#i need to like exercise my hands tho

[tealfruit]

when is it ok to call myself an amateur guitarist

[daz4i]

in my "one more inconvenience and i sincerely think i won't be able to stop myself from physically assaulting someone" era

[eorzeanflowers]

it’s late night, so it’s time to think irrationally again

[writingouthere]

singlemom!reader x neighbor!sukuna. you miss having a baby and Sukuna is dying from a combination of your sexual tension, his lowkey(highkey) baby fever and the drudgery of attending a child's birthday party

cw: Sukuna's breeding kink, red flags are present and accounted for, no one gets laid tho so sad face. this actually ended up being way more sincere and heartfelt than I intended but honestly very typical of me

"Oh we're not together, Sukuna's just been letting me and Bug crash while we look for an apartment."

"Oh he's not my boyfriend, we're just friends!"

"He's actually not Bug's dad. No, no. But, they get along really well. She enjoys having someone else to hang out with aside from me, I think."

Your laughter after the last one plays on repeat as he goes to grab the two of you some refreshments. Sukuna feels like he's living the world's worst version of groundhog day, except instead of being some sad loser who relives the same day over and over, he's apparently a sad loser who is going to live the same conversation over and over again.

"Fuck this shit."

"Um, excuse me but could you watch your language. This is a kid's birthday party." Sukuna wants to ask the bitch who is correcting a grown man's language if he would mind watching his own fucking business but you seem to care about what these losers think and he won't make life difficult for you.

If he happens to step on the guy's foot as he leaves with two cups and a juice box caught in his elbow, well, his steel toed boots need the exercise.

Sukuna knew that if any of his acquaintances, he didn't have friends after all, could see him now, they would die laughing. Die ,because he would kill them for laughing, but fuck he couldn't even really blame them, even in his hypothetical.

Once upon a time, Sukuna was a feared criminal. People pissed themselves when he cornered them in a dark alley. Other bad guys would look at him and say, "wow that guy's a real piece of shit" and now look at him. Stuck at some three year old's birthday party. One more kidzpop butchering of an already shitty song away from committing another felony.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he knew he was at least getting some pussy out of it, but he had just spent the past two hours hearing you deny him to anyone who asked and it was really starting to get to him.

He knew he was being a little bitch about it, and he wasn't upset just because you weren't fucking him. He was upset that all the things you were telling people, they were technically true. He was just letting you and your daughter crash. He was just your friend, not your boyfriend. Even the comments about him not being Bug's dad, but him being positioned as some kind of really invested babysitter, those might have stung more than the ones about your relationship but you thought that was true too.

Thinking about the kid made him look for her, not that Sukuna ever wasn't aware of where you and your daughter were. It had become instinct before he was even aware of it.

Bug was laughing with some kids he recognized from daycare and others from their regular trips to the park. Her happiness was contagious and Sukuna found his lips twitching up at the ends despite his shitty mood.

Your daughter's eyes found him from across the playground. "kuna!" she called, waving her little hand at him. He waved back with his available hand and made his way towards her. She met him halfway, her little legs unsteady on the wood chips but she didn't seem to notice. She was always like that when she saw him, she ran fearlessly. Maybe she just trusted he'd catch her.

Was it so wrong of him that he didn't like the reminders she wasn't his. That it stung, not just because of his feelings but because it just couldn't be true. He might not have fathered her, but fuck anyone who said this little girl wasn't his.

"I got you a juice, you've been running around so much you gotta be thirsty."

"Not thirsty," Bug argued leaning into him. He held up his hands that were holding the grown up drinks for the two of you, and moved the package still lodged in the crease of his elbow towards the petulant toddler. "Take it, or I'll drink it."

Bug stuck her tongue out at him and grabbed it. She struggled to get the wrapping off the straw and Sukuna didn't even notice what he was doing until she had the straw stretched out towards him and he was pulling the wrapper off with his teeth. He spit it out on the ground as your daughter gave him a polite thank-you and then walked away, sipping her juice as she went to catch up with her friends.

What had become of him?

"Need a hand?" You smile at him and Sukuna hands over your cup before taking a sip of his own. There was unfortunately no alcohol in it but drinking it occupied his mouth before he acted like a pussy and asked you, "what are we?" or "should we get married?" or something equally as pathetic.

"God, I want a baby."

Sukuna almost spit out his drink but he manages to tone it down to just a little cough before turning to look at you. You don't even seem a little embarrassed which is just infuriating. Sukuna's about to make a suggestion on how he can help with that when you sigh and point to where some loser is holding their ugly baby.

"Aren't babies just the cutest, I miss when Bug was that age."

Oh, so this was just you looking at other people's red-faced brats and feeling nostalgic and was not in fact a call to action. Sukuna rolled his eyes and leaned back on the hand closest to you so he didn't touch you as he was so tempted to do these days.

"That baby, like all babies, is hideous. All they do is cry, shit themselves and vomit and I'm not even sure Bug is the exception to that and she's the best kid there is."

You look touched at his affection for your daughter but also fired up on behalf of babies everywhere.

"You can't just say a baby is hideous, Sukuna. Those are the Zenin's. Bug is friends with some of them."

"Well are the older ones cuter, because that baby looks like someone fucked one of those hairless cats."

"Sukuna!" you hiss but he sees you smile, despite yourself. "Okay, maybe that baby isn't like the cutest baby-"

"Hideous."

You continue after smacking his arm. "But Bug was cute, okay. And I'm not just saying that because I'm her mom." You take out your phone and quickly swipe until you get to what you're looking for. "See, cute baby."

Sukuna grabs your phone and looks. It's not the first picture he's seen of a young Bug and he's taken his share of photos of her himself, but he finds himself taken in by it anyway.

It has to be a picture from when Bug was really young, she still had the scrunched up, red face that he associates with newborns. But he thinks you're right, she's still cute. He doesn't know if it's because he knows that baby will grow up to be your daughter, but he finds his thumb caressing her little baby cheeks, the wisps of hair he can see peaking out from where she's wrapped in a baby blanket. It's then he sees she's not alone in the picture and there's a different version of you holding her.

The thing that stands out to him is how tired you look. He thinks this couldn't have been too long after you gave birth but still, he wondered if you'd gotten any rest those first few months. You still didn't like talking about your ex, or the circumstances that had led you to his apartment, but Sukuna knew that chances are you were taking care of Bug single handedly and that couldn't have been easy, cutest kid or not.

"She was beautiful, she still is." He reluctantly hands the phone back to you and you look at the picture again, tears building up in your eyes.

"She is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I-I wish that the circumstances were different in how I got her. Sometimes, I wonder how I'll explain everything to her when she's older. She just deserves so much better than him, you know?"

"You both do." Sukuna reaches over and brushes away one of the tears that had managed to fall down your cheek. He leaves his hand there a moment, holding your cheek in his palm, just appreciating the warmth.

"Do you want any?"

"What?" Sukuna isn't sure what you're talking about anymore. He can only see your lips right in front of him, the way that your eyelashes brush against your cheek as you blink faster and faster.

"Babies, do you want any?"

Something short circuits in Sukuna's brain and he wants to say, fuck yes.

He wants to tell you that he thinks about it every day. Every time you put Bug on your hip or send him youtube videos of hairstyles you want to try on her. Whenever it's late at night, and little feet pad out of your room and Bug asks him in the loudest whisper he's ever heard, if he can get her some water because she's so thirsty.

He thinks about it when the sun streams through the curtains of his apartment in the morning and it lights up your hair as you move throughout the kitchen, a force of nature, a creature from somewhere far too good to have ended up here with him.

He thinks about it when the three of you go out and people just assume you're a family, because of course you're a family. When you and Bug play some made up game, or Bug gets tired even though she denies it and he carries her sleeping form against his chest. When he holds her in his lap on the subway and you lean to rest your head on his shoulder and he feels like this, this is what he's always wanted.

He's not all pure and good though, because he thinks about it late at night in his bedroom too. After a day of your smiles, of seeing your thighs stretch out of those sleep shorts you started wearing when the weather warmed up, whenever he remembers the feel and smell of your panties when he's lucky enough to find a pair in the laundry basket, he thinks about how the two of you would make some really cute fucking babies.

He's imagined it a million ways. He's imagined you telling him you've gone off your birth control and you need him now after he takes you out on an anniversary dinner. Or him crowding you up against the kitchen counter and you begging him to put a baby in you.

His favorite fantasy is currently one where you get so carried away when you finally finally fuck that you don't ask him to wear a condom and he spends the whole night making sure you're nice and good and full of him and when you tell him a few weeks later you missed your period, he'll let you freak out. But then he'll tell you that he'll take good care of you, and Bug, and your soon to be little one and he'll finally have you, all of you and once you have your second, he'll knock you up again, as many times as he can because there could never be too many mini-you's running around.

At this point, Sukuna remembers he's talking to you, the real you and he swallows a few times before he speaks.

"I do," he says simply but something must show on his face because you're looking at him in a way you never have before. He hears your breath hitch and he leans in to kiss you, and you smell so good and his thoughts are consumed by the little family he just knows you're going to have when suddenly he's pelted by a variety of sharp, little objects.

Sukuna immediately holds up his arm to shield you from what he now sees is a barrage of wood chips which are being thrown at you by an army of toddlers, including your daughter.

You immediately get up and start talking to the kids about the danger of throwing what are basically large future splinters at people's faces and Sukuna is contemplating the murder of every child that isn't his own when you turn to look at him.

You're not just looking at him, you're seeing him and oh. Maybe he would be getting laid tonight, after all.

The slow burn is almost done folks.

thank you to the amazing reception to this series and the one-shot I posted(which there will be a prequel of soon!). it's literally so insane. Masterlist will be up tomorrow which I hope helps with accessibility!

edit: masterlist is up!

