#besides fritz

[lacking-artdration]

more on te4m f4rtr4ss tw4 😁

[kallousness]

MCI ideas

[duhitsalampmatt]

I like how I can't even explain how I came to shipping heavymedic. Like I guess one day my brain was like "Hell yeah big goofball russian man x insane cunty german man I am in full support!!"

[apocynaceaeoleander]

heyyy!!

if i may ask, what's your dream job if you have one? :)

hiii!! :D

oh boy... when i was younger i wanted to be a marine biologist because i had a fascination with the ocean but as i got older my goals shifted more towards being able to make and sell my art. i could go on a rant about my critiques of the way working is generally set up now, but ill save that for later

[proosh]

I’ve mentioned it before but I really just singularly refuse to believe that Fritz would have let a hot young soldier-type dedicated to his service go un-fucked for his entire reign like. Man was not hosting functionally a harem at Sanssouci to not include Gil in there

[tabellae-rex-in-sui]

Well this ended up being more of a multi-chapter thing, so here's chapter one! A What If of Voltaire bringing Émilie with him to meet Fritz in Cleves. Émilie deserved to be there, and now she can be! Happy late birthday to her.

Also a reminder that I'm still shadowbanned on here, so if you wanna ask/comment about it, please do it on Ao3 since I can't see asks on Tumblr at the moment 🧍‍♂️

[onlyymirknows]

i am not the same anon, i dont freaking care about the jeanmarco reijean drama and alllat. i just think floch sucks balls and terrible shit and whoever ships him with anyone like jean should be examined and shamed. sickos. i just know u feel the same 🤷‍♀️

I don’t tho? I dislike people who unironically think Eren was completely justified and prop up Floch as a sigma male hero. That part of the fandom is toxic but not because they like Floch.

Like I said, some of the posts on my blog dunking on Floch were written by a Floch fan who likes making fun of how inept he is. My original posts involving Floch are just me thinking it must’ve been weird for Reiner to return to Paradis to see this random dude from training be the de facto leader of their military. It’s a funny scenario.

Also, Reiner didn’t even bat an eye when Magath said the plan was to go scorched earth on Paradis. He’s also a literal mass murderer. We don’t have the moral high ground here lol

If you wanna come off anon then I’m open to talking more. Otherwise I don’t plan to answer any more of your asks.

[tippytanpies]

Thinking about this whole scene again.

[toxic-mega-cunts]

Mike is in love with the foxy animatronic and thus reasonably upset when his boyfriend puts a dead kid in there

Michael has been attached to that animatronic for as long as he can remember and still wears the mask so he is understandably opposed to both Mike's love for foxy and also the fact that his dad put a dead kid in there

Vincent also goes apeshit when he finds out that Will did put a dead child in there but nobody has even the slightest clue why. It's specifically because it was foxy. We know this because Vincent probably helped to murder that child in the first place

[avengxrz]

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

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

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

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

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

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

part one , part three , part four , part five , epilogue

masterlist

your callsign is rogue.

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

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

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

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

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

She looked calm. Untouchable.

Like none of them had even scratched the surface.

Jake sat down hard in his chair, sandwich forgotten.

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

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

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

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

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

Rooster shrugged, unapologetic. “If she asked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hadn’t looked over once.

Not even a glance.

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

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

But now?

She wasn’t waiting for anyone.

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

Jake didn’t crack.

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

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

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

Phoenix threw a carrot stick at him.

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

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

“It was kinda terrifying,” Fritz muttered.

“It was hot,” Rooster corrected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake stood up.

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

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

And now?

She hadn’t looked at him once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What look?” Fritz asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake’s grip tightened on the throttle.

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

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

A few scattered chuckles filled the comms.

Jake ignored them.

Because they were right.

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

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

And the worst part?

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

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

She wasn't even here.

And she was still flying circles in his head.

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

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

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

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

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

“Emotionally wrecked,” Fanboy corrected.

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

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

Jake rolled his eyes hard enough to see static.

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

“You’re not going out tonight.”

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

“Come on, Mav—”

“Seriously?”

“We just survived that sim.”

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

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

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

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

“Because it’s fun.”

And just like that, he was gone.

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

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

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

Jake was up by four.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s gonna be here,” he whispered.

Jake didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

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

She was coming. Again.

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

The click of the doors echoed loud across the hangar.

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

Boots on concrete. Three pairs.

They walked in like they owned the air.

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

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

And then her.

Rogue.

Jake’s pulse skipped.

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

And God, she looked different.

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

But she didn’t need to.

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

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

But he did.

And it burned.

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

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

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

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

He took a breath, pacing once as he spoke.

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

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

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

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

Jinx continued, voice level but sharp enough to cut.

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

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

Then came Ruin.

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

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

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

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

He paused, letting the weight of that sink in.

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

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

Ruin wasn’t done.

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

There was a long beat of silence.

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

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

Then he stepped back beside Jinx.

Neither of them smiled.

And Rogue still hadn’t spoken. Not yet.

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

Measuring every breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rogue continued without pause.

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

Her gaze hardened slightly.

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

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

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

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

No dismissal. No soft ending.

Because the storm was just beginning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

It dropped like a hammer.

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

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

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

And just like that, the sky broke open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she hit.

Not literally. But it felt like it.

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

Rogue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because now? It kind of did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But even expecting it didn’t help.

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

“Break left, break left!” Omaha barked.

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, he was.

Then came the silence.

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

But it was already too late.

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

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

“Jesus,” Omaha muttered.

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

They tried.

They really did.

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

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

Dead silence on the tower for a beat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

No blip. No ping.

No her.

Then she was there.

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

“Damn—Rogue on my three!” he barked.

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

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

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

But she was faster. Always faster.

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

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

Rooster exhaled, heart pounding.

And then—her voice. Calm. Amused.

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

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

And then Rooster beamed. Like a kid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob didn’t look. “Standard Hangman.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Contacts,” he said.

“Where?”

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

And there it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re down,” Bob said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

He was hunting her.

He was hunting Rogue.

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

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

She was out there. Somewhere in the clouds.

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

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

He knew.

His radar pinged. Just once.

Then silence.

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

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

And then the sky cracked open.

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

She didn’t say a word.

She just rolled.

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

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

“What the—”

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

But she didn’t.

Instead, she whispered over comms for the first time.

“You always were too loud, Seresin.”

Jake blinked. His heart jackknifed. “You—”

“Try and keep up.”

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

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

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

She wasn’t just flying.

She was haunting him.

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

But right now?

He was shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was showboating.

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

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

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

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

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

Jake was sweating. Actually sweating.

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

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

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

And she didn’t. No kill confirmed.

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

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

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

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

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

She was showing him how far behind he really was.

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

But she was already gone again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too close.

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

And then she followed.

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

She saluted.

The audacity.

“Are you kidding me?!”

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

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

Because she wasn’t trying to win.

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

And Jake?

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

Maybe it was about surviving her.

The sky had never felt so small.

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

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

And still—she hadn’t ended him yet.

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

Then the voice.

Cool. Distant. Frustratingly calm.

“Running out of tricks, Hangman?”

He nearly choked on the fury in his throat.

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

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

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

She was toying with him.

Then—suddenly—nothing on the radar.

Jake blinked. “No way.”

She was gone. Completely.

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

Silence.

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

“Missile lock confirmed,” the simulator warned again.

Again.

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

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

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

And then she pulled away.

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

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

He hadn’t lost yet.

But he knew now—

She had already decided when he would.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

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

“I used to think you were the best.”

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

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

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

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

He didn’t lose today.

But he didn’t win either.

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

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

“Copy.”

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

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

And she had left him in her dust.

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

But Jake didn’t feel any of those things.

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

Rogue had already landed.

Of course she had.

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

Across the deck, he spotted her.

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

She was just… there. Solid. Unmoved.

Untouchable.

Jake’s jaw clenched.

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

But as someone who had survived him.

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

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

Jake didn’t answer.

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

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

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

A beat of silence passed.

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

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

Jake’s breath hitched.

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

And for the first time, Jake had no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the commanders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

“Harvard. Halo. Bob. Fanboy.”

Each name hit like a hammer.

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

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

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

No one moved.

Then came her.

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

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

It was worse.

It was calm. Measured. Disappointed.

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

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

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

He looked up instinctively, lips parting.

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

Jake’s throat went dry.

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

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

No one moved. No one could.

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

And Rogue wasn’t finished.

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

“Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

And the rest of them?

Still didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was disappointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dismissed.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Dismissed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phoenix shot him a look. “Bob.”

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

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

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

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

Another wave of groans followed.

But Jake?

Jake said nothing.

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

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

That line gnawed at him more than the rest.

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

And now?

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

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

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

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

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

Coyote snorted. “That’s… specific.”

