#THIS OFFICIAL PILOT WAS FIRE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

avengxrz · 2 days ago

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the fool unmakes the golden boy ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part four]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 17.9k words (a short one, i am sorry)

summary: after weeks of brutal training, the squad faced rogue’s final test — the evaluation gauntlet, a mission she designed to break them or make them. each phase pushed them to their limits, testing how well they could fly, adapt, and survive. by the end, they were bloody, bruised, and barely standing, but still standing. rogue, once a nobody in jake seresin’s past, now held his future in her hands. the fool unmakes the golden boy... but can he rebuild himself before it’s too late?

warnings: angst, slow burn, humiliation, second chances, regret, rivalry, second person pov (flashbacks), third person pov (present), mentions of emotional manipulation, sexual tension, reader is unhinged but in uniform, jake is a menace turned mess, this is fictional and i do not really know how the navy works, i just researched, the fool unmakes the golden boy.

notes: we’re officially down to the second to the last part of the series—can you believe that?! are you guys ready for the chaos, the heartbreak, the closure (or maybe not)? thank you so much for sticking around, screaming in the tags, crying in the inbox, and breathing life into this fic. tag list will be in the comments as always. enjoy, and buckle up.

part one , part two , part three , part five , epilogue

masterlist

your call sign is rogue.

The fluorescent lights of the briefing room buzzed faintly overhead, the only sound besides the low rustle of flight suits and the occasional shift of boots against the polished floor. The air was cold—not from the temperature, but from the pressure. Something unspoken hung in the oxygen, thick as jet fuel. Tension curled in every corner, stiffened every spine.

Every member of Dagger Squadron was seated, backs straight, posture just shy of parade rest. Not because they were ordered to, but because the atmosphere demanded it. These weren’t rookies—they’d seen combat, flown the impossible. But the way Warlock stood at the front of the room now, hands clasped behind his back, face carved from stone? This wasn’t standard ops.

“Gentlemen. Ladies,” Warlock began, his voice cutting clean through the silence. “Today’s operation is not a drill.”

He stepped aside slightly, allowing the three visiting commanders to step forward: Jinx, Ruin, and Commander Rogue. Their presence alone shifted the room’s energy. All three were in full flight suits, squadron patches glinting under the lights, ribbons and bars meticulously affixed. They didn’t look tired. They didn’t look rushed. They looked like they belonged there—and like they owned the air you breathed.

“You’re about to undergo what the Navy designates as GAUNTLET-EVAL 2A-BRAVO,” Warlock continued. “Unofficially? We call it Hell Day. Designed to test every inch of your training and tactical adaptability—under fire, under pressure, under silence.”

He let the silence stretch for a second.

“Five phases,” he said. “Rotating structure. New team assignments. Unstable conditions. This isn’t about flying well. This is about whether you can fly smart. Whether you survive when everything you rely on is stripped from you.”

The words hit like gunfire. Fanboy shifted in his seat. Bob’s jaw tightened. Even Payback looked like he’d started to sweat.

“Commander Ruin,” Warlock said, giving a nod.

Ruin stepped forward, voice sharp and formal—like steel on ice. “Phase One: Simulated Missile Evasion. Your radar guidance will be degraded. Some of you will have intermittent blind spots. Others? You’ll be targeted with digital lock-ons by real-time intercept controllers.”

He glanced at the WSOs in the room. “Those of you in the backseat—you’ll need to adapt faster than you ever have before. Use your ears, your eyes, your gut. That stick in front of you won’t save your pilot if your system reads ghosted locks. Do not treat this like sim.”

“Phase Two,” Jinx said, stepping up with a clipped nod. “Fuel-Starvation Combat. Each element will fly a six-minute combat window with simulated limited reserves. Your birds will read fuel-starved at random intervals—you won’t know when. Mission success will require a kill confirmation before your gauge hits the red. If you’re wasteful, sloppy, or take too long lining up a shot? You're out. And so is your teammate.”

Coyote swore under his breath. Yale ran a hand down his face.

“And Phase Three,” said Rogue, stepping forward with the quiet authority of someone who did not repeat herself. “Altitude Suppression Exercises. You’ll be flying dangerously low terrain courses—ground radar disabled, terrain alerts muted. You will navigate by instinct, topographical memory, and your own damn eyes.”

The squad didn’t move, but every breath in the room got just a little tighter.

She continued, tone unflinching, crisp. “There will be no safety rails. If you lose altitude control or deviate beyond five meters of the approved flight line? Mission fail. Strike off the board.”

“Phase Four,” Jinx rejoined. “Mixed-team dogfight. You’ll be reassigned to fly with a completely different element. You may be paired with a solo wing or unfamiliar WSO. There will be no time for chemistry or warm-up. We want to know: Can you adapt, or do you crumble when your rhythm breaks?”

“And finally,” Rogue said again, stepping forward once more, her voice dropping a note lower. “Phase Five: Comms Blackout.”

The words dropped like a pin in a cathedral.

“Final phase. No radios. No intercoms. No GPS. No data links. You will fly with nothing but what you know and what you see. Total blackout conditions. You will be evaluated not just on flight path, but survival instinct and tactical prioritization.”

Phoenix stared ahead. Rooster looked like he forgot how to breathe. Even Hangman—cool, cocky, unshakable Hangman—didn’t so much as twitch a smirk.

“This is a full-spectrum psychological and performance pressure test,” Ruin said. “One designed to measure who you are when your wing breaks, your comms go dead, and the fight comes to you.”

No one dared speak.

And then Rogue stepped forward one last time, her gaze sweeping the room with the weight of an admiral and the bite of a dagger.

“There are no freebies,” she said. “No do-overs. You fly as a team—or you burn trying. The sky doesn't care how skilled you are if your crew can't count on you.”

A beat. “Any questions?”

For a moment, no one moved. The tension was so dense you could hear the slow click of someone’s molars grinding. Then, inevitably, it was Fanboy—always just brave enough to speak, never quite brave enough to do it without sweating—who raised a shaky hand.

“Uh—sir, ma'am?” he said, voice just a notch too high as he glanced between Rogue and Warlock. “Respectfully… is there a pass/fail marker for each phase? Like, are we graded per round or…?”

His question trailed off under Rogue’s gaze, which didn’t even harden—it simply remained. Cool. Impenetrable. Watching him like a hawk eyeing a shaky sparrow.

It was Maverick who answered. “No.” He stepped forward then, hands on his hips, voice casual—but the undertone was iron. “This is a cumulative evaluation. Meaning it doesn’t matter how well you do in one round if you fall apart in another.”

He gave them a look. The kind that said I’ve seen better pilots die with less warning. “If you fail this evaluation, you don’t get reassigned. You don’t get benched.”

He let the words hang. “You get cut.”

The silence cracked like a whip.

Coyote leaned forward slowly. “Cut from—what, exactly? This program or…”

Maverick looked around the room. His eyes swept across them—Yale, Fritz, Phoenix, Bob, Hangman—until he landed on Rooster and stayed there for a second longer.

“You all put in requests to be permanently stationed here. To form a long-term, active-strike detachment under Command North Island. That request is pending final evaluation.”

Another beat.

“This,” Maverick said, sweeping a hand to indicate the board behind him—HELL DAY burned across the top in red—is that evaluation.”

Now it landed. Now they got it.

Bob’s shoulders fell back slightly, like someone had punched the wind out of him. Halo muttered a quiet “Shit” under her breath. Even Payback, who never blinked at chaos, exhaled through his nose, slow and tight.

Rooster leaned over and whispered to Phoenix, “So basically, we’re fighting for our Navy lives.”

“No,” Phoenix muttered back. “We’re fighting for our place. This is home now.”

Hangman, arms crossed, leaned back in his seat with his jaw ticking. But his eyes were trained forward, and his mouth—normally cocky, normally smug—was set in a thin, unreadable line.

Cyclone stepped forward this time.

“This program is designed to push you beyond your limits. To expose your faults, test your instincts, and gauge your capability to function under chaos. You have the next hour to suit up, prep your aircraft, and meet us on the tarmac. If you’re late—you’re already failing.”

He paused.

“And if you think the sky will show you mercy… remember who designed this program.”

Everyone slowly looked at Rogue. Her arms were still folded, head tilted just slightly. And she said, calm and quiet:

“You’ll learn more about yourselves today than you have in your entire careers. My job is to make sure it hurts.”

Not a threat. A promise. No one moved. No one breathed.

The air in the debriefing room was thick—coated with the tension of unspoken fears and cold truths, waiting to crash down like a hammer. Maverick and Warlock stepped aside, giving the floor—no, the battlefield—to the three visiting commanders.

Ruin was the first to speak, stepping forward with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who knew silence could be louder than shouting.

“I’ve been observing your squad for the past seventy-two hours,” he said. “And if I had to call it now? This team would never survive a live strike mission.”

The sentence landed like a punch to the ribs. His gaze swept the room, steady and unflinching. “You’re not cohesive. You’re not fluid. Your mid-air decision-making is delayed, your communications are messy, and some of you—” his eyes flicked to Hangman “—seem to think ‘lone wolf’ is a personality trait worth rewarding.”

Hangman didn’t move. But his jaw tightened, his arms folded deeper, the smirk nowhere to be found.

“You are flying like individuals,” Ruin said. “And individuals get shot down.”

Then Commander Jinx stepped forward, tone less severe but no less cutting. He gave a short nod toward Rooster, Payback, and Coyote. “Some of you show initiative, but that initiative isn’t matched with trust. You second-guess each other. You cut corners. You fly as if everyone around you is expendable.”

His eyes were sharper now. “That’s not boldness. That’s arrogance. And arrogance gets your team killed.”

A beat passed. No one dared move, not even Bob, who sat ramrod-straight, hands clenched on his knees like a reprimanded schoolboy.

Then Rogue stepped forward.

“You’re Top Gun graduates,” she began, voice level and exacting, like a scalpel sliding against bone. “You made it through a program designed to weed out the weak, the slow, the selfish. So tell me—why are you still flying like cadets?”

No one answered. Her words hung heavy in the air.

“I watched you panic at the first sign of radar distortion. I watched your formation fall apart the second we hit terrain suppression. You don’t speak to each other. You bark commands. You assume. You improvise. And when one of you pulls a Hangman and bails on the fight—” she cast Jake a glance like a blade, “—the rest of you don’t cover, you collapse.”

Jake didn’t flinch, but that tightness in his chest? Yeah. It was real.

“This is Hell Day,” Rogue said, tone calm but razor-sharp. “Not a game. Not a simulation with trophies at the end. This is the line in the sand. You want to be a permanent unit under North Island? This is your last chance.”

Her gaze swept them again, slower this time, weighing them like scales. “You pass this gauntlet, you earn your stripes. You fail, your names are off the list before the ink’s dry.”

She turned. “See you in an hour.” Then she walked out, boots echoing like a war drum down the corridor. Ruin and Jinx followed, then Warlock and Cyclone did the same thing.

And in their wake, the silence in the room was deafening.

The door had barely clicked shut behind Rogue, Jinx, and Ruin before the room plunged into a silence so thick it felt like it had mass. No one looked at each other. No one moved. It was the kind of quiet that settled over a group right after being gutted, cut open by words sharp enough to leave bruises but clean enough to leave no blood behind.

Maverick stood still for a moment longer, then pushed off the wall and stepped into the center of the room. He didn’t need to raise his voice. He never had. His presence did all the heavy lifting.

“You think that was harsh?” he said, eyes scanning each one of them. Rooster, still tight-jawed. Fanboy, swallowing down panic. Bob, as pale as paper. Fritz, practically vibrating under his own skin. “Good. It was supposed to be.”

He let that hang for a beat. Not for effect. For honesty.

“Those three? They’re the best there is. The Navy doesn’t send them in unless they’re preparing for the worst-case scenario. Which means you—” he pointed, hand slicing through the air like a blade, “—are the worst-case scenario right now.”

A ripple went through them—tiny flinches, shame wrapped in uniforms.

Maverick’s voice softened, just a hair. “You’re not hopeless. Not by a long shot, but you’re not ready. And the truth is... if you fail today, then I fail too.”

The squad blinked, collectively stunned. The words hit harder than any insult, because they weren’t an attack. They were a confession.

“I put in for this squadron,” Maverick continued, voice steady. “Fought to have you stationed here. I told Command you were worth building something around. That with time, you’d be not just good—but untouchable. That with the right leadership, you’d fly like gods.”

He looked at Rooster last—just a moment longer than the rest.

“If you don’t make it through Hell Day… that’s it. Command pulls the plug. This detachment goes back to dust. You all get reassigned, scattered, maybe grounded. And me?”

Maverick gave a small, humorless laugh.

“They’ll hang my wings up for good. No more cockpits. No more North Island. I won’t fly again.”

The silence after that was different. Not stunned, not ashamed—but weighted. Grounded in something deeper than nerves or ego. It was the realization that they weren’t just carrying their own careers on their backs.

They were carrying his, too.

“So yeah,” he said, tone flat now. “This isn’t just another exercise. This is the whole damn sky. And whether or not you get to stay in it… depends on what you do out there today.”

He turned toward the door but paused one last time. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Gear up.” Then he left them with that and walked out—shoulders squared, pace even.

The kind of walk that said: I’ve given you everything I can. Now show me you deserve it, clowns.

Coyote was the first to move, his boots hitting the deck as he turned to Yale and Harvard with that quiet, cool confidence he always wore like a second flight suit. “Alright,” he said, pulling them closer into a tight triangle of conversation. “Forget the pride. Forget the scoreboards. We’ve been handed our asses, yeah? But we’ve also seen how the Big Three move. So we adapt. We fly tighter, faster, smarter.”

Yale nodded, eyes flicking over a mental checklist. Harvard was already tapping into his mental nav map, murmuring comms protocols and countermeasures. Coyote’s voice stayed steady, layered with urgency but never panic. “We don’t improvise. We execute. And if either of you lose me out there, keep flying the plan.”

A beat passed. Then all three nodded as one.

Across the room, Fritz dropped into a low squat, drawing a rough diagram on the floor with his finger. Omaha and Halo crouched around him, eyes locked in. “They want Hell Day?” Fritz said, his grin tight but genuine. “Let’s give ’em something biblical.”

He sketched out an evasion maneuver from yesterday’s drill, tweaking it with a wild new angle. “Jinx and Ruin like to pin and collapse—so we spread, bait, and regroup. Controlled chaos. You follow me into a tailspin, I better see you right behind me when I pull out.”

Omaha chuckled. Halo muttered something about needing a will, but they listened. They trusted him. For better or worse.

Then, there was Rooster. He leaned against a bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes low. Payback and Fanboy hovered nearby, both waiting. When he finally spoke, it was slower. More grounded.

“We’re not gonna outfly them,” Rooster said. “But we can out-think them.”

Fanboy raised an eyebrow. Payback tilted his head. Rooster straightened. “They want panic? We give them clarity. They want to isolate us? We move like a damn shadow.”

He pointed between them. “You two have instincts. I’ve seen it, but we’ve got to trust them. No second-guessing. No damn hesitation. We don’t win by trying to be the Big Three, we win by being the best us.”

They nodded. Rooster ran a hand through his hair, gaze drifting toward the door Rogue had walked through. For a second—just one—his expression softened.

And then, there was Hangman. He stood apart, like always, arms folded, watching Phoenix and Bob talk quietly. He let them finish before walking over, voice clipped.

“You both good?” he asked.

Phoenix looked at him like he was a landmine. “Define ‘good.’”

“Alive enough to keep up.”

Bob, ever diplomatic, said nothing, but he nodded.

Jake sighed and leaned in slightly. “I know what they think of me. I know what you think of me.” His voice dropped lower. “But I’ve been watching, too. And you’re the only pair I’d bet on to hold this formation when shit hits the fan.”

Phoenix blinked. “Are you actually… being serious?”

“As a goddamn stall warning,” he replied, deadpan.

A silence fell between them—then, grudgingly, Phoenix smirked. “Alright, Bagman. Try not to ditch us this time.”

Jake didn’t answer, but the flicker in his eyes? That was a promise.

The lights in the tactical auditorium dimmed slightly as the massive screen flickered to life, casting a cool, bluish glow over the gathered squad. It displayed a wide-angle aerial view of the base’s training grid, complete with overlays—flight paths, threat markers, and real-time data feeds. Every radar blip and atmospheric reading scrolled in clean military font, efficient and cold. In the corner of the screen, a small countdown ticked steadily toward zero.

Element One was up first.

In the lower portion of the feed, the view shifted to ground-level cameras capturing the tarmac. Yale was already climbing into his jet, movements smooth but tight with nerves.

Harvard followed close behind, clutching his helmet under one arm while the other checked gear with the muscle memory of someone trying not to overthink. Coyote approached last, all swagger and ease, but there was tension behind his eyes—a razor-focus that only surfaced when instinct overrode ego.

From his seat in the upper row, Maverick leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees, jaw locked. “Coyote’s holding steady,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Let’s see if they hold formation under pressure.”

Hondo, seated beside him with his arms crossed tight over his chest, gave a single nod. “We gave ‘em the playbook. Let’s find out who actually studied it.”

Cyclone sat like a statue, hands clasped in front of his mouth—not praying, but waiting, like a man who knew better than to hope. Warlock tapped in a few commands to re-center the feed, isolating cockpit cams and tactical overlays. His expression was unreadable.

Behind the brass, the rest of Dagger Squad filled the auditorium—tiered seating holding a dozen of the Navy’s best, each of them suddenly looking like students on test day. No one spoke. Even Hangman, normally the loudest in any room, had gone silent.

Rooster bounced one leg restlessly. Fritz gnawed on the edge of his thumb. Bob’s hands were locked so tightly in front of him they’d turned a little pale. Phoenix’s jaw could’ve cracked marble.

And at the back of the room, Rogue stood still. Arms folded, back straight, chin slightly tilted, her eyes locked on the screen like she could see beyond it—like she’d already memorized the flight grid, the threat algorithms, the timing of every simulated missile.

Her presence was quiet, unflinching. Jinx stood on her right, Ruin on her left. The three of them could’ve passed for statues—commanders turned sentinels.

“Element One launching in T-minus twenty,” came the voice over intercom. Cool. Precise. No emotion.

On the screen, the jets were taxiing forward. Canopies sealed. Afterburners shimmered like coiled flame. Yale took lead position, Coyote peeled left, and Harvard’s cam flickered as he toggled his systems into combat mode.

“This is it,” Warlock said, almost under his breath. “No more training wheels.”

Jake Seresin didn’t say a word. He was watching the screen, but not really. His mind wandered—kept drifting back to her. To Rogue. She wasn’t even flying in this round, and yet somehow… somehow it felt like her test, too. Like the air itself had shifted the moment she stepped into the room.

The countdown hit zero.

And the sky opened up.

PHASE ONE: SIMULATED MISSILE LOCK-ON EVASION

The tactical auditorium dimmed as the screen flickered to life, the Navy’s top-of-the-line simulation feed bathing the room in muted blue. Everyone was seated—Rogue, Jinx, and Ruin standing in the back like silent executioners, arms crossed, unreadable.

Maverick sat at the far right beside Warlock and Cyclone, his jaw tense. A clipboard rested in his lap, but his hands hadn’t moved.

"Element One," came Warlock's voice over comms, calm but clipped. "You are cleared to begin Phase One. Missile evasion sequence commencing in three… two… one."

On-screen, the three jets roared through digital sky, trailing through the mock-up of enemy airspace. Clear skies. Nothing but open air and bad intentions.

Coyote was up front, confident as ever, banking left in a sharp arc like he was out for a joyride. "Piece of cake," he muttered over comms. "Eyes up, boys. Let’s make this look pretty."

They lasted ninety-two seconds.

The first lock hit Yale square on his six. He didn’t catch the missile warning fast enough. Harvard fumbled through the electronic warfare suite, trying to deploy flares, but deployed chaff instead. The simulated missile didn't care. Target terminated.

The second lock came for Coyote—who panicked. He turned too sharp, too wide, and blew straight past altitude protocol. The sim flagged him as compromised.

The third? A double-lock. Rogue had programmed it herself. Impossible to shake unless both pilot and WSO executed perfect timing with countermeasures.

They didn’t. They stalled out trying to recalibrate radar.

Target terminated.

Inside the auditorium, the silence was suffocating. Nobody said a word. On the screen, the jets banked for home—simulated smoke pluming from digital fuselages.

Harvard looked like he wanted to punch the seat in front of him. Yale kept his helmet on longer than he needed to.

Coyote stepped into the room first, chewing the inside of his cheek, too proud to look embarrassed but too smart not to know what this meant. Rogue didn’t say a word. Neither did Jinx. Ruin just scribbled something on his notepad, then looked up with a flat expression.

Cyclone cleared his throat. “Not a great start.”

Maverick’s eyes slid toward the squad, but he said nothing. Not yet.

And just like that, Element One had set the bar… six feet under.

"Element Two, you're up. Commence launch protocol. Simulated hostile territory ahead." Warlock's voice was steady through the room, but there was something sharp in it now—a scalpel-edge warning that echoed through the comms and across the auditorium. The air had changed. Everyone in the room had felt the flop of Element One. Now there was pressure.

The screen flared again as Fritz taxied onto the runway. Omaha and Halo followed seconds behind, the rumble of their engines overlaid by the polished hum of the sim’s interface.

In the back of the room, Maverick leaned forward slightly, arms crossed. Rogue stood a few paces to his left, jaw tight. Jinx and Ruin exchanged no words—just watched.

The first few minutes were clean. Fritz swept low, sharp and technical, holding formation like a textbook. Omaha and Halo worked in sync, the latter calling threat angles, the former adjusting flight path to intercept windows.

"Good start," murmured Hondo, mostly to himself.

And then came the first lock.

"Missile warning. Rear arc—closing fast!" Halo’s voice echoed through the room, not panicked, but high-strung.

"Deploying—flaring now," Omaha said, dropping countermeasures.

Too early.

The sim adjusted. It read the timing like a hawk reads wind. Missile still tracking. Fritz pulled hard starboard, trying to draw fire.

It clipped him anyway. Target terminated.

“Dammit!” Fritz’s voice barked through the speakers as his feed turned grey. Back at his seat in the auditorium, Coyote let out a slow, whistling exhale. He knew that sting too well.

Another lock came for Omaha and Halo—this one with double pressure, courtesy of the phase’s randomized lock algorithm. Halo tried to reroute the radar jammers, fingers flying over controls, but in the sim there’s no lag, no second chances.

"Break left!" Omaha called out. But Halo didn't have time to finish the ECM cycle.

They got lit up mid-turn.

Target terminated.

The silence in the auditorium was heavier now. Embarrassed coughs. The squeak of a boot shifting on the floor. You could hear the weight of every unfinished breath.

Fritz strode in with his helmet tucked under his arm, jaw flexing. He didn’t speak. Omaha looked straight ahead, as if eye contact would shatter whatever thin resolve he had left. Halo’s lips were pressed into a line so tight, it looked like she’d cracked something in her mouth.

Jinx finally stepped forward, voice low and calm.

“You executed procedure as if the threat was in the manual.” His eyes narrowed. “The threat isn’t in the manual.”

Ruin added without looking up, “You knew what was coming. And you still died. Fast.”

No one looked at Rogue. Not yet. Her silence hit harder than any critique. Just a glance toward the screen, then down at the clipboard in her hand, as if she hadn’t already written down exactly what they’d done wrong the moment the flares dropped.

Payback muttered something under his breath to Fanboy—something about a “meat grinder”—but shut up quickly when Warlock looked their way.

Maverick didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The failure stung enough without him saying a word.

“Element Three, you are cleared for takeoff. Sim begins in T-minus fifteen seconds.” Warlock’s voice rolled over the comms like thunder. It was routine now—but this time, the weight was different. The first two elements had burned out fast. Command expected failure now.

Rooster sat in the cockpit, gloved fingers flexing over the throttle. He glanced once at the screen, where the data from Element Two’s failure still glowed like an open wound. His jaw clenched tighter.

In the auditorium, Maverick watched him in silence. Rogue hadn’t moved a muscle since the last debrief. Jinx had crossed his arms again. Ruin had his notepad open, pen tapping slow and steady. Cyclone stood stiff at the back, muttering something to Warlock under his breath.

And then the jets launched.

Rooster peeled into the sky first, followed by Payback and Fanboy tight on his six. The formation was flawless—tight but not suffocating, aggressive but clean. You could almost hear Maverick exhale through his nose. This… this was flying.

The first missile lock came fast. A sharp screech in their ears. Simulated heat-seeker, rear vector.

“Missile lock—eleven o'clock low,” Fanboy barked.

“Copy,” Payback said. “Deploying flares—now!”

Bright blooms flared behind the jet, perfectly timed. The missile swerved and veered off course. The auditorium lit up with the clean evasion ping. First of the day.

Rooster cut high and right, anticipating the second lock before it even sounded. He knew how this sim worked. He knew the gaps in the radar, the delay between tracking signals. This wasn’t guessing—this was instinct, skill, legacy.

The next lock came for Rooster himself.

He didn’t panic. He didn’t flinch. He dipped beneath cloud cover, twisted sharply, and flipped his jet upside down before pulling a reverse burn that left the entire control room watching with held breath.

The missile missed.

“Jesus Christ,” Yale muttered in the audience. “He flew that like a Stark.”

Harvard elbowed him. “Shut up. They’re still in it.”

