#Still not the end of the characters though-

[ao3commentoftheday]

I know tag wranglers do a lot of work connecting tags etc. Is there anything authors can do to make their jobs easier for them like trying to mostly use canonical tags or not making tag comments?

Thanks!

This is a great question, and I'll do my best to answer it but I do hope that some wranglers add on in the notes! I'm also just going to preface this with the fact that you should still tag however you like to tag. This list isn't meant to be a checklist or anything. It's just info I've picked up over the years and you can take or leave each piece as you see fit.

Okay, so the first thing that most non-wranglers should know is that wranglers see tags separately from the fic. They get a big bin full of tags to sort through and match up in the system, but they'll only see your fic and the other tags you've added to it if they decide to go look.

That's important to know because sometimes a user will tag something like [character] is so sexy and then also tag by which I mean they're a huge dork. The wranlger won't see that second tag and won't know that they're connected so your sarcastic tag will end up synned (matched up to) sexy!Character or whatever the canonical is, as if that was the meaning you were going for.

Another good thing to know is that tags can only be synned if they only have 1 idea in them. So if you tag, say, [character] is gay and autistic then the wrangler can't actually syn that to either [character] is gay or character is autistic because it only half-fits either tag. To have them synned in the database, you would need to tag those two ideas separately.

You might have already seen the post I made referencing the fact that you don't have to tag multiple versions of the same idea (unless you want to for the aesthetic) because the synning that wranglers do makes sure that tagging one idea allows users to filter for all versions of that idea. But in case you didn't know that, now you do!

Wranglers are often members of the fandoms they wrangle, but they aren't always. Sometimes they'll take on a fandom that doesn't otherwise have a wrangler because they like to do research or because they like small fandoms or for many other reasons. But that means that if you're tagging your OCs by name, you should add (OC) to the end so that they know it's not a canon character that they aren't familiar with. This is double true in huge fandoms like Star Wars where there are millions of canon characters and just as many OCs.

Wranglers don't "seed" tags in fandoms. For a tag to exist, users need to create it. The rule of thumb is at least 3 fics from 3 separate authors, but that's very much the minimum and in fast-moving or huge fandoms the bar is probably higher. Also, for brand new fandoms, it's entirely possible that they won't know you exist until you tell them. Back in January I was the first person to write in a brand new fandom so I knew I had to start the tags, and I waited until there were 25 or so works by 15 or so creators before I emailed Support because I know I have to be patient - but I'm still impatient by nature lol.

Another thing to know is that tags are kind of like proton packs - they can't cross the streams. If you put a tag in the Character field by mistake, wranglers can't move it to the Additionals. This can also work in your favour, though, because if you have a minor character or minor relationship that you want to tag because there's some kind of fandom drama happening and people want to be able to avoid them, you can tag them in the Additional Tags so that people can know they're in there, but the people who like that character or ship can still filter the Character and Relationship tags without seeing a bunch of works that don't really focus on them.

This got super long, so I'll end with your question about tag comments. I know people worry that it makes extra work for tag wranglers if you get all chatty in your fic tags but I've been reassured by more than one wrangler over the course of several years now that it's no extra work. They just shovel those tags into the gaping maw of the Unfilterable Beast - which is the same thing they do with those tags that have multiple concepts in them. If it can't be synned, then that's where they go.

(keep tagging that way, though, if you like to because that's how new concepts get created and eventually canonized)

Alright, I that's all I can think of off the top of my head, and the list was actually longer than I thought! Wranglers: please do add on with other things you wish users knew, and please correct me if anything has changed since the last time I delved into this topic!

Editing to add: a wrangler pointed out in the tags that [character] is autistic and gay can itself become a single tag if enough people use it. That's true of other tags with multiple meanings as well. They just can't be synned with existing tags in the meantime.

[stargalaxyshooter]

I love how even before maomao knew jinshi was a prince, back when she was even convincing herself that he was a eunuch, there would still be moments where she showed her worry for him. Like *spoilers for night novels* we know how later on as jinshi takes on his moon prince responsibilities there are many moments where he overworks himself and maomao shows her care by trying to get him to rest. I think it's cute that even back when she didnt know his identity there would be moments where he would come with a seemingly impossible task (the blue rose & entertaining the envoys) she would internally think to herself how troubled and tired he was.

It shows her care but it also shows how maomao is actually paying attention to jinshi and is conscious of him. Like that time she noticed he has a nervous tick of taping his fingers or shoes. It's cute how we have these moments that subtlety point to her growing affections for jinshi and how close they're getting.

Even though she would never admit it, at least at this point, maomao is a character where you have to not take what she says at face value but at her actions as well. You must weigh both what she says and what she actually ends up doing

[avengxrz]

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

pairings: jake seresin x reader

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

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

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

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

part two , part three , part four

masterlist

your callsign is rogue.

You had it bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You told yourself he noticed.

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

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

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

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

You thought that was romantic.

You thought he meant it like a compliment.

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

He noticed, too. Sort of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he never did. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t know your name.

Not really.

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

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

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

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

Because it came from him.

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

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

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

Jake didn’t get it. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you invited Jake.

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

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

You hesitated. “Kind of. You’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He offered to walk you home.

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

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

When you reached your front porch, he paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake blinked. “You have a dog?”

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced around, eyes catching on the walls.

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

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

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

Jake nodded slowly. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

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

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

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

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

You laughed. “Everyone does.”

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

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

Jake nodded, still staring.

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

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

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

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

He’d just never asked to see it.

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

At first, Jake tried to excuse himself.

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

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

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

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

It never came.

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

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

You closed your eyes. Blew it out.

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

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

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

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

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

“Smile!” your mom called.

Jake did.

Sort of.

The camera clicked. Flash.

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

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

You told yourself it was fine.

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

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

That had to count for something.

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

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

You repeated those maybes like they were prayers.

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

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

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

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

He likes me, you thought.

He just doesn’t know how to show it.

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

No text. No message. Not even a meme.

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

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

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

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

Because how could he not?

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

That had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

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

But that was just… fear. Right?

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

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

You could wait a little longer.

You’d already waited this long.

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

The days passed slower after that.

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

But you told yourself that was okay.

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

You’d learned how to survive on crumbs.

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

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

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

You told yourself he’d ask. Eventually.

He just needed time.

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

You weren’t delusional.

You were just patient.

It started as a normal afternoon.

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

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

He waved. Waved.

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

“Hey,” you said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

Jake laughed.

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

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

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

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

They all laughed.

You laughed, too.

But it caught in your throat.

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

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

And that—that—was the line.

It felt like someone poured ice water down your spine.

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

You weren’t the joke.

You couldn’t be.

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

You had to be.

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

You left before they could say anything else.

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

Then it dropped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wasn’t he?

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

Still nothing.

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

Just silence.

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

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

You didn’t cry.

Not right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t it?

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

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

You looked at your phone again. Still nothing.

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

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

And still—you didn’t cry.

But you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

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

Maybe he never saw you at all.

You woke up before your alarm the next morning.

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

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

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

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

Like that was funny.

Like that was a flaw.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he didn’t like her at all.

And maybe he never would.

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

No tears. Not yet.

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

The first fracture of goodbye.

It was a Thursday.

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

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

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

Then someone asked a question.

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

Instead, he laughed.

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

Laughter erupted.

Laughter.

You blinked.

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

You sat there frozen. Still. Not breathing.

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

He humiliated you. Publicly. On purpose.

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

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

And maybe that was the worst part.

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

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

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

He was never yours.

Not even close.

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

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

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

Then you left.

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

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

Your stomach was hollow. Your hands were shaking.

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

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

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

But this? This was different.

This was cruel.

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

You pulled out your phone.

No messages.

No apologies.

Just silence.

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

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

He just didn’t care.

He never did.

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

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

And Jake?

Jake was probably still smiling.

You didn’t go to class the next day.

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

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

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

But then what would you say?

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

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

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

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

But now?

Now you couldn’t pretend anymore.

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

It wasn’t just the humiliation.

It was the choice.

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

And maybe that hurt more than anything.

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

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

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

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

You didn’t tell anyone what happened.

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

But your world had shifted.

Suddenly, everything reminded you of him.

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

It was everywhere.

And nowhere.

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

You wanted to hate him.

God, you wanted to.

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

So instead… you began the slow work of forgetting.

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

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

It was like shedding a skin.

Painful. Awkward. Slow.

But necessary.

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

You weren’t his sunshine.

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

So you picked up what pieces you could.

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

It happened on a rainy Sunday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice cracked on the last word.

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

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

You stopped, breathed, kept going.

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

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

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

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

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

Or maybe not someone else—just someone more.

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

You hesitated.

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

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

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

And maybe that was enough.

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

You didn’t know what came next.

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

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

Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe…purpose.

- Jake -

She wasn’t at the library.

That was the first thing he noticed.

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

She was always there.

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

Today, the spot was empty.

He shrugged it off.

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

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

Or outside the café.

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

Weird.

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

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

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

Still nothing.

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

He didn’t get it.

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

The professor started talking.

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

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

Nowhere.

It was weird.

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

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

It was the quiet.

The lack of her.

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

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

And now?

Now it was silent.

Jake didn’t know why he went.

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

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

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

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

He rang the bell once.

No answer.

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

The door opened after a moment.

And there she was.

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

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

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

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

She didn’t say anything.

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

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

Good.

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

Her eyes widened. “I wasn’t—”

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

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

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

Silence.

Thick. Ugly. Shattering.

Then—crack.

The slap hit harder than he expected.

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

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

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

Jake opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

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

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

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

He stared at her.

He didn’t know what to say.

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

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

Jake took a breath, but it felt jagged.

He nodded once.

No apology.

No goodbye.

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

she was done.

Jake didn’t sleep.

Not really.

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

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

But what the hell else was there to mean?

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

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

He stepped up and rang the bell, palms sweating.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

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

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

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

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

His heart slowed. “Told me what?”

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

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

Gone?

Just like that?

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

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

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

No yellow hoodie draped on the back of the chair. 

No stack of textbooks on the coffee table. 

No Bingo barking like a maniac at the door.

Gone.

She was really gone.

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

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

A lie. So flat it felt like it burned.

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

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

But final.

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

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

And when he finally turned around to look?

She was already gone.

“Earth to Hangman!”

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

Jake blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever it was, it hit like a sucker punch.

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

But some ghosts didn’t stay buried.

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

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

He leaned back, grin practiced. Easy. Untouchable.

But he didn’t laugh this time.

Not really.

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

She’d been gone for years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unlikely,” Hangman muttered.

But his voice was distant. Hollow.

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

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

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

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

But now?

Now his gut twisted.

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

Very personal.

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

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

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

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

Someone important.

Someone they’d recognize.

Jake swallowed hard.

He had a bad feeling he already did.

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

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

Harvard. Yale. Halo. Fritz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake raised a brow. “What rumor?”

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

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

“You know who it is?” Coyote asked.

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

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

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

Fritz dropped the bomb like it was casual gossip.

“Word is—Mav might be getting replaced.”

Dead silence.

Not even the jukebox seemed to be playing anymore.

Jake blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

“He’s not soft,” Rooster snapped.

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

The weight of it sank in.

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

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

Jake’s stomach coiled.

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

It was someone coming to shake the cage.

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

Someone who disappeared before he could ever make it right.

Jake didn’t say a word.

He just stared at the melting ice in his glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Cocky much?”

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone groaned at once.

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

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

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

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

The table paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Payback wasn’t done.

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

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

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

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

“Whatever. Let ‘em come.”

But the chill down his spine didn’t leave.

Because he was Hangman. Untouchable. Unbothered. Right?

…Right?

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

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

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

And then—Warlock stepped in.

The room straightened like one body.

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

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

A collective breath released.

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

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

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

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

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

Heads tilted. Eyes flicked sideways.

Warlock didn’t budge.

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

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

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

A visible shift rippled through the squad.

Bob stiffened.

Coyote muttered something under his breath.

Phoenix’s jaw tightened.

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

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

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

Two men. One woman.

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

They took their seats without a word.

Warlock nodded once, then turned back to the squad.

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

He stepped aside.

Silence.

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

Jake leaned back in his seat, jaw tight.

Who the hell were they?

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

He didn’t know yet.

But he was about to.

The steel doors groaned open again.

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

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

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

The storm was already rolling.

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

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

He paused. No one breathed.

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

His eyes flicked sideways, right at Maverick.

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

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

His words landed like blades.

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

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

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

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

Cyclone sighed. “Maverick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another pause.

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

A few of the pilots chuckled under their breath.

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

He looked straight at Hangman now.

Jake’s spine locked, jaw tightening instinctively.

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

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

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was coiled.

Every pilot in that hangar knew something had just shifted.

Three strangers. Higher rank. Total silence.

And tomorrow? The games began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice dropped slightly, the edge hardening.

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

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

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

The heavy hangar doors creaked open behind them.

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

Jake heard it.

They all did.

But no one turned around.

Not even Rooster—who turned at everything.

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

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

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

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

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

Another pause.

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

Still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t breathe.

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

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

The squad sat frozen.

And somewhere behind them, three chairs were pulled out.

Three seats filled.

Jake’s jaw twitched.

He still didn’t know what was coming.

But whatever it was?

It just walked into the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cyclone didn’t wait for the tension to ease.

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

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

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

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

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

And then—Cyclone’s posture shifted just slightly.

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

She stood.

Jake’s stomach dropped before he understood why.

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

It was her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Jake?

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

She didn’t even blink.

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

He was staring at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked like she’d forgotten him.

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

Commander Rogue.

The girl who once waited for him.

Now the woman who walked right past.

She hadn’t changed. And yet—she had.

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

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

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

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

But then—

Then there was the way she stood.

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

God.

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

It had to be her.

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

And why did his chest feel so damn tight?