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

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

“She said I adapted,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was quiet.

He was never quiet.

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

He blinked once. Slowly.

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

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

Jake didn’t bite.

Because that wasn’t it.

Not really.

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

But by her.

By Rogue.

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

It was something else.

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

Guilt?

Regret?

Fear?

He didn’t know.

But it was louder than anything the squad could say.

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

That was all it took.

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

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

Rooster groaned. “There he is.”

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

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

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

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

Jake pointed at him. “You’re crying.”

“I could be crying.”

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

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

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

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

Jake didn’t flinch.

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

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

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

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

He smiled anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to go, but paused at the doorway.

“Oh, and one more thing…”

The squad perked up.

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

Rooster’s mouth opened. Closed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phoenix snorted. “That your type now?”

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

Jake shot him a look but didn’t bite.

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

There was a beat of silence.

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

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

“Yes, Bob. I mean psychological surveillance.”

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

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

And somehow—they were still here.

Still standing.

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

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

Even Jake.

Especially Jake.

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

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

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

And they weren’t in uniform.

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

And then came her.

Rogue.

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

Jake saw her—and forgot how to blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake still hadn’t moved.

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

She wasn’t looking at him.

She didn’t need to.

She already knew the effect she had.

And that alone nearly drove him insane.

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

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

He was not prepared.

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Jake hadn’t moved a muscle.

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

She wasn’t even trying.

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

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

Jake’s jaw flexed.

She hadn’t looked at him once.

Not once.

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

But Rogue?

Nothing.

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

Hell. Maybe she really didn’t remember him.

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

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

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

Jake didn’t reply.

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

Because Rogue might not have looked at him once.

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

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

They just watched.

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

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

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

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

Bob choked on his drink. “Bradley.”

Rooster blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The entire squad leaned closer without realizing it.

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

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

Phoenix looked smug. “Told you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she didn’t turn.

She never turned.

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

It happened so fast, it was honestly impressive.

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

Then Jinx’s eyes flicked toward them.

Just a glance.

A glint.

Maybe even a smirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then—then—it happened.

Rooster.

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

This beautiful, chaotic man waved.

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

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

The entire table froze.

Jake’s mouth fell open.

Phoenix audibly gasped.

Bob choked on air.

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

But Rogue?

Oh, Rogue.

She turned.

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

And then—

She winked.

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

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

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

Jake was going to have an aneurysm.

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

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

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

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

The whole squad turned to him.

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

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

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

Jake didn’t answer. He just walked.

Straight toward the Big Three.

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

And honestly?

It might’ve been worth it.

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

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

“This is suicide,” Payback whispered.

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

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

Fanboy was already filming under the table.

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

At the bar, Jake slowed.

There they were.

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

And her.

Rogue.

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

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

Jake’s mouth opened. Closed.

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

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

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

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

The squad across the bar audibly gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It lit a fire under him.

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

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

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

Behind him, the squad lost their collective minds.

“Holy hell,” Payback groaned.

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

“Both,” Rooster and Fanboy said in unison.

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

Not of flying.

Not of winning.

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

—and smile while tearing him apart.

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

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

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

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

Jake felt that one.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he okay?” Fanboy whispered.

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

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

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

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

And damn, did that hit harder than any missile.

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

He slid back into his seat.

No one said anything for exactly three seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She knew.

Fanboy nearly fell out of his chair.

“She looked back. She looked back.”

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

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

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

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

And the worst part?

He loved it.

Because this wasn’t just rivalry.

This wasn’t just ego.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Guys, no—”

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

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

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

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

And Jake?

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

He was grinning.

Because maybe—just maybe—tomorrow?

He’d finally get the chance to fire back.

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

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

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

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

But she was still there. Rogue.

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

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

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

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

Jake blinked, surprised. “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His heart stopped for half a second.

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

Not toward the Dagger Squad.

Not toward the jukebox.

But toward the door.

And she didn’t even look back.

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

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

Jake set his beer down and stood.

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

Rooster blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, she won't walk away first.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

The next morning hit like a punch to the ribs.

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

No.

It hit hard because she was already there.

Standing on the tarmac.

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

And Jake?

Jake was late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let it die, Bradshaw,” Jake growled.

But he was watching.

Of course he was.

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

And Jake?

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

He wasn’t intimidated.

No, not exactly.

It was worse than that.

He was intrigued.

Obsessed, maybe.

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

No. That girl was gone.

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

[gutsby]

Easy to Please

Pairing: Sleazy Landlord!Joel x Reader

Summary: Months pass, and you can’t make rent—again. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Dubcon à la power imbalance / sex for money. Infidelity. Pervy!Joel. Talks of abuse. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk.

Note: This fic was loosely inspired by my three favorite songs about female adultery—‘Thinkin’ Bout Cheatin’ by Mae Estes, ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ by The Eagles, and ‘Cheatin’ Songs’ by Midland. No, I don’t support infidelity. Yes, it makes for fun fiction.

Word count: 3.1k

You hate the face he makes when he cums.

You hate the way he tastes when he’s done.

You hate the grit and the heft of the man, every lone hair that sprouts silver from his chest, and the way he pats the open space beside him in bed after you roll away.

‘Never seen a girl so goddamn allergic to cuddling!’

What makes his observation worse is that you know you’re hating it more and more with every passing day.

Today you have seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson tucked into your purse. You walk with a sluggish gait, knowing you’re $310 short of making this month’s rent and last. But you go on anyway. It’s not like Joel can’t see you from where he’s seated on the porch.

The pleasantries you exchange are short. By now, you have only to breeze past him in his lawn chair and say, ‘I can’t stay long,’ and he knows the rest. He grabs his six-pack, then his Pall Malls, and asks after you all the same.

“How’s the wrist?” he says.

You sprained it over the weekend. You aren’t sure how he heard. At any rate, you ignore the question and set your bag down on the counter before going to the fridge. You deflect with a question of your own—what the hell happened to the lemonade? He had a full jug last week.

“Got thirsty,” Joel answers, shrugging.

You’re always thirsty, you tell him, and you eye the case of Heineken that he’s placed by your purse. You don’t need to see his face to feel the smile starting to form.

“Don’t I know it,” he says. Insinuating.

You’d hit him over the head if you’d been able to reach. He’s still smiling when your shoulder checks his—closer to his elbow, from the feel of it—and when you leave the kitchen, he leaves too. He trails behind you with an ease that says this is the sixth time this has happened since August, and you’re hardly a week out from Halloween.

It’s not just rent you need to pay; it’s other things. Transmission in your truck’s gone to shit. Phone’s been on the fritz since you dropped it in the tub. Talking heads on TV say the country’s on track to get hit with another recession, and from the way your boss has been slashing your hours in half, you think they may be right. The crack in your bathroom window was tiny last week. Today it’s gone, because your husband put his fist through the thing on Sunday. You patched the hole with duct tape.

Joel’s covering the cost for the pane to be replaced, but that’s because he has to. He’s your landlord—proud owner of the Delta Commons trailer park since ‘97—and that’s what landlords do. Everything else is yours to pay.

You’re a part-time student, part-time waitress, and a full-time caretaker for your ailing spouse, or so you call him. Joel knows Stetson’s not sick, just perennially unemployed and drunk. You pay for most things, and it’s rarely enough to cover your rent. Stetson doesn’t care.

And that’s where Joel comes in.

No pun intended, but in his mind, there’s really no nicer way to say it: you fuck his brains out to make up for the shortfall in rent. You blow him before work to make sure your husband and you will have enough to eat that week. You bite the warm, freckled skin between his shoulder and his neck while you ride him, because you know that gesture will get you a little extra cash when you leave. You smile after swallowing him, and Joel knows that it tastes like shit. You’ve gotten good at faking it lately.

What he hopes isn’t totally fabricated is the way you call him big. Strong. Handsome. So stupidly well-endowed that you have to wince for the first few seconds when you sit on it, and go slow when he takes you from behind

“O-ow!” you whine presently.

His dick isn’t even in you yet. You just stubbed your toe on the edge of his dresser on your way to the bathroom.

“You alright?”

“Fuck me!”

I will, he thinks.

“Want me to get an ice—”

“Let go-OW! FUCK!”

Joel barely even touched your wrist and you were flinching away with a brand new pain. You rub it, almost defensively, then pin him with an icy glare. Nice going.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Now he’ll be lucky if he can swing a half-hearted handy from the one that isn’t hurt. That’s how mad you look.

You turn your body away, and for a second, Joel assumes that his fate has been sealed: you’ll bumble over to the rug by his bed, toss a pillow on the floor, and assume what he already knows to be your least favorite position. You’ll kneel, and talk of migraines and your long, grueling day and in the end find an excuse not to use your mouth. That’ll be okay. But with the debts you owe him now, it also won’t be enough, and Joel will have to ask you back again. He hates sounding needy, but baby, deal’s a deal.