Last lock came in hot. Triple-pressure this time. No warning. A bug in the algorithm? Maybe. Rogue’s doing? More likely.

But they still handled it. Fanboy adjusted the ECM suite with one hand while calling out angle differentials with the other. Payback rerouted power from their radar to the flare pod. Rooster drew fire with a wide barrel roll, clean and fearless.

All targets evaded.

The screen blinked once—then green.

Element Three: Phase One — PASSED.

The auditorium went dead quiet for a second. Then Maverick, without smiling, nodded once and muttered, “That’s how it’s done.”

Even Cyclone didn’t have a complaint—though his silence was probably louder than anything he could’ve said. Jinx raised a brow. Ruin scribbled faster. Rogue… almost looked impressed.

Almost.

Rooster’s team entered the room first. Rooster pulled off his helmet, sweaty and wired, and walked like he hadn’t just dodged death three times in five minutes.

Payback grinned wide. Fanboy tried to keep his cool but bumped shoulders with Fritz on the way to his seat. Coyote gave them a slow clap, sarcasm laced with genuine awe.

Rooster slumped into his chair and leaned back.

“That was brutal,” he whispered.

Jake said nothing. Just kept his eyes on the screen.

Because Element Four was next. And this? This was his round.

“Element Four, prepare for launch.” The comms crackled, but Jake didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch.

He adjusted his gloves with surgical precision, ran through the checklist without so much as a glance, and rolled out like he owned the damn sky. Because that’s who he was—or at least, who he’d always told himself he was.

Phoenix’s voice cut through the headset as they aligned on the tarmac. “Try not to ditch us this time, Bagman.”

Bob added dryly, “We prefer living today.”

Jake smirked, teeth flashing. “Then keep up.”

Their jets roared down the runway—three shadows against the rising sun, sleek and lethal. From the observation room, Maverick leaned forward. Rogue didn’t. But her eyes sharpened, tracking every micro-movement on the display.

The sim snapped into play.

First lock-on: Hangman.

And just like that—he dropped.

Not from the sim. From the sky.

A full-body nosedive that would’ve gotten most pilots grounded. But he dared the missile to follow. It did. He pulled up at the last second, flared once, spun sideways, and let the missile eat sky instead of his tail. A clean evasion.

“Showoff,” Phoenix muttered, but even she had to admit—it was tight.

Next lock: Phoenix and Bob.

“Lock’s hot, seven o'clock high!” Bob called.

“Got it. Hang on,” Phoenix snapped, pulling hard left.

Bob was already in the panel, rerouting countermeasures. He fired a pulse, jamming the tracker for just enough time for Phoenix to cut through a dive and bleed altitude without stalling. Their flare drop came a breath before impact—missile lost its mind and swerved into open air.

Second evasion, successful.

Ruin blinked once, watching Bob’s replay data. “That was sharp.”

Third and final lock: Simultaneous triple-hit attempt. A dirty move—almost unfair. But they handled it like a squad who’d been waiting for exactly this.

Hangman took high, dragging two locks his way. Phoenix cut wide left, Bob deploying microbursts of ECM bursts. The three danced across the airspace like wolves through a burning field—fast, lethal, reckless.

All three survived. All locks evaded.

Element Four: Phase One — PASSED.

The reaction in the observation deck was audible.

Rooster let out a long breath, part impressed, part annoyed. “I hate that he’s good,” he muttered.

Fanboy grinned. “But damn, that was sexy.”

Payback elbowed him. “You scare me, man.”

Maverick nodded once, slowly. Cyclone even cracked a rare, tight-lipped approval. Hondo whispered something like “Hot damn,” under his breath.

Jinx raised a brow. “Did he really just pull a spiral dive into a lock zone?”

Ruin answered, “Yes, and he weaponized it.”

Rogue, for the first time all day, actually looked down at her clipboard. Then she said, barely audible, “Textbook arrogance. Borderline genius.”

When the trio walked back in, Hangman looked like he hadn’t broken a sweat. Phoenix rolled her eyes but bumped his shoulder. Bob—quiet as ever—just gave a tiny smirk, then nodded toward Rogue.

She met his gaze. No smile. No nod. Just the flicker of acknowledgment in her eyes.

Jake sat down—cocky, golden, and victorious, but he wasn’t looking at the screen. He was looking at her.

POST-PHASE ONE ASSESSMENT

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Jinx said, his tone razor-clean, not raised, but cutting through the tension like a scalpel. “Half of you would be dead if that were live combat.”

Yale shifted in his seat. Harvard scratched the back of his neck.

“Element One,” Jinx turned, locking his gaze on them. “Your response times were embarrassing. You flared late, your formations were loose, and when I ran a stress-signal overlay? You were panicking. Not thinking. Panicking.”

Coyote opened his mouth. Closed it. Harvard slouched deeper into his chair.

Jinx didn’t let up. “You didn’t fly like a team. You flew like three guys trying to survive their own war.”

Then Ruin stepped forward, calm but clipped. “Element Two—your WSO coordination was nonexistent. Halo, your ECM use was five seconds too late. Five. In real time, that’s the difference between jamming a lock-on and getting your pilot killed.” He turned to Fritz. “You broke off from your team twice. You left Omaha blind and vulnerable.”

Omaha’s jaw twitched.

“You know what we call that in combat?” Ruin asked flatly. “A body bag.”

There was silence. A cold, bitter silence. Then came Rogue.

She stepped forward with the kind of grace that didn’t need height or yelling. Just presence. She stopped dead center, arms behind her back, voice cool and clear:

“You all want to be permanent here in North Island,” she said. “You want to earn the patch. The wings. The right to fly alongside Top Gun’s best.”

A beat.

“You have not earned that yet.”

Rooster swallowed.

“Element Three,” she said, turning just slightly toward Rooster, Payback, and Fanboy. “Your maneuvering was efficient. Clean. Fanboy, your tactical awareness was excellent. Payback, your radar control was smooth. Rooster…”

He sat a little straighter.

“You flew like someone who wants to be better than his name.”

Rooster blinked. Then blinked again.

“But don’t let one green mark make you cocky,” she added, her voice sharpening like a blade. “One phase doesn’t make you a squad. It makes you lucky.”

Then her gaze turned, slower now—measured.

“Element Four.”

Jake’s smirk had been waiting in the wings, ready to flash. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed. Phoenix narrowed her eyes.

“You passed,” Rogue said flatly. “But not because of coordination. You passed because you have a WSO who knows his craft…” Her gaze flicked to Bob. “A pilot who flies clean…” Then Phoenix. “And a wingman who plays hero for show.”

Jake’s brows ticked up.

“Your stunts work in training. In war, they get people killed.”

Phoenix, beside him, muttered, “Thank you.”

Rogue’s tone didn’t waver. “You want to impress me, Lieutenant Seresin? Try showing up for your team when it counts.”

Jake said nothing. He just stared at her. And for once, he didn’t smile.

Rogue stepped back. “Phase Two starts in thirty. I suggest you study your failures. Because if you don’t learn from them today…”

She glanced at Cyclone and Maverick behind the glass. "…you won’t be here tomorrow.”

PHASE TWO: FUEL-STARVATION EMERGENCY DRILL

“Element One, launch cleared. Good luck,” came Warlock’s calm voice through comms.

From the observation room, all eyes tracked the three dots rising fast into the sky, already vectoring toward the narrow corridor designated for this drill—an impossibly tight space designed to simulate combat in terrain too dangerous for full-thrust navigation.

It was a brutal phase.

Your fuel gets cut by 40%. You’re expected to evade threats. Navigate without full throttle. And complete two precision maneuvers—all before your jet’s emergency fuel reserve kicks in.

The goal? Survive. The message? Adapt or die.

Inside the sky, it was all systems go. Coyote led like a different man—cool, decisive, not trying to be flashy, just focused. His voice came calm over comms.

“Yale, take right flank. Harvard, eyes up. If the sim throws us a warning light, we need to bleed altitude fast and make the corridor.”

“You got it,” Harvard replied, already tuning the radar feed to passive-only, conserving what little power they had.

First threat came early—a simulated bogey just out of missile range. Yale was quick on the bank, slipping low into the canyon wall as Coyote mirrored above, forcing a wide separation in their paths that baited the bogey into following the solo target.

Harvard made the call. “They’re biting on Coyote.”

“Let ’em chew,” Coyote grinned into his mic. Then, at the last second, he pulled a feint bank into a shallow dive—hard enough to fake an engine failure.

It worked. The bogey overshot. Yale flared just once and vanished down a cloud line.

They regrouped at checkpoint Bravo with less than 22% fuel remaining. Then came the hardest part—emergency climb-out with simulated fuel starvation.

“Harvard, we have enough to push?” Yale asked, tone tight.

“You’ve got thirty seconds of stable thrust,” Harvard said. “After that? We’re flying on prayer.”

And still—they climbed.

Coyote took lead again, angled them into formation, and for a full seven seconds, the three jets climbed with near-perfect synchronicity—like they were born to fly low and rise high.

When they cleared the mark, comms lit up.

Element One: Phase Two—PASSED.

In the observation room, Maverick gave a sharp nod.

Warlock murmured, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Rogue didn’t say anything at first. Just watched. But there was the barest, barest lift of her brow. Maybe it was respect, or maybe it was relief.

Coyote, Yale, and Harvard landed with clean grace. As they walked off the tarmac and back toward the hangar, Coyote couldn’t help but toss a glance toward the glass where Command watched. He didn’t smile, but he walked taller.

“Element Two, cleared for takeoff,” came the comm from Hondo in the control room.

In the observation bay, the Dagger Squad sat with tight jaws and bouncing knees. Rooster leaned forward. Bob kept his arms folded. Hangman was eerily silent.

Out the window, Fritz took to the air first—his jet cutting through the low dawn haze like a blade. Omaha and Halo followed, trailing just behind in a smooth formation.

It looked cleaner already. More precise. More intentional.

Down in the mission corridor—between two jagged mountain ridges digitally rendered in the sim—they hit the throttle cut. Fuel-starvation protocols kicked in. Lights on their consoles blinked amber.

Halo’s voice was crisp. “Throttle restricted. Engine output holding steady. Begin evasive pathing.”

“Copy,” Omaha responded. His tone wasn’t shaky this time. It was sharp. Locked in.

Fritz banked hard left, guiding the element into a shallow dive to shed altitude and buy precious seconds of power. He didn’t outpace them. He didn’t go rogue. He flew like a man with a team.

Jinx, watching from the bay, gave a subtle nod.

Then came the fake missile lock—a pressure test.

“Incoming lock, 2 o’clock high!” Halo barked.

“Cut climb, bank low,” Omaha ordered.

Fritz mirrored, staying tight in formation. Not too close. Not reckless. Halo initiated countermeasures before the warning hit red.

Flares. Clean. Timed. Controlled. It looked like muscle memory. Like they’d been listening this time.

They skimmed along the canyon floor, then rose for the emergency climb. The jets groaned—less fuel meant less forgiveness—but Omaha’s handling was fluid, guided by Halo’s near-perfect timing.

Fritz flanked right just in time to avoid the virtual cliff wall that lit up red on the observers’ screen. It was the kind of move that would've killed them last time.

Not today.

Element Two: Phase Two—PASSED.

Inside the observation room, Rooster blinked in surprise.

Phoenix whispered, “No freaking way.”

Even Warlock leaned back, arms crossed, impressed.

Ruin arched a brow. “Didn’t think the hero would follow orders.”

Rogue, quiet behind them, murmured, “They learned. That’s what matters.”

Cyclone didn’t say anything. But he looked—almost—pleased.

“Element Three, you are cleared for launch,” came Warlock’s voice.

From the glass of the observation bay, the trio of jets streaked into the sky in seamless, surgical fashion.

Their communication was already tight before they even reached the phase zone.

“Throttle cutting in three,” Fanboy called.

“Copy, go dark,” Payback answered.

“Lead copies. Let’s dance,” Rooster replied, voice low, grounded.

The moment fuel starvation kicked in, they adjusted their altitude—not overcorrecting, not panicking. Rooster descended just enough to keep velocity while conserving precious thrust. Payback shadowed close behind, and Fanboy was already plotting the terrain layout on limited HUD.

“Threat incoming,” Fanboy noted. “Bogey sim, high altitude. Trying to force a climb.”

Rooster grinned. “Not today.”

Instead of climbing, he dove. Hard. Straight into a low-pressure dip between two ridges, pushing Gs with precision, not bravado. Payback followed immediately—no hesitation, no delay.

Fanboy popped countermeasures right before the sim lock would’ve tagged Rooster. “Flares out. We’re clear.”

Checkpoint Bravo? Reached in record time.

They began their climb-out early, not in panic, but in strategy. Rooster was already managing throttle by feel, while Fanboy read out the last drops of juice like a heartbeat.

“You’ve got twelve seconds of climb,” Fanboy said.

“I only need seven,” Rooster replied, and pulled up clean.

All three jets crested the climb with fuel gauges nearly scraping bottom. But they made it. Every maneuver was controlled. Every call was clean.

Element Three: Phase Two—PASSED.

In the observation bay, Maverick smiled. Not smirked. Smiled.

“Damn good flying, kid,” he muttered.

Even Rogue’s expression flickered into the territory of pleased.

Jinx, arms crossed, chuckled. “Told you he wasn’t just a pretty face.”

Ruin gave a small nod. “Efficient use of burn and countermeasures. Smart WSO timing.”

Jake—silent in his corner—watched Rooster’s name flash PASS on the screen, jaw clenched tight.

On the tarmac, Rooster pulled off his helmet, curls wild and grinning, and slapped Payback’s shoulder.

“Textbook,” Fanboy breathed, like he almost couldn’t believe it. “We did it.”

“Damn right we did,” Rooster said.

But his eyes lifted to the tower. To the room above. To her. And when he saw the faintest tilt of Rogue’s head—just barely a nod? Rooster’s grin widened like a sunrise.

“Element Four, cleared for takeoff,” Hondo said, more like a prayer than a command.

The jets launched in clean order—Phoenix and Bob rising together, sharp and aligned. Jake, of course, took off last, his jet roaring off the tarmac like a dare.

From the control room, the observers tracked the telemetry as they banked toward the low-altitude corridor that marked the beginning of Phase Two. Inside the sim zone, the moment hit—throttle restriction.

Power drop. Lights dimmed. Fuel counters blinked with warnings.

“Throttle is bleeding,” Bob warned. “Oxygen mixture still clean. You’ve got eighty seconds before optimal stall.”

“I’ve got it,” Phoenix muttered, already shifting altitude.

But Jake? Jake didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled up.

“Uh, Hangman?” Phoenix’s voice was ice-edged. “That’s not the route.”

Jake said nothing. Just maneuvered left, banking toward the north curve of the canyon.

“Are you seriously peeling off? Again?” Phoenix snapped. “We’re not playing games here—”

“Relax,” Hangman finally cut in. “I’ll draw the lock. You follow the escape vector. Keep your nose clean, Ace.”

Bob cursed softly into the mic. “We're not splitting! That wasn’t the briefing!”

On the screens, it became a dance of desperation. The lock-on sim targeted Phoenix’s jet. Bob flared. Too early.

“Shit!” he muttered. “Countermeasures wasted—”

Jake doubled back. Now flying above the canyon, dragging the sim bogey off Phoenix.

On paper? Impressive. In a real combat op with fuel starvation? Deadly.

Jake pulled a hard dive back toward formation, catching the rest of the corridor with seconds to spare. Phoenix and Bob followed, rattled but technically intact.

They hit the climb. Barely. Just barely.

Element Four: Phase Two—PASSED.

In the observation room, there was a collective groan of tension—like holding in a scream.

Cyclone muttered under his breath. “One day he’s gonna pull that stunt and it won’t end in a pass.”

Maverick didn’t speak. He just crossed his arms, face unreadable.

Jinx looked unimpressed. “Showboating doesn’t win wars.”

Ruin tapped his notes. “WSO coordination out of sync. Phoenix is overcorrecting. Bob’s timing’s thrown.”

Rogue’s voice was low. “Hangman nearly got them all killed… again.”

On the tarmac, Phoenix shoved her helmet into Jake’s chest.

“You ever leave me again, I’ll put you in a hospital.”

Jake just smirked. “But we passed, didn’t we?”

Bob looked like he was physically restraining himself from throttling him.

Back in the auditorium, Maverick took a slow breath, then turned to the seated teams.

“Phase Two, complete. Halfway through the Gauntlet.”

And his tone made one thing clear: That was the easy part.

POST-PHASE TWO ASSESSMENT

“Do you understand what you did wrong?” Ruin’s voice wasn’t raised, but it cut through the room like steel through silk. His sharp eyes scanned the trio—Hangman, Phoenix, Bob—without mercy.

“This is not a solo hero simulation. This is not ‘get the headline and leave the rest behind.’” He tapped the tablet in his hand, then held it up. “This is a breakdown of WSO-to-pilot latency from that run. Bob? You were reacting to threats before Phoenix gave you the all-clear. Because she was reacting to someone else’s flight path instead of flying her own.”

He looked to Jake now. Dead center.

“And you—” he said, tone tightening, “—pulled a maneuver that, in a real-world op, would’ve drained your fuel reserve past recovery. You get maybe twenty more seconds in the air before you're falling into the ocean. With your team still flying. That is not bravery, Lieutenant. That is recklessness.”

Jake’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Jinx stepped forward next, arms folded over his chest. His face held a tight, bitter kind of frustration—the look of someone who’d seen too many cocky pilots burn too bright and too fast.

“I don’t give a damn how many perfect landings you’ve made,” he said to Hangman. “Your instincts are sharp—but you keep flying like the sky owes you something.”

He shifted to Phoenix and Bob. “Phoenix, you could’ve pulled that out clean. But you hesitated. Because you didn’t know where your lead was. You’re fast, but you’re flying distracted. That’s how people die.”

Then finally, a glance toward Bob. “And you, Bob… you flew scared.” It was gentle. But somehow worse.

Then came Rogue. Still. Silent for too long.

When she stepped forward, her boots made no sound—only presence. The kind that didn’t need volume to command a room. The kind that made every spine in the auditorium straighten without meaning to.

She stopped in front of the squad, her eyes cool, calm, and cutting. Her voice was quiet, but it rang out like a warning bell.

“You almost failed,” she said, flatly. “And let’s be clear—almost is too damn close when you’re flying low and dry.”

Her gaze moved to Phoenix first, steady and unflinching. “I’ve seen you fly. You’re better than that. But you let someone else’s mistakes shake your confidence.”

Then to Bob, whose shoulders already looked like they were carrying a storm. “Your instincts are solid, but you need to speak up. You’re not a passenger in that seat, Lieutenant. You’re half the damn aircraft.”

And finally—Jake Seresin. Hangman. She looked him in the eye. No malice. No fire. Just pure, surgical exhaustion. “You left them. Again.”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked tight.

“You’ve made a habit out of playing the lone ace. Flying like it’s just you in the sky. But this isn’t about you anymore, Hangman. You don’t win a war by getting a kill. You win it by bringing your people home.”

The whole room tensed, as if even the air itself had stopped breathing. No one moved. No one dared. Then she added, silk and steel wrapped in one final blow: “Pull that again, and I’ll pull your wings.”

Maverick didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching Hangman with a look that almost bordered on sympathy—but didn’t quite make it.

Ruin broke the tension with a clipped nod. “Phase Three begins in thirty. Dismissed for gear check and prep. Don’t waste it.”

They all stood. Bob looked gutted. Phoenix stone-faced. And Hangman? He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

PHASE THREE: ALTITUDE SUPPRESSION EXERCISES

The jets tore through the horizon like bullets from the barrel—Element One entering the low-fly zone with the roar of thunder.

From the tactical auditorium, all eyes were glued to the screen.

The terrain was brutal. Canyon drop-offs. Jagged cliff faces. Narrow curves that didn’t forgive.

“Altitude holding at sixty-five feet,” Harvard’s voice crackled through the comms.

Coyote grunted. “Still green on warnings?”

“Yeah. But I’m getting twitchy down here.”

“Then don’t look down.”

They pressed forward.

But it happened at the curve. One of the worst ones—tight bend left, then a sudden dip in elevation.

Coyote overcorrected. His jet tilted slightly off-axis, scraping the proximity sensor’s warning zone.

BEEEEP.

“Shit,” he hissed.

Back in the control room, the alarm lit up on screen. Terrain Alert Triggered.

“Recover. Recover now,” Harvard was calling out, urgent but composed.

Yale, flying lead on the second bird, was already reacting—pulling too early to compensate. But in doing so, he climbed. Not enough to crash, but enough to kiss the sensor limits.

Second Alert Triggered.

Two warnings. One phase.

They weren’t falling out of the sky, but the system had no mercy.

Onscreen, the red indicator sealed their fate.

ELEMENT ONE — PHASE THREE: FAILED.

The auditorium went silent.

Coyote leaned back in his seat, jaw clenched. Harvard dropped his helmet beside him with a heavy thud. Yale looked like he wanted to disappear into his flight suit.

From the front of the room, Maverick gave a low exhale.

“They were too jumpy on the curve,” Hondo muttered.

“Lost cohesion,” Warlock agreed. “Overcorrection cost them the pass.”

Cyclone said nothing. Just watched. Took notes.

Rogue stood with her arms folded. No expression.

But Jinx murmured low to her, “They’re flying scared now. That last phase shook ‘em bad.”

She didn’t argue.

From his chair, Coyote looked up. “Damn near kissed that mountain.”

Phoenix, watching from behind, muttered under her breath, “You also kissed our chances of a group pass.”

“Hey,” Coyote shot back, but it didn’t hold bite. “At least I didn’t abandon my team.”

That got a snort from Bob. Even Jake lifted a brow—but didn’t rise to it.

Maverick stood then. “Next element. Gear up.”

Element Two launched hard and fast, bursting across the threshold like they had something to prove. Which, to be fair, they did.

Omaha’s voice was steady at first. “Altitude at seventy. Holding green. Radar pings minimal.”

“Copy that,” Halo replied. “Path forks at the ridge—bank left. No, wait—hold on…”

There it was. The ripple of indecision.

Fritz, flying solo ahead, was already diving into the canyon path, but too aggressively. His wingtip scraped turbulence and dragged a microburst up from the ravine—buffeting Omaha’s jet with unexpected force.

Alarms started to chirp.

“Watch your line—!” Halo barked, but it was too late. Omaha overcorrected—nose up by just a fraction.

BEEEEP. TERRAIN ALERT TRIGGERED.

“Dammit!” Fritz called over the comms. “You climbin’? You can’t climb here, we’re in the red zone—”

“I know, I know!” Omaha was already diving to compensate, heart pounding.

But that one beep was all it took. The onboard system registered the spike. Alert sounded in the control room.

Then Fritz made his mistake.

Frustrated, he tried to whip his jet into a show-off roll—something clean to make up for the mess behind him, but the canyon didn’t give space for pride.

His angle tipped too wide. Just enough.

Second Alert Triggered.

Back in the auditorium, Cyclone didn’t even flinch. “That’s it.”

ELEMENT TWO — PHASE THREE: FAILED.

Onscreen, both jets leveled off shakily as they climbed back into open airspace. Down in the seats, Fritz yanked off his helmet and dragged a hand through his hair. Halo slammed her clipboard into her lap. Omaha looked like he’d just watched his career catch fire.

“Don’t say it,” Fritz muttered before anyone could open their mouth.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Rooster mumbled, but Phoenix gave him a sharp look.

Bob blinked like he was watching a slow-motion car crash. “That canyon’s cursed.”

Hangman muttered under his breath, “Or maybe y’all just don’t know how to fly it.”

It earned him a hard side-eye from Phoenix, but no rebuttal.

Up front, Rogue leaned in toward Jinx and Ruin.

“They panicked the second Fritz hit turbulence.”

“Didn’t adjust,” Jinx said. “Didn’t trust their instincts.”

“They tried to fly like individuals,” Ruin added. “This was a team exercise.”

Rogue nodded once. “And the canyon punished them for it.”

Warlock stood. “Phase Three: halfway through. Next up—Element Three. Rooster, Payback, Fanboy. You’re up.”

Rooster pushed to his feet, jaw set. Fanboy gave Bob a little nudge for luck. Bob didn’t return it.

Jake stayed seated. Quiet. For once.

Element three launched like ghosts, slicing through the atmosphere with precision born of determination.

Rooster took point, his eyes narrowed, every ounce of his easy-going charm stripped away. He wasn’t flying for fun now—he was flying for pride. For permanence. For Maverick.

“Rooster, holding steady,” he said into comms, his tone all grit. “Reading altitude at sixty.”

“In the green,” Fanboy confirmed. “Adjust five degrees starboard for upcoming rock rise.”

“Copy. Already there.”

Payback tucked in close behind, his movements clean, restrained. No room for flash here—just function. Fanboy’s voice came like a steady heartbeat, clear and calm.

“Next bend's tighter than it looks. Drop two clicks.”

“On it,” Payback replied. His bird skimmed just above the canyon floor, wings slicing through thin air with razor precision.

The entire tactical auditorium was silent.

Maverick leaned forward.

Even Rogue arched a brow.

They didn’t just fly well.

They flew like one.

No alerts. No chatter. No hesitation. They melted through the terrain like ink through water—dangerously close to ground but never kissing it, dancing between death and dominance with every turn.

Onscreen, the final checkpoint appeared. The trio shot through it like an arrowhead.

Clear.

ELEMENT THREE — PHASE THREE: PASSED.

