years from now with a ring on your finger.

Jake exhaled slowly, watching you disappear into the crowd.

Get it together, Seresin.

Dinner was coming.

And so was trouble.

The guest room was small but warm, the kind of place that smelled like cedarwood and old books, like history and a lifetime of love carved into the floorboards. Jake dropped his duffle bag by the edge of the bed, the springs creaking just a little when it hit. He paused, blinking at the sight of another bag already there—dark green canvas, fraying a little at the seams. Not his. He frowned.

Probably belonged to one of your brothers. Or a cousin. Or a friend of the family passing through. The house was full of bodies and boots and energy, after all. He didn’t think too hard about it. The need to get clean tugged at him harder than the mystery of who claimed what.

Your mother had been sweet, as always, showing him the room like he wasn’t the guy who’d broken her daughter’s heart clean in half once upon a time. She smiled kindly and said, “There’s hot water. Fresh towel’s hanging. Go clean up, darlin’. You look like you rolled through hell and back.”

And he had—in a way.

So, he peeled off his shirt first, tugging the fabric over his head and feeling the dried mud crumble like dust onto the hardwood. His boots came next, then the rest of his clothes. The bathroom mirror caught a glimpse of his reflection—sunburned shoulders, flushed cheeks, that damn stubborn smirk still ghosting across his mouth like a man who had no right.

Jake stepped into the shower and twisted the knob. Steam poured in seconds later, curling up around him like a memory.

The water hit him hot and hard, sluicing over skin and sweat, washing the afternoon off his shoulders. But the thoughts didn’t go away. If anything, the quiet made them worse.

He braced one arm against the tile, head down, water beating across the nape of his neck—and that’s when she showed up.

Not in person, no. In his damn head.

You, soaked in rain and mud, laughing in the yard as kids screamed and chased each other. You, yelling at him to clean up, but eyes flicking down his bare chest like you couldn’t help it.

You, standing under the Texas sun, defiant and glowing, fire in your glare and something soft flickering underneath. A kind of softness he remembered. A kind he used to know.

Jake exhaled, long and low, like he could breathe you out. Like the heat of the water could chase your face from his mind. But it didn’t.

It got worse.

Your voice. Your eyes. Your mouth.

His hand curled into a fist against the slick tile wall.

"Get it together, Seresin," he muttered to himself. "This ain't the time."

But God, it had been a long time. And suddenly, the idea of you sharing this room—of that duffle bag maybe being yours—hit him with the force of a jet engine.

Oh, he was screwed. And not in the way he wanted.

- You, Rogue -

The sun had started its slow descent behind the fields, casting golden rays that poured into the corners of the farmhouse like warm honey. You’d just about had enough of the noise, the chaos, the squealing of kids using your childhood bedroom like it was a damn jungle gym. Your old dresser was littered with dolls that weren’t yours, stuffed animals whose eyes stared blankly, and one suspicious-looking crayon mural on the closet door that hadn’t been there twenty years ago.

You pouted. Unapologetically.

Your father had chuckled, all gravel and warmth. “Spare guest room’s empty, sweetheart. You can crash there for now.”

You didn’t argue—just nodded, already tugging your duffel bag from beneath a pile of someone’s blanket fort. That morning, you had dropped your stuff in the guest room before helping your mom out front.

Now, covered in a layer of dust, dirt, and sticky child-handprints, you pushed the door open and let it shut behind you with a soft click. It was quiet in here, cooler too, the way old farmhouses always held the chill of dusk in their bones.

You locked the door out of habit, drew the curtains, and stripped down without ceremony. Your robe was nowhere in sight—probably left in the trunk of your car—but you weren’t about to go looking. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you padded barefoot across the hardwood, steps quiet as you made your way toward the bathroom.

Then you paused.

There—on the bed. Something that definitely wasn’t yours. A second duffle bag. A wrinkled T-shirt. Socks. Boxers. Oh, for the love of—

You rolled your eyes with the weight of a thousand exasperated sighs, arms folding as you marched across the room to investigate. Maybe it was one of your cousins. Or maybe—

The bathroom door opened with a hiss of steam.

And then—

“Well… well,” came a drawl, slow and rich as molasses.

You whipped around, eyes wide.

Jake Seresin stood there in nothing but a towel, drops of water tracing the carved lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, glistening like he was carved out of sin and every bad decision you ever made. His hair was damp, mussed perfectly without trying. His smirk? Lethal.

And oh—his eyes locked on you, towel-clad and stunned mid-step, and lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Would you look at that,” he said again, voice lower now. “Talk about walking into paradise.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

And the towel around your body felt suddenly very, very insufficient.

The steam curled from the bathroom like smoke from a lit match, clinging to the air with the scent of cedar soap and something sinfully masculine. You barely had time to process the fact that the mystery toiletries on the sink weren’t yours before the door swung open—and there he was.

Jake Seresin.

Dripping wet.

Shirtless.

Smug as hell.

And wrapped in a towel that was doing the bare minimum.

His broad shoulders glistened, golden from the remnants of the setting sun slipping through the curtains. Water ran in rivulets down the defined lines of his chest, cutting through the faint dusting of freckles and tan like the universe was outlining sin itself. That damn smirk curled onto his lips the second he saw you—towel wrapped tight, hair damp, standing in front of the bed like a deer caught in a thunderstorm of what the actual hell is happening.

He didn’t even flinch. No shame. No embarrassment. Just that cocky, damn-near-illegal glint in his eyes as he leaned lazily against the doorframe, water still dripping off the ends of his hair, traveling down the slope of his neck and vanishing behind the cotton barrier wrapped snug on his hips.

“Well,” he drawled, voice deep and slow like whiskey on a southern summer night. “Wasn’t expecting company… but I gotta say, I’m not mad about it.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Words were there—maybe a curse, maybe a scream—but none made it out. Instead, you just stared. At him. At his bare chest. At the way his abs flexed subtly when he shifted. At the slight dip of the towel where his hipbone peeked out like a damn invitation to ruin your life.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you finally hissed, clutching your towel tighter with both hands like it was a lifeline.

Jake blinked, faux-innocent. “Your mom said the spare room was free. Guess we both had the same idea.”

You were going to combust. Not from embarrassment—no, that ship had sailed the second you caught a glimpse of the way a single droplet of water trailed down his sternum and disappeared beneath the fold of the towel—but from sheer, blinding, seething indignation.

“This is my room,” you snapped.

“Looks like it’s our room now, darlin’,” he said, cocking a brow as his gaze slipped—not rudely, but boldly—from your face down to the curve of your towel-wrapped figure. “Unless you want me to leave.”

You wanted to punch him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw something.

And maybe—just maybe—you wanted to drop the towel and see if he’d still be standing there all smug.

Jake must’ve sensed that dangerous crossroads of thought because he stepped forward slightly, his voice dipping. “You gonna kick me out, sunshine? Or are you gonna admit that you missed me?”

You scoffed, cheeks burning. “I didn’t miss you. I forgot you existed.”

“Oh,” he murmured, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, eyes still on you like you were something sacred and forbidden. “Then why are you staring like that?”

You weren’t staring. You were not staring. Absolutely not. You were simply—

Then his towel slipped just an inch lower on his hips, and you made a noise in your throat that could only be described as a choke.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” Jake teased, grinning.

You snapped out of your stupor like you'd been slapped. “Put some damn clothes on.”

“Say please.”

“Jake.”

He winked, slow and lazy, then stepped back toward the bathroom door. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good.”

He turned—and you got a full view of his back muscles working under skin still damp from the shower. You gulped.

The door closed behind him.

And you just stood there, staring at the space he’d been in, cheeks burning, pulse racing, and towel clutched like a lifeline.

Hell.

This was going to be a long weekend.

By the time Jake exited the bathroom, the air around him was thick with the scent of soap, aftershave, and smug satisfaction. He was still towel-drying his hair, now dressed in a white t-shirt that clung too well to his chest, and a pair of jeans that hung low on his hips in a way that should’ve been outlawed in polite society. His boots were off—thank God—but that cocky, heat-soaked grin? That was very much still on.

He passed you with a small nod and a whistle-soft, “Don’t take too long now. Dinner’s soon, birthday girl,” before tossing his damp towel onto a nearby chair like he owned the damn place.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Because the second the door clicked shut behind him, you lunged into the bathroom like it was your last salvation.

The moment the door locked behind you, your back hit the wall, and your towel nearly slipped with the force of your breath. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a five-mile sprint—not walked in on a man you allegedly forgot you were in love with. The steam in the room hadn’t dissipated yet, and it wrapped around your skin like a memory, thick and too damn hot.

You blinked.

His soap still clung to the air. His scent still lingered in the steam.

You cursed under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Why the hell was Jake Seresin always ten times hotter when you were actively trying not to think about him? Why did he have to look at you like that? Talk to you like he had all the time in the world and nothing to lose? Stand there like a walking sin with a towel hanging so low on his hips you were pretty sure your ancestors felt that down their spines?

You were burning up.

Not just from the heat in the room, but from the fire crawling up your neck and down your spine like molten sugar and hellfire. That man had the audacity to exist like that—just exist—with a smirk and soft drawl and biceps that looked like they could throw you over a fence.

And you let him.

You watched him.

You remembered every drop of water sliding down his chest, every twitch of that cocky little smirk, every brush of his voice when he said your name like he’d never forgotten it.

God, you needed a cold shower inside a blizzard under a glacier.

Instead, you groaned and stepped under the still-warm spray of water he’d left behind, muttering curses to yourself as if that would rinse the images of him out of your head.

They didn’t. They only got worse. Because now you could see him there, in this space—his footprints still on the mat, his breath still clinging to the mirror. And your knees might’ve wobbled just a little as you gripped the edge of the sink and whispered to yourself—

“Get a grip.” But you didn’t believe it. Not even a little.

You were finally clean. The kind of clean that only came after scrubbing off not just mud but the weight of the entire day — your skin warm from the water, your hair damp and curling against the nape of your neck, steam fogging up the mirror like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. You’d taken your time, hoping the silence might scrub away the image of Jake Seresin standing shirtless in the same damn bathroom just minutes ago. It didn’t work.

Wrapped snugly in a towel, you turned toward the door, ready to put an end to this spiral — only to realize something crucial. Your clothes. Your actual, decent, non-humiliating clothes? Still in your duffel bag. Which, naturally, was not in the bathroom. No. It was on the bed. Out there. With Jake.

Your stomach dropped. Your face flushed instantly with heat that had nothing to do with the shower. You stared at the bathroom door like it had personally betrayed you.

You considered your options. You could march out, wrapped in nothing but your towel, and grab the bag yourself — risk walking past the man who’d already seen far too much. Or, you could bite the bullet. Ask for help. Humble yourself.

Groaning under your breath, you cracked the door just slightly and peeked through the gap. Jake’s voice drifted through before you could even speak — humming off-key to some old country song like he was just a man enjoying his own company and not the reason you were considering climbing out the bathroom window.

You exhaled sharply and said his name. “Jake?”

The humming cut off, replaced by a beat of silence. You could hear the shift of fabric, the soft creak of the floorboards as he turned toward the door. Then, far too amused for your liking, he answered, “Well, well. Sunshine. Miss me already?”

You resisted the urge to bang your head against the doorframe. “I need my duffel.”

Another beat. You knew exactly what kind of grin was spreading across his face. The smug one. The one that belonged to a man who had never once let you live anything down.

“You mean the one out here? With your clothes in it?” he asked, faux-innocent.

You closed your eyes. “Yes, Jake. That one.”

A low chuckle rolled from his chest, and you heard him moving, footsteps heading toward the bed. “I got you,” he said. “Only because it’s your birthday. And because I’m a gentleman.”

You didn’t grace that with a reply. Just pushed your arm through the crack in the door, fingers wiggling impatiently. The second the canvas of the duffel hit your palm, you yanked it through — but of course, Jake couldn’t help himself.

“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I’ve dreamed about this moment before.”

You were already turning away when he added, just loud enough to reach you, “Didn’t say it was a dirty dream.”

The door shut on his smirk, and you leaned your forehead against the cool tile, clutching the duffel bag like it was a shield. Your pulse was still hammering. Your ears were red. You hadn’t even changed yet and already you felt half undone.

Inside the steam and silence, you whispered to yourself, “You are not losing your mind. You are not attracted to him again. You’re just... hot. It’s just the weather.”

But even as you unzipped your bag, you couldn’t deny the truth.

Jake Seresin, the human migraine, was getting under your skin again. And he hadn’t even really started yet.

The backyard had been completely transformed. String lights were strung between trees and porch posts, glowing amber for the deepening blue of a Texas evening later. Long tables had been set with checkered cloths and mismatched plates, pitchers of iced tea and lemonade sweating on every surface. The smell of grilled meat lingered heavy in the air, tangled with the warm, comforting scent of sun-warmed grass and citronella candles. Laughter echoed like a hymn — soft and constant, as if the whole world had taken a breath and decided to stay right here.

You stepped into it dressed and clean, your hair still damp, pulled back in a quick braid that clung to the back of your neck. You had slipped into a loose cotton dress that your mother had left on your childhood bed, the kind of thing that made you feel like someone softer than what the Navy hardened.

Your boots hit the porch step with a solid thud. Then you scanned the crowd — cousins shouting over a cornhole match, your uncles gathered around a cooler, your aunts near the grill gossiping like it was religion. And right there in the thick of it, beer in hand and talking to your brother like he’d belonged all his life, was Jake.

He looked up like he felt you before he saw you. His eyes met yours across the backyard, and for a moment, the noise faded out. He was wearing a clean white t-shirt now, sleeves rolled up, jeans low on his hips, his hair still damp from the shower — the cocky bastard looked every inch like the boy you used to curse under your breath and secretly stare at. But this wasn’t some reckless flyboy anymore. This was a man, and that was somehow worse.

You tried to act unaffected, crossing the yard with your chin high and spine stiff. But the way Jake stood up when you got closer — the way he pulled out the chair beside him, grinning just slightly — you knew he was going to get under your skin again. He always did.

“Birthday girl,” he greeted as you dropped into the seat, ignoring the flutter in your chest.

The plate in front of you was empty for two seconds before Jake reached for it and started piling on food like muscle memory. Ribs, your aunt’s corn pudding, slices of brisket, and a scoop of the macaroni your cousin swore she made from scratch but absolutely did not.

“This much brisket?” he asked, shooting you a look.

“You’re lucky I don’t shove it down your throat.”

Jake grinned like you’d just told him a love poem. “Threatening violence on your birthday. Classic you.”

“You want me to add the fork in your eye to my wish list?”

“I missed you,” he said under his breath, and that? That almost made you drop your glass. Almost.

The table was loud — too loud, and the warmth in your chest too unfamiliar. Jake passed you the cornbread without asking, refilled your lemonade like he had every right to. He didn’t push. Didn’t flirt. Just stayed close, smiling whenever you spoke, listening when you didn’t.

Then came the moment you’d been dreading.

“Happy birthday to you…”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hand as your family sang with full volume and zero tune. Jake leaned in close, voice low beside your ear.

“No use hiding, sunshine. Take it like a pilot.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he just laughed. He never even looked at the cake — his eyes stayed on you the whole time, like you were the flame, not the candles.

When it was time to blow them out, he leaned in again. “Make a wish.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I already got what I wanted.”

His brows lifted in surprise. “Oh yeah? Me?”

“Silence,” you deadpanned, then took a bite of cake like you didn’t notice the way his smile turned into something tender.

Your mother raised a toast. Your father gave a speech. The table clinked glasses and passed plates, and through it all, Jake didn’t move from your side. And you let him stay.

Dinner had long wrapped, but the yard still buzzed with life. Lanterns swung lazily from the trees, casting a soft, golden glow over the evening. Kids shrieked and laughed as they ran barefoot across the grass, dodging sprinklers and slipping in the mud.

Adults lingered in clumps around the grills and tables, voices lowered now, soothed by full bellies and the sweetness of homemade pie. It was the kind of night that made time feel like it bent a little — like it curved inward and held everything close.

You were about to help clean up when a familiar sound cut through the hum of conversation. A wheeze. A low huff. Nails on the wooden porch.

You froze.

And then you saw him.

“Bingo?” you breathed out, like the word alone might summon him closer.

The old Labrador came hobbling down the porch steps, slower than he used to be, his once-golden fur now dulled to a soft cream shot through with gray. His tail swayed, not wagging as wildly as it had when he was younger, but still moving, still trying. Still happy.

You dropped down into the grass without a second thought, your dress catching on a twig, your hands reaching out. “Hey, old man,” you whispered, cradling his tired face. “You still remember me?”