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

This wasn’t a story.

She was real.

She was right in front of him.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

Jake was still staring.

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

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

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

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

“What did you just say?”

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

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

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

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

“Lieutenants.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

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

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

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

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

Jake felt the flush crawl up his neck immediately.

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

Jake didn’t say a word.

Neither did Rooster.

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

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

Didn’t even smirk.

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

That, somehow, burned the worst of all.

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

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

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

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

He let that settle.

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

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

A few seats shifted. No one dared speak.

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

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

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

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

“If that doesn’t interest you?” Ruin said, voice suddenly sharper, “Let us know now. We’ll make room for someone who still gives a damn.”

Silence.

He nodded once, curt and clean, then stepped back beside Rogue and Jinx, hands behind his back.

Jake let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

One down.

Two to go.

Commander Mercer stepped forward with a slower ease than Ruin, but no less authority. Where Ruin moved like a warpath waiting to happen, Jinx moved like he was already three steps ahead of the rest of the room and didn’t feel the need to brag about it.

He stood tall, hands clasped loosely behind his back, jaw relaxed, eyes half-lidded in that quiet, analytical way that made Jake immediately wary. There was no bark to him—just that deadly stillness some pilots had when they didn’t need noise to command a storm.

“Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate, and unshaken. “Call sign Jinx.”

He didn’t follow it up with credentials. Didn’t rattle off medals or deployments. He let his name and tone carry the weight—and it did.

“I’ve flown combat missions in seven countries and trained with five different air forces. If you’re in the air with me, you won’t need to guess what I’m thinking.”

His gaze slid over the squad like he was scanning data points instead of people. Not judgmental. Not cruel. Just thorough.

“If I give you a command, it’s not a suggestion. If I give you silence, it’s on purpose. I expect you to listen. I expect you to think.”

There was no heat behind it, no raised volume. Just certainty. Control so quiet it left no room to argue.

“I’m not here to be your enemy,” he said. “But I won’t waste time convincing you of something you should already know.”

He paused. Let that hang in the air like static.

“I trust skill. I trust clarity. I trust decisions made in less than three seconds. If you can’t handle that, step back before you waste my time—or worse, get someone else killed.”

Jake’s throat tightened slightly. He wasn’t scared of this guy. But he respected him, instantly and absolutely.

Jinx gave one final, silent nod, then stepped back into place beside Ruin.

Two down.

Jake felt it coming.

The last voice.

The one he wasn’t ready to hear.

She stepped forward.

Not a twitch of hesitation in her spine, not a flicker of uncertainty across her face. Commander (Last Name)—no, Rogue—moved like someone who’d learned long ago that power wasn’t about volume. It was about presence. And she carried it in spades.

Jake’s eyes followed her like they were wired to. Like he couldn’t look away even if he tried. His hands flexed against his thighs. Her boots clicked once against the concrete and then silence fell again, heavy as a stormfront.

She stood at the center, posture perfect, chin level, her hands at ease behind her back. There was a stillness about her that made the air feel heavier. And when she spoke, her voice didn’t crack or rise—it settled, clean and even, like a scalpel being drawn.

“I’m Commander (Your Name) (Last Name), call sign Rogue.”

She let it breathe. Let the name hang in the air for a moment. The confidence in her tone wasn’t rehearsed. It was worn-in. Lived-in. Like it had been forged in pressure and held together with purpose.

“I don’t care where you came from or how many hours you’ve logged. That’s not what earns you a place here.”

She glanced across the squad as she spoke. Not pausing. Not blinking. Not lingering long enough to give anyone more weight than the next. Not even him.

“You’ll earn your spot in the air. In the comms. In the debrief. You’ll earn it when you show me that you’re not just flying to prove something, but flying to protect something. If your pride’s more important than your team, don’t get in my formation.”

Her eyes flicked for a second—brief, surgical—toward the row where Jake sat.

Then away again.

And he was hit with that same damn ache, sharp and hot in his ribs, the kind that didn’t leave bruises but ought to.

“Some of you might remember my name,” she said, with the faintest curve of something that could’ve been a smirk—but wasn’t. “Some of you won’t. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you hear it now, and you understand one thing.”

Her shoulders drew back, her gaze hardening just slightly.

“I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to make sure you survive.”

And that was it.

She stepped back beside Jinx and Ruin without fanfare, without waiting for a reaction. Like she hadn’t just split open the sky and walked out of the thunder.

Jake stared at her like he’d been punched.

Because for the first time in a long damn time, he had no idea what to say.

Warlock stepped forward, the calm after the thunder. His voice didn’t boom—it didn’t need to. It rolled across the hangar like it belonged there, measured and precise, carrying the weight of authority without ever sounding forced. “That concludes introductions,” he said, his tone level, eyes sweeping over the squad like he was checking for cracked composure.

“These officers will be part of your detachment for the foreseeable future. You will respect their rank, follow their lead when instructed, and if you’re smart, you’ll learn something from them while you can.” No one nodded. No one dared breathe too loudly. Jake barely blinked. He kept his jaw tight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes locked forward—mostly. Not quite on her, not anymore. But close.

Warlock gave a final nod to Maverick, then turned. Cyclone followed a beat after, posture as stiff and unreadable as ever. And then they were leaving—Warlock, Cyclone, Ruin, Jinx... and Rogue. She didn’t look back. Not once. She didn’t glance at Jake, didn’t even skim the row of stunned pilots like she needed their approval. She walked out the same way she entered: like the room had already been warned.

Jake watched her until the doors eased shut behind them. The second they did, he let out a slow breath through his nose—but even that felt like weakness. He was still trying to find his footing when Maverick stepped forward.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Maverick said, hands on his hips, aviators glinting in the overhead light. “You’re not dismissed yet.”

Groans rippled lightly across the group. Fritz let his head roll back. Coyote muttered something about needing a damn minute. And Rooster—Rooster leaned sideways with that half-stupid, half-lovesick grin curling on his face.

“Rogue,” he said under his breath, low enough that he thought no one heard him. “She’s something else.”

Jake’s head turned, just enough to catch it. Just enough for his stomach to twist, tight and fast.

“Dial it back,” he muttered, voice flat but sharp enough to slice. “You’re drooling.”

Rooster blinked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “What? I said she’s impressive. Don’t have to act like I proposed.”

But Jake didn’t respond. He just looked forward again, jaw tight. Something bitter sat under his tongue, and for once, he didn’t have a clever line to spit it out. Rogue was gone. Out the door, out of reach, and yet somehow—still everywhere.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

The silence that lingered after the doors shut behind the three commanders was thick enough to choke on. It wasn’t the stunned, respectful kind. It was the kind of silence where no one wanted to be the first idiot to speak and break whatever spell had just been cast.

Of course, Rooster broke it anyway.

“Rogue,” he said again, like the name had settled in his mouth too sweet to spit out. “That’s a damn call sign. She’s got presence. You see the way she walked? I didn’t even know I liked getting yelled at by women until—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Phoenix muttered, rubbing her hands down her face.

“I’m just saying,” Rooster went on, undeterred, “she commands a room. Not just anyone gets that kind of intro. And did you see the way she looked at—”

Jake cut in, sharper than intended. “She didn’t look at anyone.”

That earned him a glance from half the squad. Rooster raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised at the edge in Jake’s voice, but he didn’t push it.

Before anyone else could jump in, Maverick stepped up to the front, arms crossed, clearly amused by the nervous buzz hanging in the air. “Alright,” he said, drawing everyone’s attention back, “while you all recover from your collective ego bruising, we’re still on schedule. Sim runs this afternoon. Live maneuvers tomorrow. That hasn’t changed.”

Coyote groaned. “You’re telling us we’ve gotta fly after that?”

Maverick shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think command cares if your pride’s hurt?”

“Mine’s not hurt,” Jake blurted, voice rising slightly. “I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling hotter than he wanted. “I mean, what the hell, Mav. Who are they? Especially her—you don’t just drop someone like that in here without warning.”

Maverick looked at him, unreadable behind those damn aviators. “You’ll find out in time, Lieutenant.”

Jake’s jaw ticked. “That’s not a real answer.”

Hondo, who’d been standing silently at Maverick’s side, finally spoke, his tone light but knowing. “Neither’s that attitude, son.”

The rest of the squad chuckled, the tension breaking just slightly, but Jake didn’t join them. He crossed his arms, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the spot Rogue had been standing just minutes ago. She hadn’t looked at him once. Not when she walked in. Not when she spoke. Not even when Rooster practically drooled on the floor beside him.

And now she is gone again.

But this time, she’d left a crater.

Jake wasn’t listening to a damn thing anymore.

Maverick had started outlining the rest of the day's schedule—some nonsense about sim rotations, recalibration drills, airspace protocols. Jake heard the words, sure, but none of them stuck. Not when Rooster, two seats down, was still mumbling like a man freshly baptized.

“She was just—” Rooster exhaled hard, running a hand down his face like he was trying to cool himself off. “That voice? That stare? I think I blacked out a little. I didn’t know it was possible to feel both terrified and turned on at the same time.”

Jake rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Rooster didn’t even flinch. “Worth it.”

Phoenix groaned. “You’re gonna get court-martialed for simping.”

“Gladly,” Rooster shot back. “I’ll hand over my wings if she tells me to kneel.”

“That’s enough,” Jake snapped, louder than intended.

The squad quieted for a beat, all heads turning toward him. Maverick arched an eyebrow, clearly clocking the sudden shift, and Hondo gave him a slow side-eye like damn, someone struck a nerve.

Jake forced a smirk onto his face, even though it felt brittle. “I mean, come on. You’re all acting like this is the first time you’ve seen someone with rank and a decent jawline.”

Payback snorted. “That wasn’t just rank, bro. That was presence.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Yale added. “Straight-up cold steel.”

Jake clenched his jaw.

Because they were right.

She hadn’t blinked. She hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t spared him a glance.

And Jake Seresin, Lieutenant and golden boy of the skies, was sitting there feeling like a ghost in his own story.

Rooster let out another dreamy sigh, tipping his head back. “God, I hope she yells at me.”

Jake didn’t say a word. He just stared straight ahead, arms crossed, pulse ticking in his throat like a warning. Because he knew what was coming.

Tomorrow, they'll be flying with her.

And tomorrow, for the first time in a long damn time, he might be the one falling behind.

[xomintybreezexo]

So, this has barely anything to do with the above, but I'm seeing a lot of people in the comments saying they hate fics that are mostly fanon stuff, so let me say, I agree, to a certain extent.

I've watched the show at least 3 times by now, and I love a lot of fanon world-building! I will admit there are some things like abusive Fentons that I hate because, in canon, they seem to be, at most, neglectful parents. I love the fanon of ghost cores and ghost obsessions because it feels like things that were alluded to in canon that were either never expanded on or only brought up once, and I love to watch people go crazy with it!

But I do not like it when someone has clearly never watched any of the show, except maybe one or two episodes out of order. It's one thing to purposefully disregard canon if canon sucks, I see a lot of people say that for Phantom Planet because it felt like a very rushed and unsatisfying ending, and I'm inclined to agree. But in more fanon-oriented works, it's usually obvious which writings have seen enough of the show to have a baseline understanding of the characters they're writing, and again, it is okay to disregard canon characterization if you acknowledge it.

I guess my personal issue with fanon is when the characters are almost completely different from canon, mostly when the writer has a lack of understanding of the character(s) they are writing. Because it usually shows. I love when fanon builds on canon, especially for shows/series like Danny Phantom that were forced to end early for one reason or another. I don't like it when canon is mostly or completely disregarded for fanon.

But that's just my personal opinion lol. I still love reading fics where there are parts I have to suspend disbelief for because it can challenge my understanding and perception of a character or concept in the series. I hate it when the challenge to my perception and understanding of something is all a fic is. That's just me and myself, though, please don't take anything I've said to heart.

[kxsagi]

Hello from Türkiye, I saw that ur request gonna be closed so can I request? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Bllk boys with a reader that completely a sweetheart I mean like she's just so kind so polite and idk but I hope you understand what I mean👉🏻👈🏻

The Characters I want are ısagi, rin, kaiser,shidou,reo,yukimiya and if anyone you would like

Love ya(⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

“𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲”

a/n: TURKEY OMGGG HIII IT’S SO AMAZING TO KNOW THERE ARE PEOPLE FROM SO FAR READING MY WORKS

i have a turkish best friend so it’s nice to see someone else of the same ethnicity! 

also sorry, i keep forgetting karasu and hiori have a kansai accent so forgive me for not using yer and ya 💀

ft. kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, mikage reo, yukimiya kenyu, karasu tabito, otoya eita, isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae

kaiser michael

honestly? he thought you were fake. 

no way someone could be that sweet and that polite. when you greeted him with a smile the first time and said “it’s really nice to meet you, thank you for your time!” he was waiting for the punchline. 

“schatz, are you in what they call a shojo anime?” 

he tries to act unfazed, but your gentle little “please don’t fight with ness today, he seems tired” or “remember to eat something healthy, okay? not just bread crumbs” hits his chest like a tranquilizer dart. 

your kindness rewired his ego. like he's still annoying, but now he’s your annoying. he actually behaves a little better when you’re around because he wants to impress you by being a “gentleman.” 

you’ll compliment his hair and he’ll say “of course it looks good, it’s mine,” but he’s blushing. 

if someone is even remotely rude to you, the man becomes unhinged. the contrast between “polite angel” and “egotistical menace ready to end careers” is shocking. 

“you should apologize to her.” “kaiser, it’s okay–” “no. say sorry. or i’ll make you cry.” 

shidou ryusei

babe. babe. babe. he calls you “mother teresa” with his whole chest and zero shame. 