Back in the room, Maverick let out a low breath, the hint of a grin curling on his lips.

Jinx muttered, impressed, “Crisp. Calculated. No wasted motion.”

“They trusted each other,” Ruin added.

“Rooster led like a damn pro,” Rogue murmured.

Rogue’s eyes stayed locked on the screen even as the jets disappeared. “They’re finally listening.”

Down below, Rooster yanked his helmet off and cracked a relieved grin. Fanboy pumped a quiet fist. Payback let out a laugh.

“That was clean,” Rooster said.

“That,” Fanboy echoed, “was beautiful.”

Across the room, Hangman leaned back, jaw ticking. Phoenix didn’t look at him. Bob was bouncing his knee like he already knew what was coming.

“Element Four, on deck,” Warlock called. “Last team. Then assessment.”

Phoenix stood first. Hangman followed—slower. Like he knew he was walking into a storm.

The canyon loomed ahead, hungry as ever. Carved by wind, shaped by war games, it had no patience for arrogance.

Jake Seresin was many things—cocky, sharp, dangerously charming—but when he stepped into that cockpit, his grin faded into grit.

“Hangman, rolling in,” he said into comms, voice even.

“Phoenix and Bob, locked on your six,” Bob returned. “Altitude sixty-three. Steady.”

Phoenix’s voice was cool. “Stay clean, Jake. No stunts.”

“No promises,” Hangman muttered—but his hands were sure, his touch disciplined.

He dipped into the canyon like a knife cutting through silence. For a moment, they flew like ghosts.

The walls rose and dipped around them, harsh cliffs barely feet away. Every movement was monitored. Every turn, calculated. The jets rode the air like it owed them nothing.

“Coming up on compression zone,” Bob warned. “Watch that draft.”

“Copy,” Phoenix echoed, already adjusting.

Hangman took the next curve smoother than expected, almost textbook. Almost like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

Because he wasn’t. He was trying to win.

They stayed low. So low the Earth threatened to reach up and scrape them from the sky. But they didn’t trigger a single alert.

Not one. At the final stretch, Hangman dipped his wing just slightly—nothing dramatic, but enough to reassert control.

To say: I’m still here.

And then—clear.

ELEMENT FOUR — PHASE THREE: PASSED.

In the tactical auditorium, murmurs began to rise. Maverick tilted his head, a flicker of respect in his eye.

“He flew smart,” Warlock admitted. “Didn’t leave them behind this time.”

“He kept the pack,” Ruin said dryly. “That’s new.”

Rogue nodded. “He remembered they were there. That’s a first.”

Jinx cracked a half-grin. “Maybe he’s learning.”

Rogue didn't smile—but she didn’t scowl either.

Onscreen, Phoenix and Bob were already unstrapping. Bob looked exhausted. Phoenix looked smug. And Jake? Jake stood by his jet, helmet under one arm, looking like a man who just heard the universe whisper ‘not bad’ in his ear.

POST-PHASE THREE ASSESSMENT

Jinx stepped forward first, expression unreadable beneath the weight of the rank on his chest.

“Let’s be clear,” he began, voice clipped and cold, “Phase Three was not designed for flair. It was not designed for creativity. It was designed to test your ability to follow orders under pressure, fly surgically, and work in harmony—especially when the walls start closing in.”

He turned his eyes toward Element One.

“Coyote. Yale. Harvard.”

Coyote’s shoulders tightened. Yale already looked like he was bracing for an ejection seat. Harvard stared straight ahead, lips pressed in a thin line.

“You triggered three terrain alerts between you,” Jinx said flatly. “Not one. Not a fluke. Three. Each a warning. Each a chance to adjust. And each time, you did not.”

He crossed his arms. “You flew like you were each in your own simulation. Not like a team.”

Silence. Then Ruin spoke, eyes sharp behind his aviators.

“You ignored WSO protocol. Harvard’s guidance was brushed aside more than once, and Yale—if you override your WSO’s recommendations in a red zone, you'd better be damn sure you’re right. You weren’t.”

Harvard flinched, but said nothing.

“And Coyote—” Ruin’s voice lowered. “You led like a ghost. A step too far ahead, no audible coordination. You left them trying to play catch-up at sixty feet off the deck.”

Coyote looked up, jaw clenched. “Sir, I take full responsibility—”

“You should,” Ruin interrupted. “But that won’t fix the damage.”

He stepped back.

Then it was Rogue’s turn.

She didn’t pace. She didn’t raise her voice. She just stood there—calm, composed, eyes locked like a missile scope.

“I gave you this evaluation to break habits that will get you killed,” she said. “Today, you confirmed my fears. You don’t fly as a unit—you fly as individuals hoping for a miracle.”

A beat of silence. “Miracles don’t survive terrain alert zones.”

Oof. Even Maverick winced a little.

Cyclone made a small motion as if to speak, but paused. Let her finish.

Rogue’s voice dropped. “This is not about one bad flight. This is a pattern. From Day One, Element One has struggled to communicate, to execute, and to listen. If this were live combat, you would’ve been wiped from the sky before Phase One ended.”

Yale swallowed hard. Harvard blinked rapidly. Coyote… stayed still. But the shame sat on all of them like a weighted G-suit.

Rogue finally took a step back. “You have one phase left. One shot to prove to this room—and yourselves—that you belong in a permanent squadron.”

She didn’t need to say what would happen if they didn’t.

PHASE FOUR: MIXED-TEAMS FORMATION COMBAT

The roar of twin engines cracked across the early sky as Team A took off, Hangman at the stick and Fanboy reluctantly strapped in behind him. From the tactical auditorium, Rogue’s arms were folded tightly as her sharp eyes tracked the jet on the screen.

She didn’t need to hear a thing to know how the cockpit conversation was going — or not going. Jake Seresin wasn’t known for cozy small talk in the air, and Fanboy looked like he was already regretting everything. Hangman pulled hard right, banking before Fanboy had even fully calibrated the sensor readouts. That drew a subtle groan from the observers.

Meanwhile, in the control room, Maverick leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “If he doesn’t let Fanboy call that bandit, he’s going to get tagged.” And sure enough, within moments, a simulated lock warning flashed red across their display. Rogue didn’t blink. “He won’t listen,” she muttered, almost to herself. “He never did when it mattered.”

Back in the sky, Fanboy was trying his darndest to communicate. “Jake, we’ve got two bogeys at six, climbing fast. I suggest—” But Hangman was already peeling off, executing a sharp, ego-driven maneuver that would’ve looked slick if it hadn’t left Fanboy scrambling to reorient the targeting system.

The attack was fast and relentless, simulated missiles trailing them like hounds. Jake evaded one, but took a virtual hit to his wing a second later. The alarms in the cockpit were deafening.

Despite Fanboy’s increasingly sharp calls, Hangman kept flying as if he were alone. The final nail came when they split around a canyon ridge and Hangman simply… didn’t check if Fanboy was still with him. The assessment was brutal: Fanboy tagged out of the fight, left behind. Simulated mission: failed.

Meanwhile, Team B — solo-flying Phoenix — was already launching. The moment her wheels left the tarmac, the room leaned in. She had no WSO, no backseater calling threats or angles. It was just her and her instincts. Rogue exchanged a glance with Jinx. “She’s got grit,” Jinx murmured, and Ruin nodded slowly. “But she’s going to need more than that.”

Phoenix’s flying was sharp, economical. She tracked the simulated threats well, weaving between low terrain and high-speed missile trails with steady control, but she wasn’t invincible. Two simulated enemies came in at opposing angles, forcing her into a dangerous dive that nearly kissed the treetops. From the ground, the dagger squad held their breath. Bob, hands clenched into fists, mouthed something that looked like a prayer.

She pulled out of the dive just in time, launched a flanking maneuver, and scored a simulated lock — but it was a costly move. Her engines screamed in protest, fuel levels dipping low. She made it back through the gauntlet, yes — but not unscathed. Evaluation: marginal pass, with warning notes on fuel management and risk over-calculation.

Meanwhile, Team C was preparing to launch. Rooster was flying with Halo in the backseat — a pairing no one expected but somehow made a twisted kind of sense. Bradley had a thing for controlling the tempo, but Halo was used to aggressive, snappy responses. Their dynamic would be interesting. As their jet screamed into the air, Ruin leaned over to Rogue. “Wanna place bets?” Rogue just smirked.

Team C tore into the sky with a grace that surprised more than a few watching. Rooster had a swagger to his takeoff—textbook clean, almost too clean. In the backseat, Halo immediately got to work, fingers flying over the control panels, syncing up their comms and sensors like she was born for it. Maverick arched a brow. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Bradshaw’s actually listening to someone.”

Meanwhile, in the observation deck, Bob sat on the edge of his chair, his leg bouncing as he watched the readouts. Payback elbowed him gently, but even he looked tense. Rooster wasn’t the most... flexible flyer. He had control issues, he had ego, and he had a temper. But Halo? Halo was quick, clinical, and vicious with her targets.

The sim dropped two incoming hostiles in their path and Rooster immediately banked into a defensive climb. Halo’s voice came over the comms—calm, clipped, exact: “Missile lock in three seconds, deploy countermeasures on my mark.” Rooster did.

For once, he didn’t argue. The flare burst lit up the sky, and the lock broke. In the auditorium, Rogue sat straighter. She’d seen him fly too hot before. Too reckless. But right now? He was trusting someone else to guide him.

They pressed forward into a canyon pass, Rooster pulling a tight corkscrew that Halo sharpened with a radar sweep. “Contact at ten o’clock, 300 meters—bank now!” He did. Just barely. They looped around the threat and doubled back, taking it out from behind with a clean, clean simulated missile hit. The room erupted in murmured disbelief.

From his spot beside Hondo, Jinx grinned. “Huh. Maybe Halo should fly with him permanently.”

Rogue didn’t smile, but her voice was dry. “Maybe Halo should fly with all of them. They might learn something.”

Back in the sky, Rooster and Halo cleared the final stretch. They’d lost some altitude in the second phase of the fight and dipped into what would’ve been dangerous terrain, but nothing disqualifying. Evaluation: strong pass. A few overcorrections from Rooster, a few moments Halo had to bark him back in line—but all things considered? Damn solid teamwork.

Meanwhile, Team D was already lining up for launch: Fritz and Bob, an unlikely duo if there ever was one. Fritz was fast and twitchy, all nerves and throttle, while Bob was methodical and precise. Ruin leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. “This one’s going to be interesting.”

The roar of jet engines flared again as Fritz and Bob—Team D—took to the skies. From the very start, it was clear this duo was fighting two different battles. Fritz’s takeoff was too quick, too sharp, and Bob barely had time to catch up with the systems calibrations before they were already banking toward their first simulated engagement.

In the tactical auditorium, the silence was tense. Phoenix had one brow lifted, arms crossed tight, while Payback muttered something to Halo about betting ten bucks on whether Bob would puke. But Rogue wasn’t laughing. Her eyes tracked the jet’s path like a hawk, her fingers steepled under her chin. “Fritz is flying scared,” she said finally, voice low and even.

Maverick nodded slowly. “Too fast. He’s trying to outrun the sim.”

And he was. Fritz’s maneuvers were all over the place—sharp jerks, risky dives, constant speed spikes that made Bob’s life in the backseat a living hell. Bob tried to keep pace, voice clear in the comms: “Fritz, I’ve got a lock coming from nine o’clock, suggest we break left and counter with—”

But Fritz cut him off, literally and figuratively, slamming the stick into a vertical climb that nearly flipped them. The sim registered a missile hit to the tail, flashing red across the auditorium monitors. One strike. Then two.

“Fritz, I need thirty seconds to reconfigure targeting—slow it down!” Bob called out again.

But he didn’t. He didn’t listen. In a final desperate move to escape the remaining “enemy” jets, Fritz rolled them into a canyon dive without warning. The maneuver was flashy, reckless… and it left them fully exposed. Third lock. Simulation: terminated. They were out.

Back in the observation room, the silence stretched. Bob’s face flickered on screen as the jet banked back toward base, his expression unreadable behind his helmet—but no one missed the stiffness in his shoulders. He looked like a man who’d tried to hold a storm together with duct tape.

Jinx let out a long breath. “Poor Bob,” he muttered.

Ruin didn't say anything. Rogue stood slowly, her arms still crossed over her chest, eyes locked on the screen as the feedback report began to populate in red. She didn't speak either—but the line of her jaw tightened, and every pilot in the room felt the weight of it.

Four teams. Four very different results. Four very different lessons learned.

POST-PHASE FOUR ASSESSMENT

In the debriefing room, the air was still thick with tension as the screen dimmed, signaling the end of Phase Four. No one spoke at first. The big three stood at the front, arms crossed, their expressions unreadable.

Maverick stood off to the side, lips pressed into a firm line, while Cyclone and Warlock exchanged quiet glances behind him. The squad wasn’t dismissed—not yet. There was still judgment to pass.

Commander Ruin stepped forward first. His voice was steady, clipped, sharp. “We’ll begin the assessment of Phase Four. This was a test of coordination. Pilots and WSOs were paired to measure how well they could operate under live-fire pressure simulations—no training wheels, no safety nets. Just trust and timing. And for most of you… that trust cracked.”

He turned slightly toward the seated teams.

“Team A,” he started, eyes on Hangman and Fanboy, “You showed promise—briefly. Fanboy maintained solid tactical awareness and adapted well to your unpredictability, Lieutenant Seresin. But there’s a reason this isn’t a solo sport. You left him chasing your shadow more than once. You finished the phase, but you did it alone. Again.”

Hangman didn't flinch, but his jaw ticked slightly.

“Team B,” Ruin went on, glancing at Phoenix. “Solo pilot. You flew well, precise and composed. But your reaction to unplanned threats was slower than it needed to be. You kept your head, but you played it safe. Too safe. Not a failure, but not a command performance either.”

Commander Jinx was next. He stepped forward with his usual dry edge and smiled without warmth. “Team C.” His eyes landed on Rooster and Halo. “Now this was unexpected. Bradshaw—Rooster—you actually followed orders. Halo ran the backseat like she was born there, and it showed. Minor faults in timing, but if I had to drop a team in live combat tomorrow? I’d want you two together. You passed. Comfortably.”

Rooster tried not to grin. Halo gave a small nod, professional, but proud.

“Team D.” Jinx’s tone dropped. “Yale, you’re a smart pilot. We’ve seen it. But solo flying in this phase doesn’t mean lone wolfing it. You were reactive, not proactive. You survived by the skin of your teeth—and only because the sim gave you mercy. Pull that in a real op, you’re a heat signature on someone’s screen.”

Yale swallowed and said nothing.

Then came Rogue. She stepped forward, slow and calm, her voice cool and composed—like she was reading out a weather report and not the fate of reputations.

“Team E,” she said. “Fritz and Bob. This could’ve worked. But it didn’t. Fritz, your flying was chaotic. You flew too fast, too hard, and ignored the intel coming from your WSO. Bob was working three jobs just to keep you alive in the sky. You weren’t a team. You were a near-miss stitched together by sheer luck. It was sloppy, and frankly, dangerous. You failed.”

Fritz looked down. Bob stayed perfectly still.

“Team F,” she continued, turning to Omaha. “Solid flying. Nothing spectacular. You lacked aggression when it counted. You passed the phase, barely, but I’d like to see what you can do under actual fire. That hesitation? It’ll get someone killed.”

“Team G,” Rogue said. “Payback and Harvard. You were disjointed. No clear leadership. Harvard, you were giving out data, but Payback, you didn’t use it. You flew like you were alone, but you weren’t. You passed the minimum bar. Don’t celebrate it.”

Finally, she looked toward Team H. “Coyote. You flew solo, and you flew smart. Calculated moves. You didn’t make waves, but you didn’t make mistakes either. That kind of clean flying? It’s respected. You passed.”

The silence that followed was heavy and echoing. The squad looked like they’d been hit by a wave of cold water. Heads down. Eyes on the floor. Except for Rooster, who looked like he was riding a high, and Hangman—expression unreadable, but posture tense.

Jinx exhaled and added, “This was Phase Four. Phase Five is worse. It’s not about your jet. It’s not about your WSO. It’s about instinct. If you can’t survive without all your toys, without your voice on the comms, then you shouldn’t be in a cockpit.”

And from Rogue, a single parting remark: “You’ve got one last shot to prove you belong here. Don’t waste it.”

PRE-PHASE FIVE: DEBRIEFING

The room had gone still the moment Rogue entered.

There was something about the way she carried herself—shoulders squared, chin up, eyes razor-sharp—that made even the most seasoned pilots sit a little straighter. The projector buzzed quietly behind her, casting muted blue light over the tactical auditorium, but all eyes were fixed on the woman at the front of the room.

She stopped just before the screen, boots clicking against the polished floor, hands clasped neatly behind her back. Her flight suit bore the unmistakable markings of command: a nameplate that read Rogue and a glinting insignia above it that meant she outranked every single person seated before her.

“This is Phase Five,” she said without preamble, her voice cool and clipped, the kind that didn’t ask for attention—it commanded it. “The final evolution of the Evaluation Gauntlet.”

There was a ripple of held breath among the pilots. Across the front row, Rooster leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. Bob adjusted his watch. Hangman merely blinked—expression unreadable.

Rogue’s gaze swept the room like a radar sweep, measured, methodical, and unflinching. “Everything you’ve done until now? Fuel drills. Altitude suppression. Formation combat. It was prep. Controlled burns.”

She took a step closer to the front, the faint metallic jingle of her boots grounding the tension in reality. “Phase Five is different. Phase Five is what happens when all systems fail. No comms. No radar. No IFF tags. You’ll be flying deaf, blind, and mute, and your mission is simple: survive.”

There was a sharp shift of posture from Fritz in the back. Yale cast a glance toward Coyote, who didn’t look away from Rogue once.

“You’ll be split into two strike teams,” she continued. “Team One will consist of Elements One and Two. Team Two is Elements Three and Four. You will enter the airspace together, but without the aid of comms or active radar. You will not be informed of your allies’ positions. You will not know who is friend and who is threat. You’ll rely on visual ID only. And if that sounds difficult?” She paused, letting the silence linger just a second too long. “That’s the point.”

Fanboy let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Phoenix kept her jaw tight. Somewhere near the back, Payback shifted in his seat, clearly uneasy.

Rogue turned toward the tactical screen as it blinked to life, displaying a sprawling flight grid. “Three bogeys will be in the sky with you,” she said. “Silent. Invisible. Hunting. You will not see them on your screens. You won’t hear their voices. They will be watching you. Tracking your movement. Testing your instinct.”

Behind her, the screen lit up with faint heat trails—jagged, erratic, unpredictable.

“Ghost Unit will consist of Commander Jinx. Commander Ruin. And myself.”

Heads snapped up. Eyes widened. Rooster sat straighter in his chair, visibly alert now. Hangman blinked, but said nothing. Only Bob whispered under his breath, “Oh, shit.”

Rogue gave them a second to absorb that. Then, calmly, she continued. “This is not just about flying skill. This is about situational awareness. Communication without words. Survival under pressure. You will be expected to execute evasive maneuvers without radar lock warnings. You will not be told who is tracking you. And if you think you can cheat the system?”

Her voice dropped into something just shy of a smirk. “You won’t.”

From the corner, Maverick finally spoke. “You pass this, maybe, you get permanent squadron placement in North Island.”

Cyclone added, “You fail it? That’s your record. Your future. And it goes all the way up.”

There was no false dramatics in that room. Only the kind of hard truth that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Rogue gave them one final glance, sharp as a blade. “Briefing ends in ten. You launch at dawn.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out—leaving the room thick with the scent of fuel, adrenaline, and the unmistakable weight of dread.

PHASE FIVE: COMMS-BLACKOUT TACTICS

- Team One -

The sky above North Island was a war zone waiting to happen. There were no friendly comms, no radar pings, no quiet check-ins. Just four jets belonging to Team One, cutting clean through the upper airspace like knives through fog, every cockpit running silent. No one said a word—because no one could.

Coyote was flying point, a lone figure in his own jet, his gaze sharp and constantly scanning. Behind him, Yale flew in tight formation, Harvard in the backseat of their two-seater, already tensing for whatever the Navy had loaded into this hell-phase. Fritz and Omaha flanked close on the other side, Omaha with Halo backing him up in the rear seat, her WSO instincts already prickling like static on the skin.

From the tactical auditorium, Team Two watched in total silence, eyes fixed on the feed. There was nothing to hear—no comms—and not much to see either. The skies looked clean. Too clean. Wrong kind of clean.

Maverick leaned against the railing, knuckles white. Warlock didn’t move a muscle. Hondo exchanged a quiet look with Cyclone, who was unreadable as always.

Meanwhile, the four jets of Team One tried to maintain cohesion. It was only a matter of time.

Ruin struck first, low and fast. A blur across the lower screen, almost undetectable. He swept beneath Fritz’s jet, tagged the underbelly with a simulated lock-on, and was gone again before the other three pilots even registered it.

Fritz flinched—tight, instinctive—but kept flying. Still, it counted. One out.

Then came Rogue.

She appeared like a ghost written into the clouds, slicing between Yale and Coyote without setting off a single alert. Coyote attempted a hard bank left, trying to signal, but without comms or radar, it was a desperate flail in the dark. Rogue slid beneath him, kissed his six o’clock, and painted him out. No effort. No hesitation.

Up in the viewing room, Payback let out a long whistle. Rooster muttered something like “Jesus,” and Bob didn’t blink.

Meanwhile, Harvard tapped his panel as if muscle memory would save him, but the systems were dead. Halo gestured from Omaha’s backseat, but by the time Omaha adjusted course, Jinx was there—steady, unshakable, and surgical. His simulated fire took them both in one clean shot, the kill logged before Omaha even flared.

That left Yale and Harvard alone, or so they thought.

Rogue dropped from above in a tight inverted spiral, so fast it rattled the auditorium’s sensors. Yale tried to juke left, but Rogue mirrored him perfectly, her jet shadowing his every move. There was no shaking her. She pressed in, an inch behind their tail, like a specter written out of some forgotten war.

The tag landed. Their screen went red.

Four jets out. In less than three minutes.

No sound filled the auditorium except for the soft static of the quiet sky. Even Hangman had nothing to say.

Team One returned to base without a word. They didn’t need Rogue to say it aloud. They had failed—and they hadn’t even known when it happened.

Now the question was: would Team Two survive any better?

- Team Two -

The sky had never felt so wide—and yet so claustrophobic.

Rooster led the way. His hands were tight on the stick, eyes flicking over terrain, clouds, shadows—anything that could mask a threat. He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Not in this phase.

Payback and Fanboy took a wide angle to the left, covering high altitude. Across their flank, Phoenix flew low with Bob locked in and ready. Hangman ran solo, of course, cruising near the back but cutting across the formation in quiet, confident streaks. He didn’t look worried. Not yet.

From the auditorium below, Maverick leaned forward slightly in his seat. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath.

Warlock didn’t speak. Cyclone had his arms crossed, watching with the focus of someone who could see a failure forming ten miles away.

Then came the flicker.

No one on the team saw it—but Jinx had entered from the north quarter, looping below altitude and accelerating fast. Phoenix sensed something in her gut—pure instinct—but by the time she adjusted, Bob shouted and gestured wildly. Too late. A red mark flared across their data feed. Tagged. One down.

Yale cursed under his breath in the silence of the auditorium. “They’re gonna pick us off,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Meanwhile, Rooster dipped low, banking sharply. His jaw was clenched, sweat gathering at the base of his neck. He felt her. He felt her in the air. Somewhere.

“Come on,” he whispered, scanning the sky.

Rogue was above him, upside down. For just a second, she hovered like a blade over soft skin. But she didn’t strike. She watched. Calculated. Then pulled away without a sound.

Rooster jerked in his seat, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. Halo tried to signal something—unsure, uneasy—but they had to keep moving. Rooster was breathing hard now, not because he was tired. Because she was hunting, and he knew it.

Across the sector, Hangman made a sudden cut through cloud cover, diving just above Payback’s six. Whether it was intentional or just an ego trip, no one knew. Fanboy signaled frantically. They were falling apart.

And that’s when Ruin and Jinx struck.

They rose from below, threading the needle between Payback and Fanboy, landing two clean simulated hits before either of them could even react. Their jet jolted—red light blaring across the observer feed. Done.

“Dammit,” Maverick muttered.

“Chaos,” Hondo added. “Textbook chaos.”

Rooster was barely keeping it together. His breath was shallow, but he moved sharp. Quick. Rogue passed him again—this time at eye level. He caught a flash of her helmet, the tail of her jet—and this time, he turned to chase.

Halo tried to steady him. No comms. Just instinct. Rooster pulled hard right, weaving. Dodging. She tried to trap him in a pincer—textbook ambush—but Rooster ducked low and twisted out of it. Not today. Not this time.

In the hangar, Cyclone let out a tight breath. “She missed?”

“No,” Maverick said, watching. “He dodged.”

Rooster pulled out hard, just in time to see Hangman speeding past.

The two locked eyes—just a moment.

And above them, Rogue turned her jet. Slow. Like a predator changing direction. The fight wasn't over.

And Team Two still had a shot.

Rooster’s heart slammed against his ribs, each beat loud enough to drown out the silence in his cockpit. He had no comms. No radar. No mercy.

But he had her. And God, that was worse.

Behind him, Fanboy’s hands hovered over every switch, muscle memory ready to react, but instinct had to take the wheel now. He couldn’t see her—but he knew she was close. Every warning system was dark. That was the whole point. You either felt her or you fell.