Luckily you don’t give him the chance to use that line. Much to his surprise, you get on the bed. You lie down. You seem to take a little more care settling in this time, but you take off your clothes. It’s a lime green tank top and some ratty jean skirt, but it’s enough to tempt him.

And not just tempt, but oblige him to accept, unblinking. He crawls over the bed to get to you, and he finds that his spit’s filling his mouth a little quicker. His hands are starting to shake as they slide over the duvet, and the tree trunks he once called his legs are runny, like eggs.

He has to remind himself, bluntly, of your last name, the shiny ring on your hand, your husband’s name, your—

“Age—what’d you say your age was again?” Joel asks.

You look confused for a second, but you tell him.

“Twenty-one.”

Way too fucking young to have gotten hitched three years ago. But then he remembers this is Leakey, Texas, and your family hasn’t strayed more than ten miles from the center of town in four generations. You told him that.

“I thought you said twenty,” Joel says, a little uneasy.

“I did. Up until this past Sunday I was.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Happy birthday.”

You blink.

“You gonna take your pants off or what?”

And he does. Maybe embarrassed at first, but then the jeans come off, and his boxers go next, and without so much as a word or a breath, his worries are sliding away like water off his back. Like his clothes now peeling off.

Like your smile growing thin at the sight of him half-stripped on the bed in front of you. Joel doesn’t flatter himself to think he’s even half as handsome as he was in his youth, but he knows he has his draws. What endears him to you today is, unfortunately, his wallet. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be convinced to like him more.

More than Stetson, he thinks without humor.

Dumb son of a bitch can’t tell his ass from his elbow and yet he’s won himself you, living it up these last three y—

“Oh.”

He sounds like an owl now. His clothes are off, and you’re rubbing him, pumping him gently in your hand, which you were so kind to make wet with your saliva. It even sounds better than his, the way it squelches with every flick. Joel can only say so much in strangled breaths.

He tries anyway:

“Feel like a dream, sweet pea.”

Sweet pea.

Your pace quickens. Joel swears he can see the corners of your lips twitch, but then he thinks you’re just wincing. You move down to the floor beside the bed. Kneel almost politely while you nestle yourself between his parted legs

Your mouth is warm. It’s always warm. Joel wouldn’t expect a girl’s tongue to greet his dick like ice, but yours is always heated to a thousand degrees, it feels like. He enjoys the sting. Your lips envelop his big, leaking tip, and he swears he can stay like this forever—in you.

On you, too. He’s got his palm resting flat on your head, and he doesn’t mean to, but he pushes. He bunches your hair in a fist and drags your face to make you swallow.

Mean old man, you must be saying in your head when he stuffs your mouth full. Makes your eyes prick with tears.

Sweet girl. My sweet pea, he thinks, affectionately, and continues to rub your scalp. He holds your teary gaze.

And then you’re moving up. Down. Coating his length with shiny spit and tiny whimpers as your lips move gently back and forth, again and again. Joel’s grip tightens in your hair, and he begs for more. More.

“More,” he orders, jaw clenched, “Fit a little more’a me.”

From where you’re kneeling below, you look put off.

Then you pull off, and you wipe your wet chin.

“Chokin’ me,” you grumble, “‘S’too big.”

Normally, Joel loves to hear that.

Now, however, he’s sliding his touch to your chin and tilting your head up to him. Thumbing at the spit dribbling out on either side of your mouth and subsequently coaxing your lips further apart.

He slides back in, and you don’t fight it. You like it. Holding his gaze in a soft, docile look while your lips stretch deliciously around his shaft, you must love it. Every inch and every twinge of pleasure from the brush of his cock going in and out must be your favorite thing.

Joel hopes it is, anyway. He holds your face now, and your throat convulses involuntarily. You’re so pretty.

“Such a good, sweet girl, ain’t ya?” he presses, watching the coarse grey hairs at the base of him tickle your face.

You respond well to praise. You preen under those words, and try to nod. But his cock is so deep down your throat you end up choking again. Joel watches all of it smiling.

Petting your head and not pushing again. Grinning.

“Love my cock nice and stuffed in that pretty throat?”

You blink instead of nodding, but it’s more than enough.

“Love me deep?”

And the head of him sinks somewhere he’s never been. Your eyes are like two wide pools, and your lips leak everywhere—your chin, your cheeks, your neck.

Joel’s smearing it all with his palm and smiling so wide that he thinks he might pull a muscle. He pants heavily.

“Just what you’re made for. Just what you need.”

You look like you might agree. He keeps going.

“My fuckin’ mouth. My pretty, pretty mouth.”

He holds your face. He thinks he might cum.

“Ain’t a damn thing Stetson can do for this mouth, huh?”

And then he doesn’t. Joel barely blinks, and you’re already bucking your head out of his hold, mouth skittering away while the spit spills out. You’re practically drenched down to the chest when your face rears back. Your eyes are alight and no longer smiling when you grit:

“Don’t.”

Joel should’ve known better.

He’s hit a raw nerve, and now he really wishes he hadn’t.

It doesn’t stop there—but it doesn’t get better, either. Things progress in much the same way as they always have but with none of the need, or the warmth, of before. You climb back up and straddle him quick. Not meeting his eye, you just sit down, and slide down, and don’t wince at all. You don’t tell him that he’s big, and he doesn’t get the chance to even groan at the first influx of pleasure before you’re riding him. Bouncing and grinding your hips against his with all the passion of someone perusing the newspaper. You don’t whimper or moan.

Of course, Joel enjoys the feeling. He also wants someone to punch him in the throat for what he’s done.

“Hey, hon—” he starts, voice strained, “Hon, I’m sorr—”

“Shut up,” you snap.

Your movements hardly falter, and now your hand is seizing the headboard. You’re clenching him tight inside your wet, drooling cunt, and it’s obvious you’re trying to make him cum as quickly as possible. You swallow hard.

Joel isn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, his body is being flooded with pleasure, and on the other, he fears you may never do this with him again. Quickly fixing on the latter, he cups your face in one hand. It’s still wet.

His fingers smear the spit, and somehow you look even prettier. You keep grinding your body in desperate little fits above him, and really, you feel fucking amazing, but Joel is too focused on other thoughts. He squeezes you.

“Baby—” he tries again, but you shush him just as fast.

Your hips are moving viciously now. No matter how sore your legs might have been from a long day toiling away—just a couple hours before your shift at your next job, if Joel’s remembering correctly—you’re working him well. Doing him in. Fucking his brains out, but you aren’t his.

His fingers smear the spit even more. Never will be his.

“Sweet pea—”

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

Now he can’t deny that his climax is close. But this isn’t how he wanted it to end—with you so incensed you can hardly look him in the eye. His hand rubs more, helpless.

And just when he’s seconds away from painting your insides white, losing it all to the pleasure, he sees it.

His wet, sticky touch has uncovered a residue.

Joel pulls his fingers away in a blink, and simultaneously, your eyes are fluttering closed. You’re focused now on climax; because of that, you don’t see what he sees.

What he’s stunned to find on his fingers: makeup.

Lots and lots of thick, heavy makeup on your cheeks. Concealer, he thinks he’s heard it called once or twice.

No matter the name, he quickly comes to see what it’s for. Just as you’re hitting your peak, squeezing the headboard behind him, and coming undone with a shockwave trembling all through your body, Joel pales.

The makeup that you applied so heavy tonight hides bruises. Black and blue and awful hues of greenish-purple too, your whole face, he sees, is engulfed.

He doesn’t speak. He won’t ask.

He won’t cum tonight, either.

He’ll finish something else.

You leave Joel’s trailer angry. You don’t say goodbye. The screen door screams shut behind you when you leave, and silently, you wonder why he didn’t cum. For once, you wish he had—and hadn’t said half of what he did.

Six hours pass like molasses, and by the end of it all—the close of your second shift—Stetson’s name still echoes in your head. The way Joel said it. It hums along the walls of your skull while you walk, and as you draw closer to home, you remember that strange and infuriating tone.

Then you remember your own less than two months ago:

Don’t talk to my husband. Don’t talk about my husband.

They were two simple rules, and Joel broke them both.

He must’ve defied the first when paying a visit to make repairs that week, and that’s when Stetson mentioned your hand: how you ‘slipped’ in the bath. Tripped and conveniently sprained your wrist the same night he almost tore your arm out of the socket for looking at a waiter a tad too long at dinner. You’d bet any sum of money Joel didn’t get to hear that part from Stetson when he came over to see about the window, though.

No, your twenty-first came and went without so much as a word about your wrist. Your arm. Your face—used to getting caked with concealer every third week or so.

You wince as you open the door. You walk slowly.