“who raised you? are you like, legally allergic to being a bitch?” 

he’s constantly testing the limits of your patience just to see if you’ll ever snap. spoiler: you don’t. you just say “that wasn’t very nice, ryu…” with the saddest pout and he malfunctions. 

you once kissed his cheek after he got a yellow card and said, “good job keeping it to just one today!” and he stood there, stunned, like a dog hearing jazz for the first time. 

he picks fights with people who even look at you wrong. meanwhile you’re in the background like, “i’m so sorry, he’s just tired, please don’t mind him!” 

he lowkey develops a hero complex and brags about “protecting his precious princess” even though you're the one apologizing to the staff after he body slams someone for cutting in line. 

will never admit it, but your “thank you for existing” made him feel emotions he didn’t know existed. 

mikage reo

he has never met anyone like you. 

you made origami thank-you notes for his chauffeur. you offered the security guard cookies. you said “please take care of yourself” to a vending machine. 

he's floored. 

“how are you real? like, be honest. are you a disney princess on your day off?” 

he’s incredibly soft with you. you say “please” and “thank you” with such sincerity that he catches himself holding his breath. 

when you compliment him, he gets all flustered and bashful, which is wild because he used to be the king of confidence. 

if you get even slightly upset or disappointed, he immediately assumes the world is ending. he buys you flowers, books a dinner, sends you a paragraph apologizing for breathing wrong. 

also: this man will deck someone in a ¥500,000 suit if they mess with you. 

“you don’t talk to her like that. i don’t care if you’re the manager or god himself.” 

yukimiya kenyu

he is so enamored by your gentleness. your aura is just so soft. when you brush your fingers against his arm to get his attention, he swears time slows down. 

compliments from you are like scripture to him. if you say “i believe in you,” he’ll go out there and score three goals and cure world hunger. 

your kindness is so genuine that he finds himself wanting to be better, not just for you, but because you believe in goodness like it’s a religion. 

he can be a little self-critical sometimes, but when you gently hold his face and go “you’re doing enough, you’re more than enough,” he gets teary-eyed. 

he’s also very protective. 

like yes he looks classy and polite but if someone talks down to you, he’s throwing cutting shade and passive-aggressive comments so elegant you don’t even realize he just ruined someone’s life. 

“huh. people usually remember how to be respectful when they’re sober. how strange.” 

karasu tabito

your kindness drives him insane, in a good way. like “how is she real? how is she this sweet? and why do i wanna kiss her every time she says ‘excuse me’?” 

he’s a menace with his words, but he never disrespects you. he tries to rile you up, but it backfires because you’re just so genuinely kind. 

you say “thank you for walking me home!” and he goes “what, like i’d let someone else do it?” but he’s grinning like a boy with a crush. 

you bring him snacks, and instead of saying thank you, he’s like “why are ya the cutest person alive? genuinely. what the hell.” 

he starts lowkey doing good deeds just because he wants you to be proud of him. 

he’d never admit it, but your approval makes his whole day. if you say “you were really thoughtful today,” he plays it cool but he’s internally spinning like a fan. 

otoya eita

he loves calling you “angel” or “sweetheart” in the most dramatic tone possible because you are one. 

you could trip over air and say sorry to the ground. 

he teases you constantly but in the softest, most flirty way. like: “careful, babe, if you keep smiling at people like that, i’m gonna have to start throwing hands.” 

but fr if someone disrespects you? he flips a switch so fast it’s scary. 

you always try to de-escalate things like “it’s okay, he didn’t mean it–” while otoya’s cracking his knuckles like “no no, let him finish, i’m listening.” 

also? he flirts 50% to make you blush and 50% because he’s genuinely obsessed with how sweet you are. 

“you’re like a cupcake with a switchblade. all sugar until someone pisses me off.” 

isagi yoichi

he genuinely thought you were flirting the first time you said, “thank you for being so patient, you’re really kind!” 

and then you said the same thing to a waiter. and to a lost child. and to a bird. 

it hit him real quick: no, you’re just that kind. 

he didn’t know people like you existed, and now he’s devoted to protecting you like you’re a baby deer and he’s your bodyguard. 

your gentleness literally makes him better. like he finds himself thinking “would she be proud of me if i yelled at that guy? probably not.” 

you cheer for him at matches with the most genuine little claps and he will score just to make you happy. 

he literally folds when you cup his face and say “i’m really proud of you.” he’s down bad. 

if anyone is even slightly mean to you, he gets serious. not even mad, just terrifyingly calm. 

“what did you just say to her?” “yoichi, i-it’s fine–” 

“no. let me handle it.” 

itoshi rin

this man has zero idea how to handle you. 

he thought you were pretending. no one says “thank you for taking me to the station!” or “i hope you get home safe!” with that much sincerity. 

he used to just blink at you like ??? 

but then you started packing him bentos with sticky notes that said “you’ll do amazing today!!” and he started… feeling things. 

you’re the first person who ever softened him. he actually trusts you. 

like you’ll gently scold him for being rude like “rin… that wasn’t very kind…” and he’ll get quiet and apologize??? 

no one believes you tamed him. the other players are like “is that rin… holding her hand? with a neutral expression???” 

if anyone dares upset you, he’s immediately on high alert. “who was that?” “just an old classmate–” “what did he say? no, tell me. i’m not letting anyone talk to you like that.” 

itoshi sae

he teases the life out of you. 

“you’re so nice. it’s concerning.” “what do you mean you donated to a stray dog shelter again?” 

but the thing is… he adores it. he’s always been surrounded by fake smiles and cold ambition, so the fact that you’re genuinely kind? makes his heart ache a little. 

he’s not used to being around someone who isn’t transactional. who’s just good for the sake of it. 

the first time you told him “thank you for trying your best today,” he was quiet for the rest of the night. 

this man does not cry but he stared at the ceiling for 20 minutes trying to process that warmth. 

also: he’s now a menace to anyone who bothers you. 

“you’re not allowed to talk to her unless you pass my standards bar.” “sae, be nice–” “i am. this is me being nice.” 

he gives you forehead kisses and acts like you’re a fragile jewel, even though you’re probably stronger emotionally than everyone in his life combined. 

he’ll never admit it but your little “have a good day! drink water!” texts make him actually… drink water. and smile. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[rxmye]

" 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 "

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐑 — and you've ruined her . . .

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / teacher x student / pathetic yandere / power imbalance / suggestive content / I have a prof kink, can you tell / implied age gap / obsessive content / intended to be wlw / semi-edited / girlie is knee deed in denial

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: Unfinished draft from a year ago, finally gets completed !!

Neva hated this feeling—the way her gaze lingered onto you at class, the way she'd pause wherever she got a whiff of that intoxicating scent of yours—the way her body would freeze, completely still at the brief eye-contact. Fuck she hated it—She hated you.

Neva was offered a job as a professor at one of the top universities in the United Kingdom—Thanks to her connections—she was able to talk her way up the ranks and receive the job as the new head of the humanities faculty.

Recently one of the teachers working under her—the psychology professor, Charlotte, took a few weeks off for family matters—Which was understandable, until she had to take over her job for the 3 weeks she was off due to being both heavily understaffed and underprepared.

Don't get me wrong, Charlotte had lesson plans, recordings, everything left in perfectly pristine colour-coded fashion—All Neva had to do was dress up, and supervise in place of her free period—She just had one class to handle, one period to be exact in place of her free one, for the next 3 weeks, 3 days a week.

And . . . everything was fine, perfect in fact . . and then she met you.

Fuck she met you.

Her dreadful demise.

You were one of Charlotte's best student's, not too overwhelmingly invasive but just enough engaged to be the perfect student—at least in her opinion, you shared your thoughts whenever you could and participated very cooperatively in everything that was required of you for the class.

And how she loved hearing your voice.

Neva looked around the classroom, as she checked through attendance, you were on time, surprisingly, early even. She's gotten accustomed to you coming in a little late, rushing from your last period class to get to this one. Your footsteps, and the sound of your shoes, a memory, that she has reluctantly engraved into her mind.

She nods at you, ticking your name off in the digital attendance . . Did she mention she hates digital attendances?

Class was great, boring, as per usual, and yet she'd find herself savoring the moments where you'd speak, bless her with your voice, the way your hands would move, the messy way you'd rush your notes, that she found weirdly endearing , ,

Was it off that she hoped you were rushing because you found her speaking endearing? She believes she could teach the subject much more nicely to you.

She'd notice the way you'd have your headphones on to concentrate during in class assignments, any dislike you'd have for the mandatory group discussions, she'd always linger a bit too often on your groups conversations, and she feels as though you've noticed it too.

But at the very end of the day, it wasn't anything too extreme, now nothing over-the-top, it wasn't weird that she had your dorm room memorized, or gone through your locker contents about a dozen times, or tried pulling you back for later conversations on the class.

It was just professional.

A teacher and their favorite student.

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[userluhna]

࿔⋆ WARM ANYWAY

namgyu x f!reader

based on those requests

words: 3.9k

warnings: squid game season 3. changed small parts of the plot. english isn’t my first language. mention of drugs. death. squid game violence. complex relationship? mention of blood. angst. bit of comfort? no happy ending blame it on the request.

a/n: tried so hard not to make it cliché asf okay. genuinely curious what you think—because i’m not used to writing namgyu’s character and want to know if i need to change anything guys. not sure how i feel about this one tbh—

enjoy! :(

maybe namgyu was warm when you met him. warmer than anything around you right now. maybe he was warm because it was two summers from now, because it was so hot outside, because he handed you a glass of whatever he was serving and you felt his fingers brush yours as you grabbed it, you felt that he was warmer than the burning air.

because he called you by nicknames so quietly you almost missed it more than once when it was just the two of you, because namgyu always let you put your cold feet under his thighs while he sat across from you on the couch but would always say, “your fucking cold feet,” trying to pull them away just to mess with you but he’d leave them anyway, his hand casually brushing your ankle.

he was warm the way that when you fell asleep on his lap you didn’t feel like you needed a blanket but he always put one over you anyway.

because the first months of your relationship were hard. because doors slammed, because promises broke, because you found him once—just once—after a night where it was too much, shaking, fucking shaking, too hot while he said, “i’m so cold—“ and his lips trembled. you helped him drink water, vomit if he needed. you kneeled next to him in the bathroom. you held his hair. kissed his temple even though he told you to just let him be. “fucking let me, don’t be sweet on me.”

because he told you more than once, “just one last time, i swear—“ before going out and coming back to your apartment around 3 am red-eyed and seeing you half asleep on the couch. “fuck gyu—you can’t just—“ you said that night, crying, and he was too high to fix it.

because it took him months of your silence after that night to realize that maybe—just maybe if he lost you he would lose too much. so he tried. fucking tried to be clean. he wasn’t the kind to ask for help, but maybe this time he did.

because when he knocked on your door months later he looked clean. because maybe you saw it in the way he looked at you. because months after, you felt him lighter, but still warm. so warm.

because namgyu let you sleep at his apartment as long as you needed when you didn’t have enough money to pay rent. because sometimes his eyes lingered on you when you felt anxious about finding a second job, when your leg wouldn’t stop shaking and he just—“you’re okay,” he said as his hand found your knee. “i’ve got you.”

because this time when you cried, he held you tight against him and just—“okay, stain my shirt with your tears—“ so he could hear you laugh, even if just a little.

because he was always touchy with you in private, his hands anywhere—on your waist, your hips, the small of your back, the back of your neck when he teased you, your jaw when he kissed you, your thigh when he needed you closer. because that’s how you knew he was always—always—warm.

and when you woke up the second day of those games you felt cold, like some warmth was missing. like someone was missing because you didn’t plan that. because you didn’t plan to lose your money after some fucking bet. because you didn’t want to be dependent on your boyfriend who was also struggling.

you had kissed him goodnight two days ago—maybe more, maybe less. you kissed slower than usual. and he did too, looking at you longer after it, like he was memorizing you.“don’t look at me like that,” he whispered.

“like what?” your eyes soft, his thumb brushing under your eyes. “like i’m gonna disappear.” you wanted to say, “you almost did.” you wanted to say you were scared, you wanted to say “please don’t.” but instead you kissed him again.

and you just lined up—for a second game or whatever was going on—you wanted to go home. you wanted to hug him even if he said, “yah, slow down,” but he would still hug you back.

they made teams, and you ended up with mostly men—only men. you don’t even know how you ended up there—the only thing you knew was that at some point, some moment, you saw namgyu. and god, oh my—you thought it wasn’t like that. that it wasn’t real—that maybe it was just someone who looked a bit too much like him because of where you were. it could be anything, right? anything to mess with you.

and he didn’t see you. not yet. maybe he did, but if he was high when he did, he wouldn’t even get it. and maybe it was later in the dormitory that you found him again—just there, just talking, just laughing, just—“gyu—“ is all you managed to spill out. and his face, oh his face, you could see the tiny flicker in his eyes, something between worry and not fully realizing what was happening.

“you know her?” the voice cut through—thanos, sitting there. and no one answered because how the fuck is he supposed to say yes when someone could just turn you against him?

and your eyes locked with his for longer than expected. and god, you fought tears so hard your eyes stung. his hand twitched and you saw it because he wanted to reach for you. to fucking feel your skin against his. to give you warmth because you were probably cold. because you were always cold.

but a vote was called—and maybe he voted to stay again and maybe after him, just after him, you voted to leave, your hand reaching for the X trembling. and that’s when maybe it hit him, because you weren’t supposed to be here. and you wanted to leave and he had voted to stay, and he couldn’t look at you. even when you searched his eyes, he couldn’t fucking find yours.

maybe you didn’t find him after—not until the next game, where you don’t even know how you made it through the whole thing. maybe he searched for you, maybe he didn’t. not until the number “two” was called. not until you felt the warmth grabbing your wrist, pulling you so fast it almost hurt. not until he put his whole body against the door when people tried to open it, back to it, facing you.

he didn’t ask if you were okay but you still nodded. his eyes, oh boy, his eyes—they were everywhere on you, every part of you, looking for something—blood, bruises—but the only thing he found was fear. he closed his eyes, his head going back to the door still holding it, saying nothing. you could see the way he swallowed, the way he shook a bit, the way he was sweating.