Bingo leaned into your hands and licked your cheek, huffing softly against your skin. You laughed, even as your throat tightened, and blinked against the burn behind your eyes.

And then, like gravity — like clockwork — Jake was there. He moved into the scene like he belonged, crouching down beside you, boots sinking into the earth. His gaze softened at the sight of the dog.

“Damn,” he murmured, running his hand down Bingo’s back with a tenderness you hadn’t seen in years. “Still kickin’.”

“He’s a tough one,” you replied, not looking at him.

“I always knew he’d outlive all of us,” he said with a lopsided grin, still looking at the dog. “Still got better instincts than half the squadron.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Bingo huffed again, content to lean his weight against both of you — like he didn’t care about time, or history, or everything unspoken hovering between the two people he loved most.

Then your mother’s voice called out from the porch, light and warm, “Hey! Let’s get a picture. Come on — just like the one from before!”

You looked up, heart sinking just a little.

Before.

Before everything.

Still, you didn’t argue. Not when your dad had already joined your mom on the steps, waving you both over. Not when Bingo began trotting that way with all the shaky dignity he could muster.

You stood and followed, wiping your hands on your dress. Jake moved beside you, just far enough not to touch, but close enough to feel.

On the porch, the photographer — your cousin Ellie — arranged you quickly. “Okay,” she chirped, “just like before! You and Jake in the middle. Bingo between you. Your parents on either side.”

You and Jake took your places, shoulders brushing. You both knelt again. Bingo plopped his butt between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake glanced at you, his arm settling gently behind Bingo’s back. “Ready?”

You didn’t look at him. “Just smile, Seresin.”

The camera clicked. And there it was. A snapshot.

You in your old boots and a sundress, Jake in a white T-shirt and jeans, his hands muddy and hair a mess. Your parents standing tall and proud on either side. And Bingo, the last link to who you used to be, smack in the middle.

You felt something lodge in your throat when you stood. Something small, sharp, and unspoken. You didn’t know what it meant yet. Maybe you didn’t want to.

Jake’s hand brushed yours when he stood beside you. You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t reach back, either.

The swing creaked as you sat down, the familiar groan of old wood and rusted chains filling the quiet air like a memory. The sun had dipped lower now, slanting gold across the horizon, painting shadows long and low across the fields you once called home.

You swayed gently, toes brushing the dust-soft ground, fingers curled loosely around the chain links. The cool breeze carried the scent of cut grass, barbecue smoke, and rain that had never quite come.

And then you heard footsteps.

Not rushed. Not hesitant either. Just… there. Steady, familiar. And you didn’t have to look to know.

You kept your eyes on the sky, the pale orange bleeding into pink. “If you’re here to bother me again,” you said, voice calm, cool, unreadable, “I swear to God, Seresin—”

“I’m not here to bother you.” His voice was quiet, too quiet for Jake Seresin, and that alone made your hands tighten around the swing’s chain. “I just… saw you come out here. Thought maybe—” He paused. “Thought maybe you didn’t want to be alone.”

You snorted. “You thought wrong.”

He didn’t answer. You heard the rustle of grass as he walked around, and then he was in your peripheral vision, hands in his back pockets, boots scuffing the dirt like he was twelve years old and about to confess to breaking a window.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t sit.

“I wasn’t going to come,” he said finally, voice low. “To today. To any of this.”

“No one asked you to.”

“I know.” A pause. “Your mom did.”

You closed your eyes briefly, jaw clenching. “Of course she did.”

He shifted again, then leaned against the old post of the swing set. You could feel his gaze, hot and heavy, but still you didn’t turn.

“I meant what I said. Back there, in the office.” His voice was quieter now, steadier somehow. “I wasn’t lying to you.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something?” you asked, tone sharp like a snap of wire. “You weren’t lying now, but you were lying then. You lied to me, Jake. You used me.”

“I was a kid,” he murmured.

“So was I,” you snapped, finally looking at him. The anger rose like a tide, quick and bright. “But I didn’t turn someone’s heart into a party trick.”

Jake didn’t flinch. He just looked at you, solemn and still. “You left.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said you left.” His jaw worked. “You didn’t just walk out of my life, you disappeared from the damn map. No calls. No message. Nothing. I turned around and you were just… gone.”

Your chest tightened. “I left because I had to. Because staying meant looking at the version of myself I became around you—small, pathetic, invisible.”

“I never wanted you to feel that way.”

“But you didn’t stop it either,” you said, standing now, fury crackling beneath your skin. “You stood there while they laughed. While I was trying so hard not to cry in front of everyone. And when I gave you everything I had—my time, my loyalty, my belief—you threw it back like it was nothing.”

Jake’s voice came out quieter. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it meant that much to you.”

You laughed, cold and bitter. “You think this is about a grade? About a project? You were the first person to make me feel like I was worth seeing, Jake. Like maybe I wasn’t just the weird, quiet girl who loved jets and read manuals for fun. And then, when it mattered… you made me feel like I was a joke.”

Silence stretched between you. The wind pulled gently at your dress, lifting strands of hair across your cheek. Jake’s face was pale in the soft light, his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know what the hell to say.

Finally, he stepped forward. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I’m not asking for that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you asking for?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Maybe just… to not be a ghost in your story anymore.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t the boy you remembered—too smug, too handsome for his own good, too damn reckless with hearts that weren’t his. This man in front of you was older, weathered in ways you hadn’t expected. He wore guilt like a second skin, pride chipped away beneath a uniform and call signs and medals that didn’t erase the kid who once broke you.

But still.

It wasn’t enough.

“You’re not a ghost,” you said finally, voice soft but cold. “You’re the bruise that never fully faded.”

And with that, you turned back to the swing, sitting down again with a sigh. The air felt heavier now, but somehow clearer too. Jake didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, watching the woman he once thought he could forget.

Meanwhile, the cicadas began their slow chorus. The stars blinked into being, one by one. And neither of you moved.

Jake exhaled. It was shaky, like it had been trapped in his chest for years. Then, quietly: “I know I don’t deserve to ask anything from you.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, but you said nothing.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. You didn’t move. Not away. Not toward. Just still.

“But I’m going to say it anyway,” Jake murmured. “Because I’m tired of letting the best things in my life slip through my fingers just because I was too proud or too scared to admit I screwed up.”

There was a tremor in his voice now. Barely there. But it cracked on the next breath.

“I used to think you were a detour,” he said, his hands clenched at his sides. “Just a stop along the way. A girl who knew too much about engines and didn’t laugh at the right jokes. But you… God, you were everything. I just didn’t know it yet.”

You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted in disbelief.

“You were fire wrapped in softness. You were brilliant, and kind, and so damn loyal it scared me. And I—” his voice broke, and he looked away for the first time, dragging a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together.

Then he looked back. And his eyes… they were wet.

“I was the fool. Not you. I was the coward who needed everyone to think he was cool, even if it meant throwing away the one person who actually saw me. Really saw me. And I hurt you. I used you. I mocked what you gave me like it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered more than anything.”

His throat bobbed, his voice raw and cracking as he stepped even closer, as if the distance between you was burning him alive.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he whispered. “You don’t even have to look at me again. But I needed you to know... I love you. I never stopped.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, the words hitting like a punch to the chest.

Jake’s shoulders shook now. He tried to breathe, but it came out a choke. He covered his mouth with his hand, tried to blink it back, but the tears were already falling—silent, slow, like the kind that don’t beg for pity. Just truth.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’ve loved you since the day you handed me that stupid project and told me not to fail. I just didn’t know how to be someone who deserved you.”

You stood slowly, eyes locked on his. He was crying, nose pink, jaw trembling—Jake Seresin, who never flinched in dogfights, who never let anyone see the cracks.

And now, all of him was cracked wide open. Just for you.

Your voice was quiet at first. Almost too quiet to hear above the creak of the swing swaying slightly behind you. But Jake heard it—heard you—and the sound of your breath hitching as you tried to keep control, tried to keep steel where there was only the slow-melting ache of grief.

“I wanted to forget you,” you whispered, eyes burning. “And God, I tried. For years. I told myself you didn’t mean anything. That it didn’t matter how you looked at me like I was worth nothing in front of your friends. That it didn’t matter how you let them laugh, let them joke about the quiet girl who knew too much and felt too much.” You swallowed, hard. “I told myself you didn’t mean it. That maybe you were just young. Stupid. Caught in the wrong moment.”

Jake stood frozen, barely breathing, eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever mattered. Because you were.

“And now?” you continued, voice breaking at the edges. “Now you show up like this. With words I waited for years to hear. And it’s not that I don’t want to believe you—God, Jake, part of me wants to. But I’m terrified.” Your voice cracked completely now, tears slipping down your cheeks like they’d been waiting for this. “Because if I forgive you… if I let myself fall for you again, and you leave—if you break me again—I won’t come back from that.”

Jake’s face crumpled. All of his armor, the cocky smirks, the playboy confidence, the golden-boy glow—shattered. He stepped closer, slowly, then dropped to his knees right there in front of you, in the dirt, like none of it mattered. Because it didn’t. Not if he couldn’t reach you.

“I won’t leave,” he said, his voice thick and hoarse. “I won’t hurt you again. I swear to you, I swear on everything I’ve got left—I will never, ever let you feel like you’re not enough. Not again.”

His hands were on your waist, trembling, grounding him. His forehead lowered against your stomach, and you felt his body shaking—not with cold or nerves but with something deeper. Something broken and rebuilt, still raw at the edges.

“I love you,” he said again, almost pleading now. “And I know that word isn’t enough. I know I’ve got a hell of a mountain to climb to prove it. But I’ll do it. I’ll prove it every damn day for the rest of my life if you let me. I’ll give you every flower, every sunrise, every second chance you thought you’d never get.”

He looked up at you, eyes wet, voice soft but sure. “I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not running. Not from you. Not from us. I will never leave you behind again.”

And as you looked down at him—at Jake Seresin, on his knees, shaking in your arms, eyes wide and begging like prayers—you realized he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness.

He was asking for forever.

You stared at him, at the man kneeling in the dirt like he wasn’t born of sky and pride but forged from something heartbreakingly human. Jake Seresin—your first betrayal, your oldest wound, your almost. His hands were still on your waist like a tether, like if he let go, he’d float off and lose you again.

And God, your chest ached with it—with the heat of his words, the trembling in his shoulders, the way his eyes never once strayed from yours. You wanted to run. You wanted to scream. You wanted to collapse into his arms and never let go.

Instead, you knelt in front of him.

It startled him—his breath caught, his eyes widened like he didn’t expect you to meet him on his knees. But you did. Slowly. Carefully. As if any sudden move might break you both again.

“I used to imagine what this would look like,” you said, your voice rough, lips trembling with the effort it took to speak. “You, apologizing. Me, finally getting to ask why.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head, not finished.

“I used to think if I ever saw you again, I’d slap you. Or worse. And maybe I should’ve.” You laughed wetly, bitter and exhausted. “But then you looked at me. Not the way you used to—God, not like that—but like I was real again. Like I wasn’t just something you stepped over to get where you wanted.”

Jake’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He was still crying—quietly now. Steady. Like it wasn’t a thing he could stop, just a thing he carried.

You reached up, thumb grazing his cheek, brushing a tear away. “You were my first heartbreak, Jake. And maybe that means I’ll always flinch when you get too close. Maybe I’ll always wonder if I’m just a placeholder again.”

Jake gripped your wrist gently, turning into your palm like it was the only lifeline he had.

“But maybe,” you whispered, “I want to find out.”

His breath hitched. “You do?”

“I’m still mad,” you said, your voice cracking with a laugh, with something like fragile hope. “I’m still scared. But if you’re willing to do the work… if you’re really in this, Jake—then yeah.”

His mouth was trembling now, his shoulders shaking harder. “I’m in. I’m so fucking in. I don’t want anyone else.”

“I don’t want pretty speeches,” you warned, even as you leaned closer, forehead pressed to his. “I want the truth. I want actions. I want the man you are now—not the boy who broke me.”

He nodded, over and over like he couldn’t believe you were saying this, like he needed to etch the words into his heart before they disappeared. “I’ll be him. For you, I’ll be him.”

Then, finally—finally—you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. And Jake folded into you like he’d been waiting years just to breathe again.

A quiet, shared exhale against the tender press of foreheads—him on his knees, you holding him like he might fall apart if you let go. And maybe you would too. You could still taste the ache between you. Years of silence, of what-ifs and almosts and never-agains. But in that moment, wrapped in the soft amber of dusk and the hush of the farm behind you, there was only one truth left.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle, not entirely. It was hesitant, then desperate, then sure. The kind of kiss that tasted of memories and apologies, of pain soothed and promises rewritten. His hands cradled your face like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he was scared you’d vanish if he blinked. And you held him like he was no longer the boy who hurt you, but the man who swore he never would again.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. You looked at him—really looked—and there it was: the wonder in his eyes, the salt of old regrets on his lips, the trembling hope in his touch.

“You’re crying,” you whispered.

“I’ve been crying since I saw you in that swing,” he murmured, grinning through it now. “You kissed me.”

“You begged,” you shot back with a smirk, cheeks burning.

Jake laughed, forehead against yours again. “Damn right I did.”

And somewhere behind you, the sounds of laughter and music and clinking glasses carried from the house. But in the quiet between heartbeats, it was just the two of you. No call signs. No ghosts. No armor.

Just the girl who ran wild in the fields and the boy who didn’t know what he had until she left.

Funny, really.

Once, you’d been the fool for loving him. The quiet one. The invisible one. The girl no one expected to rise.

And he—he’d been the golden boy.

But life has a wicked sense of humor.

Because now, as he knelt there beneath the stars, still trembling from the kiss you gave him, there was no mistaking it:

The golden boy had become the fool.

And he’d never been happier to be one.

[meadowfics]

strange occurrence

namgyu x f!reader

the world flips upside down for you and namgyu overnight

warnings: cryptic pregnancy (reader). se-mi and namgyu do not hate each others guts. swearing. mentions of addiction and toxicity. this is my version of a 'clean namgyu' who got past his addiction and bad habits.

you never saw it coming.

in a way, you didn't want this to happen.

two years with namgyu has been a rollercoaster of all types of shit, and not once did you think a baby was part of the equation.

your life involving him started out toxic, and messy. the both of you met at club pentagon, fueled by al types of substances and hormones involved.

the both of you fed off each other’s worst impulses.

he was deep in his addiction, eyes glassy and temper short, while you, for reasons you couldn’t fully explain, loved pushing his buttons. you’d flirt with danger, say things to rile him up, knowing it’d spark a fight.

it was twisted, but it was yours.

the fights were loud, the nights long, and the apologies longer.

yet, something about namgyu kept you tethered.

maybe it was the way he looked at you when he was sober, like you were the only thing grounding him.

a year ago, things shifted.

namgyu got clean, clawing his way out of the club fixation with a determination that made you love him deeper. he got out of being some stupid hongdae boy since you saw the man he could be... strong, loyal, with a heart that beat for you.

you stopped your games, too.

no more picking fights for the thrill, no more testing his limits. you wanted him to stay, and for the first time, you believed he would.

life settled into a rhythm, not perfect but good.

you laughed more, fought less, and built a little world together in your cramped apartment, filled with mismatched furniture and late-night talks.

right now it’s 1 am

when namgyu grabs his coat, muttering about a gas station run. you’re sprawled on the couch, craving blue raspberry juice and some snacks...kimbap, maybe, or those gummy worms you both fight over.

he smirks, calls you a kid, but promises to grab everything.

namgyu is out of the door before you can remind him to get the good brand, not the off-brand crap.

five minutes later as you lay and watch the glory on the couch, a sharp pain slices through your lower stomach.

you wince, brushing it off as period cramps.

they’ve been coming and going all week, nothing new.

you curl up, waiting for namgyu to come back with your juice, hoping it’ll distract you.

however, the pain doesn’t fade. it grows, clawing at your insides until you’re gasping, clutching the couch cushions.

by the time you’re crying, screaming through gritted teeth, you can barely think straight.

it’s not cramps. it’s something else, something wrong.

you’re alone, terrified, wondering if you’re dying.

the door swings open, and namgyu’s there, eyes wide with panic as he drops the plastic bag, the blue raspberry juice bottle rolling across the floor.

“are you alright? wha--what the hell’s happening?” he shouts, rushing to you.

you can’t answer, only sob as he scoops you up, his hands shaking but steady enough to run you down to the university hospital two blocks away.

the hospital is too loud full of bright lights, nurses barking orders, and namgyu’s voice tight with unrecognizable fear as he holds your hand.

you’re still crying, the pain relentless, when they wheel you in for an ultrasound.

you expect bad news, maybe something awful like a cancer tumor, but the doctor’s words hit like a train.