[yumenosakiacademy]

u kno how sometimes ppl will do things longterm 4 bragging rights. like "i avoided sweets for 2 weeks straight!" or "i wrote a poem everyday 4 a month!" n stuff like tht. imagine ur brain forcing u in2 drastic "4 the bragging rights" situations w the dumbest or most extreme conditions n u quite literally cant break out of the cycle w/o feeling distress. :I

[eyes1nthewoods]

god pet food smells so fucking good

[isaadore]

STITCHES QUINN HUGHES

pairing quinn hughes x doctor!reader

SUMMARY when quinn suffers a shoulder injury, he’s forced to work with you. word count 1.2k words

warnings mentions of injury and physical pain, workplace romance, teasing, forced proximity (?), fluff

note first quinn fic in a while!! (even tho it's a bit on the shorter side 😞) missed writing for him

MAIN MASTERLIST QH43 MASTERLIST

THE CROWD CHEERED as the Canucks’ focused, ready to take back the lead. You watched from the medical bay, eyes following the puck and scanning for any signs of injury. As the new head of the medical team, this season was a make-or-break for you, and you knew you had to prove yourself capable of handling any situation under pressure.

Then, it happened.

A bone-jarring hit echoed through the rink. Your eyes shot up to the screen just in time to see Quinn Hughes take a brutal check into the boards, twisting in a way that made your stomach lurch. He went down hard, clutching his shoulder. The team’s medical staff rushed onto the ice and helped him off, and a few moments later, he was hobbling into the treatment room, face pale and pained, still gripping his shoulder.

He sat down, wincing as he did so, and looked up, his blue eyes meeting yours. He offered a slight nod, even managing a tight smile. “Guess it was just a matter of time, huh?”

You returned his smile, feeling sympathetic. “Seems like it, but let’s see what’s going on.”

You placed an ice pack over his shoulder, trying to ease some of the swelling. “I’ll start with a few checks to see what kind of injury we’re dealing with. Let me know if it hurts too much.”

He gave a small nod. “I’m tougher than I look.”

Carefully, you guided his arm, checking his shoulder’s movement. He was trying to play it off, but you could see his face tighten in pain. “Quinn, don’t push through it,” you said gently but firmly. “If it hurts, I need to know.”

He let out a shaky breath. “All right… yeah, it hurts a lot more than I thought it would.”

“Thank you for being honest,” you replied, moving his arm back to a resting position. “For now, let’s get a scan to see what’s really going on. My guess is you’ll need some time off the ice to heal, maybe a few weeks.”

His expression fell, and he let out a quiet sigh, his gaze dropping to the floor. “That long?”

You nodded, keeping your tone reassuring. “It’s tough, but this is about protecting your long-term health. We’ll take it step by step.”

He nodded, visibly frustrated. “Can’t say I’m thrilled, but I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”

The next morning, Quinn showed up for his first official rehab session. He wore a hoodie, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture closed off and frustrated. You recognized the look; a mix of vulnerability and irritation. Being benched was the last thing any player wanted.

“Ready to get started?” you asked, offering a gentle smile.

He shrugged, though his attempt to hide his irritation was clear. “I don’t know if I’d say ready, but I’m here.”

You chuckled, leading him through an outline of the exercises. “Today’s going to be mostly small movement work. It might seem light, but this is where it all begins.”

You guided him through gentle exercises, keeping it easy to help him regain strength in his shoulder. He followed along, sometimes gritting his teeth when it hurt, and you noticed him stealing glances your way when he thought you weren’t looking. He’d fidget whenever your hands brushed his shoulder or arm, you could see he trying to distract himself from the pain.

After the session, you began to reorganize the room. He leaned against a table, watching you. “So, how’d you end up working with a bunch of stubborn hockey players?”

You laughed, glancing at him. “Guess I like a challenge.”

He grinned, looking amused. “Well, you found one. We’re all terrible patients.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” you teased, crossing your arms as you met his gaze. “But I don’t mind it.”

Over the following weeks, Quinn’s rehab sessions became a regular part of your day. You fell into a rhythm together, moving through the exercises, slowly adding tougher movements as his shoulder improved. Sometimes you talked about nothing in particular, just enjoying each other’s company. He’d walk in a little more relaxed each day, his mood visibly lifting.

One morning, after a particularly tough session, he sat back, wiping sweat from his brow. “I don’t know how you put up with me,” he said, half-joking. “I’m probably driving you nuts.”

You leaned against the table beside him, crossing your arms. “Honestly? You’re one of my better patients. Some guys complain non-stop.”

“Guess I’m saving that part for later,” he replied, smirking. Then he paused, his smile fading a bit. “But seriously… thank you. You make this bearable.”

Your gaze softened. “I’m glad to hear that. It’s hard to be off the ice, but I’m here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you. “I can tell you actually mean that.” His voice was quiet, almost as if he were afraid of ruining the moment. “Most people just want to get us back on the ice as fast as possible for the pay. But you’re different.”

Your cheeks warmed at the sincerity in his words. “I care about what I do. And it’s easy to care for passionate people.”

His expression softened, and he looked at you, something in his gaze you couldn’t quite place. “Maybe you can remind me next time I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

“Deal,” you replied, smiling. “But you owe me for all this extra therapy.”

He raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk appearing on his face. “Are you saying I’m high maintenance?”

“I’m saying that you’re lucky I’m patient,” you shot back, feeling a strange, excited flutter in your chest. His playful expression softened, and his eyes focused intently on you.

“I’ll remember that,” he said quietly, his gaze holding yours a little longer than necessary.

One evening, after the facility had mostly emptied, you were finishing up some paperwork when you heard footsteps approaching. You looked up, surprised to see Quinn lingering in the doorway, looking as though he’d been debating whether or not to come in.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, setting down your pen.

“Didn’t expect you to be here this late either,” he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Do you ever stop working?”

You smiled. “Not when I’m invested in a patient’s progress. And you, Quinn, are making a lot of progress.”

He stepped further into the room, a hesitant smile on his face. “That’s good to hear. And I guess part of me wanted to say thanks. For everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already thanked me a hundred times.”

“I know. But…” He looked down, gathering his thoughts. “This isn’t easy for me. Not being on the ice, not doing what I love. But you make it easier.”

The air felt thick, and his gaze met yours, soft and vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before. You felt your pulse quicken, and before you could stop yourself, you said, “Maybe when you’re cleared, we can celebrate with a coffee; you owe me after all.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but it quickly melted into a warm smile. “I’d like that. More than you know.”

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ MAIN MASTERLIST ✷ QH43 MASTERLIST

[netegf]

Hey can i make a blurb request for neteyam? maybe forced proximity trope where they get locked in the lab accident and Neteyam gets anxious bc he hates humans and reader smooches him to calm him down even tho they’re just friends (but they secretly love eachother ofc)

breathing exercise

pairing: neteyam x reader

“Neteyam, please stop picking your fingernails.”

Under shoddy lab fluorescents that make your eyes burn, Neteyam shifts in his position on the countertop, crossing his arms with a passive, but lazy, glare.

“You put us in this mess.” He replies pointedly. “You don’t get to tell me how to deal with it.”

That stings. But you wedge your bottom lip between your teeth, deciding maybe, just maybe, it was deserved.

In fairness, you should have left when Neteyam wanted to. But there was something about the way he looked under the blue lights – so pretty. And surrounding. Like his skin had no ending. It was something you wanted to commit to memory, and the extra couple minutes you’d coaxed out of him felt worth it in the moment.

But that quickly changed when the grimace set on Neteyam’s lips.

When Norm said that everything needed to be sterile. That no one could come in or out because of maintenance on the link units. That Neteyam would be trapped here, in a place that made his skin crawl, all evening.

“Teyam…” you trail off, peering up to meet his eyes which now soften at your dejected tone. “It was an accident. I’m sorry.”

At that, the rigidness of his spine seems to crumble.

His hard expression morphs into a pout and he outstretches a shaky hand to squeeze your own in a silent gesture of reconciliation. Still, the tension between his eyebrows remains.

“I told my dad I’d meet him ten minutes ago. He’s going to be pissed.” Sighing, he runs his slender fingers through his braids and attempts to keep his attention away from the bustling laboratory behind him.

The problem is... it’s not working very well. His breathing is uneven. His knee keeps bouncing up and down. His eyes are glued down at his thigh where your hands are joined.

“He will understand.” You reassure, but he doesn’t seem quite convinced, eyes still screwed tightly shut. “Stay calm, Neteyam. We’re gonna get out of here soon."

“I am calm!”

Now, you stare at him pointedly, and Neteyam slumps his shoulders sheepishly, flashing an apologetic smile. “Okay… maybe I’m not.”

Taking in the appearance of the scared and comically large warrior in front of you, a small smirk sparks like a conductor on your lips. You unwind your hand from his and grip the sides of his chin, drawing your warm faces closer together.

“We just need to find you a way to relax.”

“Mhm.” Yellow eyes travel down your face, stopping abruptly at the curve of your lips. “And how’s that?”

When your mouth collides onto his own, moving with fervor and electricity, he assumes the question must have been rhetorical. The burning kisses breathe new life into him – hands shoot up from his lap and find their rightful places, cradling your cheek and stroking your hair.

“How are we feeling?” You ask cheekily after pulling apart, mouth still hovering over his. So close, but not nearly enough.  

“Distressed. Very.” He has a stupid smile, laboured breaths catching hard in his chest. “Probably need more... of that.”

Then his lips are learning the shape of yours – kissing again, and again, and again. Chasing the air that calms him like it comes from within you.

a/n: ty for the request!! still getting my sea legs with them lolol 🥰💞

[mindfulstudyquest]

❥﹒♡﹒☕﹒ 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗮 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗼𝘂𝘁; this is my personal way of coping with burnout, it may not work for you, but feel free to share in the comments the things that make you feel better when you feel this way ( blogger's note at the end of the post ).

𝟭. recognize the signs ( 🏳️ )

the moment of denial is over. i know, burnouts always come at the worst times when you have upcoming exams and a thousand things to do, but ignoring it won't get you anywhere, on the contrary, it will only prolong the worst, so recognizing and accepting the signs of burnout is the first step to getting out of it. if you don't end it, it'll end you, right? some common symptoms of burnout are exhaustion, excessive irritability, hormonal imbalances, change in appetite (too much or too little), sleep irregularities, increase in nervous tics.