“baby—“ he called, slow, unsure.

“oh you don’t get to say that,” you spat. because “what the fuck gyu?” you said more to yourself than to him. because it wasn’t for him, it wasn’t for him getting high, it was for you, for him being here, for him having blood on him, it was for you wanting to leave, it was for him voting O.

the door clicked behind him, finally closing. and his whole body just started to relax. not fully, just enough that he didn’t have to put his whole weight on the door.

and his hands slowly, so slowly, reached up to cup your face. he looked at you in the eyes—directly into them.

“shit—what are you doing here?” he whispered, because if he yelled, if he spoke too loud, it would make it real.

“it’s not—“ he breathed out, eyes wide, hands now on your shoulders as he tried to steady himself. and he hugged you. and he was warm. because even like this, he knew. he fucking knew you weren’t supposed to be here. to be covered in half blood. to be standing there.

and maybe he was shaking, maybe he was sweating, maybe his hands weren’t firm on you like they usually were when they grabbed your body—maybe they were shaking. so he laughed, maybe a bit, between the tears he didn’t know where were falling, his head directed to the ceiling, hands on both sides of his head now. “aah fuck—fuck fuck fuck.”

“why are you here?” he scoffed. “why the hell are you here?”and before you could explain, before you could say anything, the doors opened with that soft click. thanos’s voice cut in once more—“namgyu my boy,” as thanos’s arm found namgyu’s shoulder.

“found someone to lock yourself with, huh?”

“shut up,” namgyu spat out, fingers brushing his lips. “what’s her name?” and maybe your lips parted, you were about to say something, you wouldn’t reach for him because you were with people. so many people.

“nah—“ he said. “you let her.”

his voice was firmer. because when it involved other people, namgyu lost his mind sometimes. he had lost his mind especially under drugs or alcohol.

like that one time a man murmured something in your ear a bit too close one night. you didn’t smile at what he said, but the man did. and namgyu found him after and almost kicked his teeth in, shouting: “she’s mine. not yours.“

“what’s her name?” thanos repeated, voice low. and namgyu’s face hardened. he didn’t answer. he never answered. maybe just once, when no one was around and you took the stairs down, he just—“you stay close,” he said, voice low, eyes fixed on you in that way you couldn’t ignore.

because he meant it. and maybe you lost him when everyone rushed out toward the bathrooms. maybe there was screaming. maybe the piggy bank dropped again, and it all started moving too fast. maybe—just maybe—he came back with blood on his shirt, smeared across his cheek, yelling something about an X attacking an O. and maybe all you could do was exhale, just once, shaky—because he was still alive.

still standing. still fucking here. and when you sat down at the edge of the bed, hands resting heavy on your knees, eyes distant—you breathed out, slow. trembling. cold.

namgyu tossed the cross behind him. that’s when he moved toward you. just a little. he sat down beside you—one leg bent, the other folded underneath, like always. and he looked at you. resting his head on his knee.

“he fucking died,” he said finally. “he always treated me like i was stupid.” but you heard it—the break in his voice, the way he swallowed like it hurt. the same way he did when you packed your things that april, two years ago.

“you think you’re better than me?” he’d shouted “go ahead. walk away. i don’t need saving.” and you had walked away.

until months later, when he knocked on your door. sober. or close to it. he’d done everything he could. but this time, you couldn’t walk away. you wouldn’t. so you offered your hand. palm up. resting between you both. not asking—just waiting. because you’d learned patience. learned it during those first months, when he’d show up at your apartment high and twitchy. you learned how to hold him through it. how to wait until the worst parts passed.

so you waited. maybe his fingers twitched. maybe he let out one of those soft, cynical laughs through his nose like—“why are you being sweet on me when i should be the one—” and maybe—just maybe—you felt his warmth for a moment, his fingers hovering just above yours. but he didn’t reach.

“are you okay?” the words sounded dumber out loud than they had in your head. they just… didn’t land. “you’re the one asking that?” he scoffed.

and maybe deep down he knew you always cared more about him than yourself. because you always did. even when he didn’t deserve it. even when he was careless with you.

his eyes didn’t meet yours—he kept fidgeting. rolling his ring around his finger. cracking his knuckles, over and over, even when they stopped making any sound. swaying slightly, front to back.

he flinched when your hand touched his sleeve. but you still said it—soft, more to yourself than to him: “we’re gonna be okay.” he nodded. too fast. once, twice—four times, like he couldn’t stop. biting his thumbnail until it bled. swallowing like his throat was dry.

“namgyu,” you said again, softer this time. “you’re gonna be okay.”

when lights out came, the flickering above never stopped. some girl shouted at you—said she’d slit your throat in your sleep. you snapped back before you even thought. and from across the room, he saw you—already covered in blood, not even knowing whose it was. definitely not his.

he grabbed you by the waist, yanked you out of the middle of it, holding you against his chest as he shoved you both into a dark corner. he didn’t speak right away. not until you pulled away. his thumb brushed behind your ear. wet. not dry. you shook your head before he could say anything. “it’s nothing. doesn’t hurt.”

“shut up. you’re literally bleeding.” he wiped it with his sleeve. then just looked at your face. for what felt like a whole minute. a flicker of fear behind his eyes. “don’t fucking die in there.” before the fourth game, you wandered the edge of the room trying to trade places with someone. tried to convince some of the red players—but no one wanted to be a target.

“come on,” you said to one. “you just have to find the exit.” your eyes flicked to namgyu—he looked lost. kept glancing down at the knife in his hand like he didn’t want it. or like he did want it.

somehow, you made it work. somehow, you ended up red. ended up with him. and even though you had to team up with 333, you stayed close the whole game. even when he spun the knife in his hand like it was a toy. even when he sang quietly under his breath. even when he threw his arm over your shoulders while walking.

“red suits you, baby,” he murmured, mouth too close to your cheek. “oh, fuck off, gyu.” and he laughed—one of those light ones. the kind he only had when he wasn’t scared.

at some point, he killed someone. myunggi did too. two stabs. two players. both passed. but the timer kept going. you hadn’t stabbed anyone. and he almost lost it. “why did you switch?” his voice cracked. “you’re so fucking good at hiding—why would you switch?” two minutes left and he crouched by a blue player slumped against the wall, knife resting near their cheek.

“sleeping so well,” he muttered. “namgyu—come on,” you called out, already moving toward him, myunggi beside you. and that was when it happened. the blue player grabbed the knife. he wasn’t dead. you’d been afraid of that.

namgyu stumbled back, hands up. “hey man,” he laughed, breath sharp. his back hit the wall. the player stepped forward, knife raised. “you don’t wanna do that—” it got violent fast. too fast. the blade was almost at his throat.

you didn’t think. stabbed him—shoulder, first. he screamed. you stabbed again—lower, through the ribs. left the knife there. he managed to turn, slashed across your leg—near the knee. “fucking bitch!” the man screamed.

“ah, man—” namgyu grabbed him by the collar, shoved him back against the wall. your knife—still in the man’s ribs—was pushed deeper as namgyu leaned in. blood gushed out of the man’s mouth.

namgyu smiled. his hands stayed tight on the collar. face inches from the dying man’s. “you don’t get to call her that,” he whispered, eyebrows raised. “understood?” and the man just collapsed. dead. your number was called. you passed. the timer ended. and namgyu stood there, breathing hard. his hands slowly raised to the top of his head.exhaled. slow.

at night it got harder. he’d lost the cross. slipped off somewhere—he was sweating too much, shaking too hard. you gave him your water bottle. you stayed close, even when he told you to leave him alone. even when he apologized. even when he warned you—they’re gonna target you because of me. even then. and when he broke, just a little—just enough—“don’t leave me,” he said, so quiet you almost missed it. and you didn’t. you stayed.

you kissed his forehead when he finally passed out. brushed the damp hair off his skin, wiped the sweat away with the edge of your vest. even when your knee was still bleeding, raw and swollen. even when he noticed and—wordless—took off his own vest to tie it around your leg. he murmured “fuck” under his breath, at least five times while he did it. tightening the knot. hands shaking. and you tried not to limp. tried to walk like the pain didn’t touch you.

when your vote was cast—you still chose X. even with everything. you still voted stay. and when namgyu voted, he picked to leave. fidgeting with his sleeves, pulling at the skin around his fingers. hands running again and again through his hair, like it could calm something. maybe your pinky brushed his. maybe no one saw. maybe it grounded him. maybe it didn’t.

and right before the fifth game started—before anyone crossed—he looked at your leg. at how you limped. and he just… laughed. nervous, thin laughter that didn’t belong in his throat. you laughed too, barely. through wet tears running down your cheeks.

“fuck, is that—” he didn’t finish the sentence. your knee was bleeding again. your foot barely touching the ground. he looked at you like he couldn’t breathe. like everything was caving in.

“it can’t just be like that—” the timer was counting down. people screamed. some had already fallen.

“you gotta try, okay?” his voice broke. “you fucking gotta try.” you smiled. barely. just enough to show him your teeth through the shaking. “it’s okay, baby.”

he shook his head, biting his nails. biting his lip until it split open. he tried to carry you—put your arm around his shoulders, tried to make you move, to jump. the rope was swinging. too fast. his hand trembled where it gripped your waist. “gyu—”

“don’t. don’t—please.” he didn’t look at you. but you felt the way his whole body shook. and then he made you jump. once. twice.

your landing was off. you stumbled—the rope came back too fast. he jumped. but he couldn’t get you to go again. your body slipped. his arms were tight around you just seconds before—and then you were just gone. shoved off in one clean hit. he didn’t scream. didn’t move. just froze. the same arms that held you like they’d never let go—stayed in place, like he hadn’t felt it happen. until the rope hit again. shoved him clean off. same direction. same fall.

maybe the last time you touched him, he was already cold. already trembling under your hands. and maybe—just maybe—right before you were pushed off, right before it ended, he kissed your temple. still holding you. still trying. and whispered—“didn’t know you could be this warm.”

masterlist

tag: @namgyucat @namsgyu @threerxcha @rohjaewonlvr

[tidal-chaos]

i dont care if the community is rejecting whats in the media, the community is still centered around a media that directly contributes to trans genocide as long as its popular. contributing to a community surrounding that media, using its characters and creating fan art and fiction about the world, is keeping it alive. it does not matter if youre changing them. anyone talking about the media, even if its "taking the good things into their own hands," keeps the community alive, which keeps the media alive, which ends up keeping j.k. rowling's pockets full. as long as you contribute to the community, no matter how youre doing it, youre keeping her shitty story in circulation. which gives her money. even if you arent directly giving it, you are helping keep her source of income alive. this is true even though i know you wish it wasnt.

when we talk about all the shitty things that are in her books, we arent saying that there is literally zero part of it that could be manipulated into something good. what we ARE saying is that if you have to cut out SO MUCH of the shit baked into her world, all of the horrible hateful shit that you cannot detangle from the story without pretty much ripping it apart... then why not make your own story? why not find something else? why are you making contributions to a fandom about a media whose author is not only trying to Kill Us, but also about a media that you need to edit to hell and back in order to ignore all the bigotry in it?

you do not have an excuse. your friends do not have an excuse. your friends headcanons will not cancel out their part in killing us, they are still circulating her source of income.

marauders/harry potter fans who "don't agree with jk rowling" are like if people loved the leopard mascot for the leopards eating peoples faces party so they wore all the merch and drew art of the mascot and talked about the leopard mascot all the time but don't worry! they don't support the leopards eating peoples faces party! they're just completely indistinguishable from people who do because they both love the leopard mascot and make loving the leopard mascot 99% of their personality, "why do people feel unsafe around me when i very clearly don't support the leopards eating peoples faces party?" says the person in the leopards eating peoples faces party merch (don't worry they bought it second hand so the leopards eating peoples faces party don't get any money from them)

[crispy-bonnie]

spoilers for date everything (especially eddie & volt's route) under the cut !! you have been warned !!!

———

picture this: the dateables are self-aware. they know they're in a game and that you're playing it; they just don't acknowledge it straight up.

however, as you're playing through, you start to take some likings to some of the characters, but your choices in dialogue have messed up your chances to be able to date them. you know how their routes go, and you don't want to have to face the fact that you might get a hate ending.

"okay so according to this guide, i have to pick this dialogue option... but it's not showing up?" you mutter to yourself as you skim through various guides online. "but i'm only getting one dialogue option? did i mess something up at the beginning of the scene?"

you and your friends are in a voice call with you as you try to romance eddie & volt (despite having leaned more towards volt through the route). eddie & volt are watching as you try to scroll through the guide and its choices, and as you make it to the final dialogues before their hate ending, they can hear your panic.

"dammit, these aren't right! i don't wanna say either of these, but i'm not being given a choice!" both men watch as you fumble and try to find a solution, going as far as to alt+f4 from the game and loading up your save in an attempt to find your mistake, but you don't have any saves from the start of the route where you messed up.

eddie, though apprehensive at first, sees how hard you're trying to romance the both of them. he wasn't lost on the slow shift in your eyes as you went through the scene of fixing the bar with him. hell, he was sure he saw a small and dreamy sigh escape your lips when he lunged forward to catch you in game.

volt was just as charmed, not only because you leaned towards him so much, but also because you had somehow managed to catch eddie's attention despite your initial reaction to it. he wants eddie to be happy, and he wants you to be happy.

through the screen, you eventually sigh as you pick one of the options, bracing yourself for the inevitable hate ending.. but that's when the game freezes. the screen becomes slightly whiter as a pop-up shows on your screen: dateeverything.exe has stopped responding

you let out a groan before opting to restart the game, giving your romancing one last try. you proceed down that interaction again, but when you are forced to brace yourself for the incorrect choices, you find yourself faced with two more options than usual. this had you cocking a brow up, as your other reset attempts hadn't worked before, yet still you pressed on, following the guide to a T as much as you could.

eventually, you managed to get to the love ending, and as you admire the screen and its sprites, you can't help but notice how the characters seem to be admiring you back...