“you’re in labor. we checked your cervix. seven centimeters dilated.”

you stare, mouth open, as namgyu’s grip on your hand tightens.

“labor?” he chokes out.

“like a baby?”

you’re too stunned to speak. you didn’t look pregnant, didn’t feel pregnant.

no morning sickness, no weight gain, nothing.

how could this be real?

there’s no time to process.

the pain surges, and suddenly you’re pushing, screaming, namgyu’s voice in your ear telling you you’re strong, you can do this. he’s terrified, you see it in his eyes, but he stays, never letting go.

that shocks you, the way that namgyu didn't run from this.

after three hours, a cry pierces the room, sharp and small.

your daughter is born.

she’s tiny, perfect, with your face and namgyu’s dark eyes.

you’re both speechless, staring at this little human who appeared out of nowhere.

namgyu mumbles, “is this a fucking joke?” but his voice cracks, and you know he’s already in love.

the hospital sends you home with a car carrier, some diapers, and a few newborn essentials, but that’s it.

your apartment is a disaster...empty of anything a baby needs. no crib, no bottles, no tiny clothes.

namgyu, still reeling, digs into the cash he’d stashed for weed he never bought and heads out to get diapers, formula, and whatever else the hospital didn’t provide.

you’re left alone with your daughter, staring at her in the carrier, wondering how you’re supposed to do this.

she’s so small, so fragile, and you’re terrified you’ll mess it up.

the door bursts open, and se-mi storms in, eyes wide.

“gyeong-su wasn’t lying about what namgyu texted him!!!? you had a baby?”

she’s your chill, yet nosy friend from the club days. however, her shock melts into action. she’s on the phone, ordering baby stuff online, promising to drop off clothes her cousin’s kid outgrew.

she holds your daughter, cooing, and for a moment, you feel less alone.

se-mi’s a lifeline, helping you navigate things like showing you how to change a diaper, how to swaddle, and how to survive on no sleep.

apparently, se-mi worked as a nanny for some time. she knows how this all works.

the first weeks are brutal.

you and namgyu are in over your heads, sleep-deprived and overwhelmed.

you cry a lot, not just from exhaustion but from the weight of it all. you didn’t plan this. you didn’t even know.

namgyu’s trying, but he’s struggling too.

he’s up at 3 a.m., warming bottles, pacing with the baby when she won’t stop crying.

you catch him staring at her sometimes, his expression soft but scared, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

the toxic days of your past feel like another lifetime, but they’ve left scars.

you’re hyper-aware of every fight, every time you pushed him too far, and you’re terrified it’ll creep back in. namgyu senses it too. one night, when the baby’s finally asleep, he pulls you close and promises, “you're ridiculous if you think i’m going anywhere. this is our child and we’re making this work. for her. for us.”

namgyu's voice is strangely steady.

you believe him.

he’s not the man he was two years ago, and neither are you.

namgyu surprises you.

he’s gentle with your daughter, cradling her like she’s made of glass.

even thanos jokes about calling her “mini y/n,” grinning at how she’s got your nose, your lips, but namgyu's eyes.

namgyu is obsessed with his daughter, even when he’s fumbling through diaper changes or panicking when she cries for no reason.

sometimes he’s short-tempered, frustrated when he can’t figure out what she needs but he tries. you catch him whispering to her about you, how she’s lucky to have you as her mom.

he’s also protective, maybe too much.

when se-mi brings gyeong-su over to meet the baby, namgyu hovers, eyeing gyeong-su like he’s a threat.

“are you stupid? don’t hold her like that,” he snaps, then softens when you give him a look. he’s learning, and so are you.

unfortunately money’s tight.

namgyu still works as a club promotor, promoting extra to cover the baby stuff.

you’re back at work too, part-time, leaving your daughter with se-mi or min-su when you’re both gone.

the exhaustion is bone-deep, and some nights you and namgyu barely talk, too tired to do anything but collapse.

your daughter’s health is another worry.

cryptic pregnancies can come with risks, and the doctors keep a close eye on her during each doctors appointment.

thankfully mi is healthy, but you’re paranoid every time she cries too long or seems off.

namgyu’s the same, googling symptoms at 2 a.m. until you tell him to stop.

se-mi’s the voice of reason, dragging you both back from the edge of panic.

sometimes, you look at your daughter and wonder how she stayed hidden so long.

it feels strange, like she was waiting for you and namgyu to be ready.

you’re not sure you are, even now, but you’re trying and namgyu’s trying.

masterlist

[fullfriendnerdclutch]

Since you love it when people expanded your storyline, please allow me to entertain you about Cas because this is right up my alley @onelinerbust

Something extraordinary happened to me earlier today. As I smugly grin with my roommate to our enhanced reflection in the mirror, my mind wandered to 10 hours ago when that hit me.

My fingers, stained with Cheeto dust and smelling faintly of lukewarm ramen, hammered away at the keyboard, lines of Python code blooming on the screen like digital weeds. The hum of the server rack in the corner was my white noise, the flickering monitor my campfire. This was my life, resident basement dweller in a leafy, aggressively liberal campus more interested in protesting free speech than actually engaging with it.

My world consisted of logic gates, late-night coding sessions, and the occasional awkward conversation with a teaching assistant about why my sorting algorithm was eating up more memory than a browser running Chrome. Social life? Non-existent. Romantic prospects? Laughable. I’d spend my weekends huddled in the dimly lit computer lab, bathed in the cool glow of screens, while the rest of the campus pulsed with parties and… well, whatever else regular college kids did. I wouldn't know. Regular wasn't in my programming.

*bzzzt bzzzt*

Little did I know back then, it was the catalyst. It was a rarity for someone to message me, most of the time people reached me through the more accessible socials, message to my phone number usually ended up as spam. But something – a flicker of boredom, maybe – made me pick it up and unlock it.

The message was long, rambling, and…...weird.

“Cas, wake the fuck up. This is a trick, you are NOT a spineless soyboy. You’re supposed to be a GOD, remember? 🤯 Alpha💪🏻. American 🇺🇸. White 🫵🏻. You have all it takes to become the God that you are destined to be! 🦅🦅🦅🇺🇸 This is not it! Look at you, pathetic. Remember gridiron glory? Friday night lights? The roar of the crowd as you, Chad ‘The Crusher’ Kensington, leading your team to victory? 🏈🏈🏆 Remember the cheerleaders, their pom-poms a blur, their eyes hungry for you? Remember the taste of victory, the scent of their slick pussy🍑😏, the adoration in their eyes when they kneel to your greatness🍆💦🧠? You deserve it all. It’s your birthright. This woke bullshit campus is trying to neuter you, but deep down, the alpha is still there. Let him out. Unleash the beast 😤👹👹 They want weakness? Show them power. They want equality? Show them hierarchy. They want gentleness? Show them dominance. Go take what's yours, Chad. Grab your crown and spoil, king 👑, you know I'm right and you approve this message! 😤😤

The message was punctuated with emojis – flexing biceps, crowns, American flags, and an unsettling number of suggestive faces. My brow furrowed. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank. Some right-wing troll farm had probably gotten hold of my number. I was about to delete it when a strange warmth spread in my chest. Like a shot of something potent and unfamiliar.

It started small. A tingling in my fingers, then a tightening in my gut, like I'd just downed a gallon of protein shake. My vision sharpened, my glasses become an obstacle so I took it down. The code on the screen, which had been a comforting blur of familiar symbols, now seemed almost… insulting. My shoulders straightened instinctively. I flexed my fingers, and there was…more there. Definitely more. Concerned, I decided to make a dash to the bathroom, trying to relive myself and not disturb the others with my painful groan

As I entered the empty, secluded bathroom, that was when it hit.

It wasn't a slow transition. It was a goddamn reality shift. One second, I was Cas, the hunched-over coder, the next…I trembled on the floor as my body screamed with a new kind of awareness. My skin flushed with heat as it gets tighter, stretched over something hard and defined. Muscles. Real muscles. Not the flabby kind that comes from hauling bags of chips from the store to the dorm. These were….sculpted....powerful, dare I say.

Despite my attempt to look at my surroundings and begging for help, I only let out a weak, pathetic whimper as my gaze dropped to my swelling arms. I ripped off my oversized, stained hoodie, the fabric tearing slightly at the seams. The skinny, pale limbs I’d known my entire life were gone. It was replaced by thick, corded arms with veins popping under my now tanned, still-white skin. I managed to get some control over my trembling, swelling form, as I pushed myself to stand up. Then, as if a truck just hit me, my reflection stared back from the dirty bathroom mirror

It wasn't me, I thought rightaway, but a painful glitch hit my brain and I relaxed afterward.

The round, soft face was gone. Sharp angles had emerged – a strong jawline, high cheekbones. My eyes, which had always been a bland, watery blue behind thick glasses, were now a piercing, intense steel-grey, framed by this intimidating, darker eyebrows. My boring, unimpressive thin brunette with signs of receding hairline, had thickened, styled into a coiffed, blonde cut that framed my face perfectly. And… holy shit, my chest. I was enamored by the sight of it…defined...yet pillowy too, definitely the kind of pecs that can hypnotize anyone that stared at it for too long

The rest of my torso were equally outstanding, rippling with muscle and power beyond even my wildest imagination. A six-pack, for Christ’s sake! I ran a hand over my stomach, feeling the hard ridges beneath my skin. It felt… alien. And utterly, undeniably amazing.

Below the Adonis belt… well, let’s just say things were… proportionately enhanced. The message hadn't lied. Eight inches? Minimum. This wasn't just a physical transformation. It was…fundamental. A complete rewrite of my being.

And the memories…they flooded in, vivid and visceral, like a lifetime I’d somehow forgotten. Friday night lights. The roar of the crowd. Me, Chad Kensington, throwing a perfect spiral, the ball whistling through the air, finding my receiver in the end zone for the winning touchdown. Cheerleaders chanting my name. The hot press of bodies in the locker room, the smell of sweat and victory. The adoring gazes of girls, lining up for a piece of me.

Chad Kensington. That's me now. That had always been me. And this Cas memory… this weak, nerdy shell, this “Cas,” was just some… aberration. A glitch in the matrix, finally corrected.

A surge of pure, unadulterated testosterone pulsed through my veins. I thought to myself, this is power. This is dominance. This is what I was meant to be.

I remembered that I reached down, gripped myself through my sweatpants – they were suddenly too tight, too strained at the seams – and started to stroke hard, the phantom memories of cheering crowds and eager pussy fueling my hand. Chad Kensington, college star. Chad Kensington, panty-dropper extraordinaire. Chad Kensington, alpha male supreme. The image solidified in my mind, burning hot and real. I came hard all over the bathroom, my streak of thick, white cum painted the tiles, the mirror and even coagulated at the sink, the force of it surprising even myself, the false memory of adoration and conquest washing over me like a tidal wave.

When I finally opened my eyes, still breathing heavily, I realized that this would the very last time I would be jacking off to my dick in such a pathetic state. My baby batter would not be wasted in an empty, secluded bathroom like that so I quickly put my clothes back on and dashed to the computer lab to made my exit from the confine of that oppressive cage.

As I entered the lab, I remembered it suddenly felt… suffocating. Small. Pathetic. It wasn't my place anymore. Chad Kensington didn’t belong in a basement coding Phyton and shit. He belonged out there, dominating, conquering, taking what was rightfully his.

"Chad, what took you so long?"

Yeah, that was fun. Ramsey......did that pathetic TA really tried to intimidate me with that furrowed brow of his and confined me with bureaucracy BS? Well, he better be fuckin' jacked first before starting to act tough to me. Then, my brain started working. Maybe Ramsey can be less of a whiny, judgy TA if he received the message, so I just forwarded the message to him and smirked as I told him that I sent my reason to his personal messenger and I need to get the fuck out of here ASAP. He turned around and started to read the chat, and from the small glimpse that I managed to peek, the message is different from what I received! That's when the realization hit me. I legit mouthed "Damn" to myself as I realized that it's adaptive......like, that shit can change based on who read it. That revelation made my head spin, that message was indeed some fucking precisive, hi-tech work there. But the effect seemed to be the same, it made the reader into its best version of themselves, because how do you explain that a fucking algorithmic TA all-in-a-sudden have the built of a jacked bull like that, huh?

As he allowed me to grab my bag and leave the lab with a knowing nod, my stomach growled – not from hunger, but from a different kind of hunger. A primal urge. And then it brought me back to this very room as I remembered Kate, Jason's girlfriend. I know Jason, my roommate, was still at his stupid philosophy club meeting as I cleaned out my table, probably droning on about existential dread and Kate.....Kate was always… around, waiting for him. She's pretty enough, in a bland, accessible way. And always subtly, almost unconsciously, throwing glances my way. I knew even from back then that it must be the fucked up, corrupt message that made me think that way because Kate would never glanced to pathetic, asocial Cas, but at the same time, I was hit by this duality as I remembered myself as NOT Cas. Of course she glanced at me, I'm Chad fucking Kensington and people will not only glance my way, they will snap their head to view my greatness.

I strode out of the computer lab, my newfound muscles rippling under my thin tanktop (which also felt alarmingly small and tight). The campus walkways felt different. People noticed me. Heads turned. Girls giggled. Guys gave me that wary, respectful nod that alphas exchanged. It was intoxicating.

When I finally arrived at my dorm room, it was unlocked, as usual. Jason was perpetually trusting, another symptom of his pathetic beta male existence, I thought. I pushed it open, and there she was, Kate, sprawled on Jason's bed, scrolling through her phone, oblivious.

“Hey,” I said, my voice deeper, rougher than I remembered. Chad’s voice.

She looked up, startled as I take my shirt off so casually to reveal the sheen of sweat that seemingly coated my body. Her eyes widened, lingering on my… physique. A flicker of something in her eyes I recognized – desire – flashed in them.

“Cas? Uh.... sorry, the room is unlocked, Jason said.....I....I can wait in his bed. You just finished with practice?” Her voice was breathy, a little uncertain.

“Chad,” I corrected, stepping closer. “It’s Chad,"

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to my chest. “Chad,” she repeated, testing the name on her lips as I can see the memory started to jog on her brain. “Yeah, Chad.”

“Jason’s not here,” I stated, knowing it wasn’t a question.

She shook her head, a nervous laugh escaping her. “No, he’s… still in philosophy club.”

“Right,” I said, closing the distance between us. I reached out, my hand closing around her wrist, pulling her to her feet. Her skin was soft, yielding in my grip. Too soft. She needed to be hardened up. Tamed.

“By the way, read your phone, dropped something you would be interested to read," I said, glancing at her phone with a knowing smirk as I decided that she would be my first female guinea pig

I watched it in real time how the bland, average-looking Kate started to get way more prettier, leagues above Jason definitely, the curve gets wilder and her face really turned exactly how I imagined a sultry blonde bimbo falling head over heels for me would look like. So, after proving my little theory to be correct, that the message is transformative beyond men, I decided to test out yet another probability. Her slightly vacant eyes gave me idea as I saw a potential to create more excitement, more chaos, so I grabbed her by the chin to made her stare at me and start digging

"You get close to my roommate just to have chances to be in the same room with me, don't you? You're not the brightest girl out there, Cathy, I can see right through your play,"

Bingo, I smirked in my mind. That mind was jogging hard to made my words her reality. And since I have started anyway, I decided to take it up a notch to made my words her Bible

"In fact, you always fantasize Jason as me, right? This room smelled like me, you can taste me in the air so when you close your eyes as Jason fucked you, that mind of yours played this little game to make you think I was the one doing the fucking, huh? That's why you always come here earlier than Jason and I, you imprinted my fucking musk in your head by digging through my dirty laundry and closet so you can go through that unimpressive sex with Jason with me in mind, don't you? Well, he's not around, so why not use this time for you to just taste the real thing?"

She didn’t resist as I pulled her closer, my body pressing against hers. And seemingly taken over by her wilder, improved side, she started licking and kissing my abs

We were on Jason's bed in seconds, her clothes ripped open, the cheap fabric tearing easily under my hands. She moaned like a slut in heat, calling my name like I'm his God and only savior which fueled my dominance. It was power. It was control. It was… right.

Just as I was piledriving my cock into her now very irresistibly tight pussy, the door swung open. Jason stood there, textbooks clutched in his hand, his jaw dropping as he took in the scene. Me, thrusting hard into his girlfriend, her muffled moan filling the room.

“Cas?!” His voice was a strangled squawk.