Across the open sky, Hangman curved out, trying to reposition, but he wasn’t coordinating with anyone. His flying was sharp—too sharp. Like a blade without a hilt. There was no balance, no tether. He cut through the sky like he always did: fast, alone, and risky.

“Where is she?” Fanboy mouthed, eyes darting—

Then everything happened at once.

A shadow above. A blinding climb below.

And then—she was upside-down again.

Rogue came in like a phantom. From beneath Rooster’s jet, she rolled inverted, slicing between his F-18 and Hangman’s trajectory with millimeters to spare. Her jet twisted in a corkscrew so tight it defied everything taught in flight school. Aerodynamically insane. Mechanically reckless.

And flawlessly executed.

Rooster’s entire body jolted.

She should’ve stalled. She should’ve blacked out, but instead—she leveled above him, wings tilted at an angle no sane pilot attempted, and in the space of two heartbeats, she was gone again.

“Jesus Christ,” Payback hissed under his breath.

Meanwhile, Phoenix, on the far edge of their invisible grid—saw the tail smoke and dove. A desperate move. She knew the game was stacked against them, but hell, she wasn’t going down without swinging. She cut into Rogue’s path, but he never stood a chance.

Ruin came from behind, tagged him clean, and peeled off without fanfare. Coyote slammed his fist against the console.

Down to three.

In the auditorium, Fritz leaned over to Yale, whispering like a war veteran in a trench. “She broke physics.”

Yale nodded slowly. “That was… illegal.”

Back in the sky, Rooster was pushing his limits now. Pulling hard Gs. Chasing the shadow of a jet that had outpaced him before the game even began. He thought maybe—just maybe—he’d find an angle. Something to surprise her.

But when he pulled up over the ridge—

She was there. Waiting.

She hadn’t run. She led him there.

And the moment he saw her—tail angled slightly, canopy turned just enough to give him a glimpse of her helmet—he knew.

She tagged him before he even reached her six.

Red light. Simulation kill. Done.

Bob smacked the side of the cockpit. “No way.”

Rooster didn’t say anything. Just stared at the sky.

That left one.

Hangman.

Jake Seresin gritted his teeth, pulling into a climb as his HUD flashed with warning symbols. Not from radar—just terrain. He flew low, hard, cutting sharp and tight, like a predator with something to prove.

He wasn’t flying for points.

He was flying for pride.

Behind him, Rogue’s jet curved in. Silent. Fast.

And this time, he heard her coming—not from the sound, but from the feel.

She pulled another impossible maneuver—a slip-turn-to-dive from above, dropping her altitude in a move that should’ve torn the wings off her jet.

She held it steady.

Jake barely managed to roll away, adrenaline slamming through him.

She missed—but just barely.

And now he was turning, chasing, fighting her tail like his life depended on it.

From the ground, Maverick sat forward.

“They’re dancing now,” he said quietly.

And in the sky, Rogue didn’t run.

She invited him in.

Jake pushed the throttle to its limits, sweat slipping down the curve of his jaw.

“Come on,” he muttered, voice raw. “Come on, Rogue. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

But she didn’t come to him.

She led.

Rogue didn’t fly like anyone Jake had ever fought—not even Mav. She didn’t chase kills. She played the long game. She baited. She disappeared. She commanded the sky.

It was infuriating.

And God help him, it was intoxicating.

He dove into her wake, chasing the ghost of her vapor trail, trying to get a clean lock even though he had no radar, no instruments, nothing but memory and muscle and a gut feeling in overdrive.

She dipped low toward the mountain line, her jet carving across the terrain like a blade slicing silk. Jake followed, nose down, vision tunneling as the Gs pressed into his ribs. Trees blurred beneath them. One wrong move and he’d be a fireball.

But Jake didn’t let go.

He couldn’t.

He had to catch her.

Had to prove he could still match her—even after all this time.

Even after all the ways he’d failed her.

He didn’t know what this dogfight was anymore. A test? A message? A punishment? All of it? Maybe. Probably.

She flipped vertical—straight up into a climb so steep it made Jake hiss through his teeth. No sane pilot would do that with no radar. You’d stall. You’d lose sight.

Unless—

Unless you wanted to lose them.

Jake pulled up behind her, jet screaming, heart in his throat.

And then she cut the throttle.

“What the—?”

He nearly slammed into her tail.

Rogue didn’t stall—she hung in the air for a second too long, like gravity couldn’t touch her, and then she rolled out beneath him.

Jake yanked his stick, his jet groaning in protest, and followed the twist—barely keeping her in his visual.

She was toying with him.

From the ground, Maverick had stood up.

“Did she just—?”

“She did,” Warlock said, eyes wide.

“She baited the collision just to force a high-G split,” Hondo muttered. “Ballsy.”

Jake was panting now, jet trembling under the strain. He pulled into the climb, trying to regain altitude, but she was already behind him.

He couldn't see her. He felt her. Like lightning about to strike.

And then the simulator tagged him.

Dead.

Kill confirmed.

Jake ripped off his oxygen mask, tossing it to the side, chest heaving.

In the sky above, Rogue banked once—smooth, controlled—and disappeared into the blue.

The auditorium was silent. Maverick blew out a long breath and dropped back into his seat. Cyclone looked half-annoyed, half-stunned.

Warlock smiled. “Well, that was something.”

Down below, Jake’s fists clenched around his flight gloves.

Not from shame.

From adrenaline. From want. From the sick, gnawing feeling that even now, even after all these years—

He still couldn’t catch her.

Not in the sky.

And not in real life.

POST-PHASE FIVE ASSESSMENT

The debriefing room felt colder than it should have, sterile under the harsh fluorescent lights. The squad sat in stiff silence, backs straight, eyes forward—but no one looked comfortable. Their flight suits were still clinging with sweat, the scent of burnt adrenaline still clinging to their skin. No one cracked a joke. No one shifted in their seat. They knew better.

At the front, Cyclone stood beside Warlock, both of them as unreadable as ever. Hondo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, though his gaze was sharp and assessing. Maverick, unusually silent, sat at the far end of the room, elbow on the table, thumb pressed to his temple like a man halfway through a migraine.

Every few seconds, his fingers would tap twice against his jaw, his tell when he was deeply, deeply worried.

Meanwhile, the three commanders stood facing the squad. Jinx was the first to step forward, his voice clipped and clear. “Your performance today wasn’t just about flying. It was about communication, adaptation, trust. And to be frank—those were the exact areas most of you failed.” His eyes swept across them without hesitation. “You flew scared. You flew reactive. And too many of you were waiting for someone else to take the lead. That gets people killed.”

Then, after a beat, he looked toward Phoenix and Fanboy. “Solo flyers abandoned. WSOs left scrambling to adjust. It's one thing to fall behind. It’s another to watch your backseater flounder because you left them hanging.”

Ruin stepped forward next, his tone colder, more clinical. “WSOs—your job is not to just ‘keep up.’ You are the eyes, the radar, the tactics. You are half the brain in that cockpit, and yet today, too many of you hesitated. You weren’t asserting, weren’t predicting, weren’t fighting for control of the backseat.”

He fixed his eyes on Bob for a beat too long. “A good pilot without a good WSO is a broken compass. You need to stop apologizing for existing and start commanding your seat.”

Finally, Rogue stepped forward. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her voice calm—so calm, it was terrifying. “The purpose of Phase Five was to test your instinct. It was designed to strip you of crutches; radar, comms, visual support, and force you to fall back on the one thing that separates elite pilots from dead ones: intuition.”

She let the silence stretch for just long enough.

“Some of you adapted, but most of you didn’t.” Her gaze passed slowly over the squad, but it lingered on Jake for a second longer. “There were moments today when I saw flashes—sparks of something that could be great. But sparks don’t light fires if you keep dousing them with ego or fear. You have to choose.”

Then she looked at Maverick and gave a small nod. “Captain.”

Maverick rose from his seat, his expression unreadable. “You heard them. No excuses. No sugarcoating. I know you’re tired. I know it was brutal. But the reality is—if this had been a real mission, half of you wouldn’t have made it home. And that? That’s on me.”

He turned, resting his hands on the table, voice tightening. “If you fail this evaluation… the Navy won’t just shut this program down. They’ll pull my command. I won’t be flying anymore. So when I say this was your last chance—know that it was mine, too.”

Now, the room truly fell silent. No one moved. Not even Hangman.

Maverick straightened. “You’ve got one final debrief tomorrow. Then we find out if you made the cut.”

And with that, he stepped back, leaving the squad to sit in the deafening weight of everything that had just been said.

The tension hung thick, like a noose cinched just a bit too tight. No one dared break the silence at first—not even Rooster, whose usual wisecracks had vanished somewhere between Ruin’s cold stare and Rogue’s scalpel-precise takedown.

Fanboy exhaled, long and shaky. “Dude… I think I just had a near-death experience. While sitting down.”

Next to him, Yale ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Fritz was pale, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a second round. Omaha hadn’t moved at all, like he was trying to make himself invisible.

Harvard cleared his throat and leaned forward just a little. “Did… did anyone else feel like they were going to throw up the entire time Rogue was speaking?”

Coyote let out a low whistle. “I am gonna throw up.”

“Dibs on the corner,” Bob mumbled, trying to look smaller than usual. His eyes were wide, locked on the front of the room like she might materialize there again.

Payback groaned and let his head fall back against the chair. “Bro. We got absolutely vaporized.”

Rooster let out a breath through his nose. “I mean, she did say ‘no freebies.’ We just thought she was being dramatic.”

Yale snorted, bitter. “Yeah, well. Joke’s on us.”

Meanwhile, Jake hadn’t moved. Not a word, not a glance. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the spot Rogue had just been standing. The usual swagger was gone, replaced by a brooding silence that was somehow even louder than the squad’s groans.

Phoenix elbowed him. “Well? Got something to say, Hangman?”

Jake blinked slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly. “She flies like war.”

Rooster turned. “What?”

Jake looked down, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

- Jake -

Jake Seresin hadn’t moved. Not for a long while after the debriefing ended. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the answers might be carved into the concrete if he stared hard enough.

Revenge? Was that what this was?

Because hell if it didn’t feel like it.

She’d stood up there, calm and ruthless, flaying them open one by one with words wrapped in steel. Not cruel—no, that would’ve been easier to ignore. But clinical. Unforgiving. Accurate. She hadn’t needed to scream or humiliate to twist the knife. She’d just told the truth. Her truth. The one she’d earned, the one she'd bled for, and the one that now towered over him like some ghost he couldn't outrun.

He leaned back, pressing a palm to his face with a bitter exhale. Rogue. No—you. You weren’t just here. You were everywhere. In the air, in the silence, in the way the whole squad had gone dead quiet the moment your boots hit the floor.

The same girl who used to carry a tote bag full of political theory books and do his stupid social studies assignments like it was nothing.

The same girl whose name he’d once forgotten.

Now? He couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, guilt blooming like an old bruise. Maybe this was revenge. A well-earned, high-ranking, Navy-sanctioned serving of humiliation. A masterclass in making someone feel small without lifting a finger. And maybe he deserved it.

Because the truth—the one he didn’t say out loud—was this: Jake Seresin remembered every second of what he’d done to you.

And worse? He remembered how bright you used to look at him. Like he hung the damn sun.

And now? Now you didn’t even flinch in his direction.

You just outflew him. Outranked him. Outclassed him.

He stood up, slowly, like his body was suddenly too heavy for the bones inside. Still thinking, still stewing, still trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do next. Because there was no easy apology for what he did. No one-liner that could dig him out of a grave he’d been burying for years.

And God help him—he was starting to think you’d built this whole gauntlet just to prove to the Navy, to the world, and to him… that you never needed him to begin with.

And it was working.

- You, Rogue -

INT. OFFICER’S BOARDROOM

The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above, casting a sharp, sterile glow over the conference table of the Intelligence Officer’s Boardroom. Everyone was already seated. Jinx and Ruin flanked each other, uniforms sharp, eyes alert.

Across from them sat Admiral Simpson, his posture ramrod straight, arms folded tightly over his chest; to his right, Commander Bates, silent but observant as always; and beside them, Captain Mitchell—Maverick—shoulders relaxed, but his gaze piercing.

Lieutenant Commander (Your Name) (Last Name), callsign Rogue, stood at the head of the room beside the briefing screen. Her expression was unreadable, voice clipped in crisp, practiced cadence that echoed with years of command and combat experience. She held a clicker in her hand, advancing the first slide of the post-evaluation review with clinical precision.

“Gentlemen,” she began, tone even, formal, “this Evaluation Gauntlet was designed to measure the operational readiness, tactical flexibility, and aerial cohesion of this candidate unit—callsign Dagger Squad—under conditions simulating combat pressure beyond the standard training thresholds.”

Click.

Another slide. A breakdown of the phases, each marked with timestamps, altitude metrics, and comms performance indicators.

“The structure was developed using declassified threat-response patterns from live-action operations across three distinct theaters,”

Rogue continued. “We adapted scenarios previously executed by Ghost Squadron personnel, incorporating the same decision fatigue, altitude suppression, and electronic warfare variables we encountered in those missions. Each phase was engineered to simulate real-world aerial warfare under contemporary threat conditions.”

She advanced another slide, this one displaying a digital overlay of each phase objective.

“The Gauntlet was not simply a skills test. It was designed to expose friction, within the team, between roles, under fire. Communication, instinct, adaptability. These are the pillars that distinguish a squadron fit for sustained deployment from one that fractures under duress.”

Cyclone’s brow twitched slightly in what could have been approval. Warlock nodded once, slow and measured.

“Request for permanent squadron status requires a demonstration of total aerial interoperability,” Rogue said. “The Navy does not authorize permanent postings on sentiment. We authorize them on survivability. A squadron that can think as one, move as one, and recover as one.”

She paused there, eyes scanning the room before continuing.

“Failure in any one phase; comms, tactical maneuvers, WSO-pilot coordination, translates to vulnerabilities in theater. The Gauntlet is designed to expose those weaknesses. It’s not meant to discourage. It’s meant to prevent body bags.”

A beat of silence. Heavy. Sharp.

“The mission profiles were cleared for evaluation use by Atlantic Command,” Rogue added. “Each parameter was adjusted to reflect performance expectations for top-tier strike fighter squadrons operating at classified threat levels. The structure was not arbitrary. It was mission-informed.”

Maverick leaned forward slightly at that, arms resting over the edge of the table. “And the results?”

Rogue’s gaze didn’t waver. “We’ll get to that in a moment, sir.”

Rogue clicked to the next slide—no frills, no dramatic flair. Just data. Brutal, clean, and unflinching.

“Phase One: Simulated Missile Evasion under Limited Radar Support.”

She scanned the room, her voice steady. “Elements One and Two failed to achieve a successful lock-break within the designated window. Evasion protocols were either delayed or improperly executed. Missile simulations scored direct hits in under thirty seconds on average. Element Three passed with tactical precision—minimal chatter, high situational awareness, and proper use of terrain masking. Element Four passed, but barely. Poor spacing on ingress almost compromised the mission. The only reason they cleared the kill zone was a sharp pullout by Ghost intercept unit—Ruin and Jinx.”

She didn’t soften the language. There was no room for it.

“Phase Two: Fuel-Starvation Emergency Drill mid-Dogfight.”

Rogue turned to face the screen again. “Elements One and Two recovered, showing significant improvement. Adaptability increased under pressure. Element Three again demonstrated exemplary synchronization. Element Four displayed recklessness—specifically Hangman disengaging without confirmation from his WSO team. Phoenix and Bob were left exposed during a simulated strike run. If this had been live combat, the outcome would have been catastrophic.”

She advanced to the next slide. Mav’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

“Phase Three: Low-Altitude Terrain Suppression.”

Aerial graphs flickered on screen, showing flight paths, dips, and abrupt climbs. “All four elements successfully completed this phase. Element Three led with clean terrain-hugging maneuvers and exemplary altitude regulation. However, Element One scraped the 250-foot floor twice. That’s breach-worthy in active theaters.”

Another slide.

“Phase Four: Mixed-Team Combat Integration.”

At this, her gaze swept across the seated commanders. “Of the eight improvised teams, four completed the combat drills successfully. The others showed disjointed communication, poor reaction timing, and in some cases, reckless maneuvering during blackout intervals. Hangman and Fanboy succeeded—barely. Phoenix, flying solo, showed exceptional judgment but overcorrected during a blind dive and would’ve clipped hard deck in a real mission. Rooster and Halo passed. Fritz and Bob nearly failed due to radar mismanagement. Payback and Harvard succeeded with the best WSO-to-pilot comms efficiency. Coyote underperformed.”

Rogue clicked again. A black screen appeared—no numbers, no metrics.

“Phase Five: Comms-Blackout Tactics.”

A moment of silence stretched, thick with heat.

“Ruin, Jinx, and I flew the sky as opposition. We provided no comms, no radar feed. The squad had to navigate through sensory silence. No guidance. Only instinct. The results were telling.”

She faced the officers again.

“Element One was eliminated within forty-two seconds. Element Two managed to stay in the sky for two minutes, but lost all coordination. Element Three lasted four minutes, with Fanboy and Payback showing high-pressure resilience. Element Four survived longest, due to Phoenix’s evasive ingenuity and Bob’s recalibration instincts. But even then—they were caught. No confirmed kills, no breakouts. Just survival.”

The silence afterward was suffocating.

Jinx folded his hands over the table, finally speaking up. “We’ve trained squadrons for years. What we saw was potential—but not readiness.”

Ruin’s voice followed, measured but stern. “Too many pilots talking over their WSOs. Too many solo operators forgetting the sky doesn’t forgive selfish flying.”

Rogue let their words settle, then added the final stroke.

“This wasn’t sabotage. It wasn’t cruelty. It was a crucible. If they want North Island, they have to earn it. Otherwise, they don’t belong here.”

Her eyes met Maverick’s. “All that’s left now is your judgment, Captain Mitchell.”

Cyclone inhaled through his nose, sharp and slow. Warlock sat back in his chair, hand to his mouth in thought.

And Maverick? His face was unreadable.

The room pulsed with the tension of it, all eyes shifting to him, the weight of the squadron’s future pressing into the air like G-force. He didn’t look at anyone right away. He kept his eyes on the screen, though it was blank now. Just black glass reflecting his own tightly-set jaw.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Controlled. The kind of calm that came before a storm.

“I trained these pilots. Every one of them. I watched them grow, fall, get back up. I saw potential that reminded me of myself back when I thought pulling off stunts made me invincible.” He shifted in his seat, elbows resting on the table, fingers interlocked.

“But potential alone doesn’t cut it when you’re flying combat sorties at Mach 1 and people’s lives are on the line.”

Cyclone opened his mouth, but Maverick kept going, voice rising just enough to press the air tight.

“You said it yourself, Commander Rogue, this wasn’t cruelty. It was a crucible. And if we’re honest?” He glanced at her, then to Jinx and Ruin. “They cracked.”

A long exhale left his chest, deflating some invisible armor.

“But I’ll tell you this. If we leave it at that—if we stamp their failure and call it done—then I’ve failed more than they have. Because I didn’t just teach them how to fly. I taught them how to survive. And they did survive. They made it to the end of that gauntlet, bruised, bloodied, egos shattered—but alive.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, resting both hands on the table as he leaned forward, his tone heavier now.

“You want my judgment? Here it is.” His gaze swept the room.

“Ground them, and we lose every ounce of fight they’ve got left. But let me take them back into the sky, let me drag the rust and doubt out of them piece by piece—and you’ll have a squadron that can go to hell and back and not break.”

He straightened again, shoulders squared.

“I’ll take responsibility. I’ll train them again from the ground up if I have to. I’ll make them into a unit. One worth keeping here.”

A pause.

“And if I can’t?”

Maverick looked directly at Cyclone, then Warlock, his voice unflinching.

“Then I walk. Because I don’t deserve to fly with them if I gave up before they were ready.”

The silence after was sharp.

Cyclone stared at him. Warlock exchanged a glance with Hondo, who hadn’t said a word this entire time.

Then Cyclone sat back with a sigh, his voice tight. “Captain Mitchell… we will discuss your proposal.”

Rogue tilted her head slightly. She studied him. And for the first time, her expression cracked—not into a smile, but something harder to define.

Respect, maybe. Or regret.

Rogue stood slowly.

The quiet scrape of her chair against the floor was the loudest sound in the room for a beat. She didn’t move like someone uncertain. She moved like someone calculating every motion. Her posture was straight, shoulders squared beneath the weight of her rank, of her history, of everything she’d built to stand here and be listened to.

“There is no need for another evaluation,” she said, voice like steel dragged through silk. “You asked us to test them. We did. Extensively. You asked for an answer. You have one.”

She stepped forward, her hands clasped behind her back, boots clicking sharply across the floor as she faced the table, now standing between Maverick and the top brass.

“I don’t hand out false confidence, Captain. And I don’t coddle pilots with potential but no discipline. You’re right. They survived. Barely, yes, but you see a future in them, and I see that fire still buried under bravado, beneath the mess.”

Then her gaze shifted, landing squarely on Maverick.

“I’ll support your decision. I will sign off that this unit remains intact as a provisional squadron, on the condition that from this point forward, you are solely responsible for their performance. You fall short again, Maverick?” Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “I won’t be signing anything next time.”

Maverick gave a quiet nod. There was something unspoken in his eyes, gratitude wrapped in grim understanding.

Rogue turned to the other commanders.

“Admiral,” she addressed Cyclone. “Captain,” to Warlock. “Gentlemen.”

She looked to her left, gave Jinx a brief nod. He stood without a word, his smirk faint but approving. Ruin followed—ever the shadow, smooth and unreadable.

The three of them moved in practiced precision. Like the room wasn’t full of brass, but simply another mission they’d completed. Another theater of war exited clean.

As Rogue stepped to the doors, she paused for only a second.

“Let them know they’ve got one shot left,” she said, voice quiet but cutting. “It’s up to them what they do with it.”

Then she was gone, Jinx and Ruin flanking her, boots echoing down the corridor like the judgment of ghosts.

#avengxrz #jake seresin #jake “hangman” seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #glen powell x you #glen powell x reader #pete maverick mitchell #bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun fandom #bob floyd #top gun maverick #lewis pullman #glen powell

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attapullman · 1 year ago

Text

That's Mine | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: Bob likes Rooster. He does. So why does he suddenly hate him when his childhood best friend agrees to go out on a date with the pilot?

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: f!reader, 18+ ONLY as always, smut, protected pinv, oral (f receiving), praise!kink, fluff, dirty humour, alcohol mentions, sorry to all the Rooster girlies

Author's Note: This is my official jealous best friend!bob entry for my event International Bob Floyd Fucks Month. Thank you to everyone who has celebrated this silly little thing and continued the Bob Fucks agenda. I just love him so much. Save a Rooster, ride a Bob!

“What do you mean Rooster asked you out?”

He’s hot on your heels through the house, following you out to where you’re watering the ferns on the deck. You can’t see his face, but the simmering annoyance is palpable. In your mind’s eye you can see the little vein that pops out only when he’s seriously irritated. An emotion he reserves only for you.

Who would have guessed that two strangers pairing up for a Mommy & Me class decades ago would evolve into the inseparable, eye-rolling, belly laughing attachment of you and your best friend. He keeps you focused, eyes on the prize and safely home by ten. You bring Robby out of his shell, actually wanting to jump in and join the crowd. Occasionally both giving each other a headache, but always ending with a punch on the shoulder while sharing a carton of Haagen Daas.

You roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him. He’s being so annoying about this Rooster thing.

It’s been four months since you followed him out to San Diego. A quick summons to Top Gun that led to him out in the middle of the ocean while you whined to your roommate about what if he doesn’t come home this time? How could you possibly survive without him infodumping about WWI missiles and whether milk or dark chocolate made better cookies?

And then you’d gotten the call, B.O.B. flashing across the screen and the photo from that summer in high school where he let you paint a butterfly on his face. The mission was successful. He was safe. And he was staying in Fightertown permanently with this squadron. A few months later, when your roommate accidentally lit your stove on fire, he asked if you wanted to come down and stay for a few weeks. By the end of the month you had rented a small craftsman and his truck was a regular fixture outside.

Then a month ago, when he’d swung by after work, khaki uniform freshly pressed, and asked if you wanted to come to the local Navy bar to meet the names he spent so much time talking to you about. Fiddling with the edge of his glasses, nervous you wouldn’t like his new crew as well as the Lemoore squadron you’d spent years befriending. But if they were good enough for Bob, they were good enough for you.

Rooster was hot. All curly auburn hair and big brown eyes. You’d hit it off quickly, the two of you against Phoenix and Bob, sharing stories about your beloved bespectacled WSO and his sassy quip of the day. Phoenix still couldn’t believe that Bob had used a Superbad quote for the high school yearbook. You still remember the horrified look on his mom’s face.

But last night had been different. Phoenix and Bob had huddled a Budweiser cup of peanuts and discussed strategy most of the night, Fanboy rounding off the table once he heard “electronic warfare”. Your best friend’s dedication to work was commendable, but what were you supposed to do at a Navy bar when he was busy? Luckily the baby cow-eyed pilot had taken pity and bought you a round, taking you out to the back deck to appreciate the beach while Hangman rowdily dominated the pool table.

Rooster had been sweet, asking about your childhood with Bob and what you thought of San Diego. Between the kind male attention and the slutty light wash jeans, you were only human for looking up at him through your lashes and flirting a little. And you felt light as air when Bob came outside ready to take you home, your number in Rooster’s phone and a date secured for Friday.