At first, you’re met with silence, and you sigh with relief. Then you hear it, and shortly drop your purse to the floor.

You all but fall down yourself at the sight: your husband doubled over across from you, in the kitchen. His head in his hands. You don’t need to see the face to know that it’s bleeding. Profusely. You tread ever slower into the room, thinking somehow, some way he’s going to blame this on you. And when he straightens a little and shows off the full, gruesome extent of his injuries, you blanch to think that it might be. His body’s been beaten to a pulp.

Your pulse hammers in your head so loud you can’t hear him groan. You see him, but you don’t really believe it.

And when Stetson reaches for you, you stagger back.

Your hands skim the counter, but your brain barely registers it. Your husband’s calling to you now, ‘Quit standin’ there lookin’ stupid, do somethin’, huh?!’ He’s screaming, and you’re not hearing it. Barely feeling like a sentient person at all but just a doll stumbling backward on two wooden legs. As you walk, your palm stays stuck to the laminate underneath it, and suddenly, you feel it.

An envelope.

In this state, you aren’t sure why you grab it, but you do.

You take the lone white paper, and you turn to leave. Your hands shake as you hold the thing, and your legs are hardly any better, but they carry you, miraculously, from the kitchen to the threshold of the back door. Then out. Stetson’s not just yelling but bellowing, loud, every last obscenity known to man as he holds his bloodied side and limps in his perilous, pathetic way. Fortunately, you’re gone just in time to miss the bottle he hurls.

Outside, you walk. And walk. And in the still of the night you’re obliged to find your way through a miscellany of trailers and trucks and old, creaking vans by moonlight, and the throbbing in your head begins to slow. You don’t rush to get far, and you don’t have your keys even if you wanted to drive off. You keep walking. Watching nothing.

When your eyes drift to the envelope in your hand, you barely see that either. You’re just blinking as you look, and breathing as you wait for the sight to make sense.

Inside, you find seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson staring back. Next to them are a few dozen others—enough to cover August, September, October, and several months before that, if you had to guess.

You hope you’ll get the opportunity to thank Joel, and maybe tell him that you don’t really hate him, someday.

[satori-runa]

—A trip for business

Summary: Your partner ENA takes you along on a sudden business trip to search for the bathroom.

Tags: ooc, established relationship, not beta read

Words: 0,5k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You blinked at the stranger in front of you, then at ENA, then back again, trying to piece together how reality had shifted into this.

The last clear moment you remembered was sitting peacefully in a patch of dappled light, folding paper cranes. It was a peaceful task, especially since you’d been “forcibly” sent on vacation by someone who claimed you needed to “relax.” You were just starting to enjoy it when ENA appeared right in front of you.

“Wouldn’t you like to come with me on a whimsical little errand?” she had asked amused, already pulling you to your feet. Before you could decline or even ask where you were going, ENA had gripped your hand and dragged you through a blue door that forcefully squeezed all life force out of your poor body.

Now you were apparently on a “business trip” and inexplicably involved in her search for the bathroom.

“Do not worry, I am merely seeking the g—bathroom,” ENA said with an eerily pleasant tone towards the stranger, her hand still wrapped tightly around yours. Her smile twitched. “My partner and I are currently on a business run, so please excuse our abruptness an—” Suddenly, her voice pitched up like a television on the fritz. “AND GET LOST IF YOU DON’T HAVE ANY INFORMATION, YOU SWINDLING CARTOON OF A FRAUD!”

You barely had time to react before ENA yanked her hand away, only to gently clap it over your ears with the grace of someone tucking in a child for bed, before screaming. The poor stranger in front of you visibly trembled, then slowly collapsed into a puddle of goo and confusion. The search for the bathroom seemed more troublesome than expected.

And yet ENA smiled sweetly down at you. “Apologies, I didn’t want your precious little brain to implode from the audial assault, starshine.” You looked up at her, ears still faintly ringing. “Is… this normal for your business?”

ENA scoffed, face twitching into a scowl as her colors shifted. “Tch, obviously. What, you think I drag just anyone through cross-dimensional errands and yell for them?” Her grip tightened on your hand, but not painfully, just enough to feel her fluster. “I-I just thought... You’d enjoy my presence, alright?” she added, a glitchy pout forming on her face. “So wipe that surprised look off your dumb little face already!”

You blinked at her.

She blinked back, suddenly wide-eyed. “W-Wait. That didn’t come out right.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching in amusement as you realized that ENA got herself flustered.

“Oh my god, you’re laughing at me—!” Her voice peaked as her face burned red, then blue, then fuzzed out entirely. Just as she started to glitch further into an emotional spiral, a sudden flicker ran through her form. Her posture straightened, her expression smoothed into something calm, composed, and—oddly charming and all colours returned to her face.

“My deepest apologies, what I meant was, that I enjoy spending time with you,” she said, voice velvet-smooth and measured, like a well-rehearsed commercial.

You couldn’t help but laugh again.She leaned in, close enough for her to fluster you. “Besides,” she murmured, “I do quite enjoy having you at my side. Flustered malfunctions and all.”

Perhaps this little business trip wasn't as bad.

[rori-is-writing]

While You Were Sleeping

⟪ ⟨ Ch 2: Just The Tip ⟩ ⟫

A The Pitt Reader X Fic.

Two-Shot | Explicit | Dr. Robby x Fem!Reader | 803 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: You and Michael discover you both really like doing things while the other is asleep. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Age Gap, Female Reader, Somnophilia

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

[ Robby's turn. 😈 ]

Michael had always been a needy lover. 

Oh, he tried to hide it. Frequently went out of his way to try to be considerate and attentive to his partners. Never pushed or needled them for something he didn’t think they were willing to give freely. 

And yet…every now and then…he found himself taking. 

Like now. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what had woken him up. The sticky summer heat perhaps—the air conditioner had been on the fritz lately—or more trauma from the day before seeping into his dreams. Whatever it was, he woke up hard enough to pound nails. 

Michael felt both exhausted and wired—all the blood in his brain pumping south, leaving his thoughts fuzzy as a steady drumbeat pulsed away in his cock. Touch, it said. Taste, it whispered. 

And there you were beside him, curled into the shelter of his body. Soft and sweet and so deliciously oblivious to his turmoil—like some fucked up forbidden fruit he just itched to devour. 

But the truth was that he already had touched and tasted you. Already had his fill several hours before when he’d come home from work and burrowed his way so deep into your body that he was sure he had fused himself to you for good. But it hadn’t been enough. It was never enough. 

He wanted more. 

He needed more. 

His instincts screamed at him to take and fuck and use. To see if your soft cunt was still as nice and wet as he had left it. 

She won’t notice, his sleep-addled mind reasoned with his conscious. She’s still asleep. You’ll be quick. 

It would be so easy. He was already pressed against the globes of your ass. All it would take was a little adjustment—nudge your leg forward a bit—and then he would be inside. All snug and warm and safe. 

Where he was meant to be. 

Still asleep, he thinks. Stillasleepstillasleepstillasleep—

It’s all he can think as he smoothes his fingers along your bare skin, palming the warm flesh and slotting his cock into the slippery cleft between your legs. You make a noise, but don’t stir, and he takes that as his sign to continue. It takes almost no effort at all for him to push forward, slide that throbbing piece of himself home into that burning place inside of you. 

Michael goes almost cross-eyed at the feel of you. He’s so close already and he’s hardly even moved. That’s how it always is with you though. You make him feel like a teenager again. All racing heartbeat and shivery, mind-numbing orgasms that come too hard and too fast. 

But that’s okay, because that’s what he needs right now. Just a few pumps and then he’ll be finished. Be able to sate this insatiable, burning need for the night so he can go back to sleep and then—

“…What?” Your voice is soft. Still rough and slow from just waking up, but Michael can still hear the hitch in your breath as he pulls out and then shoves back in a little too eagerly. He can’t stop now. He just can’t. You’re too warm and soft and slick and he’ll die if he doesn’t come inside of you right now. 

“Just a sec,” he pants into your throat, fingers clutching around your middle to paw at your belly, your hip, your breast, anything to anchor him against this relentless, racing onslaught in his veins. “I just—I need—just a little more—”

He slides his fingers down into the mess between your legs and circles your clitoris, wanting to feel those wondrous, greedy little tugs you make when you—ah. 

There they are. 

You convulse. Back arching, feet sliding restlessly against the sheets as your cunt squeezes and shudders and milks Michael’s cock until his own orgasm has him pumping you full with a breathless grunt. 

“Fuck,” he hisses into the damp skin of your neck. “Oh fuck!” 

It goes on for far longer than any orgasm either of you really remembers having. By the time it’s over, you’re both so wrung out that you just lay there, panting like a couple of overworked beasts of burden. 

“That was…” you say, breathless and still a little cock-drunk. 