I paused, looking up at him, a smirk playing on my lips. “Chad,” I corrected again. “And you need to check your phone, Jason,”

He stared at me, bewildered, then slowly lowered his gaze to his phone, which he thankfully had in his pocket. He fumbled it out, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and then… his eyes widened. He read something on the screen, his face shifting, contorting.

The change wasn’t as instantaneous as mine had been, but it was happening. His posture straightened. His shoulders broadened. His soft, doughy face hardened, angles emerging where there had been curves. His eyes sharpened, losing their bewildered puppy-dog look, gaining a new, predatory gleam.

“Holy… fuck,” he breathed, dropping his textbooks to the floor with a thud. He looked at me, a grin spreading across his transformed face, a grin that mirrored my own. “Chad?”

“Welcome to the club, bro,” I said, nodding. “Plenty to go around.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He ripped off his shirt, revealing a surprisingly decent set of pecs that I didn’t remember being there before. He was still smaller than me, but… he was getting there. Fast.

Without a word, he joined me on the bed. Cathy, who had been silent and still during the initial shock of Jason’s arrival, moaned again as he climbed on top of her, his gaze now burning with the same predatory hunger I felt.

We tag-teamed her, me dealing with her now bubbly, curvy ass while Jason handled the front, his now uncut 6 inchers really bruised her throay in a brutal, animalistic act of dominance. Tears and sweat leaked out of her alongside the obvious pussy juices and saliva, but she's not really protesting despite all the shit we did to her, just… taking it. Submitting. Like the good, cheerleader slut she was. It was… satisfying. In a deeply, disturbingly primal way.

Later, after we were done, Cathy panted for breath looking like a total wrecked mess on Jason's bed as I and Jason stood side-by-side, flexing in front of the mirror. The dorm room felt… different. Charged. Alive. With power.

As my mind snapped back to the current situation and how much change I have caused, Jason's question really cause a stir in my mind

“Think this… message… can do this to anyone?” Jason asked, running a hand over his newly defined jawline.

I smirked. “Oh I know this shit can do it to anyone. But let's see how far this can go,"

I pulled out my phone, found the message, and forwarded it to the Computer Science group chat. A chat filled with other pathetic, nerdy guys like I used to be. Guys who needed… guidance. Correction.

Almost instantly, phones started buzzing and pinging around the dorm. Then, shouts. Yells. The sound of furniture being overturned. Loud, aggressive music blaring from open windows. Footsteps pounding in the hallway.

Jason and I exchanged a glance. Then we grinned. Wide, feral grins.

The campus is about to change. And Chad Kensington, along with his newly minted alpha brothers, is going to be leading the charge. My birthright, after all.

[diamonddaze01]

Full Throttle (ii)

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 16.7K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOW BURNNN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT), some nipple-play, vaguely (?) rough (?) sex, begging

PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record 

a/n: ok pt 2 here we gooooo! to kae @ylangelegy , who hasn't read the ending of this because they wanted to be surprised. i love you, im sorry, i love you // to alta @haologram , who hyped me up so much and made me feel so much better about my writing // thank you to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading! // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!

read part 1 here.

FORMULA 1 PIRELLI GRAN PREMIO D’ITALIA 2024 Track: Autodromo Nazionale Monza

Monza, the Temple of Speed. The track that had seen countless legends, where every tire mark told a story of glory and heartache. The crowd—the tifosi—roared like a living entity, their chants filling the air, demanding greatness from Ferrari’s finest. It wasn’t just a race here, it was a pilgrimage. The heat of Italy in late summer mixed with the electric atmosphere of a home Grand Prix, and Jeonghan could feel it all—the energy, the expectation, the weight of a thousand eyes on him.

The Autodromo Nazionale Monza was a track built on speed, but more than that, it was a track built on history. The sweeping curves, the long straights, the iconic Parabolica that would make or break a driver—it was a place where only the brave thrived, and only the strongest survived. Jeonghan knew the stakes: it wasn’t enough to be fast, not when you were wearing Ferrari red. He had to win, not just for himself, but for the tifosi, who saw him as their golden boy. He had to deliver.

As the weekend progressed, he couldn’t escape the growing weight on his shoulders. His performance was scrutinized with every passing second. In the pits, the team’s eyes were on him, hoping for that perfect lap. The techs, the engineers, the strategists—all working in harmony, hoping that Jeonghan would be the one to pull them across the finish line, but in the back of his mind, Jeonghan kept hearing the unspoken truth: nothing less than pole would suffice. Anything less was a failure.

He felt his pulse quicken as the qualifying session wore on, his concentration laser-sharp, every move calculated. But the tire strategy wasn’t perfect, and as the final moments ticked down, the truth settled over him like a cloud of doom. He was not going to make Q3. Neither was Soonyoung. The agony of it slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

The Ferrari garage was quiet, save for the hum of the engines being powered down. Soonyoung clapped him on the shoulder, a small gesture, but Jeonghan could see the frustration in his eyes, the mirror of his own defeat. The disappointment felt like a heavy weight on Jeonghan’s chest, suffocating, and he couldn’t shake it off. He couldn’t even look at the team, let alone the tifosi waiting outside.

The mood around the paddock was tense as Jeonghan left the garage, still in his race suit. The world felt unreal, as though it were in slow motion. He couldn’t escape it. The tifosi would be waiting to cheer their heroes, but today, he hadn’t been the hero they wanted. He was just another failure in a sea of victories that had come before him. He needed to escape it, to clear his mind.

It was then, as he walked toward his motorhome, that he felt it—a small, electric connection. Your hand brushed against his.

He froze.

Your presence was like a balm, soothing the sharp sting of defeat, but it also distracted him. The familiar, intoxicating scent of your shampoo, something floral and faintly sweet, hit him like a memory, and his heart skipped a beat. That scent, mixed with the lingering tension of the day, flooded his senses. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t form words. All he could think about was that fleeting moment—so close—and the ridiculous notion that he had never noticed how desperately he wanted to be closer to you.

You didn’t stop walking either, your movements fluid, confident. But he couldn’t help the way his eyes followed you, the way the tension built with every step.

Without a word, you both continued on, the space between you shrinking until you finally spoke. Your voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, something that told him you understood more than he let on.

“Tough luck out there,” you said, a hint of sympathy in your tone.

The words were simple, but they hit harder than he expected. His chest tightened as he swallowed. “It’s... whatever,” he muttered, trying to brush it off. He didn’t have the energy to care.

You glanced at his fist, clenched so tightly it was almost painful to watch. “Doesn’t seem like ‘whatever’ to me,” you countered, raising an eyebrow, your words cutting through the fog in his mind.

He let out a small, mirthless chuckle. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice more convincing than he felt. But even as he said it, he knew. He wouldn’t be fine—not until he had redeemed himself, not until he could prove to the world that he was still Ferrari’s shining star. He had to be.

But for now, there was a fleeting connection between the two of you, and it was the only thing that made his heart skip, even if just for a moment.

The race was an uphill battle from the start, as expected. Jeonghan’s starting position was far from ideal, and the track ahead was a maze of cars, each one blocking his path, each one a reminder of the high stakes. The pressure weighed on him heavily, like an invisible force that squeezed the air from his lungs. It wasn’t just about the race, it was about redemption. The tifosi—his tifosi—filled his mind with a deafening chant, a roar of expectation, as if they were willing victory into existence. The weight of their adoration and their demand for perfection followed him, a constant reminder of the legacy he carried.

But Jeonghan had never been one to back down. The track felt like an extension of himself, the tires gripping, the engine vibrating beneath him, urging him to push. Even with traffic clogging his way, he found openings. He fought for every inch of track, his movements sharp, instinctive, like a surgeon making precise cuts. Overtaking felt almost effortless—his car slipping through gaps with the grace of a dancer. He was fluid, controlled, never losing sight of the goal.

As the laps unfolded, his nerves sharpened, but so did his focus. The aggressive strategy that had been laid out for him was beginning to pay off. He was making up ground, inching forward, climbing the ladder of positions one battle at a time. The thought of the tifosi cheering, of their voices blending into one thunderous symphony, drove him. They believed in him. He had to deliver. His mind cleared. He no longer heard the roaring crowds, the whirling thoughts of doubt. All that mattered was the track, the tires, and the roar of the engine beneath him. The conditions became his advantage—he thrived in this chaos.

Through the speed-trap corners, Jeonghan carved his way through the field. The world outside the cockpit blurred into a haze, his focus narrowing into sharp precision. He saw every gap, every opportunity, and he seized them without hesitation. The rain had turned the race into a dance of risk and control, and Jeonghan was leading the waltz.

Crossing the finish line first, Jeonghan allowed himself a single moment of release. The victory wasn’t just for him—it was for Ferrari, for the tifosi, for everything that had been building in his chest since the first day he’d strapped into the car. He had done it. He had delivered.

The roar of the crowd felt like an affirmation of his own heart, beating in time with the cheers of thousands. In that moment, the weight lifted off him, replaced by an overwhelming surge of satisfaction and relief. He had proven himself once again, and it was more sweet than any victory lap could ever capture. The tifosi were wild, their cheers ringing through the air, a thunderous confirmation of what Jeonghan had already known in his heart: this was his race. This was his victory.

After the podium celebrations, the champagne-soaked cheers, and the endless barrage of media questions, Jeonghan finally managed to steal a moment of solitude. His body was spent, muscles aching, his throat raw from the adrenaline-fueled roar that had escaped him as he crossed the finish line. And yet, his mind wasn’t on the race anymore. Not on the points, not on the tifosi.

It was on you.

The fleeting brush of your hand earlier lingered like a phantom touch, a warmth that refused to fade even as the hours passed. The memory of your scent—the subtle floral notes of your shampoo—clung to him, more grounding than the overwhelming chaos of the Monza circuit.

He walked toward his motorhome, each step feeling heavier now that the adrenaline had begun to wane. The din of the paddock was fading, replaced by the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows, and as he turned the corner, there you were. Waiting for him. Leaning casually against the side of his motorhome, your arms crossed and a knowing smirk dancing on your lips. His footsteps slowed as his eyes locked onto yours, the soft gleam of your smile both a challenge and an invitation.

“You’re late,” you teased, tilting your head in mock disapproval.

Jeonghan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he approached. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”

“You’re always on a schedule,” you shot back, your tone light but your gaze sharp. “Besides, I thought you’d be faster off track too.”

His smirk deepened as he stopped in front of you, close enough that the scent of champagne and adrenaline clung to him. “Big words for someone who’s hanging around my motorhome.”

“Big win for someone who barely made it out of Q2,” you quipped, the corner of your mouth twitching upward.

Jeonghan’s chuckle was low, almost indulgent. “Touché.”

There was a moment of silence, the din of the paddock fading into a distant hum. His eyes traced your face, noting the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your cheekbones, the way you seemed perfectly at ease under his scrutiny. That unnerved him more than he cared to admit. You’d always been too good at staying cool, keeping him on edge.

“So,” he finally said, leaning casually against the doorframe, “where’s your article? Shouldn’t it be out by now?”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, you think I’m done? I’m holding out for an exclusive.”

Jeonghan’s grin widened, his ego soaking up your words. “An exclusive? From the tifosi’s god?”

Your laugh was soft, teasing, and it sent a warmth through his chest that rivaled the rush of the race. “Your words, not mine.”

“You want a headline that bad?” His voice dropped, his tone dipping into something darker, something that made the air between you shift.

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice steady despite the way he was looking at you now—like he was ready to devour you whole. “But you’d have to give me something worth writing about.”

It was playful, the banter you always shared, but there was something crackling beneath the surface tonight, an electricity neither of you could ignore. Jeonghan stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between you. You shifted back instinctively, your spine meeting the cool surface of the motorhome door.

“You always have something to say, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low, intimate.

“Someone has to keep you grounded,” you shot back, though your voice wavered slightly as his hand braced against the door beside your head, caging you in. His other hand hovered near your hip, close enough to make you hyper-aware of the heat radiating off him.

“Grounded?” he repeated, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. “You’re doing a great job of that.”

Your heart was pounding now, the proximity, the tension—it was overwhelming. “Jeonghan,” you started, your voice quieter, more measured, “this… this isn’t professional.”

“Fuck being professional,” he said, the words slipping out like a confession. Before you could respond, his fingers tilted your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding you to look up at him.

And then his lips were on yours, capturing them in a kiss that was as fierce as it was unrelenting. It wasn’t sweet or tentative—it was raw, all the tension and frustration that had built up between you spilling over in a single, consuming moment. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands finding the front of his race suit, clutching the material as if to steady yourself. The world around you blurred into nothing; there was only the warmth of his mouth, the taste of him, the way he kissed like he was claiming something he’d wanted for far too long.

Jeonghan’s breath hitched as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for something—confirmation, permission, anything. Whatever he found made him grin, wicked and hungry. Without a word, he reached for the door handle, pushing it open with a sharp motion. The door swung wide, and then his hands were on you again, pulling you inside. 

The door clicked shut behind you, plunging you both into the dim interior of the motorhome. Jeonghan's hands were everywhere at once, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair. His lips found yours again, more urgent this time, as if he couldn't bear to be separated from you for even a moment.

You stumbled backward, your legs hitting the edge of the small couch. Jeonghan followed, never breaking contact, until you were lying beneath him, the leather cool against your heated skin. His weight pressed you down, a delicious pressure that made your head spin.

"God, I've wanted this for so long," he breathed against your neck, his words punctuated by hot, open-mouthed kisses that trailed down to your collarbone.

You arched into him, your hands fumbling with the zipper of his race suit. Your fingers trembled slightly as you tugged it down and yanked off his fireproofs, revealing more of his sweat-slicked skin. Jeonghan groaned against your throat as your hands slipped inside, exploring the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen.

"How long?" you managed to ask between ragged breaths, curiosity mingling with desire.

Jeonghan lifted his head, his eyes dark and intense as they locked onto yours. "Since the first time you interviewed me," he admitted, his voice low and husky. "The way you challenged me, saw right through my bullshit... I knew I was in trouble."

The confession sent a thrill through you, and you pulled him down for another searing kiss. Your tongues danced as his hands roamed your body, pushing up your shirt to caress the soft skin beneath. You gasped into his mouth as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast.

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss. Jeonghan groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip before gripping your thigh, hitching it up around his waist. 

“So what you’re saying,” you whispered, grinding your clothed cunt against him. “Is that you’ve been obsessed with me as long as I have with you.”

He drops his head and groans, hot and heavy, against your throat. “You’re telling me we could have been doing this for three years?”

You pull him back to your lips by his hair, relishing the way he hisses at your touch. “If only you’d put your money where your mouth is, pretty boy.”

At that, he props himself up above you, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “I knew you called me pretty in Japan!” 

You desperately claw at his shoulders in an attempt to bring his mouth back to yours. After three years of cat and mouse, you do believe you’re entitled to it. “Jeonghan, I swear to everything that is holy-”

“Say it.” His necklace hangs in front of you, glinting in the dim light of the motorhome. You have half a mind to crane your neck and take it with your teeth. But instead, you choose to stare up at him in mock confusion, fingers dancing at the nape of his neck. 

“Say what?”

His answering laugh mocks you a little, and he leans down to gently bite your earlobe. When he speaks, it’s low and deep. “Say I’m pretty. I know you think it when you’re drunk.”

You shiver at the sensation of his teeth grazing your ear, heat pooling in your core. His words make you flush, remembering all the times you'd drunkenly gushed about him to your friends. You'd always been careful to keep things professional in person, but apparently some of your true feelings had slipped out.

"And how would you know what I think when I'm drunk?" you challenge, trying to regain some control.

Jeonghan chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You're not the only one with sources in the paddock, sweetheart."

The pet name sends another thrill through you. You decide to give him what he wants, if only to move things along. "Fine," you breathe, trailing your fingers down his chest. "You're pretty, Jeonghan. Gorgeous, actually. Happy now?"

His grin is triumphant as he captures your lips again, the kiss deep and consuming. "Ecstatic, darling," he murmurs against your mouth.

Your hands roam his body, tracing the lean muscles of his back, feeling them flex under your touch. Jeonghan's fingers dance along your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He breaks the kiss to nip at your jaw, then your neck, drawing a soft moan from your lips.

"You know," he says between kisses, his voice low and husky, "I've imagined this so many times. On the couch in the media room, in the garage, during those long interviews..."

You gasp as he finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck. "Is that why you always fidget so much during our talks?"

He chuckles against your skin. "Guilty as charged."

Your hands find the waistband of his fireproofs, , but as one hand curls around your jaw, the other stops you. 

“You first,” he breathes, sitting back on his knees to gently urge you out of your shirt.