“Seriously? You’re not going to answer me?” Why was annoying Robby so fun? So sweet and calm under the most pressured of situations, every once in a while he prickled.

You finish with the deck plants and retreat back inside, making sure the windowsill babies are plenty hydrated in the late afternoon sun. “Why do you care? You like Rooster.”

It’s alarmingly loud in the silence as he thinks through that one.

Because Bob does like Rooster. He’s a little older, outgoing, the kind of guy he trusts on a life-or-death mission. In the last few months he would even venture to say they’d become more friends than coworkers, Natasha always bringing them together for a night out. So why did it bother him so much when you said you were going out with Rooster tomorrow night?

Instead of answering, he keeps his conflicted thoughts to himself and starts helping with the plants. There’s no point in an argument he’s not going to win, especially when he’s not sure what he’s even fighting for.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye, metal frames glinting in the low afternoon light, gelled hair out of formation from training with his helmet on all day. Maybe you did overstep by agreeing to go out with one of his coworkers. “You want to get street tacos and make fun of C-list celebrities?”

His eyes light up as he nods and overwaters your calathea.

Half a six pack of Mexican lager later and the two of you are sprawled across the living room furniture, Bob’s socked feet up on the coffee table and yours over the arm of the wingback he helped you haul home four years ago. Save the fuzzy tipsiness clouding your senses, you’re transported back to weekend nights in high school. Watching old John Hughes movies and laughing so hard soda shot up your nose. Life has been full of so many incredible opportunities, but evenings in front of the TV with Robby are your most cherished memories.

“Oh my god!” you squeal. “Could he be any more cringeworthy? Put a shirt on!” Your fingers cover your eyes, pretending to be offended by the young twentysomething currently stripping off on your trashy television show of choice.

Bob laughs from his spot on the sofa, beer can dwarfed in that massive hand. “Oh please, you love when they’re half naked for no reason.” He feels that weird tug in his chest for the second time today, but chalks it up to the meat from his street tacos.

You roll your eyes playfully, giving him that toothy smile you’ve perfected since elementary school. “Ya,” you slur a little. “But as my best friend you’re not allowed to judge.”

As if he could find fault in you.

Payback has been talking to him for the past twenty minutes. Bob hasn’t heard a word. Just continues staring at the front door of the Hard Deck like it will magically conjure you.

You’re out with Rooster right now, at that restaurant with the breathtaking ocean view and spicy mozzarella sticks. And while you didn’t tell him, he knows you’re wearing the dress with the eyelet lace and your hair down for once. And you’re probably giving him that toothy grin while he talks about 80’s music and shows you photos of working on the Bronco. You’re likely planning your second date already.

He likes Rooster. He likes Rooster. He likes Rooster. So why does he suddenly hate him?

Payback has completely given up on conversation when the door opens and in strides that floral print smug son of a bitch. Bob’s hand grips the table, grounding himself that it’s not a hallucination. Rooster’s hand is respectfully on your waist, leading you through the throng of Friday night patrons. And you look pretty as can be in that dress, your hair slightly covering your warm cheeks and bashful eyes as a strong man looks after you.

The pilot grins at his squadron, tipping his chin in greeting, knowing he’s got the prettiest girl in the room on his arm. You give Bob a goofy lopsided grin, happy to see him after a lovely night out. Happy that Rooster offered to drop you by before taking you home so you could see your best friend.

There’s nervous energy bubbling under your skin, eager to download about your dinner and drinks, and you wish you were back at home in the kitchen, mugs of hot chocolate in your hands while you and Robby gabbed about your latest romantic excursions like back in the day.

Things were so much simpler when you were seventeen.

Especially because back then he wasn’t weird when you had crushes, or met someone on Hinge. And he certainly didn’t give you that tight lipped frown that you want to smooth off his face. It’s you and him against the world, so why does it suddenly feel like it’s you against him?

“Hey Robby,” you start, giving him your gentlest smile. “You win darts?” He gives a half shrug, picking at his cup of peanuts. Cool, that’s how he’s gonna play it.

You sit next to Rooster at the piano, letting him play a few songs and rally the crowd. You’re a little bored of the repertoire you’ve heard on repeat since your first Hard Deck visit, but give him an encouraging smile nonetheless to be polite.

You like Rooster. But even after a nice night, you know you don’t want to pursue this. Not at the sake of your friendship with Bob.

Everyone’s stomping their feet and slapping their hands to Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train” when exhaustion hits you. The back of your hand against your mouth signaling that you’ve had enough for one day. The sweet chocolate eyes of your piano partner give you a caring look as he asks if you want him to drive you home. The hope for a goodnight kiss twinkles in his eye.

“No need, I can take her!” It’s instant adrenaline the way the WSO has launched across the room. You rush to thank Rooster for a nice night as he’s left behind on the piano bench. Bob hasn’t said a single word to you all night and yet he’s borderline dragging you out to his truck. The calloused edges of his fingers digging into your bare arm, the soft flannel of his shirt brushing against your hands when he helps you into the truck. They’re all familiar feelings, yet tonight feels different.

He’s completely silent on the drive, the radio playing some alternative rock music barely audible over the silence. He may be quiet with others, happy to take a back seat, but he’s never had an issue piping up with you. It’s punishment. Punishment for trying to have a good time with a guy who you’ve decided you don’t want.

When he parks in front of your cozy craftsman - the house he toured with you, helped you with the paperwork, bought the bubbly to commemorate the occasion - you’re both at a standstill. Last night you’d been able to put your differences aside for trashy television and tacos. Tonight…you’re just hoping he’ll come inside.

“Who do I gotta bang around here to get you to come inside?” His chuckle is weak, eyes looking anywhere but you.

Because while you’re trying to figure out where you’ve gone wrong, Bob has been having an existential crisis since Bradley fuckin’ Bradshaw put his hand on your waist. A crisis that’s been gaining speed since you followed him out to Lemoore all those years ago and has arrived at a screeching halt, crawling out of his throat. And he’s too shy to tell his lifelong best friend what’s been bothering him for as long as he’s known.

You’re…it.

It’s the way you laugh with your entire face. How you always have a comeback. Your endless love for others. The endearing way you order a pancake for the table at brunch. You’ve been the entire package this whole time. And someone seeing it before him is infuriating.

He follows you inside, watching the way the light radiates at the high points of your face. This is going to be harder than expected.

Robert Floyd has known for years that his best friend is amazing. Practically his whole life. Not a single doubt they’d make an incredible partner. The tiniest crush forming at just how good of a partner. Daydreaming about their current arrangement - the movie nights, the early morning beach walks, the Sunday afternoon bubble tea runs - with a dash of domestic bliss had his heart thudding in his chest.

What he hadn’t been prepared for was Wednesday night, when he came to collect you for the drive home. Sitting next to Rooster, a cup of peanuts loosely hanging from your hand as you looked up at the pilot with long lashed eyes and a seductive twitch of a smile. The way you’d bitten your lip when you said goodbye, turning back to Robby with that flirty glint still in your eye; instantly resetting to friendly excitement as you followed him to the parking lot.

He needed to make you look at him like that.

And now here, in your living room, while you hand him a glass of water and look at him with those impossibly pretty eyes - fuck. How does he explain?

You’re concerned, watching the turmoil on his face and convinced you’ve seriously crossed a line this time. You’ve always been the troublemaker of the dynamic, the bursting bubbly energy to his impossibly sweet silence. Won’t he please share what’s on his mind?

He’s not sure if it’s the burning need to release this tension from his body, or the way your face looks so upset at his indecision, but suddenly the dam bursts. All rational thought out the window as he finally speaks up.

“If I don’t fuck you right now I think I might die.”

It’s impossible to tell whose eyes are wider. His in embarrassment that came out and so whiny. Yours in total shock. Your brain has blue screened and all you can do is blink slowly back into focus, centering on the pink cheeks and bashful baby blue eyes in front of you.

Licking your lips, you sputter out, “W-what?”

You both know you heard him. It was impossible not to with the intense neediness dripping out of every syllable. His carnal need to know what you feel like, taste like. The way those thick, long fingers of his tensed on his knee.

A thousand emotions pass behind your eyes, reflected in his glasses. A handful of ways to handle this situation, but only one makes sense.

“Come over here. We can’t have you dying, now can we?”

There is nothing graceful about the collision of bodies that happens. Navy-trained strength meeting enthusiastic energy. He’s across the room before you can finish your sentence, the slight pause of uncertainty met with your bound into his arms. Warm lips finding each other, hesitant yet sure. The hands on your hips are familiar in a different circumstance.

The waves crashing down on Bob’s brain slow, and he’s instantly soothed as he enjoys the subtle tang to your taste. You’ve worn the same perfume for the last decade, yet this is the first time it’s driven him wild. Pulling back, he takes a deep breath to fill his lungs with the perfect scent. His fingers, fast as light when he works controls, are slow and controlled over the curve of your waist.

“I hate that Rooster touched you. You’re mine.”

“I’m yours?’

He leans forward, gaze level, breaths intermingling. “You’re mine.”

Eyes wide, glossy lip between your teeth…Bob hasn’t seen anything sexier in his life. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers scratching along his scalp as you fight for dominance in your kisses. He’s gaining confidence the longer you moan into his mouth, a sinful sound he wasn’t prepared to hear. Years of listening to you talk about dates and crushes, and now he’s experiencing it first hand.

You’re caught up in the way he’s trailing his large hands up and down your torso, tentatively brushing against the curve of your ass. Waiting for him to call the shots for what happens next. Frustrated he hasn’t already spread you out on the stupidly expensive cotton duvet he convinced you to buy.

“Robby?” He hums, lips preoccupied with your neck. “Not to be ungrateful, but I thought you were going to fuck me?”

The deep scarlet that spreads across your best friend’s cheeks is one for the record books. Jackpot.

He’s practically falling over himself, hands everywhere at once as he collects his thoughts. “You’re sure…you’re sure you want this?”

The seething jealousy that’s consumed him since Wednesday has dissipated, and the horny fog has lifted temporarily. All that’s left is ensuring you’re both on the same page. Once this happens, there’s no going back. As much as he’s looking forward to taking off that pretty dress, you need to be ready to make the same leap.

Swallowing a deep breath, drowning in those eager cerulean blues, you shift your thigh to press against the bulge in his jeans. A bulge all the girls in Lemoore talked about when they thought you weren’t listening. There’s a curiosity burning in you, a need to know if he’s just as sweet in bed as he is when he’s picking you up or helping with dinner. Things have always been platonic - they needed to be, you wouldn’t have survived a childhood crushing on the bespectacled sweetheart who grew up to be an incredible man.

You know the risks, but the rewards are greater. Life is too short to not experience fucking Robert Floyd.

A kiss to his lips. A wink. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You sound like children giggling on the playground as you run down the hall to your bedroom, trying not to trip on the hall runner as he presses you against the wall to pepper you in scorching kisses. Breathy laughs as you explore this new part to your dynamic. Overwhelming lust mixed with lifelong companionship.

Once you make it to the bedroom - that supima bedspread underneath you, his hips cradled against yours - the innocent giggles dissipate as you take in the man above you. No longer the pink-cheeked child, the gawky teenager, Robby is nothing but height and strength and…broad? When did he get so broad? Naturally so meek and unassuming, the pure size of him is unexpected. But pinning you to the bed with those veiny hands and strong thighs, a collision of attraction overwhelms you.

There’s nothing delicate about the way he grinds his hips into yours, whimpers leaving both your lips. Your panties are soaked, he’s stretching the front of his jeans. Desperation fills the space between you.

His lips wander from your jaw, your neck, the space behind your ear, all the way to your passion-swollen lips. His voice is unsure, but hopeful, as he whispers against them, “Can I go down on you?”

Your eyes bloom wide - not only because you’d like nothing more, but you’ve remembered something from years ago. Something at the time you’d tried to forget. A night out with the Lemoore crew at that shoddy bar, everyone drunk after being out at sea for weeks, and you sat near the back waiting for Bob to come back with drinks. A small group of female aviators sat at the next table over, having clocked the shy WSO on his way to the bar. One had giggled, her friends shooting her a questioning glance. You’ll never forget when she replied, “I’d heard the rumors and didn’t believe them, but can confirm that Bob Floyd eats pussy like a starving man. Best hour of my life.”

As soon as he sees your slightly too eager nod, he’s working his way down your body, appreciating the feel of your dress and soft skin. Breath held as he officially breaches out of friend territory and lifts the hem, treating himself to the satin he can’t wait to pull aside.

Lip worried between your teeth, a whimper is punched out of you when a hot mouth secures itself around your mound, thick tongue exploring the crevices of your covered folds. A finger slips itself along your entrance, bringing to attention the soaked material.

“Someone’s excited.” The lust-driven chuckle against your thigh has you shivering. “You want me to eat your sweet little pussy?”

He’s never used that voice on you, husky and mocking. You’re shaking with desire, for him to stop teasing and give you what you want. An hour ago he was just your friend, and now you’ve never felt so needy for a man’s touch. So far gone you don’t even notice the desperate nod you give him.

He presses another wet kiss to your clothed clit before wrapping his long fingers in the fabric. Prompting you to lift up slightly so he can have unimpeded access to this feast. Skimming his nose along your thighs, hot air directly on your slick cunt. The whimpers escaping you doing nothing but prolonging the teasing.

Bob can feel how you tremble, the way your fingers are smoothing over the bedspread in an effort to self-soothe. He’s satisfied that he’s gotten you as frustrated and ill-content as he’s felt for years. Needing something, not knowing if you’ll like it, but knowing that if you don’t have it you’ll never feel satisfied.

His fingers spread you out. Head dips. The lightest touch of his tongue to damp arousal.

Holy fuck. He does eat pussy like a starving man. Pushing his face in closer and closer, his tongue reaching for every inch of the promised land. His fingers wrapped around your thighs, pulling you in. Hot, wet muscle opening you up as he drools.

Eyes unfocused, you’re in a new dimension and yet he’s enjoying it more.

That deliciously fuzzy feeling starts to tingle in your stomach, pressure building between your thighs as your best friend helps himself. Blunt nails raking up and down your legs to ground you in the experience. The sharp edge of his metal frames occasionally snagging on the skin. They alone make you want to cry to the heavens. But it’s the way he’s sloppily forcing his tongue into your cunt, lewd noises ringing around the room, that has you clamping your lips shut to not wake all of San Diego.

He senses that you’re holding back, not giving him everything he wants. You’ve been best friends since day one, he knows when you not being authentic.

That delicious tongue withdraws from your thighs and you can feel his stare on you. Waiting patiently for you to make eye contact. The pussy drunk, yet concerned look he gives you as he nudges you. “It’s okay, it’s me. I’m never going to judge you.”

Blue eyes meet yours. The same blue eyes that have consistently seen you safely out the other side of any bad situation the two of you have faced. That always comes home from deployment so matter how much you worry. The same ones that you know will guide and protect you on this journey as well. He’s your best friend. No one else can keep you this safe.

After your nod, he dips his slick lips back to your core, his smile upon your skin. Quickly losing himself in your flavor as he nudges you back open. His own hips rocking against the mattress as you allow your bitten lips to part, moans and whimpers and sharp intakes of breath filling the air. Losing yourself in his over-and-above technique to bring you to the edge.

His own muted moans vibrate against your core. Dexterous tongue and calloused middle finger (followed quickly by another) sliding in and out with ease. It’s too much and not enough, overwhelming your senses and making your brain whirr. Skin slick with sweat as that fuzzy feeling in your stomach returns and your feet tingle. Your eyes gazing unfocused down at Robby, hopelessly turned on at his dedication to making you feel good.

“C’mon, be good for me.”

His muffled words stretch the string and bring you home, thighs clamping around his damp face as a scream escapes your throat. Fingers twisting in the bedspread. Back arching. The view has him slack jawed and starry eyed, fingers still pumping in and out to prolong your orgasm. A slight tilt of his lips into a smile at how content you are when he finally catches your gaze through labored breaths.

Your brain slowly comes back to you, thoughts racing through sludge. Eyes fixed on cerulean as a smile stretches your lips. “Where the fuck did you learn to do that?”

He laughs, a surprised, carefree sound as he uses your thighs to help himself up the bed. Gives you a little wink as he grins, “It can get kind of boring on deployment.”

“Recon and intelligence protection missions are boring?”

“Yeah, when you’re not there to annoy me.” His dimples are out in full force, laughter twinkling out of every pore on his perfect face. You slug him a little, your orgasm still working its way through your body. The urge to roll over and sleep just as strong as the urge to shove him in your cunt through his jeans.

You’ve had a taste and you need more.

He’s already one step ahead of you, shrugging the soft flannel and faded tshirt from his body. Gently cranes you in his arms as he helps unzip and lift your dress above your head. The garbled choking sound and intake of breath when he realizes you aren’t wearing a bra makes you proud. You’ve always thought Bob was attractive in an understated, sweet way. To know he’s attracted to you makes any doubt about this situation indefinitely fade.

Sitting in front of him, not a scrap of fabric on you, you feel good. He’s the best guy you know, the one you have always sung his praises because there’s literally no one better. The only difference between a friendship and a relationship is sex. That’s all that’s been missing.

It’s time to take the plunge.

You swallow his lips with yours, fingers twisting in his sun-lightened hair. His arms wrapping around you, holding you secure to him. Both of you gasping at the feeling of your bare torsos touching. It’s electric. It’s satisfying. It’s grounding.

Hands quick to unzip his jeans, laughing as he tries to help only for you to bat him away. “You got to undress me, I want to undress you.”

The groan he emits reverberates. You’re so sexy and it’s driving him crazy. There was his fleeting crush in high school, but this…this is beyond his wildest dreams. Allowing your soft fingers to dip below the waist of his boxers, shimmying the denim and cotton down his legs. Your lips struck open in awe at the heavy, hard, thick appendage resting against his thigh.

“You tell me every secret you have, and yet you keep the python in your pants to yourself?” He laughs, a hand wrapping around the base as you flounder to mentally combine Robby, your meek best friend, with the red-tipped joyride protruding from his pelvis.

He helps himself to a condom from the box in the nightstand - the one you jokingly said you’d never use when he watched you unpack. You’re almost worried it’s going to be too small, but he glides it on with ease before lowering you both onto the bed, biceps straining as he adjusts. Bob can feel your slick center against the bottom of his dick and it’s taking everything in him to not make himself at home.

As you prepare yourself for what’s about to be a hell of a stretch, he kisses the top of your breasts, skimming his nose against your soft skin. Even in this moment his main priority is making you comfortable and feel safe. “We can go slow, it’s okay.”

But where Bob is safe and secure, you’re adventurous, curious. You want to know what he feels like now.

The wild fire of your eyes bores into his calm ocean blue. “Where’s the fun in that?”

A shift of hips and he’s slipping through, arousal and spit gently gliding the tip of him in. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling on the Navy-approved length at the nape of his neck. A sharp tug that prompts a yelp as he drives his hips forward, slipping inch after inch into you. Your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you struggle to adjust. Fuck, he’s so big.

He’s kissing your temple, whispering how good you’re being for him. I know it hurts, you’re doing so well, almost there, baby. His thumb sliding between your bodies to rub pointed circles on your clit. He’s barely started and you’re already leaving your body, watching yourself be stuffed to the brim.

The neatly trimmed hairs of his pelvis poke along your clit and you’re proud of yourself for taking all of him. Nudging Bob softly to move because you’re uncomfortably full. Back arching into his strong chest as he explores parts of you that you didn’t know existed.

In no time at all he’s thrusting with all his power, leaving you a moaning mess. Fingers clutching to any sweaty skin you can find, nails leaving their mark. He’s red-faced and huffing above you, eyes switching between your blissed out expression and the way your breasts sway with his heavy thrusts. This is heaven. This is everything. Why did he wait to say anything?

Suddenly you’re pawing at his chest, pushing him to roll over. “C’mon Floyd, let me rock your world now.”

He’s pretty sure you could blow him a kiss and rock his world, but he’s definitely not complaining about the view. The silhouette of you against the San Diego moon - big beaming smile and tight nipples. Wishes he had a camera to forever commemorate the first of many times you ask to ride him. A picture book of your perfect face all the way down to you split over his dick with different backgrounds.

From this angle it’s tight, but you’re not a quitter. Rocking your hips to loosen up, hands finding purchase on his chest. His big smile is back, eyes completely dilated while he can’t decide where to look. You’re seeing stars and he’s seeing diamonds.

Once rhythm comes to you, you’re bouncing, loving the way he fills you to the hilt each time. His encouraging smile behind golden rims. You’re with someone who knows the real you, who encourages you to be your best self. And with his strong, veiny hands wrapped around your waist, helping along your movements, you know he’s…it.

It’s hard to tell where your moans end and his start, both of you polluting the air with inhales and groans mixed with the occasional squelch of sex. Your skin is shimmering, thighs begging for reprieve. You can’t get enough of the way he perfectly fills you every time.

Sensing your exhaustion, he brings you closer, slotting his mouth over yours in a filthy, sloppy kiss. Starting to meet your thrusts as you inch closer and closer to your orgasm. Having to calm himself before he ruins your rhythm. The idea of you cumming on his cock has him dizzy. You rake your fingers through his hair one last time, eyes unable to meet as your lashes flutter, and he knows. You’re here, he’s gotten you to the edge.

That big hand on your lower back soothes as you clench for the final time, pulsing. You’ve officially left Earth, watching yourself convulse on top of Robby while he rocks himself up into you. “Good girl…yeah, that’s right…feels so good, huh?”

Forget the best sex of your life, this orgasm can never be topped.

You’re half-heartedly pressing kisses to his forehead as he begin the descent to his own orgasm. Feet flat to the mattresses as he cants his hips up, desperate to drive every inch into you. The fluttering of your cunt the most amazing thing he’s ever felt, catapulting him over the edge quicker than any partner he’s had before. Shoving his face into your neck, licking at your salty skin, he knows his release is inevitable.

“C’mon Robby, cum for me.”

All reason leaves him and he bites down, lips securing over the delicate slope of your neck. A while light flashes behind his eyes and he’s filling up the condom, squeezing out every ounce of release. He suckles the skin, soothing himself as his spent body blinks back to life. Smiles sheepishly when he meets your eyes, as you smile at him sweetly.

Words don’t exist as you hold each other under the covers, tracing skin and giggling when the other finds a ticklish spot. At some point he disposes of the condom, but you’re still not fully there. Everything is good and special and you want to live in this moment forever.

When Bob strolls into the Hard Deck Saturday night, one arm looped around your waist, everything was right in his world.

His colleagues and friends sat in the back near the pool table, sipping beers and winning a game against another squadron. The two of you stroll up, looking decidedly more friendly than they’ve ever seen. Especially when Bob won’t let go of your waist and you keep touching him.

You can’t help it. You’ve gotten a taste and now you’re insatiable.

The group takes in their WSO, standing a little taller than usual with his uncontrollable grin. And then they take in you, beaming, all smiles, looking right at home by Bob’s side in your tight jeans and cute little top. A cute little top that perfectly shows off the dark purpling mark mottling on your collar - teeth marks still visible in the right light.

While Robby confirms your drink order, there is stunned silence from the other half of the pool table. Mouths agape, a gleam of pride in Jake’s eye. Phoenix picks herself up first, eyes blinking rapidly at the sudden realization of last night’s events. Clocks that you went out with Rooster, yet went home with Floyd.

“So, uh, what happened there?” She gestures to the obvious love bite. One that definitely wasn’t there when the group saw you last.

You bite your lip and look at your lifelong best friend. The guy who showed you his love last night…and then several more times this morning. His crinkled eyes drift from yours to the spot where he bit down as he came for you for the first time.

Turning to look at his squadron, he plays it cool and shrugs, mumbling through his blush, “Can’t blame me for making sure no one else plays with my toys.”

taglist: @berryvanille @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @hangmanapologist @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @maryelizabeth13 @mtnzen @petersunderoos96 @rhettsluvr @roosterforme @seitmai @sweetwhispersofchaos @topherwrites @yuckosworld

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#international bob floyd fucks month #bob floyd #bob floyd smut #robert bob floyd smut #robert bob floyd fic #bob floyd fic #bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd fan fiction #bob floyd fan fiction #top gun: maverick fan fiction #x reader #x you #bob floyd x you #robert bob floyd x you

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bella-goths-wife · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere Vees x platonic reader

Vox, velvette and Valentino x reader

Warnings: Valentino

Okay so you know how I move through stories so much because I hyperfixate on something and become obsessed with it? Well guess who watched the hazbin hotel show after watching the pilot episode years ago. And I saw so much yandere potential.

So let me know if you enjoy this and if I should make more.