𝟮. take time off ( 🫧 )

allow yourself to rest and recharge by taking a break from work or other stressors. depending on the severity of the burnout you may need an afternoon, or perhaps a couple of days to recover, it's not important, the important thing is that you reserve some deep rest that can really recharge you to start studying/working again. put off all non-essential tasks, put your phone on do not disturb mode and allow your brain to rest. if you have slept little in the previous days, taking a nap will not be bad.

𝟯. set boundaries + practice self care ( 🌱 )

establish clear boundaries between work and personal life to prevent burnout from reoccurring. prioritize activities that promote physical and mental well-being, such as exercise, meditation, and hobbies. i personally love taking care of my body doing beauty treatments that make me feel better about myself. i also deep clean my room and change my bedsheets, if it's true that the mess in our room is a reflection of the mess in our mind i can't see why it can't go both ways: removing the mess from my room is like cleaning my head from the stress in it.

𝟰. rearrange priorities ( 🐝 )

delegate everything you can delegate, you can't do everything alone and it's normal to seek support from colleagues and family. reorganize yourself so you have a plan to follow as soon as you recharge your batteries. ask yourself what led to burnout, was it the workload? in that case breaking it into smaller tasks could make it less onerous. maybe it was it's difficulty? maybe asking for help or using some time for additional research might work. in short, prepare a realistic scheme to follow to tackle the task.

𝟱. seek support ( ❣️ )

talk to friends, family, or a therapist about your feelings and experiences to gain perspective and emotional support.

𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 hi everyone, it's no secret that i've posted very little in the last week, but unfortunately i experienced a bad burnout that incapacitated me for a few days. family circumstances, academic stress and the arrival of spring have added up to take away the strength to do anything from me, but i'm here to recover and here is a simple guide that i always follow when i find myself in these situations. on the one hand i'm happy tho, it's my first burnout since i started university, eight months ago now, i remember that when i was in high school they were much more frequent and long, i feel i've become much more stable.

[maximotts]

Free use cowgirl Wanda 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

Going to the grocery store because Wanda’s been so busy lately only to find Wanda there and you’re like “omg hi Wanda 😊 But wait I thought I was doing the shopping this week?” and you check your phone to see if you’ve missed something. You haven’t. Wanda just couldn’t wait to bend you over 💞💞

My phone is doing the ios17 update and I'm just remembering I needed to finish answering this ask whoopsies

This got longer than expected (it's only like 600 words tho), but I simply cannot apologize for free use cowgirl Wanda content uhmmm cws for public sex and typical farm Wanda dirty talking, 18+ obvs

I don't think I've said it before, but Wanda does errands to shops in town to drop off farm goods every week because shopping local is good and cute! So there's a very high possibility you'd run into her at the grocery store and you're always so giddy when you see her, the shop owner thinks you two are just precious!

He doesn't even notice Wanda holding your hips so tight you're squeaking or how she's taunting you by pulling the ends of your pigtails! When you excuse yourself to finish the rest of your shopping, Wanda follows oh so innocently until the two of you are out of eyesight... and maybe she spots you stretching to reach the flour at the very back of the shelf, flowy dress riding up to show off your legs, how's Wanda supposed to do anything but pin you against the shelves?

"What right do you have to look this damn beautiful all by yourself back here?" And you can barely get a word in between Wanda's kisses, particularly when she takes your tongue and sucks, leaving your mouth an absolute mess.

At the sound of Wanda undoing her belt, you startle, trying and failing to wrench your thigh from where your girlfriend was shamelessly hitching it high around her hip. "Are you crazy? Someone's going to see us!"

"Now bunny, don't be like that," Wanda's totally unbothered by your struggles, knowing you'd settle as soon as she gets her hand up your panties— and she's exactly right. "I believe we have an arrangement, or did you forget?"

You couldn't possibly forget, your mind always racing with thoughts of how and when Wanda would decide to fuck you again. Sometimes you baited her into it, not wanting to wait, but being taken in the back of the town's only grocery store was an idea that'd never dared crossed your mind. Wanda's either until about five minutes prior.

"Good girl..." Wanda's smile is stunningly bright as she feels you relax against her, arms winding around her shoulders while she lines up her strap, opting not to prep you for the sake of time. "I'd guess we have about ten minutes before Steve finishes counting the jars I brought and writing me a check so behave and be quiet."

It's the shortest ten minutes of your life, the time flying by under Wanda's praises and the knee-buckling orgasm she gifts you. Your teeth desperately bite into the shoulder of Wanda's coat as she continues to fuck you, pumping your full of her cum until she's satisfied.

Pulling out was bittersweet, the brunette loving your impish whines but hating to have to leave. She did have to exercise some self-restraint, but that didn't mean she couldn't pick up where she left off later... "You'd better keep every last bit of my cum in that sweet pussy or I'll drag your ass right back here and we'll start all over again. Understand?"

"Uh huh..." It's terrible how quickly Wanda takes all your thoughts with such a quick fuck; you can tell how spaced out you sound, but you don't have anywhere near the coherence you need to mask it. You'd have to go straight back to the house after this, could only hope you remembered the rest of what you needed to get for dinner.

"I have a few more stops to make so I'll meet you back at home. Text me if you need anything, love you." Wanda sends you off with another kiss and a pat on the ass and before you know it, she's gone and you've never done your shopping more dreamily.

[rayshippouuchiha]

For the YEET AU-

Bear with me now imma bout to take you on a ✨trip✨

So, the ship is Izuku/Shinsou right. But think about them first meeting.

Okay so Aizawa clearly set the standard for Izuku and his crushes. Now he has like a little check list for people that he forms a crush on ya know. 1) the person needs to be able to yeet him, 2) the person needs the dead inside, I hate life stare and 3) murder vibes

Previously, the people that potentially lined up were Uraraka and Todoroki.

Uraraka had the ability to give him distance with the yeet. She could send him miles🫡. Her murder vibes were on point as well! But she didn’t have the dead inside stare so she was out.

Todoroki had the dead inside stare and the murder vibes down pat, no practice needed. His ability and willingness to yote tho left much to be desired so he was out too.

Now Shinsou! Shinsou pops up at the sports festival with the under eye bags-murder vibes-I hate everyone in this room, and Izuku is immediately ✨awake and alert✨. No yeeting to be seen but Izuku is willing to teach the skill. After all Aizawa also did not know to yeet him at first either.

So while time goes by and things happen Izuku keeps the pretty purple haired murder boy in the back of his mind.

And then it happens! The joint class exercise!! Shinsou will be joining them!!! And he is using a capture weapon!!!! With the ability to yeet!!!!!

Izuku is enamored. Infatuated. Besotted!

He approaches Shinsou from behind, going to congratulate him, tell him he knew Shinsou could do it, wish him luck. He puts a hand on Shinsou’s shoulder about to open his mouth…and suddenly he is air born. Although the surprise of suddenly being yoted took him a second, Izuku could feel nothing but smug satisfaction. Shinsou was perfect!

Shinsou on the ground trying to explain to an exasperated Aizawa with his face in his hands: I didn’t mean to yeet him! My hands just did it!! It was INSTINCT!!! IT JUST HAPPENED!!!!

Oh oh this is perfect. Shinsou has no idea what he's just accidentally gotten himself into, Aizawa is dreading whatever bullshit chaos the gremlin is about to unleash, and Izuku is THRILLED

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I read ur twst chars analises a lot,n I just wanna say I really love how u write em!!! I like ur nuanced interpretation, how they r very detailed,thoughtful, n objective, even tho its not about ur favs or even ones u dislike, also made me realize how good twst writing can be. So if I may ask, which of the cast do u think is the/one of the best written char(s) in the game?? N vice versa if u may, like ones u think need improvement :^]

[Analysis masterlist here! I believe it’s currently full so I’m working on putting together a second one :>]

First of all, thank you very much for enjoying my analyses ^^ I try very hard to research and to put myself in the shoes of each character I’m writing about, and I’m glad that it seems to show in my writing.

If we’re talking about the main 22 NRC students + Grim… (I’m not counting blank slate Yuu, NRC staff, Halloween characters, RSA students, and NPCs because they have such limited lore + vignettes and I feel it wouldn’t be fair to compare.) Honestly, I feel like they’re all written pretty decently, with perhaps the caveat being that there’s more content weighted toward the OB boys due to their significance in the main story and irl marketing. Some other characters, like Jade and Rook, are purposefully more mysterious as part of their characters.

I guess if I had to point out some weaker characters, I’d say they’d be Jack and Epel? I feel like those two are pretty… one note… 😔 What do we know about Jack? He’s strong, loyal, likes to exercise, is disciplined, is a tsundere… What do we know about Epel? He wants to be cool and not cute, he YEEHAWS, he likes apples, he’s really close with his family… You can see this reflected in the core of Epel’s dream; he wants to be tall and muscular, which is very simple when put next to the other dreams.

Of the two, Epel is worse off because he actually had a character arc in book 5 where he begins to accept that beauty and femininity can be a strength and isn’t something to be ashamed of. However, almost ALL the vignettes and side content outside of the main story have Epel exclusively talking about how tough and cool he wants to be + rejecting cute/girly things, which sort of negates the main story development and feels like he has regressed so much. I get that maybe he wouldn’t change his mind right away or do a 180, but it still creates a strong whiplash. Jack is at least consistent. Sort of stale, but consistent.

Those two aren’t flat or anything, but it feels like they hinge on the same handful of traits in every appearance and whenever we learn anything new about them, it’s just the same thing we already knew before but said slightly differently. I’d like to know more about Jack and Epel outside of these areas.

P.S. SORRY TO THE JACK AND EPEL STANS IN My AUDIENCE OTL

[missmonsters2]

Heya, i was wondering if i could ask a question about Under the light/you found me?