[rupeenotruby]

I view og Link and Hyrule and separate characters despite the fact that they are technically the same character. Because of this I have certain headcanons for them that don't transfer over, and I thought it would be fun to talk about them! When interacting with LU I try to keep headcanons as close to the comic as possible, especially when it comes to Hyrule as this makes it more fun for me. Therefore, you will see a lot of the reasoning for headcanons being pretty much "it's like that in the comic."

For whatever reason, Link is depicted with his sword on his hip instead of his back like most other Links.

(There is also a post card with AoL Link on it riding a motorcycle that has him have his sword on his hip (I couldn't find it). Less canon than the manual to me but still interesting.). In LU however Hyrule puts his sword on his back like everyone else!

In both TLoz and AoL Link technically holds his sword in both hands as they flip the sprite instead of drawing a new one depending on which way Link is facing so that his sword hand is always closest to the screen.

(All sprites in this were ripped by Mister Mike)

And I KNOW!!! it is most likely due to hardware limitations but if the Tp Link gets to be headcanoned as ambidextrous because his entire game was flipped so can this Link!!! This isn't really something I see get acknowledge much by the fandom (in fact I've only seen it mentioned TWICE) and it isn't mentioned in LU. I like left-handed Link so even though he is ambidextrous he still mostly uses his sword in his left hand.

Link isn't that short!!!! ... at least in his Hyrule. Observe:

So, I put him at an averageish height. Honestly it doesn't matter what his actual height is since this is a fantasy world but whatever it is he is slightly above average. Hyrule however? He isn't that tall in a group of Links so he is definitely below average in height 😭 I would say in real world terms Link is around 5'9 and Hyrule is around 5'5.

There are three ways to approach Link's fairy form.

He shrinks and grows wings

He turns into a little creature (which is someone's fanmade fairy design)

Or he looks like one of the fairies in his game

I see the most of the first one and even if it isn't how it looks in game it's popularity makes sense. I prefer the third option (if you couldn't tell) cause I think it's fun and closest to canon (I suppose if you wanted to be 100% canon you would give him a total make over x). I base it on a combo of the manual and the game. I've heard along the grapevine Hyrule's fairy form goes the first route and has dragonfly wings which I think is a good fit in terms of bug wings. Also I want antennae!

(My designs for the Zeldas aren't final shhhhh) I don't really ship much but I can see Link and Princess Zelda getting married for political reasons (there's the whole "great king" thing and having two princesses which could create some succession issues and I think Link getting married would just clear things up and look good to the people of Hyrule. I think he would marry the first Zelda he meets because I've always seen her as the more leader type and politically oriented of the two). That being said I don't think Link would actually be attracted to either Zelda. Or anyone. This isn't really based on anything except for the fact that I said so lol.

Now Hyrule has a bit more explaining. I keep the political/platonic marriage to Dawn but the zelink of choice for him is with Aurora because when I was first reading LU I thought it was being set up in a way that put all the Links with their "primary" non-Zelda love interests except for Sky. So Time with Malon, Legend with Marin, Twilight with Midna and Wild with Mipha (don't ask about the other three I did not think about them all that often) and all of those are redheads.... so since I headcanon Aurora with the red hair I thought Hyrule would be shipped with her. I've later found out this isn't the case and that some Links are going to end up with their Zeldas but xD I don't really care ships don't matter that much in LU anyways and honestly I don't even know if Jojo considers the Zeldas to be separate people. Also why don't I just have the marriage be between Hyrule and Aurora? Ehhhh. Errrrm.. I really like platonic marriages.

This is a pretty common headcanon and it is based on two lines from the first manual and the second manual. In the first manual it established that Link was a traveler (hence the nickname in LU). "During his travels he had come across Impa and Ganon's henchmen." In the second it says "Link remained in the little kingdom of Hyrule and lent his hand to its restoration." Which implies that either Link was planning to leave Hyrule (and thus could be from Hyrule) or had traveled to Hyrule (and thus wasn't from Hyrule).

I choose to see it as that he isn't from Hyrule. I also think it is fun to have the "Hero of Hyrule" not be from Hyrule. A lot of people go with Calatia (which is canon to the comics and I don't consider the comics to be canon) and I go with that too because honestly it doesn't really matter where he came from, just that it isn't Hyrule.

Technically Link is always touching the Magical Sword in AoL so I've always pictured it as a magic wand of sorts for his magic making it stronger and more focused hence why he doesn't start all this fancy magic until after he gets the sword. Link can use magic without it it's just not as good (like the sword beams). I just think it is a little odd that the "Magic Sword" doesn't seem to do anything special. Obviously this doesn't apply to Hyrule as he heals Twilight without the sword.

Some people get this wrong but in AoL it states that "One day, a strange mark, exactly like the crest of the kingdom, appeared on the back of Link's hand as he approached his 16th birthday." And I think it's pretty likely that he set out right after hearing the Legend of Zelda from Impa and celebrated his birthday on the road. So, I think it would be funny he got whisked away to the LU adventure right before his 18th birthday and just never mentioned it.

That's all! Obviously, I have more headcanons but they can be applied to both Link and Hyrule to varying degrees. I first played AoL four years ago now (six years ago for TLoZ) and found LU a little while after AoL. In the beginning my view of Link and Hyrule were pretty cloudy but as time has gone on they have solidified into different characters in my mind that would do slightly different things. That being said the LU fandom has been an awesome source of headcanons and perspectives on Link.

One of the headcanons that I know for certain that has come from the LU fandom is the fact that Link can's swim. Which yeah! Isn't it weird that he uses all sorts of ways to traverse water but none of them involve getting in the water? Or that a way to insta die in AoL is falling in lava or water? Maybe I would have come to that conclusion on my own or maybe not but who cares about the "maybes."

There are a lot of things the fandom does in regard to Hyrule that I disagree with but find interesting, or dislike, or hate, or things I agree with and love! But no matter what it has made me see a game that means so much to me in so many different ways. And isn't that the point of being in a fandom?

[tobesolnelyx]

seeing all these baby daddy shaunana agenda got me thinking abt babydaddy nat, is it possible to rq something like that w herPLSSS i def see her as a girl dad nd dont worry this time im not giving u my non-existent first born in return but PLSZS BABY DADDY NAT

— baby daddy fratboy!natalie scatorccio x fem!reader

a/n: baby daddy fratboy lottie is next 😛

summary: she didn’t mean for that to happen. and yeah… she’s terrified but she tries. for this kid. for you. fluff. pregnant!reader. g!p character.

warnings: slight NSFW - MDNI

KNOCKING YOU UP...

This wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

What’s more, Nat was so terrified of even the thought of having a child that she always, always, carried condoms with her. She didn’t even trust girls, who said they were on the pill. She had to check for herself that she was protected.

And maybe she was careful… but in the end, she still ended up in bed with you, drunk and high like never before.

Later, Nat tried to convince herself it was because you looked so good that night. She had watched, no, been tortured, by the sight of her girl dancing all night. It was only natural that after another bottle and who the fuck knows how many joints, well… she got hard just looking at you. Painfully hard.

She tried to hide it, adjusting her too tight jeans, scanning herself with already bloodshot eyes. And just when she thought she looked fine, the erection wasn’t visible, and she was calming down...

You came and sat on her lap.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, squirming beneath you.

You started rambling something about some rumors, sipping your drink and breathing heavily from dancing. Finally, at some point, you shifted, felt the bulge, and went silent, staring at her.

Neither of you had ever been that turned on by each other before. So naturally... Nat completely forgot about the condoms. She beat herself up over it afterward, feeling guilty in a way she couldn’t quite shake.

So yeah, Nat panicked when you came into her room at the frat house and told her you were pregnant. For a moment, you didn’t even get a response. She sat on her bed, looking at you like she was trying to reject what she’d just heard.

“I need a walk,” she finally choked out, and grabbing her leather jacket, she practically ran out of the house, leaving you alone in her room. The door slammed behind her. Jackie and Lottie were home, and the fact that Nat bolted like she was on fire, even though her girlfriend was there, was... at the very least, suspicious.

That evening, you ended up crying into Lottie’s shoulder, while Jackie tried to reassure you that Nat would come back and that everything would be okay.

And indeed, just when you were almost asleep, propped up against the headboard and wrapped in every blanket Jackie's hands could reach earlier that day, Nat returned. Sober, which was already good. She smelled like cigarette smoke and was soaking wet, so you figured it must’ve been raining outside.

She collapsed next to you, slowly resting her head on your lap breathing like she’d just run a marathon. She didn’t have the courage to look you in the eye but she was there. At least.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her throat tightening. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

A moment of silence. Nat shifted, pressing a kiss to your hand, the same one that just seconds ago had been tangled in her hair.

“I’m really sorry, baby.”

PREGNANCY...

Nat was terrified of absolutely everything related to your pregnancy. She treated you like something incredibly fragile, as if she might break you with just a careless wave of her hand. And honestly, it was hard to blame her, with her parents, well… she definitely didn’t win the lottery.

The first few weeks were filled with choking guilt, a constant, gnawing fear buried deep in her mind, and a complete lack of clue about what to do.

Her first goal was to apologize. You weren’t holding a grudge, but Nat needed full, verbal confirmation that you weren’t angry she ran out so suddenly. And truthfully, she was just embarrassed.

Flowers became an everyday thing. She didn’t have much money, so she’d ask Lottie to lend her some. Just for now, she knew she was racking up a debt. Though Lottie never, not even once, asked to be paid back during your pregnancy.

That’s when Nat realized she needed a job. Anything, just to give you and the baby decent living conditions, not a dorm room or a frat house reeking of weed.

Maybe she didn’t know how to be a good father. Didn’t know how to take care of you or the baby, and kept wondering how the hell she wasn’t going to fuck everything up. But one thing was certain: she wasn’t going to let you live like that.

She clung to every opportunity, until eventually she landed a job at a gas station, working for next to nothing. But it was something. Enough to rent even the tiniest apartment. She’d come home in the morning, taking night shifts, because she decided college could wait. Right now, it was all about you and the baby.

She’d find you in the bathroom getting ready for class, step up behind you and gently wrap her arms around you, pressing a kiss to your neck.

“You don’t need all that shits and makeup, you look beautiful,” she’d mumble, barely staying on her feet after working all night.

You always wanted to protest, you’d literally been throwing up twenty minutes ago and probably looked like hell but she’d always say the same thing:

“You’re still my most beautiful girl.”

She’d go to sleep after that, only to wake up around noon and cook lunch for when you got home. She had never cared about nutrition or any of those stupid shits before, but now she learned how to cook.

Because you needed to eat well. She did the grocery shopping, cleaned the place while you were out. Even if you didn’t spend most nights together, Nat made sure the fridge was stocked and the house spotless.

Nat, who texted you basically every hour, asking if you were okay, if you’d eaten, if you managed to shower. Maybe she should come over and help? What should she pick up on the way back? Maybe you two could go out this weekend?

Honestly, if she could’ve installed a tracking app on your phone, she would’ve.

Natalie who stopped spending money on weed. Every time her hands itched to go get some, she went to the store instead and bought baby clothes or toys. Which eventually led to a mountain of things for the baby who wasn’t even born yet.

Nat, who decided she wouldn’t pay anyone fucked up amounts for a crib and one day, after measuring everything carefully, built one herself, covering the living room in sawdust. She stood at the end of it all, sweaty in a tank top, and gave a proud nod.

“I told you you’d figure it out,” you said with a soft smile and she scrunched her nose.

You’d say that. Because you had to be the one to reassure Nat that she could do it. That she wasn’t like her father. That nothing her parents had done defined her as a parent now. That she was going to be so much better, and that you’d learn it all together.

She’d nod. And indeed, with every tiny onesie she bought, every piece of furniture she put together, every doctor’s appointment she went to, she grew a little less afraid. A little less afraid of that deep love and attachment for a tiny human who wasn’t even here yet.

She was still nervous about touching your belly, like she might somehow hurt you. You’d take her hand and place it over the spot where the baby was kicking. Her eyes would widen, and for a moment she’d stare at you in shock.

“You feel that?”

“Christ,” she’d mutter, instantly adjusting herself on the bed and pressing her hands gently to your stomach. “Someone’s kicking hard.”

She’d smile softly to herself. And for the first time, she kissed your belly.

For the first time in her life, Nat felt a bit of peace. No parties, no chaos. All the student drama and arguments suddenly felt blown out of proportion. She found calm in work, in grocery trips, in quiet evenings with you, lightly stroking your bump.

Nat, who tied your shoes and helped you get dressed when it started becoming too painful. You wanted so badly to stay independent, but whenever she heard even the smallest groan, she was right there.

“Give it to me,” she’d say, kneeling in front of you and taking your socks.

“I can do it myself,” you’d grumble.

“I know you can,” she’d smile, slipping them on three times faster than you could. “But I’m helping anyway.”

Nat, who stopped smoking in the apartment. She still went to the frat house sometimes, but she’d come home earlier now. She physically couldn’t stand being away from you. Especially when you’d stop replying after a certain hour, and she knew you’d fallen asleep.

“It’s me,” she’d whisper, slipping into bed and wrapping her arms around you. You stirred, but when you felt her familiar hands, you started drifting off again.

“It’s just me. Go back to sleep, baby.”

Because maybe Nat ran away at the very beginning. But in the end, she always came back to you. And that you were sure of.

BIRTH...