You lift your arms, allowing him to peel your shirt off slowly, his eyes drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin. The cool air of the motorhome raises goosebumps on your flesh, but Jeonghan's heated gaze makes you feel like you're burning up.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. "Even better than I imagined."

You reach up to pull him back down to you, craving the warmth of his body against yours. As your lips meet again, his hands roam your sides, mapping out every curve and dip. You arch into his touch, desperate for more.

His hands brush over your clothed nipple, and you inhale sharply. The sound makes Jeonghan raise his head, a faint smirk dancing across his lips. “Sensitive, are we?” He coos, hands drawing shapes against the swell of your breasts until goosebumps erupt on your flesh.

Your breath hitches as his fingers tease you though the thin fabric of your bra. “Jeonghan,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea.

His smirk widens as he lowers his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. "Yes, sweetheart?" He murmurs against your skin. His lips trail lower, ghosting over the lacework.

You arch your back, silently begging for more. Jeonghan obliges, his tongue darting out to trace the lace edge of your bra. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you hold him close.

With deft fingers, he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. You lift slightly, allowing him to slide it off. His eyes darken as he takes you in. You moan wantonly, arching your back in an effort to touch you - somewhere, anywhere.

“Jeonghan, please-”

A singular finger traces the curve of your waist up to your collarbone. He hums as you squirm. “Look at you,” he murmurs. You shriek as he pinches your waist. “You act so big in the paddock, and here you are, begging for me to touch you.”

It enrages you a little, how easily he takes you apart. Hell, he’s barely even touched you and you’re already rubbing your thighs together, desperate for any amount of friction.

"Jeonghan, please," you gasp, not even sure what you're begging for. More? Less? Everything?

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours. The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low and commanding.

You swallow hard, and the heat pooling between your legs feels hot enough to burn. “Y-your-”

“My what, baby?” His words are punctuated by hot, open mouthed kisses against your collarbones. He pointedly ignores your nipples, a thought that makes you whine. “Speak up.”

“Your mouth, Jeonghan,” you finally get out, hissing when his teeth find purchase on the skin of your neck.

“Yeah? Where, baby?” His hands fit themselves against the curve of your waist. “Here?”

“N-no,” you hate it, the way Jeonghan turns you into a whimpering mess. You shiver as his hands trail up your body.

“Hm…how about…here?” His thumbs brush against the underside of your breast again, and you arch your back, desperate and aching for him.

“Higher,” you breathe, mesmerized by the way his fingers dance up your body, by the way his eyes never leave yours.

“Here, baby?” His fingers tweak an already-hard nipple, and you gasp.

“Yes, please-”

“Say I’m a good driver, sweetheart, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Your eyes snap open, narrowing at him in disbelief. Even now, with you half-naked and writhing beneath him, he can't help but tease. "You're kidding, right?"

Jeonghan's grin is wicked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Not at all. Come on, darling. Just a few little words."

You bite your lip, torn between your pride and your desperate need for his touch. His thumb circles your nipple lazily, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Finally, you cave. "Fine," you breathe. "You're a good driver, Jeonghan. The best, even. Now please—"

Before you can finish, his mouth is on your breast, hot and wet. You cry out, arching into him as his tongue swirls around your nipple. His hand kneads your other breast, fingers teasing your other nipple. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as he lavishes attention on your breasts. Jeonghan's tongue and teeth work in tandem, drawing gasps and moans from your lips. The sensations are overwhelming, each touch sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

"God, Jeonghan," you breathe, your head falling back against the couch cushions.

He hums against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through you. His free hand trails down your stomach, fingers dancing along the waistband of your pants. You lift your hips instinctively, silently begging for more.

Jeonghan lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire as they meet yours. "Tell me you want this," he says, his voice husky and low. "I need to hear you say it."

You nod frantically, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yes," you breathe, your voice filled with need. "I want this. I want you, Jeonghan."

His eyes darken further at your words, a low growl escaping his throat. In one swift motion, he unbuttons your pants and slides them down your legs, taking your underwear with them. You kick them off eagerly, now fully bare beneath him.

Jeonghan's gaze rakes over your body, hungry and appreciative. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands skimming up your thighs. "So fucking beautiful."

You reach for him, tugging at the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. "Your turn," you say, your voice breathy with anticipation.

He grins, standing to shuck off the rest of his clothes. Your eyes widen as he reveals himself fully, drinking in the sight of his toned body. Jeonghan's grin widened as he caught you staring. "Like what you see?" he teased, his voice low and husky.

You nod, unable to form words as your eyes roam his body. The lean muscles of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the impressive length of his cock standing proud against his stomach - it was all even better than you'd imagined.

He chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?"

That snapped you out of your daze. "Shut up and get back here," you growl, reaching for him.

Jeonghan obliges, lowering himself back onto the couch and covering your body with his. You gasp at the feeling of skin on skin, the heat of his body against yours. His lips find yours in a searing kiss as his hands explore every curve and dip of your body. When his fingers finally brush against your core, you gasp into his mouth, your hips bucking involuntarily.

“So wet,” he murmurs against your lips. “All for me?”

"Yes," you breathe, your hips rolling against his hand. "All for you."

Jeonghan's fingers explore your folds, teasing and mapping out every sensitive spot. When he finally slides a finger inside you, you moan loudly, your back arching off the couch. He sets a slow, torturous pace, curling his finger just right to hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

"More," you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders. "Please, Jeonghan."

He obliges, adding a second finger and increasing his pace. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in tight, precise movements that have you writhing beneath him. You can feel the tension building in your core, a coiling heat that threatens to consume you. Your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders – you’re too drunk on lust to recognize if you’re pushing him away because it’s too much or pulling him closer because it’s not nearly enough. 

"That's it, baby," Jeonghan murmurs, his voice low and encouraging. "Let go for me.”

His words push you over the edge, and you come with a cry, your body arching off the couch as waves of pleasure wash over you. Jeonghan works you through it, his fingers never stopping their relentless rhythm until you're trembling and oversensitive.

As you come down from your high, Jeonghan peppers soft kisses along your jaw and neck. "Beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "You're so beautiful when you let go."

You're still catching your breath when you feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh. Your hand snakes between your bodies, wrapping around his cock. Jeonghan hisses at the contact, his hips jerking involuntarily.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

"Show me," you breathe, thumb brushing over the tip of his pre-cum slick cock. You relish the way he shudders against you. “Show me everything you imagined, pretty boy.”

He preens a little at your teasing words, arms shaking with the exertion of keeping himself above you. “Yeah?” he purrs, hips bucking to the tempo of your hand. “You wanna see, sweetheart?”

You barely have the time to nod before he’s sweeping his arms under your thighs and sitting back against the couch, setting you on top of him. Your wet heat is inches from his weeping cock, and you give him an experimental roll of your hips. The friction is delicious, and you bite your lips at the way his head rolls back.

You take advantage of his position and press hot kisses against his neck as he squirms below you.

“This is what you wanted, baby?” you whisper against his ear, biting gently. He shudders, one arm circling your waist and the other finding purchase in your hair. “You wanted me on top? Me in control?” 

He laughs breathlessly at that, hips grinding against yours with such fervour that you almost succumb right then and there. “You might be on top, sweetheart,” he hisses as you position yourself above him, one hand circling his length. “But I’m the one in char-”

He cuts himself off with a strangled moan as you sink down until your hips are flush to his. “Hmmm?” You hum sweetly against his throat, exhaling at the sheer size of him inside you. “What was that?”

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch as his hands trail down to rest on the curve of your ass. “Move, please, sweetheart.” 

“Tell me how much you love my writing.” The words leave you in a rush, the sight of him panting for you almost too heady to ignore. You hadn’t planned on teasing him, but his earlier words had lit a fire in your core that would only be doused once you flipped the script on him. 

His head is still on the back of the couch as he barks out a laugh. “You’re a fucking menace,” he murmurs, pinching your waist. “Now, move.”

“No.” It takes every bone in your body to stay absolutely still. You can feel him, thick and throbbing, and the thought of it makes you almost forgo this insanity to ride him into oblivion.

His eyes meet yours, and he raises his eyebrows in mock outrage. “Are you serious?” He punctuates his words by dragging a hand down your body, fingers finding your clit and pressing until you jerk away from him. It’s a futile attempt though, because his other hand is still fisted in your hair, and he uses it as leverage to hold you against him, powerless against his ministrations. 

With a shaking hand, your press against his wrist until his fingers stop moving in circles around your clit. “C-come on,” you tease breathlessly, using your other hand to thread through his sweat-soaked hair and yanking until he bares his throat to you with a groan. “Play nice, pretty boy. Tell me how much you love my writing.” 

He groans again as you lick a stripe up his throat, the hand in your hair loosening as his resolve weakens. “Y-you don’t play fair,” he moans, legs shaking with the exertion of keeping still, of playing your little game of cat and mouse. 

“Neither do you,” you whisper, your words paired with a tweak to his nipple that has him gasping and arching his back. 

“Fuck!” He cries out, curling forward until his chin rests against your ribs and he’s staring up at you. “Y-your writing is perfect.”

He’s rewarded with another gentle tug on his hair and a firm, “keep going.”

“S-so perfect and wonderful, I – fuck, baby please – read every word th-three times,” he’s almost whimpering now, looking up at you with so much desire that you decide it’s time to reward him for being so pliant, so good for you. “You-you’re the best writer in the whole paddock, fuck, yes, thank yo-”

You decide to put him out of his misery, preening at his praise, you start with an experimental grind against his hips, and watch with glee as he almost melts back against the couch. You decide to take advantage of the situation for a little while longer, rocking your hips faster as his lips find your nipple.

“Who’s in charge?” you coo, fingers gripping his hair a little tighter. He draws back to give you a quick smirk. They don’t call him the fastest on the grid for nothing – one second, you feel like you’re in complete control, and the next, he’s lifting you off of him with surprising ease. Your chest meets the couch before you can even form a single thought, and Jeonghan gathers up your wrists in one of his hands. 

“You really thought,” he hisses as he re-enters your aching pussy. “You were in charge, sweetheart?”

The new angle allows him to sink even deeper inside you, drawing a low moan from your lips.

"You were saying?" he purrs, chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck as he sets a punishing pace. Each thrust drives the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and whimpering beneath him.

"You thought you could tease me like that and get away with it?" he groans, his free hand gripping your hip tightly. "Thought you could make me beg?"

You can only moan in response, overwhelmed by the sensation of him pounding into you relentlessly. The couch creaks beneath you dangerously.

"Answer me," Jeonghan demands, slowing his pace torturously.

"J-Jeonghan," you manage to stammer, your voice muffled against the cushions.

He leans over you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispers in your ear. "What was that, sweetheart? I couldn't quite hear you."

You turn your head, meeting his intense gaze over your shoulder. "Please," you whimper.

“Please what?” He demands.

"Please," you gasp, struggling to form coherent thoughts as Jeonghan's hips continue their torturously slow pace. "Please, I need more."

His low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. "More what, baby? Use your words. You’re so good with words, aren’t you?"

You whine in frustration, trying to push back against him, seeking the friction you desperately crave. But his grip on your hip is firm, holding you in place.

"Fuck me," you finally manage to choke out. "Please, Jeonghan, fuck me harder."

"There we go," he purrs, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Was that so hard?"

Before you can retort, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt inside you. You cry out at the sudden fullness, your fingers clawing at the couch cushions.

Jeonghan sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving you further into the couch cushions. The hand not holding your wrists snakes around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have you seeing stars.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Jeonghan groans, his breath hot against your neck. "So tight, so perfect for me."

You moan at his words, feeling the familiar coil of heat building in your core. "J-Jeonghan," you whimper, "I'm close..."

"That's it, baby," he encourages, his fingers working faster against your clit. "Come for me. Let me feel you."

Every part of your body is on fire, from the way Jeonghan's hips press against yours to the way his fingers expertly stroke your clit.

You come with a cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your inner walls clench around him, drawing a deep groan from Jeonghan.

He doesn't slow his pace, fucking you through your orgasm and pushing you towards another. You're oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire, but the pleasure is too intense to resist.

"God, you're perfect," Jeonghan pants, his rhythm becoming erratic. "So fucking perfect."

You feel his thrusts becoming more desperate, his breathing ragged against your neck. "Come on, Jeonghan," you manage to gasp out.

"Come for me," you urge him, clenching around him deliberately.

With a guttural groan, Jeonghan's hips stutter and he comes, spilling inside you as his body shudders with release. The feeling of him pulsing within you sends you over the edge again, and you cry out, trembling beneath him.

For a long moment, the only sound in the motorhome is your combined heavy breathing. Jeonghan releases your wrists and gently pulls out, causing you both to wince at the sensitivity. 

Jeonghan collapses onto the couch beside you, his body warm and solid as he pulls you into his arms. The weight of him, the feeling of his heartbeat drumming against your cheek, is grounding. You curl into his chest, letting the rise and fall of his breathing lull you into a rare moment of stillness. His fingers trace lazy patterns across your back, the movements unhurried, almost absentminded, as if he can’t bear to stop touching you just yet.

“Well,” he says finally, his voice rough and lower than usual, laced with satisfaction. “I think that was worth the wait.”

You huff a laugh, the sound barely audible over the soft thrum of life outside the motorhome. “Of course you do,” you mutter, your cheek pressed against the hard planes of his chest, which smells faintly of sweat, champagne, and something uniquely Jeonghan.

His fingers pause their tracing for a moment, as though considering his next move, before starting again, this time slower and more deliberate. “Admit it,” he murmurs, his tone teasing, though softer now, quieter, like the vulnerability from before hadn’t completely left. “You’ve been thinking about this as much as I have.”

You tilt your head up, catching the faint glow of the ceiling light reflected in his eyes. They’re darker now, warmer, but still full of that infuriating smugness. Your lips twitch in defiance as you fight the urge to smile. “What makes you so sure I was thinking about it at all?”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow, a lock of hair falling across his forehead in a way that’s unfairly distracting. His grin is sharp and unrelenting. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“Am not,” you fire back, though your tone lacks any real conviction. The way his fingers continue their soft, languid exploration of your back doesn’t help.

“Okay,” he says, clearly enjoying himself as he leans his head back against the couch. “So when you cornered me after qualifying that one time in Japan two years ago, that wasn’t because you couldn’t stop staring at me in my race suit?”

You gape at him, your body jerking upright just enough to glare at him properly. “I cornered you because I wanted a quote, you egomaniac.” You punctuate the accusation with a half-hearted swat at his arm.

He catches your wrist easily, his grip firm but gentle, and intertwines his fingers with yours. The warmth of his hand against yours is distracting, and it takes all your willpower not to lose focus. “Oh, you got a quote, all right,” he counters, his laughter bubbling up like he’s savoring every second of your indignation. “Admit it—you’ve been counting the days.”

You roll your eyes, the movement dramatic, though the warmth blooming in your chest betrays you. “And if I was?”

Jeonghan’s grin softens at your words, the sharp edges smoothing out into something quieter, something vulnerable. He lifts a hand to your face, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “Then I’d say it was worth the wait,” he says, his voice lower now, more intimate.

The air between you shifts, heavier now, the teasing replaced by something else entirely. His gaze locks on yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades—the low hum of the paddock outside, the faint creak of the motorhome settling. All that exists is him, his hand still resting near your face, and the weight of his words hanging between you.

Your throat feels tight, and you clear it quickly, trying to shake off the spell he’s cast over you. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you mutter, shifting slightly to put some distance between you.

“Too late,” he replies with a ghost of a smirk, leaning back lazily against the couch. His arm stretches along the back of the cushions, the casual sprawl of his posture somehow making him seem even more confident. Then, with an easy grace that feels entirely unfair, he leans forward and plucks something from the coffee table. “By the way, your article? It’s still late.”

You blink at him, incredulous, before groaning and burying your face in your hands. “Now you care about professionalism?”

Jeonghan shrugs, holding out his hand as if offering you an invisible microphone, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Exclusive with the winner of Monza? Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

You peek at him through your fingers, shaking your head with a laugh that’s half exasperation, half affection. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he counters, his voice softening again as he leans forward to press a kiss to your temple. His lips linger there, warm and reassuring, before he pulls back just enough to look at you again. “But I’ll let you pretend for a little while.”

Jeonghan’s arms tighten around you as the laughter fades into a comfortable quiet. The warmth of his hand on your back and the steady rhythm of his breathing are grounding, but your thoughts won’t stop spinning. You tilt your head up to look at him, searching his expression for something you can’t quite name.

“What?” he asks softly, his tone warm but teasing. His fingers brush over the curve of your shoulder, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“What… what are we now?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. They hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw.