“Yeah,” he replies, in much the same tone. He’s still inside of you. Cock slowly softening, but still completely averse to leaving the heat of your body. 

“Really hot.” You continue dreamily. 

“Uh huh,” Michael agrees with a content little smile. 

“…Can we do it again?”

He laughs. 

“Give me a couple hours. I’m not as young as I used to be.” 

“Mm,” You tease, wryly. “I forget sometimes that you’re an old man.” 

Just for that, he rolls you over and shows you that with age also comes experience. 

Previous Chapter

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Thanks for reading! 🫶

[ghouljams]

How’s John’s assistant doing? I feel like he turns the heat on in the building in the summer.

Oh absolutely sweltering. It's bad enough that the building is about 90% window and reaching for the sky like it wants to catch the sun. The only saving grace is (or should be) that there's central a/c. Yet you are sweating damn near through your blouse. You'd moved from long sleeves to short sleeves to a now sleeveless top just trying to combat the persistent heat that seems to follow you through the office. You think your floor's a/c must be on the fritz or something, but Mr. Price seems entirely unbothered by it.

Or, not entirely unbothered, just not bitching about it. He isn't any more immune to sweating than you are, and you've started avoiding him more to keep from seeing the way his sweat sticks his button down to his chest, wetting the fabric just enough to see the dark chest hair underneath, his jacket discarded and his tie on the table beside his computer, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair starting to cling to his forehead... He is hot, undeniably hot, and yet he hasn't said a word about the a/c except to ask if you have any shorter skirts you could be wearing.

You do, and you wear them on the days you know he's out of the office just to spite him. Somehow the air conditioning is miraculously working on those days, and you end up freezing in the office, forced to swipe one of Mr. Price's spare jackets from his closet just to stay warm. If you ever find proof that it's him messing with the hvac system on this floor, you're going to kill him. Paycheck be damned.

[bigweirdalien]

misc tenna x reader hcs

tags: mostly nsft & a few sft headcanons about tenna!! featuring some analysis on how his kinks intersect with his mental state (and also his love of old films!)

w.c: like 2k ish?

header credit: bronzewasp!

also available on ao3! p.s. that version probably has better formatting too!

Dom v. Sub.

While I do think Tenna is a major switch who jumps between domming and subbing, I feel like in the beginning of your relationship, he'd suppress the side of him he deemed needy and pathetic and whiny and instead exaggerate the side of him that's served him best: his showmanship. His absolutely unflappable place as the leader and the head and the star of the show.

In other words, I think he's a control freak.

In the beginning, he'd want to prove to you that you'd made a good choice by loving him. He'd, in a way, feel compelled to "trick" you into needing him -- trying to give you a kind of pleasure and excitement that no one else can access, whether it be your hands or that little toy you hide or the (real or perceived) competitors trying to steal you away from Tenna.

He'd overstimulate you a lot. Wreck you until you're a babbling mess, chattering "I love you" and "it's too much!" and "don't stop!" like your circuits were on the fritz. He'd want to consume your attention -- if your eyes screwed shut in pleasure, he'd want to be the last thing they'd see. He'd use his huge size to overpower you and drown you in him, a piece of him everywhere you look. His antennae dangling in your face. His hands cupping your hip, your cheek. His toothy grin descending across your body. If you're a Tenna tail truther -- yes, he would use it against you.

All of this -- this performance -- is just another way Tenna begs to be validated. He wants you to need him. To rely on him. To love him the way he loves you -- like he might just drop dead if your attention faltered. If making you cum a million times over is how he secures that shiny podium in your mind, he'll do it.

Besides: he really does love it. Loves putting his long, skilled fingers to use, whether it be dancing them down your thighs in teasing shows or pressing them against your tongue while you look up at him with pitiful eyes.

He can be an adoring service top who weeps while fucking you and telling you you're beautiful. He can be a meanie dom who forces you to say perverted things while he folds you in impressive positions. He can be a gentle lover, too. Really: it's whatever you want. He only wants to see you happy, blissed out in his bed, leaning towards his touch.

...It takes a few emotional conversations and long sob sessions in your lap for him to admit that there's a part of him that aches, a part of him that yearns to feel tiny and coddled and cared for, and, strangely, sometimes that tiny version of him requests things he'd never allow on television. Sometimes he wants to be made into that version of himself -- broken into a fragment, proof of his worthlessness and his weakness, something you could do whatever you wanted with and he'd be too vulnerable to fight back.

This feeling, of course, is only healed by you proving time and time again that you don't intend on throwing Tenna away when he's weak or bashing him while he's down. When Tenna introduces you to that side of him -- the side begging to have its control ripped away, it's pain forgotten about -- you introduce it to tenderness.

Just like when he doms, Tenna's a shapeshifter as a sub. He likes to play the role of a pervert, pushed away by your heel as he whimpers at your feet; he likes to feel your hands mercilessly tugging on his exposed wires, sometimes even looping them around his wrists to guide him just where you want him to be; he likes when you sit on his face and order him to get to work while you twist his antennae like toys only designed for your entertainment.

More importantly, he likes to let go. Whether that's basking in depravity or finding safety in smallness, he feels immense love when he gives you a version of him less flashy, less entertaining, less "worthwhile" than his bombastic five-star persona, and you choose to stay tuned anyway.

★★★

Here’s a list of things I think he’s into! Definitely not a definitive list of fetishes, no sir, but more like… common threads, patterns you might notice if you were consistently blowing this bot’s back out.

Humiliation.

I mean, it takes a bit of humiliation to make a game show, doesn't it? Dropping the contests into situations they find themselves spooked or scandalized by, both their prize and their dignity at risk; whether they want to complete the challenge is just as much of a question as if they can. He likes making you say dirty things, likes seeing you tiny beneath him or below him or even atop his face.

He'll jerk off in front of you, inches from your open mouth, and refuse to finish until you get your lines just right.

“Say: I’ll look so pretty covered in your cum, Mr. Tenna!~ Go on! Show me what you’ve got!”

“I– I’ll look so p-pretty covered in your cum, Mr. Tenna.”

“This time, darling, really beg for it. Make me believe it."

"I'll look so pretty covered in your cum, Mr. Tenna!"

Over and over again, until he's satisfied his desire. Or maybe his curiosity -- just to see how far he can push you, the faces you'll make, the sounds.

"Say it like it's our wedding night.”

“Say it like you'll die if mean old Mr. Tenna doesn’t give it to you.”

“Say it with an accent--"

"Tenna."

Facesitting.

Idk! This is something both dom Tenna and sub Tenna would insist upon!

Touching on sizeplay, I think this is a great compromise for the two of you when Tenna’s resting at full height: he can wrap his ginormous hands around your comparably tiny waist and lift you up and down while he tonguefucks you mercilessly from below. He can maneuver you like you’re a little ragdoll, dependent on his every whim.

If you’re in the mood to tease or take control, you can grind against his faceplate and run your fingers along his nose. Better yet: lean forward and take control of his antennae, as if they were reins waiting to be seized.

Tenna likes looking up at you. The angle makes you seem godlike, descending to receive a bounty made in your honor. He likes it when you scold him for moving too recklessly, making a spitty mess of your clenching thighs. He also likes it when your posture falters and you start to whimper out pleas that you’ll be a very good pet if he stops the teasing and skips to the finale your body craves.

Roleplay.

I think he WANTS to be into roleplay. I think it would be very easy for him to accomplish -- his studio boasts a huge wardrobe, an impressive prop collection, and plenty of sets to utilize. But... he can't help but find himself flustered, too reddened to say his line; or impatient, too desperate to let the act play its course.

If you sneak into his office, clutching a clipboard and pushing up a pair of glasses and bashfully introducing yourself as the new intern to the Mr. Tenna -- he'll find the strength to go along with it for the opening scene, only to crumble when you fall to your knees in front of him and spread his legs for him. Then, he'll go bright red, start to sweat, start to mumble, bite his knuckles to keep himself from getting embarrassingly hard when he should be the one intimidating you.

“Ah– ah! You’re rather bold for a brand new face! We wouldn’t normally let– hah!-- you back here, but I guess we can make…” He’s panting, struggling to find a script worth acting out. “Please… just let me fuck you.”

Sizeplay.

When I first saw that Tenna was tall, that was a huge selling point for me. Then I realized he was not tall, actually, but giant, and if we stood next to each other I’d only reach his knee, and, um, I’m kind of terrified of whatever he might be rocking in his pants (if you’re a truther for Tenna!dick – I go back and forth on whether or not he’d have a synthetic humanoid cock or instead some ken-doll mound hiding hypersensitive bundles of wires.)