You were quite a modern soul, with you dying around the 2010s

And you died quite young at the age of 18

So when you get to hell your pretty scared and confused, with no one around who could help you

So you did what you could to live, by surviving off scraps and sleeping rough on the streets

That also leads you into a life of crime as you relayed on robberies and mugging people to get enough cash to afford to eat for the week

But on day you make the grand mistake of trying to mug an overlord

Vox was simply trying to avoid paparazzi by going through the back alleys, that’s until he hears loud music out of no where

See, when you got to hell you were given your own special ability the same way the others had

Your ability was Turntablism

Which essentially means you could manipulate and create new sounds from your environment, similar to how a DJ can use turntables to manipulate and create new music from existing sounds

This means you could silence or enhance sounds around a demon and that you would be able to create a sound from the environment, such as loud music, and it would be able to discombobulate or entertain the demons around you

So you silenced your footsteps before surprising vox by blasting loud rave music to confuse him as you grabbed his wallet and phone before hightailing it out of there

Of course that doesn’t work, vox watches you through the phone as he decides how to deal with you

He sees you climb into your ‘home’ which is in fact a cardboard box built around a dumpster with a small pit outside of it for fires

You intrigued him for some reason and he thought there was no harm in watching you for a few days before he decided what to do with you

He watched how you used your ability to survive and how you were actually white street smart

Eventually, he came to a decision

He appeared to you and claimed that you owed him a debt for stealing his wallet, before offering you a job as his assistant with a room in the vee tower in exchange for you soul

You were extremely cautious of him so you denied his deal, until he points out the fact that you were a young homeless girl who had stolen from a well known celebrity who could easily have killed you

So you shake his hand and your soul is officially voxs

He stuck true to his word and gave you a small room near his in the vee tower, and even if it seemed small to him it was the biggest room you’d ever slept in before

Vox explained the daily tasks he wanted you to be able to complete while you worked there and explained how he wanted to combine his hypnosis with your ability to make it so that the voxtech jingles would be more persuasive and would make more buyers come in

You nodded your head with the doubt that it would work stuck in your mind, but vox owned your soul now and you had to do what he said

He eventually introduced you to his business partners, velvette and Valentino

Velvette could not give less of a shit about you and just barked her coffee order at you

Valentino on the other hand tried to offer you a job in his studio but vox warned him that your soul was already owned, so val settled on just pouting while ordering you to fetch him some lunch

You worked with them for a few months and it wasn’t all bad

Sure, they were all demanding people who would hurl abuse at you if you got something wrong, but vox provided you with food, shelter and clothes so you couldn’t complain really

They all grew accustomed to your presence, so much so that when you weren’t around they had the strange feeling of missing something from their daily routines

Being vox’s assistant was hard because it practically made you all of their assistant, because we all know the vees share everything

So some days you’d work closely with vox, and others you’d be in vals dressing room to assist him with scripts or choosing actors for certain projects (vox told val that you were too young to be in the studio, which you were eternally grateful for)

And other days you’d be with velvette as she scoffed for the millionth time at the fashion designers attempts to please her

Velvette liked having another young eye to look at the designs, she’d never admit that she respects your opinion in a million years though

Eventually after working for the vees for a few months, you held a reputation in the offices

You’d hear your bosses workers whisper the nickname ‘pet’ as you trailed after one of the vees with a schedule in hand

You hated it but you decided to just put up with it, it’s not like you had any authority to be able to do anything about it anymore

But the whispers of your coworkers reached the ears of your bosses and they all seemed to have a shocking reaction

When they sat down and talked about it, they realised that they do view you as more of a pet than a worker

And how they seemed to need you around in some capacity to be able to go about their days normally

That’s when their obsessions began

And you had a long, dark road ahead of you

This is probably trash 😭

But this is just a rough idea of what I’m trying to do so I have loads more ideas

Let me know if you’d be interested :)

#hazbin hotel x reader #yandere hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin vox #hazbin spoilers #hazbin velvette #hazbin valentino #valentino x reader #vox x reader #velvette x reader #yandere vox x reader #yandere valentino #yandere velvette x reader #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel vees #hazbin hotel valentino

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allthingsfangirl101 · 6 months ago

Text

Familiar Faces – Jake Seresin

I wasn't sure what was going on around here, but the training captain was fired two weeks before the pilots were supposed to go out on their mission. I'm not sure if I was a last resort or an eager replacement.

From what I know about Pete "Maverick" Phillips, he was a hell of a pilot but had some problems with authority. I reviewed his files and my heart was stuck in my throat as I read through the profiles of the pilots.

I spent too much time reading through Jake Seresin's file. He goes by "Hangman" now and has a reputation to match it. My mind wandered back to our last night together. How much we had to drink. How little we talked. How fast we lost our clothes.

I shook my head and shut his folder. I wasn't sure how he would respond to seeing me again. To be honest, I wasn't sure how I would respond to seeing him again.

When the time came to leave, I grabbed my stuff and headed to the car waiting for me outside. I ignored the nerves building the closest I got to the ship.

"Captain Y/L/N," someone said as I got out of the car. I looked up as they walked over to me.

"That's me," I nodded.

"Follow me," he said. I smiled as he took my bag from me.

The second we walked on board, I saw him. I held my breath, waiting for him to notice me. When he did, I forced myself to look away and not look back.

"Little Firefly," Jake Seresin smirked when I walked by him.

"Lieutenant Seresin," I nodded as I continued walking. I held back my eye roll when he jogged to catch up to me.

"What brings you here, Y/N? Did they finally transfer you here?"

"Not exactly," I mumbled.

"Captain Y/L/N!"

"Captain?" Jake stuttered as Admiral Soloman ran over to us.

"Admiral Soloman," I smiled, ignoring Jake's confusing look. "It's nice to meet you. Officially."

"It's wonderful to meet you," he chuckled, "but please, call me, Warlock."

It was then that Warlock noticed Hangman studying me. "You alright, Hangman?"

"Yeah," he stuttered, slowly looking away from me. "I mean, yes, sir. I'm fine."

"Alright," Admiral said with a small smirk on his face as he looked between the two of us. "Go round up the others. We have a lot to talk about."

"Yes, sir."

I finally looked at Jake, my heart instantly jumping into my throat the second we made eye contact. All those feelings I ignored during training hit me like a train. I tore my eyes away from him and tried to remind myself of the pain I felt.

"Captain Y/L/N, if you would follow me, there are some things I wanted to go through with you before you meet the rest of the team."

"Of course, sir."

After meeting the team, I was escorted to my quarters. I slowly started to unpack when there was a knock at the door. I turned around, my breath getting caught in my throat.

"It's a small world," Jake joked.

"It is," I said slowly. I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself.

"It's been a long time," he said, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorway.

"It has," I mumbled.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine," I shrugged. "You?"

"Better now," he said, not-so-subtly checking me out. "I have to admit, Firefly, I'm looking forward to you giving me orders."

"Jake," I elongated his name in warning.

"Last time I saw you, you were leaving me in your dust," he teased. "If Maverick can't train us, you're the best option. You always were the best pilot. Fast decisions. Faster reactions. You always were fast. Then again, not always. . ."

"Jake!" I yelled, cutting him off. We stared at each other as I tried to debate what to do. Part of me wanted to catch up with him. Another part of me wanted to jump overboard. "You need to leave."

"Y/N," he sighed.

"Now, Jake," I said as I started to push him out of my room. "Go."

Once he was out, I turned around. I forced myself to focus on unpacking. Until. . .

"You left."

"What?" I turned around to see Jake still in the doorway.

"That night," Jake stuttered. "The night we. . . I woke up the next morning and you were gone. When I went into training later, they said you had transferred."

"Not exactly," I said, slightly clearing my throat.

"What do you mean?" Hangman asked, taking a hesitant step toward me.

"I wasn't transferred, Jake," I said crossing my arms over my chest and turning my attention to my feet. "I was deployed."

"Wait, what?" Hangman panicked. "Deployed?"

"They needed me," I mumbled.

"I guess I get it," he stuttered. "You had the best record. No one could beat you. Where did they send you?"

"It doesn't matter," I said a little too quickly. I looked up and saw nothing but worry in his eyes.

"Yes, it does," he gently pushed, closing the gap between us. "Where did you. . ."

"Please don't ask me," I cut him off. I closed my eyes, forcing the tears not to fall. "Because if you ask me, I'll answer and I don't want to bring those memories back."

My eyes were still closed when Jake pulled me into his arms. I buried my face in his chest and wrapped my arms around his waist. Memories of the last time I saw him flooded my mind but it was better than memories of that deployment.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," he whispered. "But you know, whatever happened over there, you can talk to me about it."

His honest offer to listen as I vented about the worst flight of my life was too much. I shook my head as I pulled out of our embrace and took a step away from him. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself and looked away.

"Y/N," he sighed, trying to get my attention, "I know we ended things kind of awkwardly but. . ."

"Kind of," I mumbled. I looked back at him before continuing, "Jake, we got drunk and slept together. I knew I was shipping out the next day and. . ."

"Wait," Hangman cut me off. "You knew you were shipping off? What? Did you purposefully get drunk and sleep with me?"

"It wasn't as planned as that," I sighed. "I purposefully got drunk because I was nervous about where I was going and what they needed me to. . ." I cleared my throat before continuing. "I got drunk and you joined me. We were both drunk and didn't hold back. I didn't purposefully get you drunk and lure you to bed. Besides, it wasn't like it took much to get you into bed. I'm not sure how you feel, but I don't regret it. It was the one thing I wanted before. . . I didn't know if I'd ever see you again, Jake. And I didn't want to die without being with you. At least for one night."

Before I could overthink my response, Jake grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his chest. The second I was close to him, he leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. He let go of my wrists and wrapped his arms around my waist as our lips moved in sync. We broke apart, breathing heavily.

"I've missed you like crazy," he whispered with his nose pressed to mine. "That night we spent together is stuck in my head. I haven't forgotten it."

"Really?" I couldn't help but ask. "Here I was, thinking it was just another one-night stand for you."

"With you? Never." He smirked as he tightened his arms around my waist. He paused before adding, "Y/N, when I woke up and you weren't there, I have never felt so lost and confused. I searched for you but they told me you were transferred. I looked for you. For months. I didn't want it to be a one-night stand, Y/N. I wanted more."

"More?"

He leaned in and delicately pressed his lips to mine. Our lips moved in sync until I remembered where we were.

"Jake," I gasped, breaking the kiss. "We can't. . . Not here. . . We're at work."

"I just happen to have a place nearby," he smirked.

"Jake," I sighed, slightly pushing him off of me.

"I know. I know," he chuckled. "You're my superior. If we start something, we need to be careful."

"It's not that," I said, slightly clearing my throat.

"What is it?" Jake gently pushed.

"I'm trying to get the Admirals to hire Captain Mitchell back. He deserves his job back."

"Wait, what?"

"He does, Jake," I said quickly. "This is a dangerous mission. A really dangerous mission. And I don't have the experience. Well, I do but I can't be focused enough. Maverick can keep you. . ."

"Why can't you be focused?" He asked, cutting me off. "Because of me?"

"Partly," I said honestly. "But. . ."

"Y/N," he said my name softly. "Does this have to do with your mission? What happened?"

"It was really bad," I said, my voice breaking. "They wanted me. . . They needed me. . . They ordered me to bomb a training facility. I killed hundreds of innocent people!"

Jake pulled me into his chest and wrapped his arms around me as I sobbed.

"You were following orders," he tried to comfort me. I shook my head and buried my face into his neck.

"I can't do it," I said through my sobs. "I can't send you on a mission that you might not come back from. I can't be responsible for your death too. I can't. I can't. I won't."

* * * * *

"Captain Y/L/N, might I have a word?"

"Of course, Captain Mitchell," I excused myself before following Maverick.

"I wanted to say thank you," he started. "Admiral Soloman told me that you stepped down and recommended they give me my job back."

"I did," I nodded as I folded my hands behind my back.

"I also understand that it's not because you couldn't take care of the team and train them," Maverick said. I glanced at him and saw the knowing look in his eyes. "I've read about your mission, Captain. I also know that you tried to refuse the mission. You didn't choose to bomb the center. You were ordered."

"That doesn't change the number of lives I ruined," I mumbled to myself.

"Captain," Maverick said after a little pause, "how did you get your call sign, Firefly?"

My heart flipped. I cleared my throat as I tried to figure out if I should tell him the truth.

"One of the pilots I trained with gave it to me," I said, dancing around the full story. "He used to say that he was always chasing me like little kids chase a firefly."

"Who is the pilot that gave it to you?" Maverick asked, the tone of his voice sounding like he already knew the answer.

"You say you've read about my mission," I sighed, tired of this facade, "which means you also know who I flew with before my assignment."

"Hangman."

"That's not what I called him," I said under my breath as I wrapped my arms around myself.

"What did you call him?"

I smiled as I answered, "Serendipity."

"Really?" Maverick asked, holding back his laugh. "Doesn't that word mean. . ."

"The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way," I recited the definition I knew too well. "Jake liked to believe that we called him Serendipity because it sounds close to his last name."

"Why did you give him that call sign?"

"He and I got to talking one night," I explained, "and the way he spoke about his life made it seem like it was a miracle. He used to believe he was, "a lucky bastard". His words. To me, Serendipity was a better call sign than Lucky Bastard. And now he's known as, Hangman because he leaves his fellow pilots hanging."

"Something tells me that he won't be like that now," Maverick chuckled.

"What do you mean?"

Before he could ask me, someone came jogging toward us.

"They're ready for your announcement, sir."

"Of course," Maverick nodded. He started to walk away but stopped. He turned back and answered, "He won't be Hangman with you here."

* * * * *

I stepped into the back of the room, my eyes instantly finding Jake. It was like he sensed I was there because he turned around almost instantly. He sent me a smile and a teasing wink. I rolled my eyes and made a spinning motion with my finger, telling him to turn back around.

As Admiral Soloman and Maverick walked into the room, the tension and mood in the room shifted. My eyes glanced back at Jake's head.

"It has been an honor flying with you," Maverick said. "Each one of you represents the best of the best. This is a very specific mission. My choice is a reflection of that and nothing more."

"Choose your two Foxtrot teams," Admiral Simpson instructed.

"Payback and Fanboy. Phoenix and Bob."

"And your wingman," Admiral Beau added.

"Rooster."

My heart jumped into my throat as my eyes darted to Jake. I couldn't see his expression but I worried about what he would be thinking.

"The rest of you will stand by on the carrier for any reserve role that's required," Admiral Simpson instructed.

"Dismissed."

I waited to catch Jake's eyes as he left but he kept his head down. I quickly left, trying to find him. When I did, he was over by his plane. I held my breath as I walked up behind him.

"Are you okay?" I asked once I had found my voice. When he looked at me, it wasn't what I expected. I thought he'd be angry, but he wasn't.

"I am," he said with what looks like a smile on his face.

"Really?"

"Really," he nodded honestly. He grabbed my waist and pulled me into him.

"But I thought you'd be angry," I said under my breath.

"Why would I be angry?" He chuckled. "I get to stay on the boat. With you."

Part 2

#glen powell #glen powell fanfic #glen powell imagines #top gun: Maverick #hangman #jake hangman fic #top gun hangman

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mapsthewanderer · 3 months ago

Text

Plated II

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 6400ish words. The Bear AU goes harem drama, non MC reader! The slowburn has officially come to an end—world-building complete, and we’re diving in. This chapter includes: fluff, stress, banter, Raf being the most theatrical man alive, Caleb wrecking hearts (with zero remorse?), Zayne and Caleb drama and Sylus casually power-playing both you and his entire staff. Xav is a star. Definitely 18+ adult stuff, heavy kissing incoming. Brace yourself for the next chapter. It only gets wilder lol.

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox

Chapters: Pilot, chapter one, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

Needs blood | Chapter two

You drag yourself upright, groggy, heart thudding in your chest. The wine. Too much. Not too much. Just enough to keep you dreaming about leadership and pressure and the words—“I brought you here to lead.”

You groan. Shuffle to the door in nothing but an oversized black T-shirt that hangs low on your thighs, sleeves falling past your elbows.

You unlock it.

There he is.

Caleb. Sweaty from his run, hoodie slung around his neck, shirt clinging in all the wrong places. One hand holding his phone, the other clutching a folded paper.

His mouth is already open to speak—then he stops.

Eyes lower.

Linger.

And narrow.

“…Is that my shirt?”

You blink. “…What?”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous.

“That’s my shirt.”

You look down at the fabric. The worn collar. The faint, nearly invisible oil stain by the hem.

Oh.

“Caleb—”

“Nope.” He leans against the doorframe. “You made me run three extra blocks because I thought something was wrong. Turns out you were just wine-wrecked and wearing the softest shirt known to mankind.”

He exhales like it’s physically paining him not to laugh. “You never gave it back.”

Then, quieter—“After the egg incident. When Xavier set off that ridiculous steam trap and you walked out looking like a soufflé.”

Your face warms. “It was clean.”

“Barely,” he mutters. Then his smile turns sharp, warm. “But I missed that shirt.”

A pause. “Turns out, you wear it better anyway.”

You fold your arms. Regret every second of opening this door.

He grins like he just won a bet he didn’t need to place.

“Anyways. Good morning, chef.”

He holds up the folded paper like a trophy.

“Now let’s read how close we came to greatness.”

His eyes sweep you once—hair damp, bare legs, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

“You’re free to read it like that, by the way.”

A beat.

“But I can’t be held responsible for where that leads.”

You give him a look. You consider it.

Yet ten minutes later—you’ve changed.

The shirt’s replaced with something less compromising. Your hands are warm around the coffee mug as you lean against the counter, watching him pace across your kitchen, the review unfolded in his hands like it’s a classified document.

Caleb’s still flushed from his run, the hoodie now tossed over a nearby chair. His hair’s a little wild, sweat-damp at the temples. The paper flutters slightly with every motion of his hands.

“Here we go,” he mutters. “Opening line: ‘Plated is not for the faint of appetite.’”

He glances up at you. “Good start or warning?”

You sip. “Depends on the appetite.”

“Next: ‘From the first pour to the final plate, there’s an intensity to the place—one that feels deliberate.’”

A pause. He looks over the rim of the page.

“That’s Sylus. That’s totally Sylus—”

You move to pour Caleb’s mug.

He pauses mid-sentence. “Apple juice in mine. If you have some, that is.”

You stop. Turn. “…What?”

He doesn’t look up. “Try it. Trust me.”

You stare. Then shrug. And do it.

Only in his.

He takes a sip without flinching.

“Right. Raf. Here we go.” He clears his throat like it’s the main event.

“‘The dessert—a burnt citrus caramel with a blood orange shell—was nothing short of devastating. There’s flair, yes, but beneath it: precision. Rage, even. Like sweetness offered as defiance.’”

You blink. “Wow.”

Caleb grins. “I know. I think he’s going to print this and frame it.”

You lean back against the counter, refilling your mug. Caleb swirls his like he’s tasting notes of chaos and poor judgment.

“You seriously drink it like that?”

He shrugs. “It keeps me awake and concerned. Two essential states of mind.”

You snort softly.

He glances back at the paper. “Okay—next up. Timing.”

He reads: “There is one dish that arrives not just on time, but at the exact second it’s needed. Plated with such clean intention it feels sterile—but never cold. There’s something almost unnerving about that kind of precision. It cuts through the meal like a scalpel.”

He lowers the paper, smirking.

“Gee. Wonder who that could be.”

You’re already unlocking your phone.

“We’re calling him.”

He grins. “Put him on speaker.”

You tap the screen and hand your phone to Caleb. Zayne’s voice answers on the third tone. Flat. Alert. Not even groggy.

“What?”

“Morning, sunshine,” Caleb says, already smug. “You made the review.”

A beat.

“…Didn’t read it.”

You glance at each other.

“We figured,” you say. “Want the highlight?”

A pause. The faint sound of a door closing on Zayne’s end.

“Go on.”

Caleb clears his throat dramatically. “Sterile but never cold. Plated with clean intention. Unnerving precision. Cuts like a scalpel.” He lowers the page with a grin audible in his voice. “You’re officially terrifying.”

Zayne doesn’t respond immediately. Then:

“…They didn’t hate it?”

You smile.

“They didn’t hate it.”

Another pause. Then, just faintly:

“…Good.”

You can hear him sip something on the other end. Not black coffee, as you’d might expect—something sweeter. Probably laced with vanilla syrup and quiet shame.

“And the rest?” Zayne asks.

Caleb flips the page with the same energy as someone unwrapping something dangerous.

“Raf stole the entire back half. The dessert paragraph’s basically poetry.”

You chime in: “He made citrus sound like a battle cry.”

Zayne huffs—almost a laugh. “He’ll be impossible now.”

“Correct,” Caleb says. “Which is why we’re letting him sleep until noon.”

Zayne sighs.

“Call me if there’s real news.”

Click.

Caleb sets your phone down and exhales through his nose, still grinning.

“He’s pleased. That was Zayne’s version of fireworks.”

You sip your coffee again. Still too hot.

Caleb lifts the paper like a curtain.

“Let’s finish it, Hotshot.”

And you nod. Because whatever it says next, you’re ready to burn through it. Caleb flips to the last page like it might bite him. You watch him skim, eyes flicking across the text.

“No mention of Xavier yet,” you murmur, leaning over slightly. “Unless he snuck in under ‘atmosphere.’”

“Probably filed under mysterious ambient presence,” Caleb says, deadpan. “Or ‘sleeping garnish spirit.’”

You snort into your mug.

Then he pauses.

“Ah. Here’s Sylus.”

“Owner Sylus made a rare appearance at the front of house, offering the opening pour himself. The selection—a champagne from Montagne de Reims—was elegant and disarming. It’s a clever tactic: to control the mood before the food. A performance before the curtain rises.”

He glances up. “Disarming, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “He probably whispered the grape’s lineage like it was a war poem.”

“There’s no point calling him,” Caleb mutters, folding the paper. “He’s probably slumbering in velvet sheets inside a climate-controlled wine vault. Do not disturb until sundown.”

“Or unless we break a glass.”

He gives you a look. “God help us if we chip a decanter.”

The laughter fades, soft around the edges, and the quiet settles again.

Caleb taps the page.

“Here it is. Final line.”

His voice evens out. He doesn’t smile this time.

“Once a rising star in a kitchen that burned too hot, too fast—Caleb is the phoenix, if he’s willing to rise. But this time, he doesn’t fly alone. He has a brigade built sharper, steadier—and an anchor that holds the line when the flames grow high.”

He doesn’t look at you yet. Just breathes out through his nose.

Then: “There is fire in this kitchen. Not always contained. Not always kind. But fire nonetheless. I’ve seen stars born in less.”

He lowers the paper.

Your heart taps once, sharp and clear.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then—Caleb tilts his head slightly, watching you.

His voice drops just a little.

“They saw you.”

You meet his eyes.

“Did they?”

He holds the silence for one breath. Two.

Then—

“Yeah. They did.”

You nod, quietly. Sip your coffee. You’re still standing.

“An anchor…” he says quietly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not teasing. Not assessing. Just there.

And then he’s moving.

No warning.

He closes the space between you in two easy steps, arms looping around you, strong and steady and suddenly everything.

He pulls you close and holds on tight—tighter than you expect. The only thing between you is your hand curled around the warm mug, pressed to your chest like a fragile secret. Caleb doesn’t try to move it. Doesn’t try to move you. His warmth seeps in—quiet and steady—melting through places you didn’t realize had gone cold.

You blink. Once. Then again.

You don’t remember the last time you were held like this.

His breath is right above your ear when he says it:

“I’m so proud of you.”

Quiet. Firm. No smirk. No show.

He doesn’t let go right away.

And when he does, his hands linger a second longer than they need to—sliding away like he’s reluctant to leave that warmth behind.

He clears his throat. “We should meet the others.”

You nod, blinking again.

He tosses the paper onto the counter, then grabs his hoodie. Halfway to the door, he calls over his shoulder: “Text them. I’ll see you there.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

You’re left standing in the quiet.

The review still sitting on the counter.

And the warmth of his arms still stitched into your spine.

You reach for your phone.

It’s time to bring the brigade back together.

————————————-——————————————

The beach isn’t warm.

It’s cold in the kind of way that seeps into your sleeves and catches behind your collar. Gray sky, damp air, sand still dark from the night before. But the sea keeps moving—and so do you.

The brigade shows up anyway.

Zayne is already there. Coat long and dark, collar up against the wind. He doesn’t look like he planned to arrive first—but he’s perched on a driftwood log with a cup of something warm in his hands and a quiet watchfulness in his expression. When you approach, he doesn’t look surprised.

“They forced me,” he says, before you can ask. He doesn’t move.

But he stays.

Xavier follows quietly, hoodie under jacket, bringing something that might be homemade trail mix. Or birdseed. He offers it to everyone with sleepy eyes and no explanation.

Caleb arrives last of the inner circle, paper bag under one arm, a scarf around his neck like he walked out of a black-and-white film. He doesn’t speak right away—just looks at you, lips tugging into that quiet, lopsided smile that feels like it belongs to only you.

But the real center of gravity?

Rafayel.

Already there.

Already theatrical.

He’s splayed across a massive velvet blanket like it’s a chaise lounge in Paris. His coat is long and ridiculous—somewhere between oil-slick and plum. A scarf is tied over his hair like he’s mourning a poet. His sunglasses are far too glamorous for the weather.

As you arrive, he throws out his arms like he’s receiving communion.

“Dear chefs,” he croons, “the muse demands tribute.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “You mean pastries?”

“I mean praise,” Raf says, standing with a flare of fabric. “But fine. I’ll accept baked goods.”

“You said half an hour,” Zayne mutters. “We’re going on one.”

“The sun demanded more of me,” Raf sighs. “And the wind tried to negotiate, but I do not haggle with weather.”

You sit beside him. He lets you. Leans into your shoulder, not for warmth—just because he can.

“You did it,” you say.

He hums, light and airy. But quieter than before. “We did.”

Then—

He exhales. The sunglasses come off. His eyes catch in the gray light—pinkish blue, squinting against the wind.