I'm assuming after under the light yn started her physio again and got better since it seemed she didn't have a limp. But I was wondering if it left any permanent scars? As I was wondering after their first time having sex after the break, wanda might have asked about it while they were in bed? Or when yn was undressed at some point had her back to wanda, she noticed the scars and delicately touched them?

I'd like to think she def had yns body memorised so seeing all the new marks made her want to etch them into her mind. But she also felt guilty, not being there in her time of need (even tho yn didn't want her to see anyway).

So yeah I was just curious whether wanda talked or focused her touch of them after she made love to yn?

Under the Light || You Found Me

Hiii!! This is a mix between explaning and partially written behind the scenes!!

Yes, Reader finished her weekly physio in california and keeps up with her regular stretches and exercises to prevent her legs from getting bad. She still goes to physio monthly.

As for scars, there are definitely some on her legs. Particularly, there's one that starts mid-calf and goes up her thigh to her hip. It's completely healed over but the the scar healed as whatever lighter skin-tonned raised bump.

Reader typically never feels self-conscious about it, but the way Wanda gazes upon her skin, her fingers tracing over the scar can make Reader feel slightly uncomfortable in an insecure way.

"I love you. You're beautiful. You're mine and I'm yours." Is all Wanda ever says when she notices you're uncomfortable.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

They've talked about it a few times late at night when the world is sleeping but they're just basking in each other's presence in bed. The sheets rest just below their shoulders.

"I don't know," you say quietly. "I don't hate the scars, per se. I don't love them either. They're a reminder that I survived." The implied words that your best friend didn't hung in the silence.

Wanda nods because she feels the same way. "I understand. I feel the same way. Not because I think they're gruesome or anything. I love them because they are a reminder you survived and I'm so, so thankful. But they're also a reminder that I was a bad girlfriend—that I was a coward and neglected to notice."

You brush a stray strand of hair behind Wanda's ear.

"I think the way you look and touch them every day has more than made up for it."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

There are times when you are in a mood, one that can't quite be explained.

It's your own fault really. Sometimes you neglect your daily streches and miss your monthly physio appointments.

Your legs hurt and you're cranky, and you just don't want Wanda to know.

"Why do you insist on hiding it from me?" Wanda scowls at you.

"Why are you always in my business?" you scowl at her back.

Wanda doesn't engage further, knowing that it'll only lead down to a horrid fight with you that ends up with the two of you feeling guilty.

"Lay down on the couch," Wanda jerks her head towards the couch and walks off to grab some icy-hot lotion.

"It's fin—"

"JUST LAY DOWN!" Wanda yells from the kitchen and you purse your lips before doing as she says.

"Just lay down," you mockingly whisper to yourself as you lay on your stomach.

Wanda comes with the lotion and hovers of you. She debates taking off your shorts but decides to leave it be since they're short enough.

Once Wanda's hands start working in slow motions, massaging your calf and slowly making her way up, and the lotion slowly warming up your muslces, you relax.

It's only about 10 minutes into the massage that you turn your head and watch Wanda's focused face but her eyes filled with concern and love that guilt wracks you.

"Sorry," you mumble. "Thank you."

Wanda eyes merely moves to look at you while she continues working. She looks back at your legs, her eyes trailing the long rasied scar. "I love you. You're beautiful. You're mine and I'm yours."

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: chapter twoooo i hope you guys enjoy!! and i take this as pure reason to knuckle down and finish chapter three tehe <3 let me know what u think!! a million mwahs to @strangerstilinski for being my beta too, even tho i yelled at u sorry :/

word count: 3.5k

synopsis: Azriel trains you and is particularly unforgivable about it. Together, you tackle tonics. Azriel ponders the unmistakable pull he feels and you try your best to keep your secret under wraps. fem!reader, mulan-esque au

— CHAPTER TWO :: ALLIES

The storm had calmed come morning. The Mother's Kiss slowed, quietened to only a whisper between the trees.

With it, the ache in your forearm too. The torn skin knitted up in the night, the heat from the fire like a balm on the wound.

But right now, the ache was threatening to make a reappearance.

You glare across the clearing at Azriel from your place in the mud, where he's just knocked you down. Your lungs burn. Your chest heaves as you try to catch you breath. The last hour has been spent on the same infuriating exercise.

The sludgy dirt, still sloppy from the melted snow of last night, drips off your arms as you scramble to get to your feet. Your wings shudder, flicking off the cold dirt with a shake.

"Try again." Azriel says, his voice calm.

He has no weapons on him today with the exception of one knife, strapped high on his thigh. Its obsidian hilt glimmers under the winter sun, rays catching the decorative jewel on the end. The rest of his weapons won't be far you're willing to bet. No Illyrian warrior lets themself be so unprepared.

Or perhaps he truly only needs one blade to hold his own in a fight.

A flicker of envy. You suppose you should feel little more gratuitous of his offer to train, especially considering he's such a mighty warrior.

But between the built-in wariness that comes with having a secret such as yours and the way he keeps throwing you in the mud... it's hard to dredge up some gratitude. You must have been at this for hours now.

Besides, a little part of you can't help but be skeptical of his offer. What exactly did he stand to gain from helping you?

"Why are you helping me again?"

You're panting lightly, bent over with your hands on your knees. Your bound chest twinges in pain. You weren't out of shape by any means — you were an Illyrian warrior after all. But getting knocked down endlessly was beginning to wear you down.

"And," You huff, waving a hand behind at the mud pile he keeps dumping you in. "How does this help?"

Azriel crosses his arms across his broad chest. In the daylight, his shadows shimmer and wisp about. You had been unsurprised to find he's even more devastatingly handsome in the light of daytime.

After his final words the evening before, Azriel had disappeared out into the storm without further explanation, his shadows swirling around him like falling snow.

Come morning, you rose before the sun and stepped outside, prepared to head to training—and there he was. Posed up against a tree, the obsidian-hilt blade his hands, sharpening it in long, precise strokes.

"Lord Mylind has been spoken to regarding your training." Azriel had said, in place of a greeting. "He knows of your expected absence whilst you train under me."

You hadn't said anything; half convinced there had been something coated on Brudam's knife that made you hallucinate the whole thing.

"Though," The male before you continued, finally sheathing his dagger away into the holster on his thigh with casual precision. "He tells me that your absences during training have come to be somewhat expected."

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

"Why do you think they hate me so much?" You asked, a bitter edge to your voice. It's a non-answer.

"Because you neglect your duties as a warrior?"

"Ha. Did Lord Mylind use that word?"

"It's true, one is not considered a warrior until one passes The Blood Rite." Azriel commented, his head tilting to the side just an inch. "You're a warrior-in-training. Provided you go to training, that is."

The combined mention of The Blood Rite and your missing time during training had you tensing up. Azriel had noticed, his eyes shifting to your stiff posture. He hadn’t commented — just stalked off into the snow, wings held high and proud, not checking to see if you bothered to follow.

Now, muscles aching and skin coated in mud-slick, you briefly wonder if you were regretting following him.

"You're smaller than usual Illyrians.” Azriel says. “They rely on brute strength but someone your size is better to rely on your agility— a skill they've been neglecting. No doubt to try to discourage you."

A flush of nervousness rushes through your system at his comment on your size. There's a good reason you don't size up against Illyrian males—being that you aren't one at all.

For good measure, you wipe your face haphazardly with a muddy hand. Any pesky scents that might give you away get smothered beneath it.

"And I believe in what you're doing," Azriel continues, his hazel eyes watching you closely. "It's honourable, no matter what Brudam and his brood say."

Something akin to pride blooms deep in your chest at his approval, at his belief in your mission. Having fought on your own for so many years had taken its toll— one you weren't aware of until it eased. Just a touch.

"Could've sworn you just enjoyed knocking me on my ass."

That glimmer of amusement is back in his hazel eyes. You swear his lips twitch as if holding back a smile.

"Try again." He says, in lieu of an answer. Not a denial.

He gestures to his neck again. Tan skin that hides beneath dark, scaly armor. This has been your task for the last hour — get your hand on his throat, through hand-to-hand combat.

Considering how you'd managed to stick him with a fork just yesterday, you had assumed it was easy territory.

You had been sorely, sorely wrong.

Straightening yourself up properly, you roll your shoulders back and flare your wings out a bit. Your boots sink into the mud an inch. You assess the distance between you and Azriel, eyes narrowed, and try to put together each piece of advice he's given you in the last hours.

Plant your feet when you're striking.

Stay on your toes if you're advancing.

Use your environment to your advantage.

Punch through, not just at.

Your height is as much an advantage as it is a disadvantage.

Some of it was nothing more than a reiteration of your training in camp. And yet, when delivered from Azriel, under his focused gaze, it seems easier to absorb. It holds a different meaning.

This time as you survey your approach a thousand other details whisper in your ear.

The rustle of the trees, the whirl of the wind, the stance he sinks into like second nature.

If you can't overpower him, how can you get a hand on his neck?

Your boots sink deeper into the mud and you tense, your wings held taut and high behind you as you ready yourself to pounce.

The wind picks up, a whistle in the air, and you can see, even from afar, how the swirling of his shadows perk up — as if listening for any whispers in it.

Time to strike.

You burst forward and stay low this time, letting your knees take the brunt of your weight. Instead of trying to get past him, you need to bring his neck down to your level. A half-baked plan scrambles together.

Feigning moves against a proficient warrior like him is nearly laughable and his thick forearm moves to parry your punch as quickly as you form it. Good. It's what you're relying on.

You pivot your energy and focus it on kicking out his bent knee— and you catch him enough by surprise that he stumbles back a step. He doesn’t fall though.

You grit your teeth and know you have about half a second before he’s going to have you dodging punches and landing back in the mud. You keep pressing forward.

Skin meets leather as you land a sharp snap against his shoulder, your knuckles stinging deliciously but he deftly blocks your next blow. And the next, and the next.

Then you’re hitting more of his hands than you are anywhere else.

Frustrated, you snarl, increasing your speed and letting him focus on your incoming punches so he doesn’t see it when you send a kick into his groin.