But… there’s still something really, really hot about a sizeshifter. When you’re playfully arguing and he inflates his height to tower over you and leer at you with an evil grin, reminding you who’s the boss? When, at full height, all it takes is a mere ounce of his strength to manipulate you however he pleases? How one of his hands absently-minded coiling around both of yours leaves you pinned and trapped? How it takes zero effort to overstimulate you with a finger or his tongue, all the while his bulge threatens to keep growing in his pants as he watches you melt beneath a fraction of his attention?

Additionally: a tiny Tenna who can barely handle your fingers grazing over him. His emotions correlate with his height, so I figure he’d almost always be boasting an impressive few feet above you; simply motivated by your words and presence and affection to summon his best, most shiny self. Especially during sex – there’s no way he’d be able to maintain a sour or gloomy mood when you’re reaching for him, whispering about your need, promising him that he’s the one to fill it. You don’t see much of Tiny Tenna. But he’s terrific for a short cuddle or a good tease.

Role Reversal.

Once I saw this piece of Spamtenna art where both of them had a thought bubble that said "lol this guy thinks he's topping." I actually think this is how EVERY encounter with Tenna goes.

Tenna wields a bold persona, but it cracks when you talk sweetly or touch him gently or... pay enough attention to him. Then: he's putty in your hands. Babbling and confessing secrets you didn't know he had kept and making promises you didn't ask him to make and ensuring that he loves you, really loves you. But the longer you tease him, the more you stretch his patience -- you risk reawakening the rabid side of him.

One too-long lingering touch will have him reminding you who's in charge. He'll flip you on your back, pin you to the wall, fuck up into you from where he rests beneath your body. And that weak, whimpering voice he sputtered out apologies and pleads in? Suddenly transformed into that suave, booming tone he charms the audience with.

"You didn't think I'd let you get away with that, did you? The show’s barely getting started!"

But stay firm in your dominance and you'll have another chance to reprimand him for talking to you like that, for having such an ego, for daring to be so ungrateful for your attention. That might trigger a few inches worth of height to cease, for his confident bravado to falter – but be careful. If he’s really desperate, there’s little you can say or do to rip away the fate he’s sealed for you: taking his cock until he truly believes you’ve learned your lesson for toying with him.

(Please toy with him. He loves it.)

Mild Pred/Prey.

Maybe not exactlyyyy but hear me out. He likes cornering you, seeing you shrink. Seeing your eyes widen slightly as you realize you're not only all alone, but completely without escape. He likes leaning in, baring his fangs. Swallowing up the space with his static buzz and his irresistible words and his reaching hands --

And, normally, this is just a way to tease, to excite! To say hello! He'll drop the act and plant kisses on your forehead, lean in casually for conversations. But... he can't deny just how much he likes it. The way you stare at him, desperate for answers as to what he'll do next. How little you can do about it.

Plus, he likes trapping you. Literally: practicing the devices invented for his show on you, binding you with his wires or his tie, holding your hands together with one of his own and pinning them above your head while the rest of you dangles uselessly. And less literally: holding your attention. Keeping you guessing. Invading your space.

He just... loves... capturing you, having you. If it means giving a chase, baring his fangs, reaching across the room to tug you back into his embrace, sure! Like I said, not all of it is erotic. Sometimes he just likes the spooked look on your face -- or, better yet, the excitement that replaces the initial shock, the way you squeal his name and loop your arms around him. He's always happy to reciprocate.

(And squeeze back while he lifts you off the ground and takes you where he pleases for your conversation -- or your "conversation.")

★★★

Other Little Random Bits.

I think he’s less of an orgasm denier and more of an orgasm insister. Even when you’ve had enough, you feel funny, you think you might pee – Tenna is all about a grand finale, or a stellar rerun, or, maybe, an appreciated-but-unproduced pilot pitch, if your body can’t muster one last performance. He’ll sigh and start to kiss the red off your face, offering you a sweet pout as he soothes you in your panting state: “Don’t worry, precious! You tried your very, very best. I give it a ten.”

I think he uses so many pet names – as if clipped and sampled from random shows across all eras – that it’s difficult to really pin down a “Tenna petname brand.” He loves to call you darling and sweetheart, most certainly – but it’s not long before he’s throwing in things like prince and princess, sweets and sugar, the occasional toots and doll. Sometimes he’ll call you random things like reigning champ! or little lovebug! – again, all so randomized and so quick, and yet so Tenna. He is also very, very fond of atta girl! and atta boy! Bonus points for anything that sounds cloyingly sweet but also slightly condescending.

Speaking of random shows across all eras: Tenna’s knowledge of the world (not just the Light World, but of like… everything, conceptually) comes from the content he’s consumed, projected, and replicated for his entire life. He’s a reference machine; no inside joke or old recurring bit will pass him by. Seriously! Ramble to him about any program or film – there’s a good chance he’ll take the conversation and lead it somewhere amazing, like informing you about behind-the-scenes trivia and the scriptwriting process. He also has a knack for dancing and repeating the long, convoluted dance sequences once seen by Gene Kelly; similarly, he’s memorized many a comedy routine, and can pull rabbits out of hats, repeat punchlines, or play the straight man whenever needed.

…However, since so much of his internal world orbits around… television… it does, in a way, warp some of his understanding of the world. Romance, too. When he’s good, he’s great – taking inspiration from all the great romance movies from the start of cinema to now, courting you with glamorous gestures and making you feel like a true starlet. Unfortunately, sometimes he is – not great? I think, in the beginning, he might not know much about intimacy or sex, considering that’s not something that ever featured in the programs the Dreemurr household watched, no sir! There’s a few programs he’s caught that certainly leave little to the imagination, but he’s still got a lot to learn about the real process. The good news is that he’s downright eager and maybe even obsessive to get his hands on you and really, truly show off what he's learned.

Tenna talks. A lot. When he cums. Sososoo much. If you gag him, he keeps talking – around your fingers, through your underwear, from where he’s squished into the pillow. He might even thank you for gagging him (in mumbles.)

[eff4freddie]

Play With Her

Explicit - 18+ Minors DNI

Words: 4k

You and Joel have fond memories of the last time he called you from work. But a slight misunderstanding leads to some fun with your neighbour, and to you ( accidentally) fulfilling one of Joel’s secret fantasies.

Warnings: SMUT, people. So much. Smut. Oral (m and f receiving), phone sex, mmf (kinda), Joel talks his girl through it like a gentleman, surprise Frankie, Joel’s a little shocked but he is very into it, voyeurism, exhibitionism, dirty talk, Joel being kinda soft dom again.

Part 1 - Play With It Part 3 - Play With Me

You hadn’t forgotten Joel’s antics in his car in the middle of a workday, but despite a particularly explosive afternoon immediately following, you hadn’t had the time to properly get him back. It hadn’t been either of your faults, just that work continued to be relentless, something went wrong at the site, materials weren’t delivered, the vendors got mad. You developed a little twitch in your eyelid. Joel came home rubbing his neck and shoulders and turning the kitchen upside down trying to find the heat pack.

You knew there was love there, that there was passion. You weren’t worried about it, even though you missed him. You knew that it was situational. When the air cleared, you’d get back to taking each other apart.

--

Joel woke up early again, groaning as his muscles ached like they hadn’t had any rest at all. You were in bed beside him, and he knew that you’d had a late shift but you’d managed to rack up enough overtime that today you had the whole day to yourself. He was so proud of you, his little worker bee, and even though he was disappointed your schedules hadn’t aligned so that he could enjoy the day with you, or on top of you, he still knew it was good for you. He left a little note on your bedside, telling you he was gonna call around lunchtime. He marked it with two x’s and two o’s. For a second he imagined actually peppering your skin with kisses.

‘Soon, baby,’ he said, to your sleeping form. He was quiet in his socks on the carpet as he left.

On the way out the door, piece of toast between his teeth, he looked over the front lawn. It was getting out of control, and he’d been meaning to cut it, but he just couldn’t find the energy on a weekend, and as the days were gettin’ shorter as the weather changed, he was leaving in the dark, home in the dark. He didn’t like the look of the lawn, worried that the state of the grass was a direct reflection of the state of his aging body, of his bone-deep fatigue most days. That the neighbours would twig he was getting older, purely by the weeds spreading their tendrils over the path to the door.

‘Morning, Joel,’ he heard a voice call, and he glanced over to next door’s patio, where one such neighbour was standing with the newspaper in his hands.

‘Frankie,’ he said, nodding his head. He got on well with Frankie, even if he wasn’t 100% sure he trusted him all the time. He had a kid he had over every other weekend, who Sarah adored, and other than that he lived alone. Ex-military, he reminded Joel of Tommy, and he tried to be sensitive knowing some of the shit he must have seen. He didn’t seem lonely, he was handy and knew how to get Joel’s truck going when the engine was on the fritz, and more than anything he treated you respectful, tipped his cap when you walked by, and Joel liked that. Appreciated the manners.