“They called it devastating,” he says softly. Then with more flair: “Do you know how deeply I want that carved on my grave?”

You laugh. But his voice dips again, just enough: “What if I can’t do it again?”

You turn to look at him. His jaw is set, lips pulled tight at the corners like he’s daring you to call him dramatic. But the edge in his voice is real.

You bump your shoulder against his, gentle. “Then we’ll devastate them together.”

He closes his eyes for half a second.

Then sighs. “Ugh, you’re all so sentimental when I’m vulnerable.”

From the side, Caleb calls out: “You mean when you’re honest?”

“Absolutely not,” Raf says, sitting upright. “I am never honest. I am aesthetic.”

“Is that what you call that coat?” Zayne deadpans.

“This coat,” Raf gasps, pulling it tighter, “is sharper than your principles.”

The ocean hisses behind you. The waves roll in, quiet and constant. Somewhere, gulls cry like lost kitchen timers. Xavier has wrapped himself in a blanket and is now fully horizontal on the sand.

Caleb hands you a pastry from the paper bag.

Almond. Warm. Somehow.

The wind picks up.

And then—

a car pulls up.

Far end of the lot. Quiet. Clean.

You all look up.

Sylus steps out.

Impeccable. Black coat to the knees. Gloves. Impossibly polished shoes that will never touch the sand.

He walks toward you like the wind doesn’t dare touch him. In his hand: a single bottle of deep red wine, nearly black in the shadowed light.

He stops in front of Raf.

“Chef.” No smile.

He extends the bottle with one gloved hand.

“Sangiovese. Tuscany. 2010.”

His voice like velvet dragged across crystal.

“You may celebrate now.”

Raf blinks. Then clutches the bottle like a rescued infant. “I have never felt so seen.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Try not to pair it with anything pedestrian, chef.”

Zayne mumbles, “That’s a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.”

“No,” Sylus replies. “It’s a warning.”

He casts a glance over the group—his eyes catching yours last.

A nod. Just once. And he’s gone. Back to the car. Back to mystery. Coat snapping in the wind like punctuation.

You all sit in the pause he left behind.

Raf stares at the bottle like it might sing to him.

“I’m not opening it today,” he says solemnly. “It needs to be dramatic. Maybe lightning. Or sabotage. Or an affair.”

Caleb tosses him a corkscrew anyway.

——————————————————————————

By the end of the week…

——————————————————————————

The morning is heavy with silver light. The kind of light that feels quiet, even when the city isn’t.

You’re first through the door. The air inside is clean but cold—citrus, steel, and something just beneath: anticipation.

The pass is dark. The hoods silent.

You click the lights on one by one.

The kitchen inhales.

Then—

The door swings open. Caleb strides in, not rushed, but moving like he already knows how the day will end.

He’s on the phone, sleeves pushed up, jaw tight.

“He doesn’t touch the line unless I say so.”

A pause. He listens. Doesn’t blink.

“You want fireworks, call a show. I’m running a kitchen.”

He ends the call with one finger and a practiced exhale.

His eyes find yours instantly.

“Special menu. One-night only.”

You glance toward the prep list. “Sylus?”

“Who else.” He tosses a sheet of paper onto the counter. You catch it before it slides off.

——————————————————————————

Fire & Smoke

A post-review tribute.

— Featuring the Ravaging Dessert by Chef Rafayel.

——————————————————————————

You raise a brow. “He called it a tribute?”

“He called it marketing.”

He crosses to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. His handwriting is precise, like everything else he does when he’s trying not to think too hard.

“Sylus built the menu himself. Seven courses locked. Only thing left is the plat principal.”

You pause. “Why?”

Caleb’s voice dips—dry, exact.

“Because he wants a spectacle.”

By the time Raf arrives, the air’s already changed.

He doesn’t walk in—he sweeps, trailing fabric like storm clouds and attitude. His coat is somewhere between baroque upholstery and avant-garde rebellion, and his scarf is wrapped high, pinned with something that sparkles like a stolen heirloom.

He stops dead in the doorway, clutching a canvas bag to his chest as if shielding from a world that doesn’t deserve him.

“This,” he declares to no one in particular, “is a gross misuse of my creative superiority.”

He strides to his station, unspooling a tangled mess of herbs like he’s unrolling ancient scrolls.

“I was meant for galleries. For tragic love affairs involving painters with cheekbones sharp enough to cut fruit—not price-fixed menus orchestrated by capitalist vampires.”

From the far doorway, a voice like honey stirred through smoke:

“And yet you’re sold out.”

Sylus.

Holding an espresso cup so small it’s practically mocking the concept of caffeine. He doesn’t enter. He arrives. His coat is black, his gaze amused, his smirk painted with patience and profit.

“Full house,” he says. “People are calling it the aftermath menu.”

“You’re making money off my devastation,” Raf mutters.

“As any wise man would.” Sylus sips, unbothered. “Yet… We’re missing a centerpiece.”

He lays the printed menu down on the counter like a playing card. “Dessert’s already infamous. The rest? Solid. Professional.”

His crimson eyes flick toward Caleb.

“But this menu doesn’t just need polish.”

A slow smile.

“It needs blood.”

The room tightens. Even the steam from the stovetop seems to pause.

Caleb straightens from where he’s been overseeing prep. His ash-brown hair is pushed back from his forehead, damp at the temples. His arms are bare to the elbows, tension rolling beneath pale skin. Violet eyes cut toward Sylus like a warning dressed in steel.

“I’ve already approved the main dish.”

“You’ve approved it.” Sylus lifts one eyebrow, smooth and slow. “I haven’t.”

The kitchen door swings open again—clean, silent.

Zayne steps in, already rolling his sleeves up. His black hair is slightly tousled like he walked here fast, eyes sharp behind silver-framed glasses.

“Apologies,” he says calmly, setting his bag down and heading to the sink to wash his hands. “I got Sylus’ text.”

Caleb doesn’t look up from the prep table—just lifts his eyes for one beat.

Zayne meets the gaze.

No words. Just the slight nod between two men who know exactly what’s about to hit them.

Sylus.

Whatever this night is—it’s not going to be quiet.

Zayne dries his hands. Picks up his cleaver. And sets it on the board with a soft, purposeful clack. He rolls his shoulders once—discreet, economical—and brushes his black bangs from his eyes. His sharp green gaze slides toward Caleb.

Stillness.

Then, Sylus steps closer. “Two chefs. One dish. One claim to the plat principal.”

A hush falls so complete you can hear the low hum of the lights above.

Zayne’s tone is colder—cut from stone. He speaks without pause, without emotion:

“I’ll cook.”

Caleb doesn’t flinch. He stares Sylus down, jaw tight, the corner of his mouth lifting—not in a smile. Something hungrier. His voice drops:

“I’ll win, boss.”

——————————————————————————

Stations cleared.

Rules announced.

Sylus sets the stage with precision. “Monkfish. Forty-five minutes. Use anything in the pantry. No help.”

Raf practically floats to the pass, coat flaring like a cape. He drapes himself dramatically across the edge, hands clasped. “Ladies. Gentlemen. And lovers of all things seared—welcome to what will surely be remembered as the Reduction of Egos.”

And then—

A voice from nowhere.

“The line’s about to split.”

You spin.

Xavier is just there, leaning against the walk-in, a towel tossed over one shoulder, a single sprig of rosemary hanging from his fingers like a cigarette.

Raf jumps half a step. “Jesus—how long have you been there?”

Xavier blinks slowly. “Since Zayne came in.”

You and Raf share a look—equal parts impressed and unsettled. Xavier shrugs. “Thought it’d be rude to interrupt the pre-battle tension.”

Then he wanders off toward the dish sink like nothing’s about to explode.

Your eyes flick back to the line. Your pulse ticks louder. The clock starts.

Caleb moves first.

Fast. Fluid. The flame obeys him like it remembers his touch.

He fillets the monkfish in three clean motions, the knife kissing the flesh like he’s danced this step before. His hands are confident—the hands of someone who’s held a brigade together with nothing but command and heat. Oil in the pan. Fennel hits the board. Wine reduced to memory.

He doesn’t talk.

He commands the silence.

Zayne doesn’t rush.

He’s deliberate. Precise. He salts like he’s measuring atoms. The monkfish is scored like calligraphy, the skin seared under a weighted press. Hazel green eyes flick only to the clock—never to Caleb. Black hair strands falls once over his brow. He doesn’t push it back. He just keeps going.

His plate forms like a thesis. Every color chosen. Every sauce exact.

Raf, voice hushed like an announcer in a cathedral: “Caleb’s building something from instinct. From pressure. From fire. Zayne’s plating the thing Caleb feels—but he’s doing it cleaner.”

Xavier, eyes tracking both without blinking: “It’s not speed. It’s control. Caleb’s cooking like the world’s ending. Zayne’s cooking like it already did.”

The moment the bell sounds, both dishes land. Caleb and Zayne each call “hands,” almost in unison— reflexive, controlled, voices even.

A trained instinct. Like stopping themselves from yelling in a room that still echoes with ghosts, even during a cook-off held behind closed doors.

The heat still curls off the sauce. Both plates gleam under the hood light—one elegant chaos, one immaculate control.

Sylus steps forward.

He picks up a fork. Tastes Zayne’s first.

His expression doesn’t change.

Then—Caleb’s.

A longer pause. He chews, closes his eyes.

The kind of silence that feels like it might swallow the room whole.

Then—

He turns to you.

Red eyes unreadable.

“Chef.”

Your throat tightens.

You taste both.

Zayne’s is stunning. Exact. Cold beauty.

Caleb’s is heat, weight, memory.

But only one dish is leading.

You point to Zayne’s.

The kitchen freezes.

You don’t justify. You don’t explain.

Caleb’s jaw flexes. Just once.

His violet gaze drops to the steel. Then back up, like he’s locking himself down—before the burn escapes.

He doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t move.

And Sylus—voice smooth as ever, soft enough to gut:

“Well then.”

A beat.

“Starboy’s lost his shine.”

It hits.

Raf actually gasps.

Xavier’s eyes widen, blue under the glow like water catching lightning.

Even Zayne’s fingers curl once around the edge of the counter—just once.

Caleb doesn’t speak.

But he takes off his apron.

Folds it. Sets it down.

The slow turn of his heel is louder than anything else in the room.

He walks.

Through the line.

Past the pass.

Out the door.

Gone.

The kitchen doesn’t move.

Not at first.

The silence settles like dust, soft and heavy, hanging in the steam-warmed air.

Then Raf—stunned, breath caught somewhere between awe and heartbreak—whispers: “I’ve never wanted to faint and write poetry at the same time until this moment.”

And from across the line, Xavier’s voice comes quieter still—steady, strange, unshakably certain: “Stars don’t die.” A pause, almost reverent. “They collapse. Quietly.” Another breath. “And the gravity stays.”

——————————————————————————

The service is tight. Fast.

Caleb doesn’t bark. He barely speaks.

Orders come clipped, clean, just enough to keep the machine moving.

He doesn’t pace the line. Eyes everywhere. Hands silent. He doesn’t look at the pass like a battlefield anymore. He just holds it.

And the brigade?

They follow like it’s instinct. Like they were built for this exact weight.

Raf’s dessert hits the pass like a closing aria—bitter citrus, burnt sugar, the echo of rage folded into grace. The plates come back empty. One by one. Gleaming.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. His timing is surgical. His knives don’t hesitate. He doesn’t look up—but he hears everything. Every motion. Every breath.

Xavier? He doesn’t walk. He glides.

A shadow behind the line, exactly where he needs to be before anyone says a word. He replaces towels. Catches a falling ladle mid-air. Adjusts garnish like it’s wind-blown. He moves like time bends for him. Like he already lived this service, and came back just to make it smoother.

The pass pulses with momentum.

No one talks.

They don’t have to.

Because Caleb’s still burning.

Just lower.

Just closer.

Barely contained.

And when the last plate clears—

When the final note has rung and the kitchen exhales—

You slip out the back door. Let the cool alley air wrap around your skin like steel-washed silk.

Xavier’s already there.

A blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak. He’s holding a mug of tea that’s still steaming, though it’s hard to say if he’s drunk any. His blond bangs fall lazily over his eyes—bright, pale blue beneath. He looks like a dream with a spine.

As you step out into the cool air, he shifts—just slightly. Without looking at you, he lifts one side of the blanket.

An invitation. Silent. Effortless.

You don’t hesitate. You step in close, and he lets the blanket fall around your shoulders too. The warmth is soft and instant, but the quiet companionship is even warmer. He doesn’t look at you. Just says:

“You know what I noticed?”

You wait.

“They didn’t even talk about the food.” A pause. He swirls his tea without looking down. “It wasn’t about cooking. It was about who was left.”

You breathe out, watching your own steam mingle with his.

Xavier shifts slightly, the blanket bunching around his elbows. He glances toward you now—his eyes catch the light from the kitchen vent, just enough to glow that soft, impossible blue.

He studies you for a moment. Thoughtful. Almost sleepy. Then: “I read the review.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you?”

He nods. “It described you as the anchor.”

You blink. The words linger strangely.

He lifts the mug again, doesn’t sip. “I thought that was funny.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He turns his gaze back to the alley, to the quiet city beyond.

“Because I already said that. Days ago.”

You pause. “You think it’s strange that it matched?”

Xavier finally looks at you again. Really looks.

His voice is soft, but the words are sharp in their simplicity: “Not strange. Just correct.”

You smile. A little helpless.

He watches you, blinking slowly, like you’re something familiar and still a bit magical. Then, very quietly: “You hold all of us. Even when you don’t notice.”

And then he sips his tea, eyes closing for a moment like the warmth has reached all the way through.

A gust of wind pulls his bangs aside. For one breath, you see the full brightness of him. A childlike shell with the soul of a thousand quiet rooms. He’s not just observant.

He understands.

You settle beside him beneath the blanket, the quiet stretching wide around you. And then—gently—you let your head rest on his shoulder.

He doesn’t shift or speak. He just sips his tea once, eyes half-lidded, as if the moment was expected. You feel the urge to snuggle closer—to let the warmth, the stillness, the Xavier-ness of him settle the last of the tension in your chest.

So you do. And he lets you.

Steam.

Silence.

And the anchor.

Then, after a while—

His voice again, quiet and sure: “Caleb survived.” He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “But he didn’t come back the same.”

Xavier turns. “Maybe he’s not supposed to.”

The door slams open.

Caleb.

Hair pushed back, coat half-buttoned, fire in every line of his body.

“I’ve had it.” His voice is low, clipped, but crackling with heat. “I don’t care how many bottles Sylus opens, or what kind of blood he squeezes from the press release. I’m not doing this anymore.”

You straighten. “Caleb—”

“No. I’m done.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, eyes flashing. “It’s not the work. It’s him. It’s the way he plays with people. With fire. I rebuilt myself after that last kitchen. I won’t burn out again just because he wants another headline.”

His fists clench, then release. But he doesn’t calm. He looks at you—just once.

Eyes full. Angry. Tired.

Then—

He turns and walks.

Out into the night.

Gone.

Silence again.

You’re still by the wall, breath caught.

Xavier sips his tea once more. Doesn’t speak. Then, softly—

He nods toward the alley.

Not a word.

Just a gesture.

Go.

You don’t hesitate.

You push off the wall the moment Xavier nods, feet already in motion, the door still swinging behind Caleb.

He’s fast when he’s angry. Always has been—like motion’s the only thing that keeps him from combusting. You spot him a block ahead, already cutting across the intersection, sleeves rolled up, pace clipped, jaw tight.

You call his name.

He doesn’t stop.

So you run.

Your boots echo off the sidewalk as you catch up, breath fogging in the cold. You reach out—fingers just barely grazing his wrist.

He halts.

Not all at once—more like he lets himself be stopped. Shoulders still braced. Pulse still hammering.

“Caleb.”

He turns halfway. His jaw’s tight. His violet eyes—storm-lit.

But they’re tired.

“I can’t do this,” he says, low. “Not like this. Not when he’s using us like pieces. I rebuilt everything after that last place. Everything. I can’t burn it down again for someone else’s performance.”

He runs a hand through his hair—messing it up worse, bangs in his eyes now, breathing hard like he’s still mid-sprint. “It’s not the work. You know that. It’s him. The way he pushes. The way he smiles while we break.”

You step in. Closer.

“Take a breath.”

“I have.” His fists clench again. Then open. Then clench. “I told Sylus I’m not coming in tomorrow. Before I almost—” He breaks off. Shakes his head.

“I was inches from hitting him. And the worst part?” He looks at you now, finally—really looks. “I don’t even know if it would’ve made me feel better.”

You find the bench without words. A few feet away. Half-lit by a buzzing streetlamp.

You sit first. He doesn’t move at first, then sighs—grudgingly, like he knows he’ll follow you even before he starts walking.

He drops onto the bench beside you. Stiff. Tense.

“Do you remember that night?” he asks suddenly. “Culinary school. After the exam. When we sat on the sidewalk with burnt toast and frozen peas because the oven broke and I said we’d improvise?”

You smile. Slowly. “You stole the wine from the instructor’s cooler.”

Caleb lets out a half-laugh. Just a puff of air. “You kissed me on the cheek that night.”

You turn to look at him.

“I remember.”

The silence stretches.

And then—he reaches for your hand.

Just once.

His fingers slip between yours, tentative and hot and so sure.

And then you’re leaning in.

He meets you halfway.

Slow at first. Then deeper. Then—more.

His hand cups your jaw, steady. The other slides behind your knee, pulling you up and into his lap like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

Your fingers knot into the front of his shirt.

He groans. Low. From somewhere buried in his chest. His mouth open over yours, breath sharp, tongue brushing yours like he’s claiming every last second he’s denied. Strong hands settle at your hips, then grip, dragging you down against him.

Grinding.

You feel him. All of him. Your lips part, and he bites—soft, but with teeth. Your lip catches between his, and he doesn’t let go until you gasp his name.

His eyes flash—violet in the dark, wild with restraint.

“Come home with me,” you whisper, your breath skating the edge of his mouth. Your voice is low, but steady. “You always had a reason, Caleb.”

He freezes—just slightly.

“Another shift. Another call. Another shot at proving something.” You swallow. “And every time, I let you walk away.”

Your hand moves up, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw—slow, aching. “You’d leave me half-undressed with excuses still clinging to your mouth.”

A pause.

His eyes close for a beat—like your words landed where he couldn’t brace for them.

You breathe him in. “Don’t care about the career. Not tonight. Don’t choose it over me. Not again.”

And when you kiss him, it’s full of every time he almost stayed.

Caleb freezes.

Just for a second.

Then clutches his jaw tight, like it physically hurts to pull away. He does anyway. Breaks the kiss—but only just.

His forehead leans against yours again, voice shaking as it leaves him: “You’re killing me.”

And you know he means it. His hands still cradle your thighs. His pulse bangs in your ears. His mouth hovers so close you could slip back into him with half a breath.

But he stays still.

“Not like this,” he mutters again.

His forehead rests harder against yours, like it’s holding something in. “I really can’t.” It sounds like it hurts. “I’m your boss. I can’t… not like this.”

A breath catches between you. His hand tightens against your side, then loosens—like even touching you makes this harder.

“I never meant for you to walk into my kitchen,” he murmurs. “Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t want it.”

You blink. But he keeps going—soft, low, barely audible above your breath.

“When Sylus introduced the new hire and I saw you…” His eyes close for just a second. “I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what to do.”

A pause. His voice frays.

“I didn’t want to be your boss, Hotshot…”

His confession hovers—raw, electric. Like something neither of you were meant to say out loud. Then—

“I just wanted to cook beside you again.”

You feel the heat from his skin. His hand still in yours.

“I want to.” His voice is hoarse, thick with every time he didn’t say it. “You have no idea how much I want to.”

Then—his voice drops even lower. Barely more than breath: “Everything I’ve done—every step forward, every goddamn shift I took… it was always to build something good enough.”

A pause. You don’t dare move.

“So you’d never have to stay overtime. So you’d never burn out like I did. So you’d walk into a kitchen and know someone already bled for you.”

His voice cracks at the edges.

“I thought if I became the best, I could finally be enough. For you.”

And in the hush that follows—your voice cuts through, soft but steady.

“I never asked you to.”

You squeeze his hand.

He lets you.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not the kiss.

Not the fire.

But the truth he never let himself hear.

“I’m going to take tomorrow off. Clear my head. I have to. I can feel it happening again.” A pause. “I’m trying not to burn.”

You don’t say anything else.

Neither does he.

You just sit there, hand in hand, the cold biting at your ankles, but his palm stays warm. The quiet of the street hums around you. Distant traffic. A flicker of neon from a bodega across the intersection.

He exhales slowly, eyes forward. You watch the tension in his shoulders loosen by degrees—like maybe, just maybe, he’s letting go.

Your phone buzzes in your coat pocket.

You fish it out, thumb brushing the screen.

XAVIER: Let him rest. Let yourself, too. A good flame never dies. It just finds better fuel.

You smile. A soft, tired kind.

You look at Caleb. He’s watching the sky now, like it might answer something.

You squeeze his hand once more—then gently let go.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” you say.

He nods, slow. The corners of his mouth twitch up—not quite a smile, but close.

You stand.

And walk back into the city glow, the weight of the night trailing behind you like steam off a still-warm plate.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Where the hell did everyone go

I turned around and you all VANISHED like ghosts in a tragic romance

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown to: Helloo?? Is this kitchen cursed??

Do we need a group exorcism or just better communication skills???

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Why do I feel like I’m the only emotionally available one here?? Send help.

You huff out a quiet laugh.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Breathe, chef. We’re still here.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Lies. You’re literally GONE. But fine.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I have a plan. Don’t ask. It involves fairy lights, Zayne’s tolerance threshold, and possibly emotional whiplash. I’ll get back to you.

A pause.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No one gets to spiral into oblivion on my time. Not when I still have glitter and questionable playlists to weaponize.

Then one more line, quieter.

Careful.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I just… want everyone to feel okay again. That’s all.

The typing dots linger…

Then vanish.

Seconds later, your phone lights up again.

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: If this involves singing, I’m out. If it involves cake, I’m listening. Don’t make me regret this.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Will there be cats? If not, I will accept glowing drinks and uninterrupted wall space. Also… thank you.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I’m in. Don’t scare Xavier. Or Zayne. Too much.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No promises. Only glitter. And maybe a slow dance. Depending on who apologizes first.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: And if Xavier brings up cats again, I’m walking into the ocean. I don’t care if it’s metaphorical. I hate them.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: i just think they’re cute… you’re the one spiraling

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I don’t own one. But I’d trust a cat over most people.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: This is why I can’t have one day of peace. You’re both sympathizers.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: correct

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Accurate.

Still nothing from Caleb.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

You tuck your phone away.

And keep walking.

——————————————————————————

Chapter three

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Oookay peepz! That was the second-to-last chapter before my brain officially switches to radio silence. Well… sort of. You know me—I always have something simmering. I can’t wait to yeet the next chapter into the void so you can help steer the chaos with a lil poll vote (no pressure, just a fun choose-your-path moment—like a proper otome game, heeeh). Also! I’ll be posting something I’ve called Plated Interludes during the week—just little snippets full of banter, fun, and questionable choices. I’m down so bad in this AU, and I’m seriously so grateful you’re sticking around for the ride. Hearts all around! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

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theguywithaplan · 6 months ago

Text

List of Games Turning Twenty (20) Years Old in 2025

Advance Wars: Dual Strike

Advent Rising (they started planning the trilogy before the first game was out lmao)

Age of Empires III

Animal Crossing: Wild World (the DS one)

Arc the Lad: End of Darkness

Area 51 (the FPS that was low-key kinda creepy)

Banjo Pilot (the Banjo-Kazooie racing game on GBA).

Battalion Wars (the spin-off of Advance Wars).

Battlefield 2

Brothers in Arms: Road to Hill 30

Brothers in Arms: Earned in Blood (yep, they released two mainline games in one year).

Burnout Revenge (this cleared Burnout 3, and I will fight you on that).

Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth

Call of Duty 2

Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow (go play the Castlevania Dominus collection. It has this game and a few others and it's GREAT).

Castlevania: Curse of Darkness

Civilization IV

Cold Fear (answering the age old question: what if Resident Evil 4 was on a boat and not as good?)

Condemned: Criminal Origins (a launch title for the Xbox 360 and a pretty solid horror game).

Conker: Live & Reloaded (maybe a controversial opinion, but this is WAY better than the original).

Crash Tag Team Racing

Dead or Alive 4 (aka, the one with not Master Chief in it).

Destroy All Humans!

Devil Kings (all the sequels would be under it's non-translated title: Sengoku Basara).

Devil May Cry 3: Dante's Awakening (let's rock, baybeeeeee)

Donkey Kong: Jungle Beat

Dragon Ball Z: Sagas (I saw a stream of this game a few months back, and oh my god, this looks so shitty/funny).

Dragon Quest VIII: Journey of the Cursed King

Dynasty Warriors 5 (who's excited for Origins???)

Far Cry Instincts (a console version of the PC exclusive original game)

Fatal Frame III: The Tormented

F.E.A.R. (if you haven't played this before, change that. it's fantastic)

Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones

Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance (the one with Ike the Bisexual in it).

Forza Motorsport (the very first one).

Gauntlet: Seven Sorrows

Geist (the rare M-rated Nintendo game).

The Getaway: Black Monday

God of War (the very first one).

Gran Turismo 4 (one of the few PS2 games that could be played in HD, along with... Jackass: The Game...)