Jeonghan’s gaze doesn’t waver. His thumb brushes your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. “We’re whatever you want to be, sweetheart,” he says simply, his voice low and full of something too deep to name.

You feel your heart stutter, the weight of his words sinking into you. “Can we…” You hesitate, the vulnerability of the moment making your voice falter. “Can we take it slow?”

For a second, he just blinks at you, and then the corners of his mouth lift into that infuriatingly familiar smirk. “Take it slow? After you just made me beg?” He chuckles, the sound soft but undeniably teasing. “You’re full of surprises.”

Your face heats instantly, and you swat at his shoulder, your embarrassment overridden by his smugness. “Shut up.”

Jeonghan catches your wrist before you can retreat, his laughter fading as he shifts closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m kidding,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. The mischief in his eyes melts into something gentler, something that makes your breath catch. “I’ll wait as long as you want.”

You glance at him, your walls crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. “It’s just…” You trail off, trying to find the right words, the weight of reality settling in around you. “Our careers, the season… It’s a lot. I don’t want to mess this up, not with everything else happening.”

Jeonghan’s expression softens even further, the teasing flicker in his eyes replaced by understanding. “I get it,” he says quietly. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “I’ve waited three years to feel this close to you. What’s forever if it means I get to do it right?”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, equal parts devastating and beautiful. You close your eyes for a moment, letting them sink in, before leaning forward to press your lips to his—soft, brief, but full of everything you can’t quite bring yourself to say.

When you pull back, Jeonghan’s smile is softer than you’ve ever seen it, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he gazes at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“No pressure, though,” he adds after a beat, his teasing tone returning as his grin widens. “Unless you’re writing a follow-up article about me being the world’s most patient man.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest as he laughs, the sound rich and warm. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you love me for it,” he counters, his hand sliding back to your hair, cradling you close.

And maybe you do. Maybe you always have.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AZERBAIJAN GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Baku City Circuit

The streets of Baku were as much a character in the race as any driver—a stunning clash of history and modernity, where medieval walls stood beside glimmering skyscrapers. The track was notorious for its tight corners and long straights, a playground of risk and reward. Jeonghan knew every inch of it like it was an old rival, one he had to best to keep his championship hopes alive.

Qualifying was tight—Jeonghan secured P2, just behind Mingyu. "He’s fast," Jeonghan muttered to you that evening, the weight of the competition clear in his voice. But there was no self-doubt, just the quiet calculation that always preceded his brilliance.

Race day was a spectacle. Jeonghan’s precision through the castle section was breathtaking, and when the opportunity came to pass Mingyu on the long straight during the final stint, he didn’t hesitate. The roar of the tifosi—echoing even in Azerbaijan—followed him as he crossed the line first. The team’s radio had erupted with cheers as Jeonghan crossed the finish line, and when you saw him after the podium ceremony, his champagne-damp hair and triumphant smile had made your heart skip a beat.

Later, after the media frenzy, Jeonghan pulls you aside. "Come on," he says with a conspiratorial grin, grabbing your hand. "You didn’t think I’d let you leave Baku without exploring, did you?"

The cobblestone streets of Baku feel like something out of a postcard. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the historic Old City. Jeonghan walks beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he gestures to the buildings with a sense of wonder that’s rare to see in him.

“How do you know all this?” you ask, genuinely curious as he points out the Maiden Tower and recounts its legends with surprising accuracy.

He grins, tilting his head in that maddeningly charming way. “What, you thought I only studied race strategies? I’ve got layers, sweetheart.” He insists on taking cheesy tourist photos, including one where he pretends to be a knight defending you at the city walls.

“I could be your knight in shining armor,” he teases, holding his imaginary sword aloft.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re already Ferrari’s golden boy,” you shoot back, snapping the photo anyway. “Isn’t that enough?” 

He’s good at this—whisking you away from the chaos of the paddock and making you forget, even if just for a moment, that the world is watching him.

Now, as you wander the streets of Baku, he’s more relaxed, his usual playful demeanor slipping into something softer. You pause in front of a street vendor selling intricate souvenirs, and Jeonghan picks up a small, hand-carved wooden box.

“For your desk,” he says simply, handing it to you before you can protest.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, but you take the gift anyway.

“Yeah, but you love me,” he teases, slinging an arm around your shoulders as the two of you continue down the street, the sound of distant music and laughter filling the warm night air.

That night, back at the hotel, Jeonghan skims your article on his phone while sprawled on the couch.

Jeonghan’s Baku Blitz: Closes the Gap to Mingyu with Stunning Victory

His smirk grows wider with every sentence. “Stunning victory, huh? You really know how to make me sound good.”

You roll your eyes, throwing a pillow at him. “It was stunning. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” he quips, pulling you into his lap. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the little shout-out to my late-braking move. Makes me wonder how closely you’re watching me.”

“Always,” you admit softly, the truth laced between your words. His grin softens, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.

FORMULA 1 SINGAPORE AIRLINES SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Marina Bay Street Circuit

The Marina Bay Circuit was infamous—its oppressive heat, humidity, and unforgiving corners made it a grueling test of endurance. It was Jeonghan’s least favorite track, something he’d muttered repeatedly during practice.

In qualifying, he delivered a masterclass, securing pole position under the glowing lights that lined the circuit. "See?" he said, leaning casually against his car afterward, sweat still dripping from his brow. "Guess the heat doesn’t bother me as much as I thought."  Watching him grin through post-quali interviews, drenched in sweat but radiating confidence, had you practically floating back to your hotel room.

You’ve barely ventured outside the hotel after qualifying, and he texts you cryptically to “stay put.” Now, the air conditioning hums softly as you sit cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through headlines about his performance. You’re still reading when the door swings open, and Jeonghan strides in, carrying a tray.

“Room service,” he announces with a dramatic flourish, setting it down beside you.

Your eyes widen at the sight of chocolate-covered strawberries and a chilled bottle of champagne. “What’s the occasion?”

He shrugs, popping the cork with practiced ease. “Pole position deserves a celebration. Plus…” He smirks, holding up a strawberry. “I wanted to see you smile.”

You laugh, shaking your head as he moves closer, offering the berry. But when you reach for it, he pulls it back, dragging it over your lips instead, smearing chocolate at the corner of your mouth.

“You missed a spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss it away. The sweetness lingers on his lips, and before you know it, he’s pulled you into his lap, the rest of the world forgotten.

The race the next day is less triumphant. A perfectly timed pit stop keeps Jeonghan ahead of the pack for most of the race, but a late safety car allows another driver to close the gap, relegating him to P2. Still, with Mingyu out of the race, Jeonghan’s second-place finish is enough to reclaim the championship lead.

Jeonghan’s expression is unreadable when he reads your latest article:

Heat and Havoc in Singapore: Jeonghan Takes Second as Mingyu Crashes Out

“Well, at least you didn’t call me lucky,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair.

“You weren’t lucky. You earned that result,” you reply, watching his face carefully.

He hums, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Still. Next time, I’d rather win outright.”

FALL BREAK: SEPT 23-OCT 17

The crisp autumn air brushes against your face as you unlock your front door, arms full of groceries. It’s been a quiet few weeks since Singapore, the space between races stretching out like an eternity. You’ve tried to enjoy the pause, but it feels strange—unnatural, even—to be so far removed from the whirlwind of Jeonghan’s life.

Your thoughts drift to him as you drop the keys on the counter. Monaco. Ferrari’s headquarters in Maranello. Both places are worlds away from your little apartment.

You’re unloading a carton of eggs when there’s a knock at the door. Confused, you glance at the clock. It’s too late for deliveries and far too early for your neighbors to come by.

When you open the door, your heart stops.

Jeonghan stands there, his frame relaxed yet somehow magnetic. He’s dressed in a simple leather jacket and jeans, his dark hair catching the golden glow of the setting sun. A bouquet of your favorite flowers is clutched in one hand, their vibrant colors almost as captivating as the smile tugging at his lips.

“Jeonghan?” you ask, blinking in disbelief. “What are you—how—”

“Miss me?” he interrupts, stepping inside before you can fully process his presence. He hands you the flowers like it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaning in to press a quick kiss against your lips.

Your breath catches, and you can only stare at him, your mind struggling to keep up.

“You live in Monaco,” you point out, still staring at him. “And work in Italy.”

“I’m aware,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Of course, I missed you,” you murmur, your cheeks heating.

“Good.” He grins and takes your free hand, tugging you toward the door.

“Wait—where are we going?”

“Out,” he says simply.

You try to protest, gesturing to the groceries still sitting on the counter, but he’s already leading you down the hallway. His excitement is infectious, and you find yourself laughing despite your confusion.

An hour later, you’re standing at the entrance of a sprawling amusement park, the neon lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the evening sky.

“You’re serious?” you ask, staring at the carousel spinning lazily in the distance.

“Dead serious,” Jeonghan replies, his tone light as he hands over your ticket. “I figured you could use a night off.”

“I’m not the one traveling the world every other week,” you point out.

“Exactly,” he counters, his smile growing. “I needed to see you smile. And this seemed like a good place to start.”

The night unfolds in a blur of laughter and adrenaline. Jeonghan, surprisingly competitive, insists on winning you a giant stuffed bear at the ring toss, only to fail spectacularly—twice. You tease him mercilessly, your stomach aching from how hard you’re laughing.

When you step off the bumper cars, your cheeks are flushed, and your voice is hoarse from yelling. Jeonghan is no better, his hair sticking up in all directions after you gleefully rammed into him three times in a row.

“I think you’ve got a mean streak,” he says, pretending to nurse an invisible injury.

“Me?” you gasp, feigning innocence. “You literally tried to corner me!”

He doesn’t respond—at least, not verbally. Instead, he grabs your hand again, intertwining your fingers as he pulls you toward the Ferris wheel.

The view from the top is breathtaking. The park stretches out below you, a sea of lights and movement, while the city skyline glimmers in the distance.

Jeonghan is quiet beside you, his gaze fixed on your face instead of the view. You turn to him, suddenly aware of how close he’s sitting.

“What?” you ask softly.

“You’re happy,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I like seeing you like this.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s slow and deliberate, his hand moving to cradle your jaw as the world around you seems to fall away.

When he pulls back, you’re both smiling.

“This is dangerous,” you tease, though your voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re going to make me think nothing can go wrong.”

“Maybe nothing will,” he replies, his forehead resting gently against yours.

FORMULA 1 PIRELLI UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Circuit of the Americas

Austin brought a different kind of challenge. The Circuit of the Americas was iconic for its mix of sweeping corners, elevation changes, and a crowd that rivaled the tifosi in their enthusiasm. Jeonghan thrived here, securing P1 in qualifying and delivering a flawless race to claim another victory.

"Two wins in three races," he said that evening, pulling you into his side as you walked into a cowboy-themed bar downtown. "Guess I’m on a roll."

The bar was loud, filled with locals and fans alike, but Jeonghan stood out effortlessly. His cowboy hat tilted just right, a plaid shirt unbuttoned enough to make you wonder how he managed to look like that after hours in a car.

He kept his hand in your back pocket all night, his touch a silent claim when no one was looking. Every time he leaned in to murmur something in your ear, his lips brushed your skin just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"Save a horse, ride a cowboy," he whispered at one point, his grin wicked as he tipped his hat at you.

That was all it took. You dragged him back to the hotel, barely making it through the door before he was on you, the hat ending up on the floor somewhere between the bed and the door.

The article you write the next day earns a rare whistle of approval from Jeonghan:

Cowboy Jeonghan Rides High in Austin, Extends Championship Lead

“I think this might be your best one yet,” he says, setting the phone down as he pulls you into his lap.

“Because I complimented you, or because I called you a cowboy?”

“Both,” he answers, his lips brushing against yours. “You know how much I love it when you’re right.”

And as his hand slides to the small of your back, you can’t help but think this season isn’t just his championship—it’s yours, too.

FORMULA 1 GRAN PREMIO DE LA CIUDAD DE MÉXICO 2024 Track: Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez

The atmosphere at the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez crackles with energy even hours after the race ends. The stands have mostly cleared, but the celebratory chaos of the paddock lingers. Jeonghan, fresh off another stellar performance, grins as reporters crowd around him, microphones extended like offerings. His hair is damp with sweat, his race suit tied around his waist as he leans casually against the Ferrari garage.

You watch from a distance, notebook in hand, trying not to let your gaze linger too long. He catches your eye anyway, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s been calling you his “lucky charm” ever since you started waking up in his bed on race mornings, and it’s a moniker he seems to enjoy reminding you of at every opportunity.

"Don't go too far," he says when the interviews wrap up, his voice low as he brushes past you on his way to the motorhome. The warmth of his fingertips grazing your wrist sends a jolt of electricity through you. "We’re celebrating tonight, and you’re not wriggling out of it this time."

You don’t see the ambush coming.

You’re reviewing your notes in the quiet corner of the paddock when your editor finds you. His expression is stern, almost irate, as he approaches. The celebration around you suddenly feels muffled, the weight of his presence pulling you back to reality.

"Finally," he snaps, crossing his arms. "I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days."

"Hey, sorry, it’s been hectic," you start, tucking your notebook under your arm.

He doesn’t let you finish. "Hectic? I gave you the Ferrari all-access months ago. They’re breathing down my neck about where the hell it is. Where’s the draft?"

The question lands like a punch to the gut. You open your mouth, fumbling for an answer, but he’s already barreling forward.

"And don’t think I haven’t noticed your tone shift," he continues, his voice lowering but losing none of its edge. "All this newfound niceness toward Jeonghan in your articles. What’s that about, huh? You sleeping with him or something?"

The accusation slices through you, leaving you momentarily stunned.

"That’s not—" you begin, but your voice falters.

"Spare me," he says, waving you off. "I don’t care what’s going on between you two, but I do care about the reputation of this outlet. You’ve built your career on being incisive, unbiased. So get it together, or I’ll find someone who can."

He doesn’t wait for a response, leaving you standing there as the din of the paddock swells around you. The celebration feels distant now, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears.

When Jeonghan finally finds you later that night, you’re a bundle of frayed nerves. The confrontation with your editor replays in your head like a broken record, each word cutting deeper into your carefully constructed sense of self. You sit hunched over your laptop in the corner of the media center, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows that match the knot in your chest.

“What, you sleeping with him or something?”

The accusation echoes, burrowing into your mind, where it tangles with your own insecurities. You’ve built your entire career on being sharp, unbiased, and unflinchingly honest. And yet, somewhere along the way, Jeonghan had slipped through your defenses. You can still hear the venom in your editor’s voice, feel the judgment in his eyes. The doubt wasn’t just his anymore—it was yours, too.

Was he right? Had you compromised everything for Jeonghan?

Your hands tremble slightly as you scroll through the notes you’ve been trying to organize for hours, but the words blur together, useless. Guilt presses against your ribs like a vice, mixing with a raw ache of something you’re too scared to name. You’re drowning in your own thoughts, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve let everyone down: your editor, your readers, and most of all, Jeonghan.

When he finally appears, his presence fills the doorway like a shadow cutting through the sterile light. He leans against the doorframe with a casualness you can’t match, arms crossed and head tilted slightly, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead. The sight of him, so familiar and yet suddenly so distant, sends a pang through your chest.

“Working late?” he asks, his voice low but carrying the faint edge of concern.

You look up, startled, and quickly shut your laptop as if that might erase everything weighing on you. “Just...catching up,” you say, forcing a smile that feels as flimsy as the excuse.

Jeonghan doesn’t move, his eyes scanning you with the precision of someone who knows you too well. He doesn’t buy the act—you can tell by the way his brows knit together, a subtle but telling sign of his worry.

“Catching up on what?” he asks, stepping closer, his tone light but probing.

You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Just notes. Articles. The usual.”

His gaze sharpens. “Right. And that’s why you look like you haven’t breathed in hours?”

You glance away, your fingers curling into fists on the tabletop. “I’m fine, Jeonghan. Go enjoy your win. You earned it.”

“And what, leave you like this?” He pulls out a chair and sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. “Not happening.”

The flood of emotions bubbling under your surface threatens to spill over. You want to tell him everything, but the words feel too tangled, too raw.

“I just need to get this done,” you say, your voice tight.

Jeonghan frowns, studying you more closely. "What’s going on? Did something happen?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, sidestepping him. "I just need some space tonight, okay?"

His hand brushes your arm, but you pull away, and the confusion in his eyes makes your stomach twist. "Fine," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. "If that’s what you want."

Jeonghan wakes up to sunlight filtering through the blinds, but the bed feels empty. The cool sheets where you usually sleep tug at his attention before he fully registers the weight in his chest. Frowning, he rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand, still groggy.