‘Early start,’ Frankie said, and Joel sighed. He rested a hand on his hip.

‘Too early,’ he grunted, and the younger man smiled knowingly at him. As Joel moved to the truck he limped a little, his hip bothering him after he carried some lumber the wrong way on the site a few days ago.

‘You ok?’ Frankie asked. Frankie noticed everything, Joel knew. It would have kept him alive in his last job, he supposed.

‘Yeah, just gettin’ old, getting’ tired.’ Joel nodded to the lawn. ‘Can’t you tell?’

‘Could help you with that, got the day clear today and…well, don’t have other plans.’

Joel had seen Frankie out on his back porch drinking on his own, sometimes with a couple of other men who all looked a similar age, similar previous occupations. He didn’t mind so long as they kept it down and didn’t catch your eye too much.

‘Can’t ask ya for that,’ Joel started, but Frankie waved him away.

‘You’re not. I’m offering, hermano.’

Joel nodded. It might be a nice surprise for you, he thought, to have the house reclaim some of its street appeal. Lord knew it didn’t have much to start with.

Sitting in his truck he fired off a quick message to you so you wouldn’t be surprised by Frankie on your front lawn. ‘Organised a sruprise 4 you, baby xxoo,’ he wrote. He was going to be late. He sent it without too much thought.

--

You woke, lifting your arms up over your head and listening to the pops of your joints as the stretch moved up your spine. You couldn’t remember the last time you had a day off. You had no idea what you were going to do with your spare time.

After a second or two of blissful cotton-headedness, you noticed a droning sound from the front of the house. You stood on achy knees and padded over to the window. Surely Joel hadn’t taken the day off too, with the worksite being so crazy lately?

You sucked in a tight little breath when you saw him. Shirtless, with his curls poking out the side of his ballcap, pushing his lawnmower over your unruly grass in the late-morning sun. You scrabbled for your phone to check the time and also to try and orient yourself, to make sure you hadn’t accidentally fallen through a wormhole in your sleep, as though Siri would be able to tell you one way or the other.

You saw the message from Joel. A surprise? You glanced around the room, looking for any clues. Eventually your eyes fell on a scrap of paper on your bedside, and you read that, too. For a second you stood, confused, trying to put the pieces together. He had organised a surprise, there was a half-naked man on your lawn, and he was going to call you at lunchtime. And you remembered exactly what transpired the last time he did that.

Your felt your brows shoot up to your hairline as realisation dawned. Did he know you’d had a crush on Frankie since the moment he’d moved in next door? How could he know, you’d been so careful not to stare too long, not to smile too much. You’d felt the sparks, and you’d poured cold water of them well enough, you’d thought.

But nothing got past Joel. You couldn’t believe it, but also you definitely could.

A surprise for you? No. This time you were going to be one step ahead.

--

Joel didn’t like to eat his lunch in the truck, never fully able to get the tang of egg salad out of the upholstery after, but this time he made an exception. He’d pulled back around to where it was quiet, knowing some of the guys on site liked to pump the tunes during their breaks, set up a little jerry-rigged tailgate to try and while away the 40 minutes they had to themselves. He thought with a shiver about the last time he’d snuck off to park somewhere quiet. He let himself wonder for a moment if you’d be up for something like a repeat. He grinned a little as he dialled. He didn’t think he should push his luck.

The call connected almost straight away, like you’d been waiting for him, and he felt a little flutter in his heart. You were so sweet to him. He needed to take you out somewhere special soon, make you flutter for a little while.

‘Hey baby,’ you said, your voice high and breathy, and he guessed you were still in bed.

‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ he said, teasin’ you.

‘Mmm,’ you said, ‘no cameras this time?’

‘We can if you want, baby, but I was just calling to check in on ya.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, and to make sure Frankie’s doing his job,’ he said, chuckling a little.

‘Frankie’s doing just fine,’ you said, and you sounded weird somehow, maybe a little out of breath?

‘You ok, baby?’ he asked, and you hummed in response.

‘Wanna see you,’ you said, and he felt a shiver up the base of his spine. He knew that tone. He felt the smirk appear on his face.

‘Yeah, you sound like ya do,’ he said. He took the phone from his ear and connected Facetime. He heard you doing the same.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see. He’d assumed you were in bed, so he was surprised to see you were up, standing in front of the big picture window overlooking the front lawn. Your cheeks were a little flushed, and you looked a little sweaty. He wondered if you’d been for a run.

‘There’s my girl,’ he said, because the sight of you always lit something up in him, and you smiled at him, a coy little thing.

‘I got a surprise for you,’ you said, a dimple appearing on your cheek as you arched a single brow at him.

‘Oh yeah?’ he said, feeling his cock stir. Maybe you were up for a repeat after all.

‘Mmmhmm,’ you said, biting your lip. You were holding the phone up with one arm, but he could see your other arm held fast in front of you. Were you touching yourself in the living room?

‘Show me,’ he said, and you grinned at him. You panned the camera down, slowly, so that first thing he saw was the straps of your camisole, one hanging off your shoulder to hover just over the swell of your tit. You lowered it again, over the belly, where you had shucked up the hem and he could see some exposed skin, your little belly button he sometimes liked to tickle with his beard just to hear you squirm and squeal.

Then a little further down. Angling the camera so that he could see down your body, to your feet on the carpet, and to the man on his knees between them.

Joel blinked. He was sure his heart stopped.

‘What…’ he started, but he couldn’t finish his sentence because he was too distracted by the man hitching one of your thighs over his shoulder and opening you up, teasing the lips of your pussy apart to properly latch to your cunt. ‘Oh my god,’ he uttered.

‘Oh my god!’ you gasped, as Frankie sucked your clit between his teeth. ‘Oh baby, he’s so good,’ you groaned.

‘Baby, what are you doing?’ Joel asked, trying not to overthink that his cock was rock hard while he watched another man lick a stripe along your seam.

‘Surprise…’ you gasped. ‘Got a head start.’

Joel’s hands were shaking. A head start on what? He watched as your hand gripped Frankie’s head, his ballcap on the floor beside him as he grasped at your hips, pulling you down harder on his face. You were squirming there on top of him, as he huffed out little exhales into your skin.

Your breath was starting to get faster, coming in little pants, as your thigh clenched around Frankie’s shoulder. For a brief moment you worried you were going to suffocate him, and then he ran a finger up the inside of your thigh and teased at your opening and you simply didn’t care.

You angled the phone back to your face, your eyes fluttering shut so that you didn’t see Joel’s slightly shocked expression.

‘Such a good surprise, baby, thank you,’ you said, and Joel felt his belly flip in on itself. You were blissed out, he could see just by your face you were half gone already. Your little whimpers were sending electric shocks to his cock. He couldn’t deny it wasn’t one of the hottest things he’d ever seen, or that he had wanted to see it ever since Frankie appeared next door. He just assumed you’d never be into it, and now looking at you writhing he couldn’t remember why.

He swallowed on a dry throat. You cracked open an eye, noticing he’d stopped talking. You saw that he looked a little pale, and worried for a second he was regretting it.

‘He’s not better,’ you said, trying to form words to reassure him while Frankie was pushing any sensible thought out of your head with his tongue. ‘He’s good, just as good. It’s just different.’

You were shuddering a little, Joel could see that you were trembling from the pleasure the other man was wringing out of you. ‘Yeah?’ he grunted, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Because he didn’t want to take this from you when you’d accidentally given him something he thought he would only ever dream of, not when you were feeling so good, not when you had apparently read his (dirty, filthy) mind. Because he was enjoying it, if he could tame the beast that was howling mine mine mine every time you whimpered under Frankie’s tongue. Because, ok, this wasn’t what he had planned for the day, but it was so much better.

His cock was already so hard it was almost painful. His beautiful, dirty girl. ‘He eatin’ it right, baby?’ he asked, and you moaned a little in response. He heard Frankie grunt a little from beneath you. ‘Show me,’ he said.

You angled the phone down again, this time reaching to put it closer to your cunt, so that Joel could see the way Frankie was suckling at your cunt, the way his tongue was working his way in and out of you, how at some point he had slipped two fingers into your cunt and was pumping them slowly, angled in the way Joel knew you liked, the way that made you stutter.

‘Fuck…’ he groaned, as Frankie huffed out an exhale.

‘She’s good, man,’ Frankie said, pulling his mouth off you for just long enough to force out the words. ‘Tastes like a warm spring morning.’

Joel could feel his cock pulsing, could hardly hear for the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

‘You treat her right,’ he ground out, his jaw ticking. He could feel the furrow in his brows, knew he was almost glowering at Frankie. ‘That’s my girl you got there,’ he added, feeling the need to remind him. To remind himself.