Guild Wars

Guitar Hero (the very first one).

Haunting Ground (a very rare PS2 horror game from Capcom).

Hot Shots Golf: Open Tee

The Incredible Hulk: Ultimate Destruction

The Incredibles: Rise of the Underminer (since the second movie came out, this game is now considered non-canon).

Indigo Prophecy/Fahrenheit (the second game from known hack/fraud David Cage).

Jade Empire (the last game that BioWare made before they got acquired by EA).

Jak X: Combat Racing

Judge Dredd: Dredd vs. Death (there was a for real-ass Judge Dredd game on the GameCube).

Kameo: Elements of Power (another Xbox 360 launch title, this one made by a post-acquisition Rare. It's pretty fun).

Killer7 (from the greatest to ever do it, Suda51)

Peter Jackson's King Kong: The Official Game of the Movie (you guys think it's based on the movie or what...?)

Kirby: Canvas Curse (a really fun DS game that only used the stylus)

Klonoa 2: Dream Champ Tournament (i think klonoa would get along really well with sonic)

The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap (the one where Link gets really small)

Lego Star Wars: The Video Game

Lunar: Dragon Song (one of the worst RPGs I've ever played. Don't play it).

Mario & Luigi: Partners in Time (the one with the Baby Mario Bros.)

Mario Kart DS (the first one with online play).

Mario Party Advance

Mario Party 7 (my personal favorite)

Mario Superstar Baseball (we didn't get a Mario Baseball game on the Switch. Because they're saving it for the Switch 2).

Mario Tennis: Power Tour (so many Mario games...)

Dance Dance Revolution: Mario Mix

Marvel Nemesis: Rise of the Imperfects

The Matrix Online (an official continuation from the movies)

The Matrix: Path of Neo

Medal of Honor: European Assault

MediEvil: Resurrection

Mega Man Battle Network 5 (the only one in the series to have a DS version)

Mega Man Zero 4

Mercenaries: Playground of Destruction

Metal Gear Acid (a launch title for the PSP, and a card game set in the Metal Gear universe. It works better than you might think).

Meteos (a puzzle game made by Masahiro Sakurai, the Smash Bros. guy)

Metroid Prime Pinball

Mortal Kombat: Shaolin Monks

Myst V: End of Ages (the final Myst game)

Need for Speed: Most Wanted (did you know that this game outsold the entire Halo series?)

Neopets: The Darkest Faerie (is Neopets still a thing?)

Nicktoons Unite! (a crossover between Spongebob, Fairly Oddparents, Jimmy Neutron, and Danny Phantom).

The Nightmare Before Christmas: Oogie's Revenge (an honest to god sequel to the movie that plays like Devil May Cry).

Ninja Gaiden Black

Nintendogs

Oddworld: Stranger's Wrath

Pac-Man World 3

Perfect Dark Zero (yet another Xbox 360 launch title, also made by Rare, and a sequel to one of the best FPS games ever made. It was fine).

Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney (it had been out in Japan for a few years, but us Yankees got this four years after it came out).

Pokemon Dash (a Pokemon racing game. It was not very good).

Pokemon Emerald Version (I sunk like 500 hours into this game).

Pokemon XD: Gale of Darkness (a sequel to Pokemon Colosseum where you could capture other people's Pokemon).

Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones

Psychonauts

The Punisher

Quake 4

Ratchet: Deadlocked

Resident Evil 4

Serious Sam 2

Shadow of the Colossus (one of the best games ever made. Play it if you haven't yet).

Shadow the Hedgehog (pretty good to be a sonic fan right now).

Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga (parts 1 and 2).

Sly 3: Honor Among Thieves

Sonic Rush

SoulCalibur III (RIP, SoulCalibur. Tekken is just too powerful.)

Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory (RIP, Splinter Cell. Ubisoft just sucks too much to make you anymore).

Spyro: Shadow Legacy

Star Fox Assault

Star Wars: Republic Commando

Star Wars: Battlefront II (this game's story mode is permanently etched into my brain).

Stubbs the Zombie in "Rebel Without a Pulse" (presenting it to you with no context. Look it up. It's hilarious).

Super Mario Strikers

Super Monkey Ball Deluxe

Tak: The Great Juju Challenge

Tekken 5

TimeSplitters: Future Perfect (RIP, TimeSplitters. Embracer Group killed you before you could come back).

Trace Memory (got remade in 2024 as Another Code)

Twisted Metal: Head-On (another PSP launch title)

Ultimate Spider-Man (you could play as Venom in this one)

WarioWare: Touched!

WarioWare: Twisted!

We Love Katamari

Wild Arms: Alter Code F (a remake of the first game)

Xenosaga Episode II

X-Men Legends II: Rise of Apocalypse

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leashybebes · 5 months ago

Note

Oh, well you KNOW I gotta know about the alien au

here we go, off the top of my head:

UFO just means unidentified flying object. Anyone who's been a pilot in as many places and situations as Tommy has seen objects in flight they haven't been able to identify, whether it's an experimental craft or a weird drone, or even just a weather balloon that caught the light wrong.

The thing he sees crash to earth in the middle of his solo camping trip to Joshua Tree after he blows up his relationship with Abby is none of those. He's well off the beaten track, a little too far through fall for there to be many people around even in the official campsites, so he doesn't know whether anyone else witnessed the object - an almost perfect sphere glowing silver against the night sky, getting bigger at a rate that indicates a velocity that makes his head spin just trying to calculate it, darting back and forth with a degree of control that shouldn't be possible for several long moments before it seems to flicker and plummets earthward.

He's travelling light so it only takes him five minutes to break camp and quick-march in the direction of the resulting explosion. When he gets there it's to twisted metal and a ring of blue-tinged fire with untouched earth in the middle of it, and in the middle of that is a figure, dressed in a silverish flight suit, tall and lithe and pale skinned, blinking open eerily blue eyes. The voice it speaks in has strange resonances, and there are mottled marks like birthmarks across its brows and temples, down to the sides of its throat, disappearing into the high, stiff collar. Those things aside, Tommy thinks he could pass it on the street and not give a second glance other than for the reasons he's just coming to terms with.

The first thing it says before the mangled remains of its technology kicks in and starts translating sounds like Ehv'ahn, and the name it eventually gives him is frankly unpronounceable, so Tommy calls him Evan.

That's about as far as they get before the lights of several black SUVs appear on the horizon, and they start to run.

#and then they have absurd men in black hijinks!!!#and tommy gets to live out his riker fantasies of making love to a beautiful alien #i mean what 👀👀#bucktommy #my writing #au meme

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rainix13 · 2 months ago

Text

Don't Forget

Doubt by Twentyone Pilots

masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

words: 4,2k

description: after Y/N gets rescued from Hydra she's not really herself but Natasha's determined to bring her back -

Genre: idk you tell me?? ._. hurt/comfort ig??

Warnings: legal age difference (Nat= 32, R = 22) split personality?, not proofread

I'm not overly happy with everything but overall it's okay i guess (also It's 3am idk what I'm saying anymore, any corrections probably in the next few days)

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩｡⋆｡✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You didn't know what was happening but you were sure something was.

There was a shift in the air. A tension lingering between the people around you. Something was off.

A red pop up on a monitor you could barely see blinking constantly but you couldn't read what it said.

You tried to hear the guards whisper but they were too far away. But even their usual composed, ice cold appearance seemed to crack a little. At least the three that seemed to be in their mind.

The fourth was a mystery to you. He barely moved all day, you never saw him even blink just once.

If such a thing was possible he didn't even hold any body language.

Scientists were packing a ton of stuff up.

Vials, some empty, some still filled.

Two of three monitors.

Tools, syringes, notes, official paperwork.

The door opened for a short moment. The blaring of people shouting, shots being fired, more people running around, a faint explosion filled the whole room for the mere two seconds, then it fell shut again.

Two more agents entered the room shouting some things you couldn't understand but next thing the whole scientist team got escorted through the backdoor.

Ok, so at least your instincts still work. Still you felt off. As if you were there but more as a watcher than on actual control of yourself. That feeling was new. It only came up a few minutes ago but you couldn't shake it. Something definitely was fundamentally off. Maybe-

You didn't get to finish that thought when suddenly the door got broken down. Three people stormed in, followed by a whole bunch of agents.

This time the door wasn't closed again and the blaring of a battle filled the room, accompanied with the smell of smoke and a cloud of dust.

Your eye caught a wave of red and your heart jumped. You didn't exactly know why. But it felt familiar. It felt right. You felt slipping deeper in the part of your mind that was only able to watch. Observe something but not work through it. The presence that formed normality for your time being here kept you from understanding.

One of the agents tore the straps open, which until now, you didn't even realize held you in place. Why were you strapped in a chair again?

It oddly looked like one of those dentist chairs...

"Don't just stand there, do something bitch!" He spoke with a hard accent.

Do something...? What exactly should you...do? Why would you fight these people? Who even are they? Being trapped between what seemed to be two independent minds you didn't know how to function.

And for a while you just stood there, in the middle of the room. Everything still felt like a movie, chaos all around you, agents coughing, some dying slower than others, new agents rushing in. And in the middle of it all? You.

That was until someone pulled on your arm, in the direction of the back door the scientist fled through.

Without realizing how you freed yourself, fighting the agent off.

"Let go of me", you hiss. "Y/N!!" the voice felt familiar but you couldn't put a face to it. Nonetheless it switched something inside you. You pushed the guy and he stayed still on the ground.

Another hand grabbed your arm and on instinct - even tho not sure from which side of your mind - you fought them off but this time it was harder.

You got countered more often, hits were harder to land. You kept fighting them, trying to escape their grip until suddenly everything went black.

Back at the compound Nick Fury was waiting for everyone to bring the youngest avenger back. And he wouldn't admit it openly but when they rolled out a stretcher some tension fell off him. It meant that at least you were alive.

"What happened?", he asked, not a single trace of emotions in his voice.

When Natasha didn't answer right away Steve did.

"We're not sure. She didn't seem quite like herself."

The Shield director raised an eyebrow "and that means?"

"It means she fought me when we tried to get her out. We had to hit her unconscious", Natasha snapped.

"But she fought them too. She's still there." Steve tried to soothe her but only received a more desperate than annoyed.

To add to Steve's resignation Fury chimed in "She's been there three weeks and we have no idea who of us she's gonna try and kill and who not."

"What are you trying to say?" Clint asked defensively.

"None of you will visit her until we're sure she's back." Without any further explanation he gave a sign to the two medics that stood at the stretcher to follow him with you.

For the Avengers? No other choice but to watch after you. They just stood there in silence, no one quite sure what to do with themselves.

The past three weeks were relentless work, trying to trace every detail that might give away your position. Now you were found. And they weren't even allowed near you anymore.

Tony stepped out of his suit and carefully put an arm around Nat's shoulder, pulling her into a side-hug.

With you and Natasha some tension always was in the air. Flirty but neither of you acted on it for a long time. You weren't dating for long but it made you happy. You, just living in your perfect little world, until it got ripped apart when they caught you.

Tony was the one who got you to join the team. Convinced you, welcomed you, comforted you when things got hard. He became a safe constant and over the course of four years he became a father figure to you.

With a deep sigh, again Steve broke the silence "When even Tony doesn't have some sarcastic remark or a joke to ease the tension..."

No trace of humor in his voice, not a glint of joy, just stating a fact.

Maria Hill stepped outside, clearly not happy, after what was probably a disagreement with her boss.

"There's nothing I can do for you. Go get some sleep, you all need it."

Short and to the point. Like everything that's been said.

Nonetheless she was right. Nobody has slept much, especially not Tony and Natasha so now that everything seemed to be done this was the only logical consequence and with that everyone slowly made their way to their room.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩

The next few days went in a blur for Natasha. She tried to stick to her old routine. Getting up, going on a run, breakfast, training, lunch. That's how far her routine went. After that she just didn't know what to do. Wherever she went something reminded her of you. She tried to convince Fury to change his mind about seeing you.

What she hated most was how everyone looked at her. How everyone seemed to see through her. As if her walls were made out of glass. As if they could see how worked up she was even though she made a point in acting normal. In giving the training courses she usually does, being as harsh and demanding as she always is. In the way she walked through the hallways, cold, calculated. Purposely avoiding the wing she wasn't allowed in right now.

Still they looked. As if they could see everything.

As if they could see how she still barely could sleep, how she couldn't look at anything without thinking of you, how every time she passes Fury in the hallway a passive anger boils up.

As if they could see how much she cares. How much she misses you.

As if they could see how scared she was to lose you forever.

The private area for just the avengers wasn't any more comfortable. Everyone tried to have normal days. Doing the things they usually do. But still everyone noticed the tension that didn't seem to fade.

The unknowing of how you are, the awareness of your missing laughter and your own sarcastic remarks. Everyone notices Natasha's bad mood and how she's being more reserved around them. Even Steve misses Tony's biting and teasing comments and while he throws one every once in a while, it just doesn't feel the same without someone who counters him just as sharply.

Right now Natasha was laying awake once again. Another evening. She excused herself from watching some movie and went to bed, so now she was staring at her ceiling. It was only 9 pm.

But laying there and having her thoughts running in circles wasn't an option tonight. With a sigh she put her sweatshirt over her sleep-shirt and made her way to the medical wing, avoiding the busy hallways.

The first thing she saw were mostly empty beds. The second was Dr. Cho.

"Where's Y/N?", Natasha asked. Her voice didn't hint at the emotional chaos in her head but it didn't need to. Dr. Cho was well aware of the flirting going on between you and even was rather surprised when she found out that the two of you weren't already dating for longer.

"Y/N is currently being held in cell 1.4 in this wing" Jarvis responded before the doctor could.

"Director's orders", was all she added clearly being uncomfortable with the situation.

"How is she?" Natasha's voice dropped to a dangerous level. She was furious and it brimmed just beneath the surface but she chose to prioritize you over Fury's bad decision making.

"She's doing ok so far. Vitals are stable but her mind isn't. Sometimes she speaks with us as herself but then suddenly she doesn't recognize us. We gave her some things that should help her gain stability and fight of who or whatever they implanted in her brain but it's going rough. Up until now she's the most stable when I or Agent Phil Coulson are around, he leaves only when he has to."

The redhead let out a humorless laugh.

"And did any of you think that maybe someone she's closer with might help her?"

Of course you were close with Phil. But she and her teammates were the people you spent every day with after all.

To her annoyance Dr. Cho shook her head.

"That's still out of question. Director's orders...again."

With a scoff Natasha left. Director's orders.

There was a point reached where she was done with her director's orders. Point reached.

And without another thought Natasha stood in front of the door that led to cells 1.3-1.6, guarded by two agents when the doors just opened and Coulson's stepped out.

"Natasha?"

"Phil."

"I guess it was only a matter of time until you show up here" the older agent sighed.

"I need to see her, Phil" It was a statement. Nothing more. No emotion, no arguments, just a statement.

"Why? You know the Director's orders."

God if she had to hear those words one more time she might go insane.

"I need to see her alive." Now this was beginning to sound like the negotiations of a kidnapping.

"She is alive, Natasha. You know that. Why do you think you can just walk in there if you have clear orders not to?" He wasn't backing down easily.

And the answer to that question laid on Natasha's tongue. It was simple. But she didn't want to say it out loud. But maybe she needed to sacrifice that at least towards Phil, if she wanted a real chance of convincing him to let her in.

"Go." The redhead orders the two agents watching the door. After a short nod of approval from Phil they did.

"Why?" Phil asked again now.

Natasha thought for a second before answering "They say she's unstable-" her voice broke off, eyes glued to the door.

And for a moment Phil got caught off guard. In all years of working with Natasha he'd only ever seen her facade crack a handful of times.

He sighed. "She's fighting, Natasha. Every minute. She's tired, barely sleeps but she's getting better. Slowly. Helen finished all possible tests and thinks we have now the right medication to help her as much as we can."

"I want to see her."

"Do you?", Phil finally met her eyes, "or do you want to know if she sees you? If she recognizes you?"

"Phil, please", Natasha pleaded. And at last he gave in. He stepped aside, opening the door. "Just be careful. You can see when she remembers you but the conversations don't last long. She's fighting."

With a nod Natasha walked past him and only stopped a second before the door could fall shut. "Thank you."

✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩

Carefully Natasha walked up to the only occupied glass cell and there you sat. Back towards her, crouched down in a corner. Your hands were behind your head, legs pulled up to your chest and she could see you picking your nails to a point where almost all were bloody and damaged.

Natasha's chest tightened and she barely kept herself from gasping audibly. You looked so small, so lost. Every few seconds your whole body flinched, causing you to shift just so slightly.

"Y/N...", the redhead whispered. She didn't know what to expect, she didn't even know what else to say.

But the moment your name left her mouth you completely stilled as if you were waiting for something. Natasha took that as a sign to try again.

"Y/N?"

You breath caught in your throat and you raised your head, your eyes finally leaving the ground beneath your legs.

And after what felt like eternity your eyes finally met hers. Looking up at her, your greyish green met her clear emerald eyes. "N-natasha?"

"Heyy", the older woman still whispered and got knelt down to be at your level. Her hand pressed against the glass as if she could touch you through it. Anything to feel closer to you.

"How are you keeping up? You remember me? And the team?" Maybe it was selfish to ask that but she already knew how you were doing aside from that and she didn't want to remind you.

But that seemed to only partially succeed as you subconsciously shifted a bit to the side, bringing only very few more centimeters of space between you and the glass, you and Natasha.

"I-I'm afraid I can't tell you that" your voice was shaky, hands trembling just enough for Natasha to notice. "I'm just not sure", you added shamefully.

"It's okay, don't worry about that", Natasha tried to soothe you.

Quiet whispers come up in the back of your mind. 'natasha, natasha, you need to forget her, natasha'

Those thoughts come and go, the voices never stop forever but right now you tried to focus on her. Because for once she seemed to be actually there. Not just a voice that will belong to no one once you open your eyes. Now, she was there, in person. And maybe you could remember her. You need to. You have a feeling that she's important to remember.

"I remember some things. Names, memories come and go like guests. But only fragments, not enough to create the whole picture"

'you will forget her, natasha-'

"Anything I can do to help you?"

"No...when I saw you a few memories swept into my mind, all together with your name...I don't think you can do much more" You sigh, the voices in the back of your head growing stronger. You know you need to fight them. That's what Hydra anchored in your brain and you need it gone. But the louder the voices get, the more you feel your control slipping.

'Black Widow, need to kill'

The endless cycle of the last few days and even though you're starting to be in control of your mind and yourself longer and longer, you start to grow tired. You just want it to finally end. But they grow louder and louder and you already know that you'll crash eventually.

Natasha noticed the sudden change as well. Your hands started trembling again, your breath became shorter.

'Betrayal, Forget, The End, Natasha'

"I could come in. Let you take my hands or braid my hair. You do that sometimes. Maybe it would-", she starts, wanting to calm you down but you interrupted her

"Natasha, no!" Your voice was low, dangerous and your eyes suddenly held something darker. You tried to keep up with yourself, tried to shut down the voices but with every second it got harder to dominate over Hydra's part of your mind.

"I'm not afraid of you", the redhead tried again. She already got up, walking to the numpad that unlocked your cell.

"BUT I AM!" You cried out. The voices grew louder and all you could do was grasping on the very last bit of being there. Like an almost invisible string that kept you in touch.

'Forget Black Widow, Betrayal, Kill, End'

You jumped up backing away from her.

Voices overlapped, so loud you couldn't bear it.

Someone was talking to you, you couldn't even tell the difference if it was the real Natasha or just another voice.

'Forget, Betrayal, Kill, End'

Natasha watched you pacing, your breath was ragged, hands in your hair. Your whole body was shaking and it broke Natasha's heart.

"Y/N please, listen to me. I'm here", tears filled her eyes. It physically hurt her to see you like that. So torn apart.

Your head was pounding against the palm of your hands, heart racing. You didn't even know where you were anymore and only felt slipping. Slipping away into the darkness. Where you could only watch yourself, screaming at your body without getting a reaction.

"Y/N, please...",

"STOP IT" your hand clashes into the glass wall.

Your eyes met the person who said something. Red hair, green eyes.

'Don't just stand there, do something'

Something seemed familiar.

You need to kill her. She's not supposed to be here.

'Don't just stand there, do something'

No, you don't want to kill her.

"Y/N..."

'Don't just stand there, do something'

And then everything went black.

Natasha could only watch as your body hit the ground with a loud thud. You didn't move, just laid in the middle of the cell.

The conversations never last long. That's what Coulson told her. She should've been prepared.

She needs to get out.

With that she left, the image of you losing the battle in your mind, collapsing, laying on the ground. All of it was burned in her brain.

She left the room, tried to sleep, went on her morning run. All she could think about was you. Everything she saw was a replay of the night. The fear in your eyes just before you lost, your scratched fingers. Nothing would make it go away.

Her own fear of you losing against Hydra's work, fear of you forgetting about her, about yourself, the fear of losing you entirely gnawed at her relentlessly.

And all she could do was watch herself. Force herself to go through her day and come back at night. She needed to see you again. The real you. And she would do anything to achieve that.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩

When she entered the room you were still asleep on the small bed in your cell.

As quiet as possible she unlocked the door and stepped inside, sitting down on the floor, right next to your head.

Groaning you opened your eyes. You don't even remember falling asleep after your last talk with Phil.

When you saw a familiar face next to you suddenly you were wide awake.

"Why are you in here??" Immediately you scooted to the other end of the bed, as far away from Natasha as possible.

The panic in your voice was unmistakable.

But this time Natasha didn't give in, this time she went after you, moving on your bed until she sat right in front of you.

"Hey, hey listen to me, okay? Just breathe, deep breaths", she took a deep breath in, clearly wanting you to follow her. And you did.

You repeated this a couple more times until you calmed down a bit. You gaze dropped down to see your hands in Natasha's and give it a gentle squeeze. An unspoken thanks.

"There she is. There's my favorite girl", Natasha says with a smile playing around here lips.

"I'm your favorite?" You asked, a careful smile playing around your lips as well. You knew the answer. Right now you did.

"Always been that way" she replied with a cheeky smile and you let out a small chuckle.

After a short pause the redhead added "I've missed you"

You didn't miss the vulnerability hidden behind those words. You didn't miss how she avoided your gaze for a second.

You just lean on her shoulder. "I've missed you too...but you can't be here Nat", you sighed.

"But I wanna be here. I'm not afraid of you"

"But I am, Nat." You argue softly, your eyes already filling up with tears.

Before she can interrupt you, you continue.

"You-you don't understand I-", Natasha squeezes your hands softly, encouraging you to continue.

"I- I'm scared of hurting you. When I'm not in control of...me the other part wants to kill you. I just don't know if I'll be able to hold back if I lose that control again."

Your tears start falling but you don't even care anymore.

"Every time I see my reflection in the glass I see what they did. I can practically see myself slipping away into that...space and I can't control it. And that scares me shitless. I'm laying here, staring at the ceiling and I don't know anything. I keep remembering more everyday but then at some point I spiral down in that fear and-and then I lose it again and that thing is back in control"

Now Natasha was actually speechless. She hates to see you so broken, so scared. So she just hugged you, choosing silence until you broke it once again.

"The uncertainty just kills me. The uncertainty of maybe I'll forget everything again. The uncertainty of when I might crash again or rather when it'll stop. Helen said it today should've been the last day but I just don't know. I'm afraid I'll forget you..."

Gently she reaches up to your face, tilting it so you have to look at her. "You won't forget me. You can doubt yourself all you want but I won't. Tony won't. He's upstairs, waiting for you to come back. Everyone is. And look at you. At us. You recognized me immediately when you saw me. You became more stable, right? That's what Helen told me this afternoon"

You nod carefully, letting her continue. "Maybe you just need to see the rest again. To ground you. Please. Come back to us"

You look at her hesitantly "What happens when I'm not me again?" You wanted to believe her that everything will turn out fine. But you don't want to hurt your family. Especially Nat.

"Please Y/N, trust yourself. And if you don't trust yourself, then trust me. I know we can manage this. You're not alone. And if you slip, I can protect us. Even if you can't stop yourself, you know that I can stop you."

Her eyes held nothing but honesty. Pure faith in you, full on trust.

"You guys are no good without me anyway, right?" you joke. Your voice was still hoarse from crying.

"Damn right, we aren't"

✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩

You didn't move back to normality instantly. But small steps are progress nonetheless.

So the next morning you went upstairs with Natasha for breakfast.

"You okay?" she asked, your hand in hers as she stood right in front of you.

You took a deep breath and nodded. "I am."

Just before she moved away you caught her wrist again "Tasha?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. I love you"

She chuckled pulling you in by your waist. "Of course. I love you too, princess"

You stood on tiptoes, giving her a quick kiss before pulling her gently towards the door.

It was early enough that no one would be around, Steve out on his run, the rest still asleep.

You didn't meet anyone except for Phil but it was a start. Familiarity. The feeling of another thing that could keep you grounded.

Next thing was dinner in the evening. Still unusual late but Tony ran into you.

He full on walked in on you and Natasha having pizza and for a second he just watched you. You, sitting there like teenagers having late-night pizza on a gaming night.

The moment you noticed him he full on launched on you, pulling you in the biggest dad-hug you ever received. "I missed you, kiddo"

And all you could do was cry and laugh, burying your face in his shoulder "I'm no kid, old man"

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩｡⋆｡✮ ⋆ ˚｡⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

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