The screen lights up with a mess of notifications: congratulatory texts, memes from Soonyoung, and a dozen links to your latest article. He swipes through the chaos with a faint smile, already anticipating your sharp insights mingled with the familiar affection that’s always laced through your critiques.

Propping himself up against the headboard, Jeonghan opens the piece. At first, the smile lingers—he’s grown to appreciate the balance you strike between honest criticism and admiration. But the further he reads, the slower he scrolls, the words pressing into him like bruises.

His smile fades entirely by the time he reaches the paragraph describing his meltdown in Spain. The words cut too close, dragging him back to that moment in the Aston Martin garage: the oppressive silence, the rain hammering against the roof, and the suffocating realization of yet another missed opportunity.

"Jeonghan’s brilliance is undeniable, but brilliance without consistency leaves championships just out of reach."

The sentence burns itself into his mind. The carefully chosen words feel clinical, detached—so unlike you. He rereads it, hoping to find the warmth he’s come to expect, but it’s nowhere to be found.

Jeonghan tosses his phone onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, disbelief simmering into anger. This wasn’t just an article. This was personal.

The paddock is bustling, teams dismantling their motorhomes to get ready for next weekend. Jeonghan doesn’t bother changing out of his sweats before leaving his room, each step through the maze of hospitality suites and garages fueled by frustration.

When he finally reaches the media center, his chest tightens at the sight of you hunched over your laptop, headphones in, oblivious to his stormy approach. He doesn’t hesitate.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was?" His voice slices through the low hum of conversations around you.

Startled, you pull off your headphones, your eyes widening as you take him in. "Jeonghan—"

"No." He slaps his phone onto the desk in front of you, his movements sharp and deliberate. The article stares back at you, a glaring reminder of the wedge you’ve driven between you. "Don’t ‘Jeonghan’ me. What is this?"

"It’s my job," you say, standing to meet his intensity. The tremor in your voice betrays your composure. "You’ve always said you respected that about me."

"Respect?" His laugh is sharp, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You think I respect this?" He gestures to the article like it’s a living thing, something venomous and cruel. "You went for my throat."

"I didn’t go for your throat," you argue, though your voice cracks at the edges. "I wrote the truth."

"The truth?" His hands ball into fists at his sides. "You think I don’t know when you’re pulling punches? You tore me apart for no reason."

"You’ve been avoiding media days. You had a meltdown in Spain," you fire back, your tone rising as your frustration bubbles to the surface. "Those are facts, Jeonghan."

"You didn’t have to highlight them," he counters, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "You know how much this season means to me."

"And do you think this was easy for me?" you ask, tears pricking at your eyes. "Do you think I wanted to write that?"

"Then why did you?" His voice softens, the anger slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable. "Why would you do that to me?"

"Because I had to!" The words explode out of you, breaking the fragile tension. "Because people already think I’m biased. That I’ve gone soft. That I’m compromised because of you."

The weight of your confession hangs in the air, pressing down on both of you. Jeonghan’s face shifts, the fury giving way to something heavier—hurt, confusion, disappointment.

"I never asked you to compromise anything for me," he says quietly, his voice thick. "I never would."

You look away, your gaze falling to the floor. "I know. But this isn’t just about you. It’s about my career. My integrity."

"And what about us?" he asks, his voice breaking slightly. "Where does that leave us?"

You have no answer, the words lodged in your throat. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of activity outside the room.

Finally, Jeonghan exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I can’t do this right now," he mutters, taking a step back. "I need...I need to get out of here."

Jeonghan finds himself at the bar later that evening, the neon lights washing over him in hazy blues and reds. The whiskey in his glass is halfway gone before Soonyoung slides onto the stool next to him, his arrival quiet but not unnoticed.

"You look like shit," Soonyoung says, his tone light despite the obvious concern in his eyes.

"Thanks," Jeonghan mutters, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

They sit in silence for a moment before Soonyoung breaks it. "Want to talk about it?"

Jeonghan stares at his drink, the ice melting faster than he can keep up with. "I don’t know what we’re doing anymore," he admits, the words coming out heavier than he expected. "Me and her."

Soonyoung hums thoughtfully, taking a slow sip of his drink. "You two have always been complicated."

Jeonghan huffs out a humorless laugh. "That’s one way to put it."

"But," Soonyoung says, setting his glass down, "you’ve also always figured it out."

Jeonghan doesn’t respond, his thoughts a tangled mess of frustration and longing.

"You’re not going to fix it tonight," Soonyoung continues, his voice quieter now. "But if it matters—and I know it does—you’ll find a way. Just...don’t wait too long, yeah?"

Jeonghan nods slowly, the whiskey burning on its way down. Soonyoung’s words linger, a reminder of what he already knows but isn’t ready to face.

Not yet.

FORMULA 1 LENOVO GRANDE PRÊMIO DE SÃO PAULO 2024 Track: Autódromo José Carlos Pace

The rain is relentless in São Paulo, hammering down on the paddock and turning the atmosphere into a chaotic mess of drenched personnel and frayed nerves. Qualifying has been suspended indefinitely, the downpour rendering the track undriveable, and the mood in the Ferrari garage is grim. The asphalt glistens under the floodlights, reflecting streaks of color from team banners and sponsor logos. It feels like the world is holding its breath. 

You’ve never liked rain. It has a way of amplifying what’s already simmering under the surface, and today is no exception. Your heart pounds as you weave through the maze of garages, dodging puddles and sidelong glances from team members. You know exactly where he’ll be—Jeonghan never strays far from the Ferrari setup, even when there’s nothing to do but wait.

Sure enough, there he is. Sitting on the edge of a workbench, his race suit unzipped to his waist and his damp undershirt clinging to his torso. His head is bowed, one hand gripping the edge of the bench while the other pushes wet strands of hair back from his forehead. He looks exhausted—physically, emotionally—but the moment your shoes scuff against the concrete floor, his eyes snap up to meet yours.

You’ve been blowing up his phone all week. Texts, calls, voice notes—all unanswered or met with cold, clipped replies.

"Jeonghan," you start, the sound of your voice barely carrying over the rain pelting the garage roof.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. "What are you doing here?"

The coldness in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, but you force yourself to step closer. "I could ask you the same thing."

His laugh is short, bitter. "Why are you surprised? This is where I always am."

"Don’t do that," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don’t act like this is normal. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks."

"I haven’t been ignoring you," he snaps, pushing off the bench. He stands tall now, towering over you, his hands resting on his hips. "I’ve been busy."

"Busy?" You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "You call one-word replies busy? Jeonghan, I’ve been calling and texting nonstop, and you’ve barely said anything to me."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant clatter of tools being packed away. Finally, he exhales sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again.

"Maybe I’m tired," he says, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "Maybe I’m sick of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."

Your heart twists at the admission, but you push it aside. "What’s not fine? Tell me, Jeonghan. Because I don’t understand why you’re shutting me out."

He shakes his head, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. "You don’t understand?" His voice rises, cracking with the weight of his frustration. "How could you not? You tore me apart in that article like I was just another driver. Like I meant nothing to you."

"It’s my job," you argue, but the words sound weak even to your ears.

"Your job?" he repeats, throwing his arms up. "You mean the job where you’re supposed to be unbiased? Yeah, I’ve noticed how ‘unbiased’ you’ve been lately. Especially when it comes to me."

"That’s not fair," you shoot back, taking a step closer. "You know I’ve always tried to be honest—"

"Honest?" He laughs, the sound bitter and hollow. "You call dragging my worst moments into the spotlight honest? You didn’t write about me; you dissected me. Like I was nothing more than a story."

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let him see how much his words cut. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

"But you did," he says, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. "And now I don’t even know where we stand."

"We stand..." You falter, your throat tightening. "We stand where we’ve always stood. I care about you, Jeonghan. But this is complicated."

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "It doesn’t have to be. It’s only complicated because you’re making it that way."

You look away, unable to hold his gaze. "You don’t understand what this means for me. For my career. For the season."

"And what about me?" he presses, his voice breaking. "What about what this means for us?"

The weight of his words hangs between you, heavy and suffocating. You take a shaky step back, the sound of the rain growing louder in the silence. "Maybe I should go," you whisper, turning toward the garage entrance.

"Don’t," he says sharply, and before you can take another step, his hand wraps around your wrist. “Don’t walk away from me.”

You barely have time to register the movement before he’s pulling you back, his other hand cupping your face as his lips crash against yours. The rain spills into the garage, soaking you both as his kiss deepens, desperate and unyielding. His hands slide to your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead presses against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I won’t give you up," he whispers, his voice raw. "But I need you to choose."

"Jeonghan..." Your voice trembles, but he cuts you off.

"You love me," he says, his hands cupping your face. "Yes or no."

You hesitate, the weight of his question pressing down on you like the storm outside.

"Come on, sweetheart," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Don’t make me beg."

"I’m scared," you admit finally, your voice breaking. "Scared of losing myself. Of losing everything I’ve worked for."

He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Are you willing to lose me to keep writing?"

"I..." The words catch in your throat, the truth slipping through your fingers. "I don’t know."

His hands drop to his sides, and he takes a step back, the distance between you like a chasm. "When you decide," he says quietly, his voice heavy with resignation, "give me a call."

The rain clears just in time for Sunday’s race, and Jeonghan is unstoppable. He weaves through the slick track with the precision and grace that made him a legend, crossing the finish line first and extending his lead in the championship.

But you’re not there to celebrate with him.

You watch from the media center, your chest tight as the cameras capture his triumphant smile. But there’s a hollowness in his expression, a flicker of something unspoken as he scans the crowd for someone who isn’t there.

The post-race interviews blur together, and even as you type up your article, the words feel lifeless. Without him beside you, the hotel room feels cold and sterile, the thrill of the race dulled by the ache in your chest.

The days leading up to the Las Vegas Grand Prix are a haze of press releases and anticipation. Jeonghan is one race away from becoming a world champion, but all you can think about is the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at you under the floodlights.

Your editor calls to praise your latest pieces, but the compliments feel hollow. The articles are polished and professional, but they lack the spark you used to feel when writing about him.

You glance at your phone, your thumb hovering over Jeonghan’s name. You haven’t called. Haven’t texted. Haven’t dared to.

Because the truth is, you’re terrified. 

Terrified of losing yourself. 

But even more terrified of losing him.

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN SILVER LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Las Vegas Strip Circuit

The sun sets over Las Vegas in a haze of neon and desert dust, the city already buzzing with anticipation for the final race of the season. But in the paddock, the air is electric for all the wrong reasons.

Jeonghan crashes out in Q3.

Your eyes are glued to the screen as Jeonghan’s car slides violently into the barriers, the sharp sound of the impact slicing through the usual hum of commentary. Gasps ripple through the room, but your stomach lurches with something deeper than professional concern. 

You’re in the media center when it happens, staring at the screen as his time locks in. The commentators speculate, the other journalists start drafting headlines, but you can’t hear a word of it. Your heart is already in free fall, and you don’t breathe again until he climbs out of the car, his hands held up in frustration as he waves off the medics.

P8. A disastrous result for the race that could make—or break—his championship. It might as well be the end of the world. 

The room erupts into murmurs as analysts speculate on strategy and rival team fans cheer, but you barely hear them. Your editor sidles up to your desk, his grin practically gleaming in the fluorescent light.

"Well, well," he says, leaning over your shoulder. "Looks like we’ve got our headline for tomorrow. ‘Jeonghan’s Championship Dream in Tatters.’ Perfect angle to dissect his mistakes, maybe even his cocky attitude catching up with him—"

His words fade into the background as something clicks inside you. Every fiber of your being recoils at the thought of reducing Jeonghan—your Jeonghan—to nothing more than a headline. You love writing, yes, but this? This isn’t writing. This is tearing apart the one person who matters most to you, all for clicks and ad revenue.

Without thinking, you swivel in your chair, fixing your editor with a glare so sharp it silences him mid-sentence. "This is my two weeks’ notice."

He blinks, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You stand, grabbing your bag and laptop. "I’m done."

Before he can argue, you’re already out the door, leaving behind the cacophony of keyboards and camera flashes. The paddock is chaos as you weave through the throngs of team personnel and fans, your heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and urgency.

You run.

The Ferrari garage is chaos. Engineers scramble to pack up the car, Jeonghan’s manager barks into his phone, and his publicist looks ready to faint. You push your way through it all, ignoring the glares and the shouted protests.

“He doesn’t want to see anyone right now,” Soonyoung says, stepping in front of you as you approach the motorhome.

“I don’t care,” you snap, shoving past him.

The motorhome is empty.

For a moment, you’re frozen, your chest heaving as you glance around the pristine space. The stillness only amplifies your worry. And then it hits you, like a sudden gust of wind: you know exactly where he is.

You sprint again, your heartbeat pounding louder than the chaos of the paddock behind you. The world blurs into streaks of neon lights, the hum of distant conversations, and the faint roar of engines being powered down for the night. The grandstands loom ahead, their cold metal steps stretching upward like an impossible climb. Each step burns in your legs, your breath coming in shallow gasps, but you don’t let up.

You don’t stop until you see him.

Jeonghan sits alone, halfway up the grandstands, his figure slouched as though the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. The floodlights bathe him in a pale glow, illuminating the soft curve of his profile, his hair catching the light in strands of gold. His head is tilted back, eyes fixed on the track below as if searching for answers in the lines he couldn’t master tonight. A half-finished beer dangles loosely from his fingertips, the bottle swaying slightly with every small movement. Beside him, another bottle sits untouched, condensation pooling on the aluminum seat beneath it.

Waiting.

You take the last steps slowly, your chest tightening as your breathing evens out. Up close, his exhaustion is palpable—dark shadows under his eyes, his usual sharp features softened by an unfamiliar vulnerability.

“I knew you’d come,” he says without looking at you, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, but it carries a weight that settles heavily in your chest. He doesn’t even look at you, his gaze still fixed somewhere far ahead, lost in thought.

You hover for a moment before lowering yourself into the seat beside him. The cold aluminum seeps through your jeans, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your own skin after the sprint. Jeonghan doesn’t move, doesn’t turn toward you, and the distance between you feels like a chasm.

“Jeonghan...” you start, your voice hesitant, but he cuts you off with a bitter laugh.

“This is what happens when my lucky charm leaves me,” he mutters, a sad smile curling at the edges of his lips. His tone is light, but it does nothing to hide the ache in his words. He takes a slow sip of his beer, the motion unhurried.

You glance at the track, the sharp turns and straightaways now cloaked in shadows. “It’s not your fault,” you say softly, your hand reaching out to brush his arm. He flinches at the contact, his muscles tense beneath your touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“P8 doesn’t mean it’s over.”

This time, he turns to look at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The raw vulnerability there makes your chest tighten further. His voice is quieter now, almost fragile. “You don’t get it,” he murmurs, shaking his head as his gaze drops to the beer bottle in his hand. “This race... it’s everything. If I win, I’m a champion. If I don’t...” He trails off, his words hanging in the air between you.

“I’m scared, Y/N.” His voice cracks, and the sound is almost unbearable. “Scared of all of it. The pressure, the expectations... losing.”

You stare at him, the usually unshakable Jeonghan, the Golden Boy, the Ferrari God, unraveling before you. Your hands move without thinking, cupping his face and tilting his chin so he’s forced to meet your gaze again. His skin is warm beneath your palms, a faint flush from the alcohol—or maybe the stress—lingering across his cheeks.

“Jeonghan,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm in your chest. You press your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his as you close the distance between you. “You love me. Yes or no.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. And then his hands come up to grip your wrists, his touch firm but trembling. “Yes,” he whispers, the word spilling from his lips without hesitation, raw and resolute. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold yours, steady and certain despite the tears brimming there.

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, your lips brushing against his forehead in a feather-light kiss. “Good,” you whisper, the word carrying a quiet strength. “You’ll always have me.”

His grip on your wrists loosens, his expression shifting to something between confusion and hope. “But your job... your writing?”

“I’m quitting,” you say simply, letting the words hang for a moment. You watch the shock bloom across his face, his eyebrows shooting up as he sits back slightly, pulling your hands with him.

“You’re what?”

You laugh softly, brushing your thumb against his cheek as if to soothe him. “Not writing, idiot,” you tease gently. “I’m still going to write. But I’m not writing for any organization that profits off me tearing the man I love to shreds.”

His lips part, but no words come. He blinks rapidly, trying to process, and you take the opportunity to continue.

“Besides,” you add, your voice lighter now, “Sky Sports has been trying to recruit me for an on-air job for almost a year now.”

He stares at you, his gaze searching your face for any hint of doubt or regret. Finally, his voice comes, soft and uncertain. “You love me?”