‘She always get this wet for you?’ Frankie asked, and Joel practically growled. He was about to tell Frankie you could practically drown him every night when he noticed your thighs were trembling, your hand in his hair moving to his shoulder to try and get purchase.

‘Lay ‘er down,’ he instructed. ‘Don’t let her fall.’

The camera moved, blurred as Frankie got up off his knees and pulled you over to the couch. He heard you sigh as your muscles relaxed, Frankie lying you down and settling between your open thighs.

‘Thank you, baby,’ you whispered to Joel. He swallowed.

‘Look after you,’ he said, fumbling with his fly. He was rock hard and worried as soon as he held himself in his hand he’d nut like a teenager. He wanted to ride this out with you, wanted to be present for all of it, wanted to stave it off as much as he wanted to chase it down.

‘Oh, he’s got his fingers in me,’ you said, gasping. ‘They’re so thick, just like yours…’

‘He hittin’ the spot?’ Joel asked, as you angled the camera down your body and he saw Frankie hovering over your cunt, lips once again suctioning at your clit.

‘Mmmhmm’ you replied, breathless. ‘He’s good, baby, he’s so good.’

Joel couldn’t form words for a second, gripping the base of his cock to try and regain some sort of control over it.

‘Wish you were here,’ you said, as you pushed your hips down onto Frankie’s face.

‘Yeah?’ Joel asked, wincing as he drew his palm over the weeping, sensitive head. ‘What’d you do if I was there, baby?’ he asked.

‘Want you everywhere,’ you groaned. ‘Want you in my mouth, in my pussy while he sucks on my clit. Want you in my cunt while I suck him.’

Joel gasped, his eyes slamming shut as his head tilted back on his shoulders. You were going to be the fucking death of him, and he would happily go if this was how you’d go about it.

‘Want your tight little cunt, baby,’ he grunted, pumping now, not able to help himself, the want for you overwhelming as Frankie raised his head a little to eye him through the camera. Your hips were bucking now, involuntary and fast. ‘Play with her,’ Joel said to him. ‘Don’t let her come yet, not ‘til she’s earned it.’

He heard you whimper, a desperate little cry, and watched as Frankie pulled back. Joel watched as his face glistened with your slick.

‘Joel!’ you cried, and he sniggered a little.

‘Ain’t what I meant when I said you could cut my grass,’ he said to Frankie, who grinned at him.

‘Not my fault your girl’s got a delicious cunt,’ he said, shrugging.

‘Let me see her,’ Joel said. He held his breath as Frankie took the phone from you and angled it back towards you. He saw you, splayed out on the couch for him and for Frankie, one leg on the floor and the other held fast against the couch, your slick spread over your thighs as your pussy grasped at the air, desperate for something to lick it, to suck it, to fuck it. ‘Jesus,’ Joel said, staring at your folds.

‘Don’t know how you leave the house with this waiting for ya, hermano,’ Frankie said. Joel shook his head.

‘M’a damn fool,’ he agreed. He saw you giggle, and he smiled.

‘Get on your knees for him, baby,’ he said, and watched as your smile fell, shock and want painting your pretty face.

‘You sure?’ you asked, so quiet he almost didn’t hear.

‘You wanna be good to our guest, right?’ Joel teased, and he watched you smile.

‘I’m a good host,’ you said, and he smiled.

‘The best, baby. Go on now, make him feel welcome.’

‘Oh fuck, Joel,’ Frankie muttered, as you got up on your knees on the couch and crawled over to him, your eyes on the younger man’s cock.

‘Just wait ‘til you see what she can do with that slutty little mouth,’ Joel said. He was holding himself by the base again, almost holding his breath in anticipation. Frankie angled the camera down his body so that Joel could see your hand as you reached out to hold him.

‘It’s big,’ you said, looking up and straight at Joel through the camera. You could see how far gone he was, how much he was holding himself back. You felt more arousal pool between your legs just at the look on his face.

‘You can take it,’ Joel said. ‘Make it good for him, baby.’

You watched as he mirrored your smile. God, you loved him. Even now, with another man’s cock in your face, he was the love of your life and as soon as he was home again you’d tell him. Show him. Never let him doubt it for a second.

You extended your tongue to kitten lick at Frankie’s tip, tasting the pre-come that had gathered while you and Joel encouraged each other. You heard the twin groans of Frankie above you and Joel through the phone. You hitched your mouth over the head, gathering saliva and letting it run out over the sides. Frankie was big, but so was Joel, and you breathed through your nose as you slipped your mouth over him, opening your throat and trying to calm your racing heart.

‘Oh, fuck me,’ Frankie said, as Joel held his breath. You hollowed your cheeks, a bolt of want shooting through your cunt as Frankie stuttered, groaning low and heavy in his chest. He smelt faintly of Old Spice and grass clippings, and you tasted the salt on his skin of his exertion. Joel smelt of pine and lumber. Between the two of them they were a symphony of delicious masculinity.

‘Can you reach her tits?’ you heard Joel ask, shivering. Frankie grunted his ascent. ‘Reach down, if you play with her nipples she’ll soak the couch.’

You whimpered, breathing out hard through your nose as you worked Frankie further into your throat.

‘Look at me, baby.’ Joel instructed and you opened your eyes, letting them travel up Frankie’s glistening tanned body to catch Joel’s eyes. You could see he was working himself again, panting and squirming in the driver’s seat of his truck. His hands were trembling a little, causing your view of him to shake, and it matched the tremors that were coursing through your body as you sucked Frankie down.

You felt his hand grope at your tit and you rounded your spine to try and give him more room, sticking your butt out into the air in the process. You kept your eyes on Joel, fighting the urge to let them drift closed, wanting to watch him watching you with another man’s cock in your mouth.

‘Doin’ so good,’ Joel muttered and you preened under his praise. ‘Put your hand between your legs, rub that little clit.’

You whined, following his instruction, a little lightheaded from the heat and the desire and Frankie halfway down your throat. ‘Such a pretty girl, my beautiful girl,’ Joel prattled. ‘Love you like this, baby, throat all stretched out taking on another man.’

Your eyelids fluttered as his words hit you in your core, Frankie’s hips starting to roll as you eased your finger over your clit and started rubbing tight little circles on the bundle of nerves. Frankie pinched hard at your nipple and you gasped, sucking in air through your nose and trying not to gag in the process.

‘Oh fuck, she’s squeezing me with her throat, hermano,’ Frankie muttered.

Joel watched, almost completely out of his mind. He never wanted to look at anything else ever again, wanted this view of you tattooed on the inside of his eyelids so he could see it anytime he wanted. Your eyes were starting to water, your skin glistening with sweat, as your hips shuddered under your own touch and under Frankie’s.

Joel was so close he wasn’t going to be able to stop it. He knew he had only seconds left, and by the looks of it, so did you.

‘Oh fuck baby, look what you did to us,’ he said, and you let your eyes drift from Joel’s to Frankie’s face as he grit his teeth, his eyes staring down at you, just barely managing to hold onto the phone as you sucked him.

‘So good,’ Frankie said to you, ‘can’t…gonna…’

You groaned, taking him out of your throat and reaching up to jerk the shaft while you sucked hard on the head. Still circling your clit with one hand you reached the other up to gently roll his balls in your palm. He cried out, the shock of the pleasure making him finally drop the phone. It landed, face up, just by his knees and angled up under your chin as Frankie shot his load into your mouth, gripping your tit in one hand and the other coming to rest on the crown of your head as he pumped his hips, his come shooting into your mouth as you rolled it over your tongue. Joel had an obscene view of it, watched as Frankie’s come spilled out of your mouth and onto the couch below you, nearly splattering over the lens. It was too much, finally too much, Joel shooting come into his hand and over his shirt as he fucked his palm, imagined it was your mouth, your cunt as you sucked Frankie’s come down, imagined he was inside you and also beside you, holding your head up as the younger man painted your throat.

He came as you did, gasping and whimpering for the other, your voice calling for him as he grunted out for you, and he recovered just enough to watch as you shuddered, your body shaking and rolling with the pleasure of it as you rested your face on Frankie’s heaving belly, sweat plastering your hair to your head, come dripping from your lips, as you rode out your high.

‘Fuck, baby…’ you whimpered, while you fought to catch your breath. Joel could see you collapsing, the pleasure wringing you out, leaving you shaky and spent. He swallowed, collecting himself enough to instruct the younger man.

‘Washcloths are under the bathroom sink. Make sure the water’s warm.’ He took a second to breathe, trying to clear his vision enough to be able to drive. ‘Wrap her up in a blanket, there’s one on the back of the couch.’ He watched as Frankie nodded, listening hard. ‘Hold her ‘til I get there,’ Joel said, his heart thrumming again, an ache building in his chest to be with you as he fumbled the keys into the ignition.

‘Hold my girl for me ‘til I’m there,’ he said, again.