The moment your water broke, Natalie panicked again. Only for a moment, because, truth be told, she had planned everything out well in advance, just so she’d know exactly what to do. For once in her life, she was prepared. It just…caught her a little off guard.

The entire time, she bombarded you with questions if you're not dying..yeah. Even her italian accent slipped out.

Even after you were already at the hospital, taken over by a whole team of doctors and nurses, she'd stil lighlty panicking. When you finally snapped at her, sweating from the effort and pain, Nat realized she probably wasn’t helping at all and stepped back. A nurse gently escorted her to the waiting room, saying it would take some time and that maybe she should come back in a few hours.

Nat didn’t hear a word of it, her mind was still with you. It was already late, and she had made up her mind: she’d sleep outside the delivery room if that’s what it took.

At first, she paced nervous circles down the hallway, her footsteps echoing off the walls, until eventually she landed on one of the hard plastic chairs, drifting off to sleep. It was late. Nat was exhausted.

In the middle of the night, they called her in, and not even drugs had ever jolted her like the words that your daughter is here.

She stood frozen in the middle of the room, eyes scanning the tiny baby in your arms like she couldn’t quite believe that this child, this life, existed in part because of her.

“Do you want to hold her?” you asked, your voice hoarse, but gentle smile playing on your lips.

Natalie hesitated. Then she reached out and took the little one from you, her hands were shaking, but she managed to hold on her kid. The fragile body still swollen, red, impossibly small.

And as Natalie looked down at the baby, she murmured something quietly under her breath. A secret, just between her and her daughter.

“I’ll never hurt you. I promise," words she never heard but wished. "You're safe with me."

FIRST MONTHS...

Nat wasn’t home most nights, and as much as it pained her, she couldn’t always be there to help. But it was a completely different story in the mornings when you had to go to class, and sometimes left her alone with the baby.

“I can take her with me…” you’d offer, but Nat would already be silencing you with a kiss.

“You’ve done enough. I’ve got this,” she’d say every time, pulling you close, like she was trying to show her gratitude just for you being there.

She had to learn. Learn how to hold the baby, how to change her, how to feed her. When nap time was (that part came easily, since she could nap too), and when the baby just wanted to play or needed attention. At first, when the little one started crying, Nat would panic convinced she’d done something wrong. But then you’d walk in, reassuring her she was doing great. That this kind of thing just happened.

Nat, who sometimes brought Jackie, Lottie, and Shauna over so she could sleep after a night shift. She didn’t want to burden them with some form of weird babysitting, but something made them offer anyway. And so the three frats sat in the living room with the tiny baby, having serious conversations with someone making utterly unserious noises while a random cartoon played in the background.

“Jackie, what are you doing…?” Nat raised an eyebrow, watching Jackie hold the baby up toward… the top kitchen cabinets?

“She’s never been up there, so…” Jackie started, but Shauna usually just snorted, cutting her off. Not quite mocking her , just softening too, at the sight of those little eyes that looked exactly like yours. “So I’m showing her,” Jackie would roll her eyes.

Nat, who made it her mission to completely spoil the kid once she was old enough. Sweets? Of course. Playgrounds? Even better. Now, instead of spending money on substances, she spent it on toys, and anything the baby reached for at the store.

Nat, who would explain classic rock bands to the baby who barely understood what was going on. But hey, at least Nat’s rings sparkled in the sunlight, and you’d watch the whole scene with amused affection.

“I'm providing an education,” Nat would mutter when you brought it up.

Nat, who started saving up for a tiny bike.

Nat, who would sit her daughter on her motorbike, telling her that one day, she’d teach her to ride and get her one just like it.

She didn’t tell you I love you very often. Nat expressed things through actions. Through how she took care of everything: the baby, the bills, the household. But now, she’d randomly say it during the day. Sometimes, she’d just leave little sticky notes behind before heading off to work.

Nat made sure you two went on at least one date a month, and always tried to take the baby out for walks whenever she could.

She wasn’t like her father.

And maybe that’s exactly the confirmation she’d always needed.

[baileypie-writes]

Hi! Little nervous to request but I read your rules so I’m hoping this all is good! May I request a Baby Saja x reader fluffy alphabet? Thank you for taking the time to read this request!

A/N ~ Hello there! Thanks for your lovely request! I’m happy to fulfill it! Also, there isn’t much info about Baby, so all of this is just my personal headcanons of his character. Hope you enjoy!

Baby Saja Fluff Alphabet

Fandom: KPop Demon Hunters Fanfic Type: Alphabet Reader: Gender neutral Relationship: Romantic Genre: Fluff Word Count: 2,151 Warnings: Possibly OOC Baby, Baby being a brat, mentions or arguments, mentions of giving up the relationship

A - Activities(What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?)

I see Baby as a pretty lazy guy. He doesn’t like putting much effort or energy into anything other than his performances. He likes his down time. So he prefers just lying around with you. Whether it be watching a movie or scrolling on your phones— as long as he can lounge around, he’s down.

B - Beauty(What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?)

He doesn’t focus a lot on physical appearances. But he does like being held by you. He loves when you run your hands through his fluffy teal hair, or when you cup his face in your hands to give him a kiss. So if he had to choose, it’d be your hands.

C - Comfort(How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?)

Compared to the other Saja Boys members, Baby probably has the least amount of understanding— or even care— about others’ emotions. Though of course, being your boyfriend, you’re different.

While he still doesn’t understand your emotions, he’ll try to help you feel better. His attempts are… peculiar. For example, he’ll show you a funny meme to try and get you to laugh. Though when that obviously doesn’t work, he tries a different approach.

Cuddles and kisses are what finally does the trick. It’s hard not to smile when someone with such a sweet face is smothering you with affection.

D - Dreams(How do they picture their future with their s/o?)

He has everything he could possibly want in his life. Fame, money and a great partner. He’s 100% content. His idea for the future is just doing what you’re already doing.

E - Equal(Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?)

This is a difficult thing to come to a conclusion with. On one hand, he likes to make the decisions, since he doesn’t like being told what to do. But on the other hand, he likes having things done for him— being babied, if you will. I’m gonna label him as dominant though, because that’s how he thinks of himself. 

F - Fight(Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?)

Baby is very difficult to argue with. While he doesn’t shout a whole bunch, he’s extremely bratty and stubborn. No matter how much you attempt to get him to see your point of view, your words seem to go through one ear and out the other. His own words are sharp and hurtful. You end up having to give up after not getting anywhere.

After some time apart, he grows tired and anxious from the lack of attention. He tries to casually wiggle his way back to you without properly apologizing. But if you’re firm enough, you can get one out of him. Not without an attitude though.

G - Gratitude(How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?)

He’s an ungrateful brat. He expects things to be done for him without giving anything in return. Everything you do goes unnoticed, because it’s what he’s used to.

Although, when he goes without your support for even a day, he finally realizes just how much he’s been pampered. In fear of not losing your love again, he begins thanking you for all that you do. It’s not anything grand. Just a flat “Thanks babe.” without looking away from what he’s doing. But it’s enough for you to notice.

H - Honesty(Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?)

Other than the fact he’s a literal demon, as well as his past life, Baby doesn’t really have anything to hide.

He’s not even super secretive about the demon thing. The only thing keeping him from telling you is Gwi-Ma. If given his master’s permission, his secret would be revealed.

I - Inspiration(Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?)

Baby doesn’t like being bossed around by Gwi-Ma. So if you offered an alternative, he’d leave his demon ways behind in order to live a more comfortable life.

Also, if you’re up for a challenge, you just might be able to get him to be less of a brat. But it takes a lot of work.

J - Jealousy(Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?)

Baby doesn’t like sharing, and that includes your attention. So jealousy is something he feels very strongly.

Due to his fame, it’s easy to get someone away from you. He’ll swing an arm around you with his signature cheeky smile plastered on his face. A “They’re with me.” falls from his lips, confidence and attitude so thick, you could almost see it. If that doesn’t work, security is called.

K - Kiss(Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?)

He’s a pretty good kisser. He’s blessed with soft lips that feel nice against yours.

The first kiss with Baby was him being the menace that he is. He wanted to mess with you, just for the fun of it. So what better way to get a reaction out of you than to give you a kiss?

He was super nonchalant about it— acting like it was something he always did. This only fueled your reaction— just what he wanted.

L - Love Confession(How would they confess to their s/o?)

Baby does absolutely nothing when he realizes his feelings for you. He didn’t care enough to play around with possibly one-sided romantic feelings. However, once it dawned on him that you felt the same way, he figured that he might as well mess with you.

Playful flirting is something he’s good at, and he knows it. And the worst part about it is that it’s the kind of flirting where you can’t quite tell if it’s supposed to be flirting or not. It drives you crazy. But once you build up the courage to confront him about it, that’s when he admits his feelings— rather casually, like you’re having a normal conversation. But the pink blush on his fair, soft cheeks give him away— he’s definitely down bad for you.

M - Marriage(Do they want to get married? How do they propose?)

He honestly couldn’t care less about marriage. He finds weddings a waste of time, effort and money. If you really wanted to tie the knot, he’d rather elope. Running away with his lover is much better than a boring ceremony, in his opinion.

N - Nicknames(What do they call their s/o?)

Baby only really calls you nicknames to annoy you. He comes up with the most ridiculous, sappy ones— the ones that cause you to cringe the moment they roll off his tongue.

The nickname that he uses in a non-satirical way is “Babe”. It’s classic, and comes to him naturally.

O - On Cloud Nine(What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?)

For the most part, his feelings are pretty unnoticeable. One of his main talents is maintaining a cool demeanor no matter the situation, and it’s no different when he’s in love.

Although, his bandmates do end up noticing how much time he spends with you. Offstage, Baby doesn’t give anything or anyone his attention unless he’s really interested. And there he was, acting all “friendly” with you— well, as friendly as he could get. So they figured something was up with him.

P - PDA(Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?)

If you’re okay with your relationship being public, he does not shut up about you. He brags nonstop, knowing it’ll make his bandmates and fans jealous. And that’s exactly what he wants. It’s hilarious to him how much people care about his love life.

When it comes to PDA, he’s pretty open to it. He likes leaning on you, wrapping an arm around you and— if you’re strong enough— being carried on your back. He also likes giving you kisses just to see your reaction.

Q - Quirk(Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship)

His fame is an obvious one. So instead, I’ll focus on his sharp tongue. 

This isn’t just about his rapping skills. He can come up with the most insane comebacks in such a short amount of time. If you’re in any sort of altercation with someone, he can end it with one sentence, leaving the person you were arguing with completely dumbfounded.

R - Romance(How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?)

Baby wants to look cool 24/7, even to his significant other. So he’d rather die a second time than do anything sappy and cliché.

Instead, he focuses on the small things. Buying you something because it made him think of you, bringing your favorite snacks when he comes over and even sending you memes with the caption “us”. To anyone else, they might not seem all that romantic. But to the both of you, they’re pure acts of love.

S - Support(Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?)

As long as they’re realistic goals, sure, he believes you can do it. Though, he doesn’t exactly help a whole lot for you to achieve them. He’s far too lazy for that. So unless it’s something he can do from the comfort of his own home, you’re kinda on your own. 

T - Thrill(Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?)

Baby’s a mix of both.

He likes not having to plan for anything— only relying on things you’ve done in the past. But at the same time, he gets bored after a while. So something new every once in a while is good enough for him.

U - Understanding(How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?)

He has a pretty good understanding of your emotions. He knows how to tell what you’re feeling, even if you think you’re hiding it well. He’s memorized your habits, interests and hobbies as well. 

Empathy is not something he has a lot of. As mentioned before, he doesn’t really care about other people’s feelings. That being said, he still doesn’t like seeing you upset. He’d much rather see you happy. 

V - Value(How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?)

Fame isn’t exactly something that Baby needs in his life. Sure, he likes the attention. But it’s also just a lot of effort. It causes a lot of inconveniences as well. So if given the choice of giving up you or his fame, I feel there’s a good chance he’d throw his fame away.

W - Wild Card(A random fluff headcanon)

He’d never admit this, but he enjoys matching outfits with you. He’ll ask to pick out your clothes for the day, then choose something suspiciously similar to his own. 

X - XOXO(Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?)

Baby loves to give cuddles. But not the sweet kind— the annoying kind.

His limbs will be entangled in your own, and he’ll rarely unravel himself for anything. You can’t get anything done without him practically breathing down your neck, since he refuses to let go of you.

Kisses from him are mostly to surprise you, to get in your way or to try to get out of trouble. They’re almost never actually innocent.

Y - Yearning(How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?)

Baby truly believes that he’d be completely fine without your presence. He’s tougher than he looks. But he certainly lives up to his name when he’s away from the person he’s bonded so closely with.

Everyone notices how irritable he becomes while you’re gone. It seems that nearly everything makes him snap. The cause of his attitude is clear— especially with seeing how his face lights up when you call or message him. Funny enough, he keeps up his cool demeanor while talking to you— as if your absence has no effect on him.

Z - Zeal(Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind?)

Due to how lazy he is, there are definitely limits to how much he’d go through to save your relationship. But that’s not to say he wouldn’t regret it. If he had to say goodbye, he’d never be the same again. It’d plague him forever.  

Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

~~baileypie-writes

[dexantnaomi-askblog]

Hallooo !! Can I req GN!Reader like Illumina x Forsaken Killers? (platonic ones for CK (and Jason) ^^= (or remove them if you don't feel like it)) Im not sure if I skipped past your character limit req, but if I did, could you do 1x1x1x1, Noli, and Azure ? Thankz u!!!

Wowie i don't think i have a character limit, I'm also having problems on what is gender netrual and who/what is illumina so this took longer than i expected, keep in mind this might be ooc since i don't know who to write killers alot

1x1x1x1/Noli/Azure x reader (All Separate)

Reader is gender netrual ig!(dk what that is im sorry)

!Reader is a survivor since i'm lazy to write killer!reader rn!