His defense drops razor fast— both his scarred hands wrapping around your calf and capturing it between his legs, stopping it 2 inches from making contact.

Your eyes dart up to his face, nearly grinning at the incredulous look he gives you.

It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for — and something gleeful in you sings when you shoot your hand up faster than both his can move. The palm of your hand connects with the skin of his neck.

“Aha!” You shout, unable to help yourself.

You’re panting, out of breath from the fast combat and yet, still savouring the victory. A foreign glimmer of admiration and approval flashes deep in your chest. It's gone as quick as it appears.

Azriel doesn’t waste a second to sweep your feet out from beneath you.

Unprepared, you crumple and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. A groan rumbles in your chest. Mud squishes up against your cheek, sullying it.

For a moment, you just lay there and groan in pain.

You're pretty sure every single muscle in your body aches as you gather your strength and push yourself up from the mud, elbows quivering. If you thought regular training was rigorous, this has been brutal.

True, there's less hitting you while you're down which you were more than accustomed to — only once have you thought Azriel might give you a kick while you were defenseless and too tired to cover your face.

But instead, he had surprised you and offered a hand. You had hesitated before taking it.

And as you're finding out, when you're spending less time worrying about Illyrians unfairly targeting you due to your size, you're a hell of a lot better fighter.

With a much better opponent though.

You win some, you lose some.

"Anyone ever call you a prick before?" You seethe quietly; because you had done the task he wanted you to do and he'd still sent you back on your ass. You spit into the mud and wipe your mouth.

"Definitely." Azriel answers. Again, there's that hint of amusement in his voice.

You huff and push up to rest back on your heels, planting your hands on your knees and glaring up at him. The muck on your wings makes you shiver, sludgy trails of mud sliding off them unpleasantly. You're well used to the cold.

"Good." You huff. "Prick."

Azriel smiles at that, not bothering to hide it. You find yourself smiling back at him, an out-of-breath laugh making your shoulders shake and your head bow. The muscles in your stomach hurt as they move.

When you look back up at him, he's offering his hand again.

You take it, this time without hesitation.

—

The day is for training. Azriel, the mentor. You, the student.

The night is for learning. You're both students here.

The second part of his offer that you clearly hadn't expected, given your wide-eyed look when he turned up at your door on that first evening, bringing all manners of plants needed to make healing tonics. Things you hadn't been able to find or afford on your own.

It had been then, he thinks, that you realised how serious he was about helping you. That his offer extended beyond training you physically.

"Is there really a difference between cutting and slicing?" Azriel asks as he peers down at the table beneath him.

In his marred hands is a root vegetable, something that flowered prettily— nice purple skin with a golden centre. He frowns down at it, his gaze shifting slowly from the vegetable to the knife in his hand.

It’s strange, he thinks. Strange to hold a knife and have it not be for violence.

"There is a difference," Your reply floats across from the other side of the room.

Nearly a week he's been here. Azriel had been pushing you more each day he was here, brutal one-on-one training to hone your skills.

It’s working; already he can see the certainty of your stance, your increased agility, the hunter's glint in your eyes. The clumsiness of the first day of training has already been worn away. Beneath it, the Illyrian warrior emerges.

He's exhausting you, he knows. Working you twice as hard to try to fill every gap in your training that seems to be missed. Finding every weak point left by the Lords of this camp, to disadvantage you no doubt, and training it up.

But if you’re tired from it, you don’t complain.

Azriel lifts his head to look at you properly, his eyes watching your hands as you strip leaves off one of the plants he had brought with him today.

Hands, weathered and much smaller than most males, that work diligently at your task. Your focus remains strong, even as you talk over your shoulder.

"Well, slicing is cutting but a more precise form." You shift your wing back, tucking it in, as you finally turn your head back to look at him.

You're a very peculiar male.

Azriel can't say he's ever met a warrior, or even an Illyrian, like yourself before. You're small. It's the first thing he had noticed when he had slipped into your tiny home those nights ago, a sturdy shelter against the harsh wind of the mountains.

You're small but your wings are still large and beautiful, tucked up neatly behind your back. Most warriors in camp must have at least a head of height on you.

The armor you wear looks old. It's been worn down, softened against your body but even still, it sits a little too low on your hips. The shoulders hang out an extra inch.

You're small and you're hardened at every edge.

It's the way anyone who grows up here has to be. And for you to have made the cut to become a warrior, even with the impairment of your height... Azriel knows you're made of tougher stuff than most.

Within that, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to you.

Azriel hates the Illyrian mountains. Loathes the culture he comes from that festers here, their swift brutality and preferred cruelty against even their own. Invisible standards that made one Fae better than another.

The lives they taught him to take so easily.

So the last thing he had expected to find coming back here, to a place haunted with wretched memories, was... an ally.

But staring across the space to you, he can't think of any other word to describe the stirring in his chest. The drag on his heart, as if it's lurching forward.

"Look, let me show you."

You drop what's in your hands and take a couple steps to cross the space. The shelter is like you, small, just shy of cramped. The ceiling could stand to gain a few inches and the inside is as bare as Azriel would expect of a home in a war-camp.

One rickety table. A bed tucked into a corner. A fireplace with slanted, mismatched soot-covered bricks. There's the general rustle about the place that indicates someone sleeps here. Things hang off nails, bedded into the wall.

Hovering beside the table, you gesture for the knife in Azriel's hand. There's tenseness in your shoulders. You're still wary of him— or perhaps so used to your own company. He wonders which it is as he hands over the knife wordlessly.

"You just gotta—" The vegetable gets re-positioned on the board and when you bring down the knife, it's with an elegance that Azriel had been severely lacking.

You slice a long strip off, lengths-wise, and then pause, looking up at him to make sure he understands. "Slice?"

Azriel smiles despite himself.

That's the other thing.

You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful Fae he's ever seen in his life— not to mention, by far the most beautiful male he’s ever laid his eyes on.

It had taken him by surprise initially, even his shadows rearing back in shock when you had turned and sprung at him, cutlery in hand. Azriel had fumbled one of his blocks and it led to you sinking the fork into his shoulder— all because his mind had been whispering beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

It's the reason you had managed to land a hit at all— or Azriel tells himself that. Because otherwise, he had a serious reason to brush up on his own training.

He also tells himself it had nothing to do with his offer.

It hadn't swayed his reasoning in the slightest; not the way he can't take his eyes off you for some peculiar, unbidden reason. Training you and learning how to make tonics alongside you was entirely due to his belief in your mission.

Liar, one of his shadows seems to whisper in response.

Azriel was over five hundred years old — tangling with a male was not entirely foreign to him. And yet, Azriel had found it was not as to his taste as females were.

Another glance at you has him, once again, second-guessing that.

As quickly as it enters his mind, he snuffs it, his wings giving a minuscule twitch, right as you offer him back the knife.

He opts for a question instead. "How did you come to live here?"

It's one of the other unusual parts of your intriguing survival out here. Not only did you make the cut to train to become a warrior against the odds, but you also live alone. Azriel lets himself survey the shelter once more.

It's far better than some of the conditions he's been subjected to before and yet... it's not quite homey. As though you've never relaxed here, even when it's just you.

"I built it."

Azriel blinks. Then he turns his head down to look at you, perplexed.

"You...?"

You've walked back to the plant you were handling, starting to strip off the leaves again. You hum in response to his words, sparing a glance up at the ceiling.

That certainly explained why it was on the smaller side, made to your stature. Azriel can't fathom how you managed it in the blizzardly conditions of the mountains, entirely on your own.

"As I'm sure you're familiar, bastards don't get anything in these camps."

Your voice tightens with the pain of an unhealed wound.

Azriel doesn't say anything, just presses his lips together thinly. He nods.

"It was already a ruin, the fireplace and floorboards were about the only thing left." This time as you tug the leaves off the plant in your hand, it's a little meaner. "It took me years to properly finish it because the males in camp kept coming by to see if they could knock it back down."

Something roars in Azriel's ears, a familiar icy fury at the injustice that roamed so freely in these mountains. A plague amongst these people. So many Fae, so eager to kick those who are already down.

Looking up from your hands, your motions slow, and a distant look dawns on your face as though you've been whisked away into an old memory. A cold smile graces your mouth.

"So eventually when one of them came around, I showed them why they shouldn't fuck with my stuff. Or with me."

How you gained your solitary fortress out here.

It had piqued his interest on the very first evening, the sole shelter out from the cluster of cabins in the camp. That even though the drunken warriors were first to point it out when Azriel came asking who was causing trouble, none of them would go near it.

He can guess a multitude of things you did to protect it and yourself. Something akin to admiration blooms in his chest. Something heavier, deeper, lurks beneath it.

As your hands go back to work, Azriel can't help but watch you silently for a moment. His shadows pour over his shoulders, seeping down his arms the longer he looks; as though they, too, want to figure out the enigma in front of them.

You're a very peculiar male, Azriel thinks for the second time that evening.

The runt of the litter and a bastard just as him.

A natural born fighter and an Illyrian warrior against all the odds.

A Fae with long hair like Cassian's, chopped at the shoulder and scraped back — and a voice softer than most. A Fae with eyes that burn with a promise for retribution, with icy fury like his own.

Azriel picks up the knife and slices the vegetable as you had, slow and long. He steals one more glance at you — to find you're doing the same, chancing a split-second glimpse to look at him.

Azriel averts his eyes back to the table.

He feels the treacherous glow of his cheeks and is thankful you can't see his face clearly in the dim light. He slices again.

And as he mulls his thoughts, the pair of you working in tandem as the fire crackles loudly in the corner, Azriel makes a point to ignore the thundering feeling that seems to sing right out of his heart.

No matter if he's half-sure he knows just what word it's singing.

(Mate. Mate. Mate).

[NEXT PART: COMPANIONS]

—

tags below!

@janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco @iamjimintrash @maeandering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka

(if i tagged u and u would like to opt out, no hard feelings! send me an ask and i’ll leave u off :D)

[callsign-jinx]

A Rebel in my Soul [2023 ver.] | Ch.4: Time to target: three minutes

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x fem!pilot!reader (Call sign: Rebel)

Word count: 5k

Warnings: swearing, flying exercise, worried Jake (that deserves a warning), and also Idiot Jake, mutual pining (even tho nobody seems to notice duh), and maybe i'm forgetting something.

A/N: it's been a whole minute since I posted this, but i still want to rewrite it and get rid of the of version, because it was my first series and has a lot of mistakes, There are a few changes in this version, and a lot more descriptions. Won't be tagging anyone for this but if someone wants to be, let me know on the comments or send an ask!

An hour after Hangman walks out, fed up with watching Rooster flirt with every person who enters the bar, you start to gather your things. Part of you wishes Hangman had stuck around a little longer; it was nice talking to him, almost like discovering a different side of him. That is, until he reverted back to his usual asshole self. As you're saying goodbye to the other aviators, your bike keys dangling from your finger, your phone beeps with a new message. The name on the screen brings a small smile to your face.

Iceman.  

Iceman: Honey, you cannot mop the floor with your father’s ass on the first day. It’s not healthy for the family relationships.  

Reb: I was just doing my job, Uncle Ice. 

Iceman: Breaking the hard deck?  

Reb: You know too much to be on a medical leave, don’t you?

Iceman: I brought you two here; of course I know what you’re up to.  

A smile tugs at your lips. Iceman had recommended both of you to Cyclone when the mission came up, knowing that if anyone could handle it, it would be his nephews. He always called you that. You remember summers spent at Iceman’s house, watching in awe as your father and he bickered over old mission memories, each convinced they were right. He was always the cool uncle. Pun intended.

He was also the one who told you, despite your father’s objections, that you were meant to be a pilot. It was in your blood. And God knows, the world could always use more incredible pilots like Maverick.

Reb: He tried to fix years of resentment in a dogfight, Ice. Can you believe it? 

Iceman: Actually, I can. That’s your father’s style.  

Reb: He almost got us killed.  

Iceman: And yet I heard that he was the one to pull up first.  

Reb: You really know too much.  

Iceman: You need to forgive your father, y/n.  

Only a handful of people called you by your real name instead of your call sign, and Iceman was one of them. It sometimes made you feel like a child again, like he was scolding you for running around the house the way you used to. But for Iceman, calling you by your name was his way of reminding you that you, Y/n Mitchell, would always be his little girl.   

Reb: If he wants me to forgive him, he needs to explain why he did what he did.  

Iceman: He won’t tell you. 

Reb: Do you know why?  

Iceman: Yes, honey. I know why he did it.  

Reb: Could you tell me?  

Iceman: I wish I could... but it has to be him. 

Reb: Yeah... you’re right. How you holding up?  

Iceman: I’m better. I can even talk a little.  

Reb: That’s amazing, Uncle Ice! I’m so so happy for you.  

Iceman: How’s Rooster? Is he doing okay?  

Reb: He’s still too cautious for his own good. He’s having problems following the rest.  

Iceman: He needs to be faster...  

Reb: Yeah... 

Iceman: Be careful out there, okay? And don’t be mean to the other kids.  

Reb: I’m not the mean one?  

Iceman: Do I have to remind you that time you threw Rooster in my pool because he said that you were tiny?  

Reb: He’s the giant.  

Iceman: As I said, don’t be mean to the other kids.  

Reb: Okay, Uncle Ice. See you soon. Love ya. 

Iceman: Love you too, kiddo.  

If only you had the time to visit him. But between the nonstop work and exhaustion, there’s barely enough time to catch your breath. You make a mental note to try and see him next week, before the mission.

As if the day hadn’t already been stressful enough, your bike refuses to start when you sit on it, ready to leave. Not again. It might be old, but it’s your first bike, and it’s special to you. Lately, though, it’s been more trouble than it’s worth.

After several more attempts, the engine finally roars to life. You pull away from the bar quickly, a million thoughts swirling in your mind. Rooster, Maverick, Hangman, and Iceman fill most of them. It never crossed your mind that Iceman might know the reason behind Maverick’s actions. But the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. After Goose’s death, Iceman was the closest thing Maverick had to a best friend. If anyone knew, it would be Admiral Kazansky.

Hours later, after a sleepless night and way too much coffee, you find yourself in the briefing room, ready to finally learn what this mission is really about. The room is empty, just you for now. You take a seat, close your eyes for a few seconds, and silently pray to whatever is listening—that this mission won’t be as suicidal as the rumors suggest. There’s still so much you want to do, so many places you want to go. You’re not ready to give it all up just yet.

All over the base, it feels like everyone knows something you don’t. When you or the other aviators walk into a room, people glance at you with admiration—and sometimes, with a hint of sympathy. They all share some unspoken knowledge, and it’s unsettling.

"Morning, Rebel," you hear Hangman’s voice break the silence.

"Morning."

You keep your eyes closed, focusing on the sound of his footsteps as he approaches. A small part of you wonders which version of Hangman you’ll get today—the usual asshole, or the surprisingly nice guy you met last night at the bar? It’s a little intriguing. He stops beside you, the leather of the seat creaking as he leans over it.

"Are you okay?"

Seems like you're getting nice Hangman for two days in a row.

"Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just a little tense." You open your eyes and find him looking at you with a soft expression, his eyes filled with something almost tender. A reassuring smile crosses his face as his hand moves from the seat, gently patting your shoulder.

"It’ll be okay."

For some reason, his words settle you a little. You nod and smile softly, feeling the tension ease, even if just slightly. You’re about to thank him when Rooster’s voice cuts through the air, making Hangman step back. He takes a seat at the farthest row of chairs, away from you.

Bradley nudges you with his elbow as he sits next to you. "Chin up, Reb."

For a moment, you don’t even care about the mission anymore. Well, that’s not entirely true, but right now, you can’t stop thinking about Hangman. He’s been surprisingly nice to you for the past 24 hours. Can someone really change that quickly? And why, of all people, has he chosen to show you this side?

You glance at him. He’s chatting with Coyote, who had walked in just after Rooster. Hangman’s signature cocky smile is back, probably followed by a few arrogant comments about his skills.

Your thoughts drift back to yesterday. His sweet, almost irresistible smile. The warmth in his laugh, the way his voice lacked its usual narcissistic edge. The feeling of his skin brushing against yours. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think about it all night. 

He walked into the room and checked on you, as if it weren’t the most unusual thing for Jake Seresin to do.

There’s a rumor that someone once had a crush on Jake when she first saw him back in the Top Gun days. He was young, handsome, and definitely a bit of a ladies' man. But your foolish, young heart didn’t care about any of that. For better or worse, nothing ever came of it, and Hangman quickly proved himself to be nothing more than a charming idiot.

Now, when you look at him, you can't help but wonder—can people actually change?

“Time is your greatest enemy,” Maverick begins, finally outlining the objective of the mission. “Phase one of the mission will be a low-level ingress attacking in two-plane teams. You’ll fly along this narrow canyon to your target. Radar-guided surface-to-air missiles defend the area. These SAMs, they’re lethal. But they were designed to protect the skies above, not the canyon below.” 

Every aviator in the room exchanges uneasy glances, the gravity of the situation sinking in. You glance at Rooster, his focus locked on the screen.  

“That’s because the enemy knows no one is insane enough to try and fly below them.” Rooster mutters, voicing the unspoken thought that’s on everyone’s mind. 

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna train you to do.” Maverick replies, his voice unwavering. 

Rooster glances at you, eyebrow raised. Yeah, this is classic Maverick bullshit.

“Great, another suicide mission,” you mutter under your breath.

“On the day of the mission, your altitude will be 100 feet, maximum,” Maverick continues, unfazed. “If you exceed this altitude, radar will spot you, and you’re dead.”

“100 feet?” your friend whispers, disbelief in his voice.

“Roos, this is impossible.”

“Your airspeed will be 660 knots minimum. Time to target: two and a half minutes. That’s because fifth-generation fighters are waiting at a nearby airbase. If you try to engage them head-to-head in your F-18s, you’re dead. That’s why you need to get in, hit the target, and be gone before those planes even have a chance to catch you. Time is your greatest adversary."

You glance at Hangman. He’s smirking, clearly relishing the challenge. He’s probably already planning to be the first one to nail it.

You almost laugh when Maverick says, "Today, we'll be easy."

Max ceiling: 300 feet. Time to target: three minutes.

And that’s supposed to be easy?  

Gradually, all members of the team get a chance to try to make it on time, following the parameters and course that are marked on the screen. To call this mission "almost impossible" would be an understatement. None of your teammates make it to the target on time—some surpass the 300-foot ceiling, others hit an invisible rock wall. You manage to hit the target with only a second to spare, but you know that’s not good enough. If you want to survive on the day, you’ll need to be at least 30 seconds faster. Rooster makes it to the target, but he’s a full minute late. You can already feel Maverick’s gaze on him, knowing exactly what’s coming.

When you all file back into the briefing room after the exercise, you brace yourself for the worst.

Maverick projects a simulation of Coyote, Phoenix, and Bob’s run on the screen. You watch as miscommunication between the team leads them to failure—each mistake compounding the next. Their timing is off, their formation is sloppy, and every second counts. The message is clear. This mission isn’t just about speed; it’s about precision, coordination, and being perfect under pressure.

“Why are they dead?” Maverick asks, his tone cold and cutting once the simulation ends.

“We broke the 300-foot ceiling, and a SAM took us out,” Phoenix explains, her voice tight with the sting of failure.

“No. Why are they dead?” Maverick’s gaze shifts to Coyote, who’s clearly the one who needs to answer.

Coyote exhales, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his mistake. “I slowed down and didn’t give her a warning. It was my fault.”

“Was there a reason you didn’t communicate with your team?” Maverick’s words are sharp, pointed. You can’t help but agree—the exercise would’ve been a success if they had communicated better.

“I was focusing on...” Coyote starts, but Maverick cuts him off, his voice biting.