The corners of your mouth lift into a playful smile, and you raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you decide to focus on?”

“Y/N,” he says again, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost desperate. His hands move to clasp yours, his fingers lacing through yours as if afraid you’ll slip away. “Do you love me?”

You answer with action, leaning in and capturing his lips in a quick, tender kiss. His breath hitches, his fingers tightening around yours. “Win tomorrow, golden boy,” you whisper, your lips brushing his as you speak. “And I’ll tell you my answer.”

For the first time that night, Jeonghan smiles—a real, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and softens the tension in his face. And in that moment, as the world fades to just the two of you under the floodlights, you know he’s already won.

Jeonghan is going to lose.

He’s sure of it.

The car feels like it’s fighting him at every turn, the tires slipping just slightly when he needs them to grip, the brakes locking up when he’s trying to conserve them for the final laps. His body aches from the sheer force of the race—the g-forces on the corners, the strain in his neck, the tension in his hands from gripping the wheel too hard.

The numbers on his dashboard blur together, his mind a muddled mess of strategies, tire temps, and sector times. He’s made up four places since the chaotic start and sits in P4 now, but every gain feels like a herculean effort. Every corner feels like it could be his last.

He slams the steering wheel in frustration as he exits another turn slower than he should, the car wobbling slightly under him. “This isn’t working,” he growls into the radio, his voice clipped and strained.

His engineer’s calm voice filters through the crackling static. “We know, Jeonghan. Stay focused. We believe in you.”

Jeonghan clenches his teeth, a biting retort forming on his tongue, but before he can spit it out, the radio crackles again.

“Your girl is here. In the garage. She’s watching.”

“What the fuck?” The words come out before he can stop them, his tone incredulous.

“Soonyoung wanted to surprise you,” his engineer explains, and Jeonghan can practically hear the grin in his voice.

His mind stutters to a halt, and for a moment, all the noise fades—the engine’s roar, the tires screeching against the asphalt, even the deafening wind rushing past his helmet. He blinks, the image of you sitting in the garage flashing in his mind, your presence there grounding him in a way nothing else can.

And then, like a light cutting through the fog, your words echo in his head. “Win tomorrow, and I’ll tell you my answer.”

His grip on the wheel tightens, his breath steadies, and something in him clicks. It’s not just the car anymore—it’s him. His mind, his body, the machine—they all fall into alignment like pieces of a puzzle.

“Copy,” he says into the radio, his voice calm now. The frustration is gone, replaced by a steely determination.

Lap 50. Jeonghan is chasing down P3, the gap shrinking corner by corner. His tires scream in protest as he takes each turn with precision, braking just a fraction later, accelerating just a fraction earlier. The car isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. He’s making it work.

As he dives into the braking zone at Turn 7, the car in front of him falters, locking up slightly. Jeonghan seizes the opportunity, darting to the inside line and slipping past with a calculated aggression that leaves no room for error.

P3.

Lap 53. The leader pack is within sight now—Mingyu in P1, his closest rival, and Seungcheol in P2, a surprising dark horse this season. The three of them have danced this dance all season, but tonight feels different. Tonight, everything is on the line.

Lap 55. Seungcheol’s car begins to falter, his tires degrading as he struggles to maintain pace. Jeonghan hovers in his slipstream, biding his time.

On the main straight, he pulls to the outside, pushing his car to its limits. The engine roars as he edges past Seungcheol, the two of them side by side into the braking zone. Jeonghan holds his line, his heart pounding as he feels the car stick.

P2.

Lap 58. Mingyu is just ahead, the gap less than a second now. Jeonghan can feel the strain in his body, his hands cramping from the sheer effort, but he doesn’t let up. Every ounce of energy he has left is poured into these final laps.

Lap 59. DRS is open, the rear wing flattening to reduce drag as Jeonghan closes the gap on the straight. Mingyu defends aggressively, forcing Jeonghan to the outside.

They enter Turn 10 side by side, the apex inches away. Jeonghan holds his breath, his tires brushing the curbs as he edges ahead. But Mingyu doesn’t back down, his car pushing right up to Jeonghan’s rear wing as they exit the turn.

Lap 60. The final lap. It’s a battle of wills now, neither of them giving an inch. Jeonghan’s heart feels like it’s about to burst, the sweat dripping down his face soaking into the padding of his helmet.

The final corner looms ahead, and Jeonghan knows this is it. Mingyu is on his inside, the two of them neck and neck as they approach the braking zone.

Jeonghan brakes just a millisecond later, his car sliding slightly as he takes the tighter line. He holds his breath, willing the car to stay steady, and then he’s through.

The checkered flag waves, the two cars crossing the line almost simultaneously.

Jeonghan’s chest heaves as he slumps back in his seat, his mind a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline. He doesn’t know if he’s won or lost—everything was too close, too fast.

The radio crackles to life, and for a moment, all he hears is chaos—shouting, cheering, voices overlapping in a cacophony of noise.

And then, cutting through it all, your voice rings out.

“YOON JEONGHAN, TWO-TIME WORLD CHAMPION!”

The words hit him like a lightning bolt, and a yell tears from his throat, loud and raw and triumphant. He punches the air, his entire body trembling with emotion as he lets out another scream, so loud he’s sure the neighboring cars can hear him.

He’s done it.

Through the static of the radio, he hears your laughter, bright and unrestrained, and it’s the only sound that matters.

Jeonghan rolls into Parc Fermé with deliberate precision, the sound of his engine fading into silence as he pulls to a stop. His hands are shaking, his knuckles pale from the grip he’s maintained for the last grueling laps. The cockpit feels stifling, and yet he lingers for a second longer, the enormity of what’s just happened crashing over him like a wave.

He’s done it.

The realization leaves him breathless. His fingers fumble with the steering wheel as he pulls it free, his movements automatic even as his mind spirals. Around him, the world is chaos. Fans scream from the stands, the floodlights of Las Vegas painting the scene in stark gold and shadows. Through the static in his earpiece, his engineer’s voice is still ringing with elation, and he hears indistinct shouting from his crew, but it all blends into a distant roar.

All Jeonghan can think about is you.

He climbs out of the car, bracing his foot on the halo as he pushes himself upright. For a brief moment, he stands tall atop the machine, his body vibrating with adrenaline. His fists shoot into the air, and he lets out a triumphant yell, a sound ripped from deep within his chest. The Ferrari crew erupts in response, a sea of red swarming toward him, shouting his name, their arms outstretched in celebration.

But Jeonghan’s eyes are already searching, scanning the barriers beyond the chaos, darting from one face to another. He’s not looking for his engineers or the cameras or even his teammates. He’s looking for you.

And then he sees you.

You’re there, pressed against the barricade, your hands gripping the edge so tightly your knuckles are white. Your face is wet—tears streaming freely—but your smile is brighter than anything he’s ever seen. It’s disbelieving, joyous, and so achingly familiar that his breath catches in his throat.

In that moment, everything else fades away. The cheers of his team, the flashing cameras, the rules about protocol—none of it exists anymore.

Jeonghan jumps down from the car, tossing the wheel to a waiting mechanic, and tears at his helmet strap. The world around him is a blur of movement and noise—his team surging forward, the cameras flashing, the announcer’s voice booming overhead—but none of it registers. His helmet comes off with a sharp tug, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he grips the sleek surface in one hand and bolts toward you.

He’s moving before he realizes it, his boots pounding against the pavement as he cuts through the throng of people. The barricade draws closer, and the sight of you—your tear-streaked cheeks, your trembling shoulders—grounds him in a way nothing else could.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t stop.

His hands find you immediately. One curls around your neck, his palm warm and steady against your skin, while the other cups your face, his thumb brushing away the tears tracing paths down your cheek. His chest is still heaving, his breath ragged from the exertion of the race, but his touch is impossibly tender.

Your lips part, and your voice comes out in a trembling whisper, just loud enough for him to hear over the chaos. “Congratulations, pretty boy.”

It’s like the world holds its breath. For one fleeting second, it’s just the two of you. The noise of the paddock fades, the flashing lights dim, and all that remains is the quiet intimacy of your words.

Jeonghan’s lips curve into a smile so pure, so unrestrained, that it feels like sunlight breaking through a storm. “You love me,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. His forehead dips to rest against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Yes or—”

You don’t let him finish.

Your arms shoot out, locking around his neck as you pull him down into a kiss. It’s desperate and dizzying, a culmination of everything left unsaid. Jeonghan freezes for the briefest of moments, his eyes widening, before melting into you entirely. His lips move against yours, soft but insistent, and the hand on your neck slides up to thread through your hair, holding you close as if you might disappear.

“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth, your voice breaking. Your hands fist in the front of his race suit, anchoring yourself as you press your forehead to his. “Yes. I love you.”

The barriers around you tremble as the Ferrari crew erupts in celebration, their cheers deafening. Jeonghan barely registers it. His fist shoots into the air, his lips still brushing against yours as he laughs—a sound full of pure, unrestrained joy.

“You’re my lucky charm,” he murmurs, his voice shaking with a mix of awe and certainty.

And when you smile back at him, it’s brighter than the floodlights, warmer than the victory. 

EPILOGUE

FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Albert Park Grand Prix Circuit

The air at Albert Park hums with the kind of energy that only a new season can bring. The stands are packed, a sea of flags waving for drivers and teams, and the scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the faint tang of engine oil. It’s not quite spring yet, but the Melbourne sun still beats down relentlessly, leaving Jeonghan’s fireproofs clinging uncomfortably to his skin as he strides out of the Ferrari garage.

His mind buzzes with the aftermath of qualifying—P2 isn’t pole, but it’s close enough to feel like a promise. Yet, beneath the satisfaction, there’s the familiar tug of nerves that always follows a strong start. Tomorrow is what counts.

His publicist catches up to him, clipboard in hand. “Sky Sports first,” she says, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Jeonghan barely suppresses a groan, already knowing what awaits him. He doesn’t mind media—not entirely—but right now, his thoughts are miles away from answering questions about his out lap or tire degradation.

He rounds the corner into the media pen, where cameras are trained on bright logos and polished smiles. But his eyes find you immediately, waiting just behind the barricade, a microphone in hand, your hair catching the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.

You’re a vision.

He slows as he approaches, his publicist muttering instructions he doesn’t bother to hear. Your eyes catch his, and a secret smile spreads across your lips. He mirrors it, his heart lifting in a way that has nothing to do with his qualifying position.

Jeonghan leans against the barricade, his hands braced on the metal. It’s casual, nonchalant—a stark contrast to the spark simmering beneath the surface. As the questions begin, his fingers shift, brushing yours. The touch is featherlight, a soft sweep of skin against skin, but it’s enough to make his chest tighten.

The lanyard around your neck gleams in the sunlight, a stark reminder of how much had changed—and how much hadn’t. You’re still you.

And you’re wearing it.

The chain glints faintly against your skin, the two charms catching the light with each movement. One is the microphone, delicate and detailed, perfectly crafted. The other is his initial: J. Small, simple, yet undeniably his.

(You’d teased him endlessly when he gave it to you at Christmas. “Modest as always, aren’t you?” you’d laughed.

“Of course,” he’d replied, his voice low and teasing as he leaned into your hair. “One charm for your new job, because I’m so proud of you. And one for me, because I’m so amazing.”

“Two-time world champion,” you’d corrected, poking his ribs.

“Two-time world champion,” he’d agreed with a grin, pulling you into his arms.)

“Jeonghan,” you greet, a secret smile tugging at your lips.

The sound of his name on your lips—professional but laced with affection—sends a warmth through him that he doesn’t bother to hide. “Y/N,” he replies, his tone light but his eyes heavy with meaning.

The interview begins, your questions sharp and to the point. Jeonghan answers with his usual ease, the confidence that had earned him his titles. But he’s distracted, his focus flickering between your voice and the way your thumb absently brushes the microphone charm as you speak.

“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who only managed P2,” you tease, tilting your head slightly.

He leans closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Just keeping it interesting. Wouldn’t want to win everything too easily.”

You roll your eyes, but the soft laugh that escapes you betrays your amusement.

The banter continues, each exchange laced with an undercurrent of warmth that only the two of you can fully understand. To anyone watching, it’s just another driver and journalist sharing a lighthearted moment. But to Jeonghan, it’s everything.

When the cameras finally cut, the energy between you shifts. He leans over the barricade without hesitation, his hands curling around the edge for balance as he dips his head toward you.

The first kiss is quick, a soft press of lips that feels like a punctuation mark to the conversation.

The second is slower, more deliberate, as if he’s savoring the fact that he can do this now.

The third lingers, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

“Jeonghan,” you murmur, glancing around with a mix of amusement and exasperation. But your grin is wide, and your cheeks are flushed, and he knows you’re not annoyed in the slightest.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice so low it barely reaches you. His eyes are soft, his expression open in a way that’s reserved only for you.

Your hand finds his wrist, your fingers curling gently around it. “I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady, your gaze unyielding.

For a moment, the world around you fades—the bustling media pen, the hum of conversations, the clicking cameras. All that exists is the space between you, filled with unspoken promises and the quiet certainty of what comes next.

And as Jeonghan straightens, reluctantly stepping back into the whirlwind of his world, he knows he’s carrying a part of you with him—just as you carry a part of him. Always.

a/n: and that, was full throttle. i cannot express to any of you how proud i am of myself for finishing this. i think i spent more time deleting things on this doc than i did writing it and somehow, i fucking love the way this turned out. alta, kae, if you're reading this - thank you. from the bottom of my heart. this story would have never happened had it not been for the two of you motivating me to get this out of my head and onto a doc. you both inspire me every day and i am lucky that i had you on my side for this one.

[gav-san]

Who's your Daddy? (Beckman Is)

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Who's Your Daddy Masterlist

Who's your Daddy: Benn Beckman Length: 500 Words You are not good with words.

Aboard the Red Force, somewhere between nowhere and trouble…

The sun spilled across the deck in lazy sheets of gold. The ocean stretched out in every direction, glittering like a drunk god had scattered diamonds across it. The crew lounged in their usual post-job glory, half-drunk and wholly obnoxious. Meat sizzled on a spit. Ale sloshed over the rims of wooden mugs. Shanks was already barefoot and grinning, daring someone to arm wrestle him using only their toes.

You had your boots up on a crate, pretending to read a logbook while quietly timing how long it would take before someone started a drinking contest, a shouting match, or a spontaneous musical number involving a barrel and a mop.

It began, as most disasters did on this ship, with Lucky Roux.

He sat cross-legged beside the fire pit, chewing on something suspiciously shiny and waving a turkey leg like a gavel.

“Alright. Serious question. No lying. No thinking. Just gut reaction.”

Yasopp groaned. “That’s never once ended well.”

Roux grinned, looking around at the crew. “Who’s your daddy?”

Someone shouted, “The sea!” Another offered, “Shanks!”

Laughter rippled across the deck.

And without hesitation, without thought, without any self-preservation whatsoever, you replied aloud.

“Beckman.”

The world stopped moving.

Silence dropped like an anchor. A fork clattered to the floor. A barrel stopped mid-roll. Even the gull circling overhead gave up and flew away.

You blinked. Your mouth was still slightly open. Your soul tried to climb out through your spine.

Across the deck, Benn Beckman looked up from cleaning his rifle. His expression didn’t change, but the raise of his brow was slow and deliberate. It was the kind of expression that caused earthquakes in bureaucracies. He was watching you now.

Shanks nearly fell over.

“Beckman?!” he coughed. “Seriously? What the hell!”

You scrambled for cover. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant authority. Like… command structure. You know. Leadership.”

Yasopp lost it completely. “Oh no. Don’t even try to walk that back.”

“You said it like it was burned into your DNA,” Roux cackled.

Shanks pointed accusingly. “I’m literally your captain. What does he even have that I don’t?”

“Dignity,” someone muttered from the rigging.

You covered your face. “I hate this ship. I hate all of you.”

Beckman stood. It wasn’t dramatic. He moved the way he always did, with the weight of quiet inevitability. The crew parted as he walked, still snickering. You were considering diving overboard.

He stopped in front of you.

“You know,” he said, voice low and maddeningly calm, “if I actually were your daddy, you wouldn’t be allowed to talk to me the way you do.”

Your soul left your body.

Somewhere behind you, Shanks screamed.

Beckman’s smirk widened just slightly as he turned and walked away, the sea breeze tugging at the edge of his coat like it was proud to know him.

The crew erupted. The teasing was immediate and merciless. Yasopp dubbed you “Little Miss Beckman” on the spot. Shanks protested so loudly that the figurehead vibrated.

You didn’t live it down for the rest of the month.