1x1x1x1 (aka one to the power of four) (He/They)

He finds you amusing, in a loving way actually

He likes how you destroys everything facing you verbally and scaring off survivors without doing anything, even tho if you don't mean to

Well yes you have stun them multipul times per round but hey! Sometimes he let's you get away with it

But yet they hates you, but why? He hates you because you make him feel something else. You make their chest tight whenever he looks at you and if you stare at them for even just a second his heartbeat rises up to the maximum

Well he has mixed feeling so you can't really blame him

He usually leaves you for last for some reason, but that doesn't mean he'll spare you. When you ask him why he spares you they just replies with a "I want to fight you", yeah you clock his ass in a minute but they find it attractive for some reason

He also likes the way you dress, and they also likes your sword to the point he almost stole them like alot of times

He doesn't trust you with any of the survivors, espically that stinky Shedletsky. They will absoultly decapitate his entire body parts off if he ever get close to you during rounds

Noli (He/him)

Well damn he finds you very attractive for some reason

I mean- you can cut slash everything in your path and even accidently scaring some of the survivors

He somewhat finds it a bit annoying that you keeps a serious face almost all the time, but it makes you hotter i guess

Well once you stun him a bit too hard to the point hes stuck for ten seconds, and i don't think he cared anyway since holy shit you got him to love you more

Sighs and who taugh him how to stalk people because he stalks you during rounds, AND he always leaves you for last

Like damn you will look around trying to figure out where the hell is that music coming from while he would giggle to himself

He somewhat likes the way you dress, it makes you hotter. He also likes your wings. He tried touching them once, and you ended up flinching like a cat and stun him hard. (He stills finds it hot for some reason)

He is still a annoying ahh soundboard tho, your point of veiw to him. He doesn't care and tried flirting with you (Didn't go so well)

He doesn't really care of the other survivors get close you, but if they touch you or flirt with you (Which will probably not happen) ohhh boy they getting chased the entire round until they die

He wouldn't mind if 007n7 gets close to you tho, though Noli will give a warning glare to him

Becareful if your close to him tho he can get a bit freaky sometimes

Azure (He/They)

Well... I think you know how this goes

He some what have trust issue due to some... things happen in the pass but whenever they look at you they can't help but stare at you affectionly

He really like how tough you are, manage to cut slash anything and maybe even scaring some of the survivors off

They also like your looks, your clolthes, your wings and your horns. Basically he like you in general. He really wants to touch your horns but really doesn't want to get stun by you so they just... watches you from the shadows

Ohhhhh he doesn't trust you with two time, they ain't letting you becoming the next sacrfice for a third life for that greedy front-stabbing ex (Even though it may not even happen due to your serious demenor) If two times get close to you, say goodbye to them for the rest of the round cus they're dead

They would always leave you for last for some reason, you don't know why, but he does

Sometimes you find their tentacle wrapped around your waist or leg, you ask them why? He will shruge and not let you go unless you threaten them by slicing his tentacle off (Which always works)

But you'll get used to it eventually

Big sighs, i could have finished this if it wasn't for my mother who wants me to go out early for school and this took wayyy longer than i wanted since i have to do tons of research on how to write a plighting char (Damn it took me an hour to find out), but this is fun to write ^q^

Want a request? Right here!

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: Terminal illness, character death, anticipatory grief, hospital setting, references to emotional regret, and depictions of silent mourning. Please read with care.

notes: this was requested! i know i've said that i wouldn't write character death but the requestor asked for "heart wrenching angst" and this was the saddest thing i could think of.

“It’s okay, baby. You can rest now.”

You hear him before you feel him. His voice, warm and low, breaking at the edges. Then the slow, familiar weight of his hand curling around yours. Calloused, trembling.

The machines are quieter now. The room, too. The nurses had whispered something about giving you both privacy, and then they were gone. Just the steady beeping. Just him.

Chan.

You can’t open your eyes. Haven’t been able to for a while now. But you feel him. Every breath. Every word.

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours. And even though you can’t see it, you know he’s crying.

“You’ve fought so hard, baby,” he murmurs, like it hurts him to say it. “So damn hard. I’m so proud of you.”

You want to squeeze his hand. Tell him you’re sorry. That you didn’t want this either.

But your fingers don’t move.

“You don’t have to keep fighting,” he says, voice cracking. “You’ve given me everything. I’m so grateful. Just—just rest now, okay? It’s okay to go.”

A pause. Then—

“God,” he chokes, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying.”

His lips brush your knuckles.

“I don’t know how to be without you.”

The words land heavy. Like bricks. Like grief already settling in his lungs before you’re even gone.

“What do I do?” he whispers. “You were supposed to be here. At the end of every tour. Every stupid award show. Every night I needed someone to remind me who the hell I am.”

You feel it—his hand clutching tighter. His voice rising just a little.

“Please, don’t go. Not yet. Just—just give me one more day. One more hour. One more smile baby, please.”

His forehead presses harder against yours, like he’s trying to fuse you together. Like if he just holds you close enough, he can stop time. Reverse it. Rewrite it.

But there’s no miracle this time.

No comeback.

No more time.

“I thought I had more,” he says, voice so quiet it’s nearly a breath. “More days. More ways to show you I loved you.”

You can hear him trying to hold it together. Swallowing the sobs. The gasps. The panic.

“I was gonna propose, you know?” he confesses, with a shaky little laugh that sounds like it's breaking open his chest. “Bought the ring months ago. Just… kept waiting for the right moment.”

His thumb brushes along your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. Gentle. Steady. Like a habit he doesn't know how to break.

“Fucking idiot,” he whispers, not to you—but to himself.

Another breath. It catches somewhere in his chest.

“You would've said yes, right?” he asks, quieter now. “You would've stayed.”

There's no answer. Just the soft hum of the machines beside you. The slow, dragging rhythm of a heartbeat that’s starting to slip between the seconds.

Chan presses a kiss to your temple, and his lips linger there. Motionless.

“I hope you felt loved,” he says. “Even when I was gone. Even when I didn’t say it.”

The monitor stutters. Once.

Then again.

And then—flatlines.

No dramatic alarms. No panicked rush of nurses. Just the sound fading out. The weight of your body going still in his arms.

His hand stays wrapped around yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just breathes in shallow, uneven pulls—like he’s afraid to exhale. Like letting go of that one breath might mean letting go of you completely.

And then his shoulders fall.

No sound.

Just that.

He lowers his head against your pillow, cheek resting beside yours. Eyes squeezed shut. Tears slipping soundlessly down his face, soaking into the same sheets that still hold your warmth.

His fingers keep holding yours, even though your hand is slack now.

Even though you're gone.

And in the quiet that follows, he doesn’t break. Not all at once.

He just… crumbles. Slowly.

Quietly.

Alone.

[archivesctrccio]

she drives me crazy. chapter 2.

⁠✧ pairing.. head cheerleader!jackie taylor x basketball player!reader.

⁠✧ warnings.. inspired by the 'She drives me crazy', book by Kelly Quindlen. characters are a little ooc(?)

⁠✧ words.. 3.9k.

✎ᝰ. jinx notes.. Sorry for the delay guys 😭 by the way, I have a question. Does the chapters being too long bother you? Personally it doesn't bother me but I get carried away writing... anyways let me know pls

prev.     next.

It takes a while for all your senses to return. Your heart is racing so fast you feel like you're on a roller coaster. Your whole body is hot, and your palms are damp with sweat.

The car you collided with is a black sedan, but before you can get a good look, the other driver gets out of the vehicle, stomping her feet with all the rage of a rabid pinscher.

Jackie Taylor.

Fuck.

Your shock turns to fury immediately. It had to be her. You know you weren’t exactly looking when you crashed, but you also know you had the right of way. Jackie must have decided that the rules of the road don't apply to her.

Your adrenaline rush makes you get out of the car before you can think too much. You slam the car door and meet her halfway.

— What the hell is this? — you ask.

Her eyes flash when she sees you. Quietly, she answers:

— You’ve got to be kidding me.

You ignore her and walk over to the bumper. Miraculously, there's only a small dent; you'll have to fix it, but it's still drivable.

Behind you, Jackie examines her own car.

— Shit — she complains — my parents are going to kill me.

— Well, mine too. — You say, kicking a rock near the wheel of your car. You can feel tears welling up in your eyes, but you fight them back. You hate the idea of crying in front of Jackie Taylor. Again. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself, but when you turn to look at her car, your entire stomach drops.

Her rear bumper is a mangled, bent wreck; the right side is hanging off, dragging on the asphalt. It's impossible to drive a car like that. Your anger suddenly turns to panic. If her car is worse than yours, does that mean you're to blame? Even if you had the right of way?

You control your breathing and look at her.

— Damn. I'm sorry.

Her eyes burn like you just said something offensive.

— Are you really that stupid? — she snaps. — You should never apologize after a car accident. You basically admitted guilt.

You are so disturbed that you can only stare at her as she say:

— You're lucky I'm not the kind of person who's going to fake a serious injury or some fake emotional trauma to sue you and your parents until I suck all your money out of you, but someone else could do it. Use your head.

Anger flares up in you again.

— Are you really trying to teach me a lesson now? You're the one who reversed my car!

— Why didn't you stop when you saw me?

— Why didn't you stop when you saw me?

You create a commotion in the parking lot. A bunch of people from your class run over to see what happened. Even though school ended a few hours ago, There are still enough people that your accident would be impossible to hide.

— Are you guys okay?

— Aah, your car's back is fucked.

— Oh, shit! Tow Truck Girl fucked up her car again!

One of the cheerleaders rushes to your side, her eyes bulging out of her head. It's Jackie's best friend, the same girl who asked if you were okay earlier: Taissa Turner. She is the great-great-granddaughter of the legendary Mrs. Earl. Her family still owns the Emporium, and she is not exactly how you would imagine a girl to be who comes from a family whose business is Christmas. She has a sweet but firm voice, cartoonish expressions, and is extremely intelligent. She is the perfect combination of Princess Bubblegum and Marceline.

— Holy shit — she exclaims, running straight to you — What happened? Are you guys okay?

Jackie runs her hand slowly over her face.

— I have to call my mom. Shit.

She walks away with her cell phone, her eyebrow still furrowed in anger. Taissa gives you a sympathetic look, but you turn your back and grab your own cell phone.

Your mother shows up fifteen minutes after you call. She brushes the hair off your forehead and comforts you with her calm, steady voice. The whole world could explode and your mother would say: “Um, now how are we going to deal with this?”

— Are you hurt? — she asks.

— No.

— Were you on your cell phone?

— No.

Your mother nods, examining you with the "I don't let anything slip by" look.

— Okay. Let's call the insurance company.

Jackie's mother arrives shortly after this. She is an attractive, sophisticated-looking woman with wavy blonde hair and flawless lipstick, She is wearing a lilac lab coat and a name tag that reads Dr. Taylor. She has the same observant expression as Jackie, the kind that seems able to read you in a second. And that's exactly what she appears to be doing to Jackie now.

— How did this happen? — she asks, tilting her head toward her daughter. Her voice is calm, but authoritarian.

Jackie huffs, crossing her arms over her torso.

— I was reversing, I didn't see her coming…

Mrs. Taylor interrupts her.

— Weren't you looking?

— I was, but…

— But were you lost in your own thoughts, imagining other cheerleading routines?

Jackie's mouth forms a thin line and her eyes drop to the ground.

—That's what happens when you're not focused. — Mrs. Taylor continues. — You know you can't let your guard down. Take pictures of the back. From every angle!

There's an unbearable gap while your moms are on the phone with the insurance company and Jackie and you have nothing to do but exhaustingly ignore each other. When it's all over, your mothers nod to each other and announce that you're both responsible—since both cars were moving—but that Jackie is mostly to blame, since you had preference.

—That's not fair, — Jackie says, shaking her head. — She ran around the bend, she wasn't even looking…

—How do you know I wasn’t looking? — you say, irritated. — Look who's talking! This is the second time you've made fun of my car!

Your mother frowns.

— What do you mean by that?

A silence hangs in the air. You never told your parents the truth about how your car got towed last year; you lied and said you accidentally stopped in front of a fire hydrant. You were too embarrassed to admit that you had been bullied by the cheerleader captain.

Now you and Jackie face each other for an intense moment. Her eyes are wide and anxious. It's the first sign of vulnerability you see in her.

— She... accidentally spilled coffee on my car once.

You don't know what possessed you to say that. This could have been your chance to get some well-deserved revenge, but you'd rather be The Tow Truck Girl than The Snitch Girl.

— Have you ever been in her car before? — Jackie's mother asks. — Are you two friends?

You stare at each other for a long moment.

— Hmm. — Jackie says, recovering. She gestures to her uniform. — I cheer for her team sometimes.

It's a good thing no one is looking at you, because the eye roll you give would prove that's a lie in a second. You have no doubt that Jackie, as captain, could ensure that your team cheered for you rather than the boys, but why would a cheerleader bother challenging the status quo?

— Oh, that’s great, — her mother murmurs. — Well, that makes it less weird, doesn’t it?

Jackie's mother chuckles.

— Yes, what a relief!

What follows is one of the worst mommy embarrassments you'll ever experience. Your moms introduce themselves to each other, make horrible jokes about how neither of you are one of those strict, meddling moms that would turn this accident into a spectacle.

— Imagine having to do that to a Candlehawk woman! — says your mother.

—That's a level of hell I don't need today! — Jackie's mother laughs.

Jackie and you say nothing, waiting for them to stop.

— Y/n, you seem like a serious student. — Dr. Taylor says suddenly. — What are you studying?

— Mom, stop... — Jackie tries.

— Er... my favorite subject is History. — you answer.

— Is that what you want to study in college?

— Sure, — you lie. You’ve never thought about it seriously, but Dr. Taylor seems like the kind of person who needs a confident answer.