“One that their family will accept at their funeral.”

Ouch. That one lands hard. Even you wince at the weight of the words.

“None, sir,” Coyote responds, voice barely above a whisper.

Maverick doesn’t pause. He moves to Phoenix, his gaze steely. “Why didn’t you anticipate the turn? You were briefed on the terrain.”

Phoenix opens her mouth to respond, but Maverick doesn’t give her a chance. “Don’t tell me. Tell it to his family.” The room goes dead silent. The tension is palpable as Maverick turns, his eyes scanning the group for the lesson that should’ve been learned by now: this is real.

Maverick shifts to the next simulation: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. You’re not even surprised when Hangman goes full throttle, leaving the other two behind. He’s living up to his name, no question about it.

“What happened?” Maverick asks, his eyes narrowing at Hangman.

“Well, I flew as fast as I could. Kinda like my ass depended on it,” Hangman replies, that trademark smug grin plastered on his face. You’re starting to wonder if he has two different personalities—one where he's cocky and reckless, and another where he genuinely thinks he can be a different person.

“And you put your team in danger, and your wingman’s dead,” Rooster jumps in, cutting Hangman off before Maverick can lay into him. His voice is firm, not letting Hangman wiggle out of it.

“They couldn’t keep up,” Hangman shoots back, as if it’s that simple. You roll your eyes. Seriously, two personalities.

“Are you serious?” you mutter, not holding back. Hangman turns to look at you, his smirk widening, but then his gaze shifts back to the screen where Maverick is already prepping your simulation. You focus, mentally preparing yourself. You watch the simulation play out, noting the areas where you need to be more careful and the places where you could push yourself to be faster.

“This is a great example of how it’s done. We just need to be faster here. Good job, Rebel,” Maverick praises you, and you nod awkwardly. The words hit you harder than you expected—good job. You haven’t heard praise like that from your father in years, and it feels… strange. Almost foreign.

The last simulation starts, showing Rooster, Yale, and Harvard making their way through the course. They’re moving slower than required, and even though they hit the target, it’s clear they’ll have to dogfight their way out. The stakes are high.

“Why are you dead?” Maverick asks, his tone sharp. “You’re team leader up there. Why are you, why is your team dead?” The disappointment in his voice is almost tangible. You can feel the weight of his expectations. Maverick, after all, had to be expecting more from Goose’s son.

“Sir, he’s the only one besides Rebel who made it to the target,” Phoenix speaks up, cutting through the tension, trying to give Rooster some credit.

Maverick doesn’t respond right away, but the way his jaw tightens tells you all you need to know. The lesson here isn’t just about hitting the target—it’s about how you do it and when. It’s about leading your team, not just yourself. And coming back home in one piece.

“A minute late. He gave enemy aircraft time to shoot him down,” Maverick states bluntly.

“You don’t know that,” Rooster affirms, defensive. His voice is tight, but there's a certain stubbornness in it—like he's trying to hold onto something.

Well, if the situation were different, and there were actual enemy aircraft on that course, Maverick’s right. A minute is more than enough time for them to close the gap and take you out. You hate to admit it, but Rooster's being reckless.

“You’re not flying fast enough. You don’t have a second to waste,” Hangman chimes in, his voice steady, almost like a mantra. You can almost picture him saying it to himself every morning as he stares into the mirror, trying to convince himself he’s the fastest.

“We made it to the target,” Rooster snaps, his tone dangerous now. He’s fuming, but the anger in his voice is clouding his judgment. His fists are clenched at his sides, and you can see how hard it is for him to swallow the criticism.

“And superior enemy aircraft intercepted you on your way out,” Maverick counters, trying to reason with him, trying to explain why the time delay cost them more than just a minute. It cost them survival.

Rooster doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can see the internal battle playing out in his eyes. He’s not just fighting the mission, he’s fighting the legacy of what happened to his father.

You hate to admit it, but Maverick’s right—Rooster needs to set aside his resentment and listen. The mission isn't about proving something to everyone else; it’s about surviving.

“Then it’s a dogfight,” Rooster shoots back, his jaw set.

“Against fifth-generation fighters,” Maverick responds, the weight of the situation clear in his voice.

“Yeah. We’d still have a chance.”

“In an F-18,” Maverick adds, almost as if he’s reminding Rooster of the very real limitations.

“It’s not the plane, sir, it’s the pilot,” Rooster retorts, not backing down.

“Exactly!” Maverick nods, a touch of admiration in his tone.

But then Rooster presses on, undeterred. “There’s more than one way to fly this mission.”

“Roos…” you try to intervene, your voice low but firm, sensing the conversation is escalating. Both of them are getting heated, and you know this is the last place for a confrontation like this. The team can’t afford it.

Rooster doesn't listen. “You really don’t get it. On this mission, a man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come back. No offense intended.”

You glance at Hangman, who’s smirking again, that stupid look plastered across his face. You can tell he’s just itching for a fight. Something in him is shifting, like the real Hangman is back—reckless, arrogant, and determined to push every button he can find.

“Yet somehow, you always manage,” Bob mutters from the side, always quick to throw in a jab when Hangman’s involved.

“Look, I don’t mean to criticize. You’re conservative, that’s all,” Hangman says, his voice dripping with condescension. You know he really means every word. There’s no subtlety in his tone.

“Lieutenant,” Maverick tries again, his voice tight, trying to stop this before it goes any further. But Hangman doesn’t stop.

“We’re going into combat, son, on a level no living pilot’s ever seen. Not even him. There’s no time to be thinking about the past.” Hangman says it, looking straight at Rooster. The words hit hard, and in that moment, something clicks inside you. Hangman knows about Goose. How the hell did he find out? You don’t know, but it’s clear he’s using that information to twist the knife, to get under Rooster’s skin.

Rooster’s jaw tightens, his body rigid as he leans forward. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice is controlled, but the anger is simmering just beneath the surface. You can feel it, the way his fists clench at his sides. You know exactly where this is headed, and you’re ready to step in before it completely derails.

“You better stop talking, Hangman,” you warn, your voice low and steady. You’ve seen this play out too many times, and you know Hangman’s about to push all the wrong buttons.

“Rooster.” Maverick tries, his voice low and firm, trying to cut through the tension, but neither of them is backing down. The atmosphere is charged, like it’s moments from exploding.

“I can’t be the only one who knows Maverick flew with his old man,” Hangman continues, his smirk widening. He knows exactly what he’s doing. The room goes deathly quiet, and you can feel the weight of the words hanging in the air. He’s digging at something deep, something raw, and you know it’s hitting harder than anyone realizes.

“Lieutenant, that’s enough,” Maverick’s command is sharp, his voice laced with authority, but Hangman’s not done.

“Or that Maverick was flying when his old man…” Hangman trails off, letting the words hang there, teasing the tension to a breaking point. You can feel Rooster’s body vibrating with rage, and you know—this is it. The dam is about to break.

You brace yourself. It’s about to get ugly, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it now. 

Rooster gets up of his chair and grabs Hangman by the collar, ready to punch him in the face. Luckily, the rest of the team reacts quickly enough to stop them. From the corner of your eye, you see Mickey leap over the chairs in front of him, moving fast to get to Hangman before the situation escalates further. You’ll definitely owe him a drink for that later. Maverick is already between them, his presence commanding as he tries to defuse the chaos. You grab Rooster by the arm, pulling him back, while the others step in, each of them doing their best to separate the two.

“That’s enough,” Maverick shouts. 

“You’re a disgusting piece of shit.” You say getting closer to him, but Bob grabs you before you can do something crazy.  

“You son of a bitch!” Rooster shouts. You’ve never seen him this angry.  

“I’m cool. I'm cool. Hey, hey,” says Hangman, smiling. He’s a complete idiot.  

“That’s enough.” 

“He’s not cut out for this mission,” Hangman says, looking at Maverick with that insufferable, proud smile. “You know it. You know I’m right.”

Maverick’s gaze hardens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he gives a sharp command, “You’re all dismissed.”

You leave the room faster than everyone else, your heart racing. You’re almost running now, not caring if anyone notices. You just need space, away from him, away from all that tension.

But then you see it—Hangman, strolling toward the locker room, that same arrogant swagger in his step. Your pulse quickens, and without thinking, you follow him. You don’t stop to second-guess yourself. You walk in right behind him, determined.

"Hangman!" Your voice cuts through the silence, sharp and commanding.

He turns, that ridiculous grin still plastered on his face. “Woah, Reb, what’s up?” he asks, acting like everything’s just fine. It’s a challenge. You can feel it in the way he looks at you. He’s not expecting what’s coming next. The slap on his face leaving him staring, eyes wide, with a look of complete confusion.

“If you just think about Rooster’s father ever again, I swear to God it will be ten times worse the next time.”  

“What are you gonna do? Tell Daddy that some kid is being bad with your friend?” Hangman’s mocking tone hurts more than anything. You feel the disappointment in your heart, twisting it. Did you really think that someone like Hangman could change? How stupid.

“I told you, he might be my father, but he doesn’t want me to be here.” You say it again, like somehow repeating it will make it feel true, will make the ache in your chest go away.

Hangman smirks, not missing a beat. “That doesn’t mean you don’t have privileges, Little Mav. Everyone here’s noticed.”

His words twist in your stomach, heavy and cold. “They... know?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as if hoping he’s wrong.

“Yes. Everyone knows. It’s not that hard to see. The attitude, the way he talks to you, how you do the exact same things. You’re just like your father.”

His words hit you like a slap. They don’t sting at first, but they settle into you, sharp and unforgiving. The room feels smaller, suffocating, and before you can stop it, your throat tightens. "I’m not like him," you say, your voice trembling, and the tears threaten to fall, burning your eyes.

You can’t be like him. You won’t be like him. It’s something you’ve fought against for years, something you’ve buried deep. Maybe you’re reckless, maybe you’ve got the same passion for flying, the same natural skill that comes with the Mitchell name, but you refuse to be anything like Pete Mitchell. You don’t pull rank, you don’t ignore the people who care about you for your own ego. You don’t dismiss someone’s dreams just because you think you know what’s best.