— And what sport do you play? Is that a basketball uniform? Basketball is a great sport. See, Jackie? You can be a serious student and a competitive athlete.

— I am. — Jackie says, looking like she’s had this conversation a hundred times before.

— Cheerleading is also an admirable sport. — her mother opines.

Dr. Taylor nods politely, but obviously disagrees.

— Well, it looks like everything is in order here. — she says authoritatively. — We're waiting for the tow truck, but we'll leave as soon as it arrives.

You meet Jackie's eyes at the word tow truck.

She looks away, but you can see a twinge of guilt there.

— Having your car towed is horrible. — you say with false empathy. — it happened to me once. I'm sorry about that.

You can almost see the smoke coming out of her ears. It's so satisfying that you almost start singing. But then…

— It sucks to be without a car in this city. — Your mother says. — How are you going to get to school, Jackie?

— My husband and I can leave you here. — Jackie's mother says with a wave of her hand. — It's easy for us. We live there on Sleigh Byrne.

— Sleigh Byrne? — Your mother gives you an awkward smile, and suddenly, you’re dreading what she’s going to say next. — We live on the street next to it, in Bells Haven.

You look at her and you know what's going to happen.

— My daughter can give Jackie a ride! — Her mother declares, her eyes bright. — Please, we insist. It's the least we can do.

You try to look at your mother to tell her that this is a terrible idea, but the damage is already done. Jackie's mother lights up like this is the best plan she's ever heard.

She smiles happily at Jackie and holds her hands up as if to say, "Look at this!"

Jackie blinks and offers a grateful, polite smile to your mother, but you know she hates this idea as much as you do.

— Well, it’s settled — your mother says, looking at you excitedly. — Everything’s okay, right?

It's only after you move away from the Taylor family that you convey your horror:

— Mom! — you complain. —, I can't stand that girl! I'd rather go to school naked than have to give her a ride anywhere!

—I thought you said you were friends?

— Um... I mean, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. — You mess up. — But it doesn't matter! The accident wasn't my fault.

His mother is unfazed.

— No, it wasn't your fault, but it's still your responsibility. It won't kill you to give her a ride until the car is fixed.

Ultimately, you walk away from your first traffic accident with a bruised ego, a dented bumper, and the impending terror of giving a ride to the one person who can make your senior year at school even worse.

Your father and younger sister are in the yard hanging Halloween lights when you and your mother pull into your driveway.

Your house is a classic blue and lilac house with wooden floors and a small porch in the front. There is a maple tree in the front yard that reaches as high as the second floor, and a row of shrubs that shades the front porch. That's where her father and Victoria are, arranging the orange lights so they hang on the bushes the way Tori likes them.

— Is there a problem? — your father asks as you and your mother join them in the garden.

— My front bumper. — you reply with a grimace. — It's all crumpled up but I managed to drive it home…

— I was asking about you, sweetie. — Your father says, placing his hands on your shoulders. He looks at you with a worried frown, as if he could guess that you have a concussion. That's one of the best things about your dad. He is going to be pissed about the bumper and will insist on accompanying you to the mechanic, but right now he's only concerned about you.

— I'm glad you're okay. — Victoria says, hugging you gently. — Want an ice pack? I have one in the freezer from when I hurt my big toe.

Victoria is the cutie of the family. She's only thirteen, but her parents like to say she has an old soul.

— It's okay, Tori, thanks.

— How is your neck? — your father asks. — Did it bounce?

— Just a little, — you reply, and your father begins to feel the top of your spine. He’s a chiropractor, so he’s always checking your back when you say you slept awkwardly or pulled a muscle on practice.

— Lie down on the grass. — his father says, taking a step back.

— What? Are we going to adjust it here?

— Tori and I are still arranging the decorations. — her father says as if it were obvious. — come on, you know how it works.

Your mother and Victoria just stand there, laughing, while you lie on the grass with your stomach down and your father starts to rub your back. If the neighbors are watching, you doubt they'll be shocked. Your family is known for doing strange things in the front yard. — Like the time five-year-old Victoria insisted you guys eat breakfast outside in your snowsuits. Right in the middle of summer.

— Okay, that should do it. — his father says, giving your neck one last twist. — Are you feeling better?

You can only grunt in response.

You spend the next half hour finishing up your Halloween decorations. It's already dark, so you're at the mercy of the porch lighting, but you're still motivated to finish because Halloween is next week. It is a tradition on your street that everyone gives their best in celebratory decorations. Your decorations, on the other hand, are pretty tacky. You put plastic tombstones all over the grass, and your mom puts a witch and vampire couple on the porch that look like the "American Gothic" painting, and Victoria hangs cobwebs on the mailbox. Your contribution is to arrange a group of skeletons around bales of straw. Last year, your dad made it look like the skeletons were dancing the macarena. This year, you put a thick piece of tobacco in one of their mouths to make it look like it's smoking. Your mother rolls her eyes, but leaves it at that.

Inside the house, you sit down to eat a chicken dinner that your father bought on the way back from the clinic. Your mother and Tori improvise a pasta dish, while your task is to prepare a dish for your older sister, Pamela, who is still working.

—I texted Pam about the accident—Tori says, helping herself to a double portion of pasta. — She was worried about you, y/n. I wanted to go straight home, but she said it was a mess there and that she was pissed off.

Pamela works as a bartender at the best bar in town, Chimney. She's saving up money to rent her own apartment, but for now she lives in your basement with her two cats, BooBoo and Pickles, who keep getting into your mom's garden to dig up the arugula. Cats drive your mother crazy. Your father is more relaxed with them, but he's always been more laid back when it comes to Pam, because he's technically her stepfather. Your mother divorced Pamela's biological father when she was still a baby, but did not marry your father until Pamela was seven years old.

— Y/n — your mother says when there is a pause in the conversation —, do you want to talk about what happened?

You peel the skin off the chicken, aware of everyone watching you. You knew the night of fun decorating would spill over into this conversation, but that didn't mean you were ready.

— Do we need to?

Your father tilts his head.

— Do we need to talk about the fact that you were so distracted that you didn't notice a car coming at you? Yes.

You drop your fork.

— I had a bad day, okay?

— Because of the game with Candlehawk? — Your father asks.

— Because of Allie? — Your mother adds.

You feel lucky to have parents who love you so much and are so involved in your life. They even know the little things that happen, like when you have a stressful test or if you had a fight with Lottie and that’s tormenting you. But sometimes this involvement is so sincere and omnipresent that you feel like every little thing has to end with them trying to sort it out at the dinner table.

— We're sorry we couldn't be there for the game — Your father says, ruffling your hair — We know it's a tough semester. It won't be easy for you without Allie.

— Losing your first love hurts a lot — your mother adds, understanding.

You're not sure your parents actually liked Allie. They smiled and hugged her when she came over, but you always got the feeling they were doing it for her sake, not because they genuinely liked her.

— I promise it will get better — your mother comforts you. — But that doesn't mean you can forget about the rest of your life. You still have your senior year of high school ahead of you, basketball, college, and your wonderful friends…

— I know, I know. — Tears well up in your eyes. You try to swallow them, but they end up falling onto your chicken. — I'm really sorry about the car, guys.

— It's okay. — Your mother says quietly. — Let's leave it at that for today. You can go upstairs and watch a movie. Victoria will take care of the dishes.

Doing the dishes alone sucks—you guys usually share the chores—but the wonderful thing about Victoria is that she wouldn't complain about it in a million years. She nods and clears everyone's plates, offering you a small smile, and you walk up the stairs to your room without looking back.

You spend a lot of time in the shower, probably your record time. For a while, you just stand under the water, your muscles burning, grateful for the heat. You wash your hair and scrub your face after a long cry.

Normally you would blow dry and straighten your hair so it looks good for school tomorrow, but tonight you don't feel like it. You pull on a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants and curl up in bed. For the first time all day, you feel like you can breathe.

Your mom was right to tell you to watch a movie. Today you put on 10 Things I Hate About You, the queen of teen romantic comedies. You can recite lines in your sleep.

A few minutes into the movie, Pamela walks into the room. She's still wearing her bartender uniform and holding her keys, which tells you she literally just got home. She throws herself on the bed, hugs you and makes a fuss as if you were an abandoned kitten she found on the street. Victoria walks in behind her, snuggling up on her other side.

— Who hurt you? — Pamela asks. — Who do I need to kill?

— No one. — You laugh. — I'm fine. How was work?

— The opposite of stimulating. Seriously, how are you?

—It was a shitty day. — you admit. — We played the opening game against Candlehawk. They crushed us. Then my car got crushed.

Pamela shivered.

— Candlehawk means Allie, right?

— Yeah, their new star. She gave me my button back.

Your sisters share a meaningful look.

— What? — you ask, even though you know what they’re going to say.

— She's horrible. — Pamela replies. Lying on her back on the bed. — Like, really, really horrible.

— She wasn't always horrible. Not until she transferred to Candlehawk.

— I think she was already horrible before that. — Victoria retorts. — Do you remember when she got mad when you posted that picture where her hair was frizzy?

— Remember when she didn't talk to you for a whole day because you refused to sneak into that concert with her? — Pamela adds.

That's the thing. You know Allie was difficult sometimes, but it makes you uncomfortable to hear that from other people. It makes you question your judgment, because for a while, you were so happy with her. Were you just completely oblivious to it? Or worse, did you convince yourself that she cared about you when she didn't?

— I know. — You run your hand over your face. — I promise she wasn't always this horrible.

There is a pause in which her sisters are clearly keeping their words to themselves.

— Can we watch the movie now? — you ask.

— Of course. — her sisters respond and nestle into your sides.

When you're about an hour into a movie, your cell phone rings from a number you don't recognize. You reject the call, assuming it's telemarketing.

A moment later, it rings again. Your sisters complain.

— Sorry! — you fiddle with your phone and answer it, impatiently. — Hello?

— Y/n? — a cold voice answers. — It's me, Jackie.

What the fuck.

You straighten up in bed, fumbling for the remote to pause the movie. Your sisters stare at you, but you gesture for them to be quiet. Why is this girl calling you? How did she get your number?

— Hi. — you answer on your phone, trying to sound casual. You turn on the lamp and swing your legs over to the other side of the bed. — I didn't expect you to call…

— How not? — she asks, abruptly. — We have a plan for tomorrow. You know, now that you have to give me a ride.

It takes a while for you to respond.

— Sure. — You answer, tense. — Of course. I just thought you would send a message.

— A call is more efficient.

You clear your throat, trying to stop yourself from yelling at her.

— How is your car? What did the mechanic say?

She ignores the question.

— What time will you pick me up in the morning? I usually leave at 7:25.

You're still trying to position yourself in this conversation, and it takes you a second to understand what she's asking. At 7:25? Your school is only ten minutes away, and classes start after 8:05.

— I usually leave at 7:40 — you reply in an incisive tone.

She makes an impatient noise.

— I have things to do in the morning. If I had my own car I would leave at 7:15.

— I guess you should have thought of that before you rammed into my car, huh?

There is a tense silence.

— Are you picking me up at 7:25 or not?

You grit your teeth.

— I will.

— Great. I'll text you the address.

— Great. How efficient messages are, right?

A moment passes.

— cute — she says, in the most acidic voice you've ever heard in your life. Then she hangs up.

— What the hell was that? — Pamela asks.

— She's my arch enemy. — you say it half jokingly.

— I thought your arch enemy was Allie. — Victoria says.

Pamela elbows her.

— Y/n — Pamela says, taking the remote from your hand —, I don't know what this says about me, but this drama of yours has become the most interesting thing in my life.

taglist: @moesthoughts, @javizheart, @antlertruths, @mistynatsfavourite

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

There's really a fascinating bit of compare and contrast to be done between Vex and Dorian because they are in many ways very similar people despite coming from seemingly very different backgrounds Vex grew up poor in Byroden before being taken to Syngorn where she ended up being marginalized due to being half-elven, and despite her best efforts she was never able to live up to the expectations Syldor had for her. Dorian meanwhile grew up incredibly wealthy -he's literal royalty- but incredibly isolated, and felt stifled and limited by the expectations put on him as a prince, especially as the second born living the shadow of his older brother. And it's here that we see one of may real points of similarity between Dorian and Vex, they both ultimately chose to strike it out on their own because they were living under expectations they felt they couldn't live up to, and rather than continue to try and meet them, they chose to leave.

This awareness of the expectations placed upon them growing up extends to how they interact with the world in adulthood, both are highly aware of being perceived by others and both use their considerable wells of personal charisma to control that perception, though the image they put forward differs, with Vex being aloof and flirtatious while Dorian leans towards being genial and uplifting. They're also, as Taliesin insightfully described it when referring to Vex, hungry for was it was they didn't have growing up. In Vex's case she's hungry for material security and the social standing that can bring, for Dorian he's desperate to have and maintain close connections with other people.

The last major point of similarity between these two characters relates to the above point: they're both deeply other-centred (concerned primarily with other people and their opinions) but selfish. Vex is incredibly concerned how others perceive her and despite leaving still craves the approval of the people of Syngorn, and this manifests as greed and penny pinching as she tries to accumulate the wealth and status she hopes will win her that approval. Dorian focuses his entire world around the people he cares about, to the point of considering or doing some pretty terrible things for their sakes (the deal he made with Lolth was to essentially sacrifice the whole of Emon so she'd leave his friends alone), because to him those he's close to matter above literally anything else.

Dorian and Vex's backgrounds may be different, but they both left them with deep awareness of others, how they are perceived and what is expected of them, and a deep need the fulfillment of which often took precedence above their other morals. The manifestation of this is different, because their backgrounds and personalities are, but at the base level it comes from the same place: expectation and unmet needs creating a person who is deeply aware of performing for the world and who desperately clings to what they lacked growing up.