You are nothing like him.   

“You sure? ‘Cause the way I see it, you’re just daddy’s little troublemaker.” Hangman’s words slice through the air, bitter and cruel.

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, and try to hold onto some semblance of control. How did we get here? Yesterday, everything was different. Yesterday, there was laughter, lightheartedness... today, it feels like a punch to the gut.

“I thought you were different. I thought you were being nice to me because you wanted to be my friend,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, the hurt seeping through.

He looks at you, but not in the way you want him to. His gaze flicks all over your face, anywhere but into your eyes. His jaw tightens, his posture stiffens. He doesn’t want to let you see how much you’re affecting him. You almost wish he would look you in the eye, to show some kind of emotion. But instead, he just stands there, the distance between you growing with every passing second.

“Thanks, but I don’t need your friendship,” Hangman mutters, his words sharp, like they were meant to hurt.

It’s like a wall between you now. You can feel it—this sudden, impossible distance. You take a step closer, not even thinking about the consequences anymore. For a second, you’re both breathing the same air, so close that you can almost feel the heat of his skin. Your heart aches, but you don’t back down.

How did we end up like this? The question lingers in your mind, unanswered, because you know what’s happening. Yesterday was so different. So good. And now… now, everything feels like it's falling apart.

His eyes finally meet yours, but they’re empty, distant. His walls are up, and you're left with nothing but the echoes of what could have been.

“When you end up alone, and nobody gives a shit about you, you will regret every single decision you’ve ever made. Nobody will ever love you,” you snap, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them. There’s a coldness in your chest now, something sharp, something that feels like it’s been building up for a while.

His response is quick, flat. “I don’t need love.”

You laugh bitterly, though it’s not a laugh at all. "Yeah... love is for the living people. And you're dead on the inside.” The words hang in the air between you, heavy and final, like the weight of everything you just realized.

Without another word, you turn and walk away. Each step feels like it takes you further from the person you thought he was, and further into something you can’t quite explain. The tears come suddenly, hot and unbidden, streaking down your face before you can stop them. They blur your vision, making everything around you seem fuzzy and distant, like you’re in a dream.

You don’t look back. You don’t need to. You already know that nothing will ever be the same again.

Jake watches as Y/n walks away, her shoulders trembling slightly, and he feels a knot tighten in his chest. She doesn't turn back. The sting of the words he said to her lingers in the air, and for a brief moment, he wishes he could take it all back. But the damage is done. And just like that, his heart sinks further.

He was so wrapped up in the tension with Rooster that he didn't consider how his words would affect her. Y/n and Bradshaw, they were always a package deal. They had been since they were kids, thick as thieves, tied together by something deeper than just friendship. If you hurt one of them, you hurt them both. And Jake just fucked that up in the worst possible way.

He knows he should’ve shut his mouth. He knows that much. But here he is, standing in the wreckage of his own making. He’s been trying to avoid facing the truth, trying to keep his distance, but the truth has a way of catching up with you—like a punch to the gut. His red cheek burns, not just from the slap he deserved, but from the weight of his own guilt.

Jake never meant to hurt her. That’s the kicker. He never meant to push her away or make her cry. But here he is, powerless to fix it. Every time he thinks about going after her, every time he thinks of apologizing, he freezes. There are no simple words, no magic that can make this right. Years of bitterness, resentment, and his own damn pride are between them now. And he doesn't know how to tear down that wall.

When did things get this complicated? When did the world become a minefield? And when did he—Jake Seresin, the guy who couldn’t give a damn about anything—become the kind of man who cares?

When did he fall for her? That’s the question he keeps circling. He’d been in denial about it for so long. It wasn’t supposed to happen. He had a reputation to maintain. But when he walked into the briefing room this morning and saw Y/n sitting there, looking more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her, something inside him snapped. The sharpness of her fear was there, clear as day, and he felt a pull he couldn’t ignore. He wanted to do something. Talk to her. Touch her. Comfort her. Because as much as she acts like she has it all together, he knows better. She’s scared—scared for the mission, scared for Rooster, scared for herself. She doesn’t show it much, but Jake can see it.

He knows what’s coming. Rooster will be leading this mission. Y/n will be flying. The two of them will be out there, facing a world where only the best make it home. And Jake’s mind can’t stop turning. He knows Rooster is a great pilot. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready. He needs to move past the book, past the fear, or someone will die because of it. Y/n doesn’t need that weight on her shoulders. She’s reckless, yeah, but she’s not stupid. She knows what’s at stake, and if Rooster can’t rise to the occasion, she’ll be right there, doing everything she can to save him. And that thought terrifies Jake.

He doesn’t know if he can protect her. But he knows he has to try.  

Jake leans against the wall, his mind racing. He's been so wrapped up in his own issues, so caught up in trying to get under Rooster's skin, that he didn’t even stop to consider the fallout. And now? Now he realizes he might've just crossed a line he can't undo. He’d been trying to get under Rooster’s skin, sure—but if anything, all he did was push Y/n away. And he knows her too well to think she’ll just brush it off.

He needs to fix this. He has to fix this.

Jake's eyes narrow as he thinks back to everything he’s said to her in the past few days, to all the times he made a snide comment about Rooster, to the way he tried to rile him up in the briefing room. All of that—it wasn’t just messing with Rooster anymore. It was messing with her, too. And that, he can't stand. Y/n deserves better. She doesn’t need this. Not from him.

He thinks about how she looked when she walked out, eyes full of hurt, a sharp contrast to the fire she usually carries. That image burns into his mind—her turning away from him, the door slamming behind her. And that's when it hits him: the only reason he’d ever cared enough to get under anyone’s skin, the only reason he’d ever been so reckless in his words, is because somewhere deep down, he’s terrified. Terrified of what Y/n means to him. Terrified of what would happen if he really let himself care.

But it's not just about him anymore. It's about her. It's about fixing this mess he made, even if he doesn't have all the answers. He doesn't know how to make it right, but damn it, he's going to try.

Jake rubs a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. He can’t just keep pretending like he doesn’t care. That’s exactly what he’s been doing—and it’s been a disaster. The mission, the stakes—hell, all of it would be easier if he didn't have to deal with these feelings. But he’s done pretending. If he doesn’t tell her how he feels, how he really feels, before she goes up there—before this mission even starts—he’s going to regret it for the rest of his life.

Y/n’s not just any teammate. He realized long ago that she could be his everything if he allowed it, in a way that scares the hell out of him. But there’s no more running from it. He doesn’t need to be a damn hero on this mission. What he needs is to be honest. About everything. About her. About him. About the way his heart beats a little faster when she’s around, about the way his chest tightens when she’s in danger, about how he’d give anything to make her smile again, to make things right.

He has no idea if she’ll listen. He has no idea if she’ll even want to talk to him after the mess he’s made. But he knows one thing: he can’t let her go up there without telling her how he feels.

Jake stands up straighter, determination setting into his bones. He’s not going to let his girl go into that sky without making it clear that she means everything to him.

The mission is important, yes. But if Y/n doesn’t come back, none of it will matter.

And Jake Seresin isn't about to let that happen without telling her what’s in his heart.

[ryker-writes]

TWST characters as ✨bestfriends✨ (Savanaclaw Edition)

What would it be like being friends with them? Come and find out! I offer my thoughts on what they would be like so I'm sorry if some of the characters are a little Ooc. Some characters I don't know as well but I'll certainly try! More dorms coming soon!

Leona:

scary lion privileges

no one is going to mess with you if Leona is around you

if someone is bothering you tell him and he'll encourage you to handle it yourself

but if you don't or can't he will step in and take care of it for you

those people will never bother you again I guarantee it

no one is stupid enough to face Leona twice

you can also talk to him about anything

he will listen but it's hard to tell because he looks like he's asleep

if you ask if he's paying attention he will deny

really the whole friendship is him acting like he doesn't care but he does

if you need his help with something he will grumble about it but most likely will do it anyway

congrats! you are now the one people go to when they need to find him

contrary to popular belief, I don't think he would use you as a pillow

I just don't see him doing that with someone unless he was in a relationship with them but that's a story for another day

aggressive when it comes to you taking care of yourself

he finds out you're not eating? he will have Ruggie get some food and you are not leaving until you eat. doesn't matter if you have something going on or you're late to class or anything

you have become Cheka's babysitter whenever he comes over

Leona trusts you and then he doesn't have to deal with the small lion cub

Ruggie:

food buddies

he will ask for your food and since you're his best friend he may give you some of his food if he can

most likely Leona ends up paying for both of your lunches

he's not as intimidating as Leona, but he could help you out if someone was bothering you

he wouldn't really be aggressive with it tho

Most likely would be able to stop them from bothering you with words alone

if you're upset you can talk to him he's very understanding

and he's great at cheering you up!

he can offer advice and then he will do things to try and cheer you up

he'll buy you food or a small gift to make you happy (with Leona's money of course)

you might have to help him clean up some of Leona's messes sorry not sorry

he would be pretty happy if you joined him in some of his part-time jobs

making money and hanging out with his friend is perfect multitasking

he totally helps you get deals at the school store

Jack:

athletic buddies

he will totally try to get you to do athletic activities with him like his sports or morning runs

if you're not athletic he won't push you as hard but still encourage you to do it and exercise some

he'll try to join you on your activities too and help you out with them

he's got a bit of an intimidation factor so I don't think people would mess with you that much

but if they do he would try to avoid violence

probably encourages you to just ignore them and he'll try to separate you from them

he's also a very good listener though he is better at comforting and distracting then coming up with solutions

but that doesn't mean he doesn't try to come up with solutions

he will absolutely try to help you if he knows how

if he really can't think of anything he would probably ask Leona for advice

you're not taking care of yourself? how dare you.

he will sit with you to make sure you eat and hands you water

he won't be aggressive about it but he won't just sit by and let it happen

you need his help with anything? he's there

he's a super supportive boy who's got your back