#like for real... how the hell did no one /Not/ know about this?
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
dotpointping · 3 days ago
Text
I think we all agree sex with Phainon would just be feral as hell. He is an awful combination of down bad and emotionally repressed. Give him an inch and he’ll go a mile. The moment you let him into your bed, you are NOT leaving until he’s filled you with his spend. But the best worst part is that every time you think he’s finished, he gets himself going again by watching all his cum leak out of your used hole.
“Just one more,” he tells his, ignoring your whines and pulling your hips back, “one more, I promise.”
Phainon is a liar. One more means one more hour. One more means one more day. He has more than enough stamina and if you so much as indicate you want to be fucked stupid… well, who is he to deny your wishes? That is what he lives for, no?
Against the wall, your personal bath, your dresser, even the balcony is not safe. Speaking of which, you’re starting to think Phainon gets off on doing it outside. One of his hands is always gagged around your mouth, hushing you and telling you you’re being too loud and to quiet down, unless you want to be caught. He says all this, all the while his other hand is ruthlessly pressed against your clit, rubbing small firm circles around your sensitive bud, ramming his hips against yours and angling himself against that soft, spongy spot deep inside that he knows makes your head feel light and stars dangle in your eyes.
Phainon is the type to pull strings and use everything in his power to clear his schedule if it means he can spend a whole day just fucking you. Whether or not you’re conscious for that entire session is entirely dependent on how well prepared you are for him. He’ll coo at you during sex, ask if you’re too tired and if you want to rest. It’s so condescending and he laughs when you nod yes, just to keep going like you aren’t about to pass out underneath him.
“Come on, love, I’m almost done… just keep it up, you’re doing so, so well for me…”
Phainon would go until he shoots blanks. You may think you’re safe by then, but you aren’t. He nestles his head around your legs, kissing your sensitive thighs and nipping the skin lightly, coaxing you down from your last high. It’s the first kiss to your overstimulated cunt that you realize what he intends to do. You can push him away all you like, but he intends to feast on you while he still can.
Mydei, on the other hand, I feel you have to coax into bed. You can drop all the hints in the world, trail your hand up and down his chest, tease the hem of his pants, tell him your dirtiest fucking desires for him and he’ll still tell you no (but you can best bet you’re the reason he starts praying to every god in Amphoreus. Cerces, bless him to keep sound of mind and withstand the urges of pouncing you. He is reason, he is reason, he is reason—) The only real effective way to get him to fuck you the first time is by inviting him to your room and then stripping yourself bare. Even then, you STILL have to talk him into it.
Mydei is a gentle lover. He’s aware of his size and stature and how easily he can hurt you. His hands have committed more atrocities than he can count. They have torn the heads of his enemies, crushed bone and flesh, and spilled blood countless times. He doesn’t want to hurt you. Goodness no. He’d never forgive himself if he did.
Hence why you have to sweet talk him, practically beg him have to have his way with you. You have to tell him you won’t be satisfied until you’re fucked within an inch of your life and your guts have been rearranged. Taunting also works. He may be afraid to hurt you, but above all else he can’t stand the idea of you being with anyone else. You are one of a few good things in his life and god forbid he fumbles this one.
“Fine. I guess I’ll just go find that Deliverer—”
There’s nothing more effective than that. Is it cheap? Yes. It is. But, it gets the job done.
In his hands, you’re going to be stretched and bent in ways you never thought possible. Poking a sleep lion is never a good idea, especially when you don’t have the energy to keep up with him. But, you’ve been teasing him for months on end, so it’s only fair he gets his fill of you.
Sex with Mydei can be quite slow, with three fingers stretching you wide and his tongue lapping your cunt. You have to cum at least three times before he even thinks about slipping his cock inside. If you aren’t delirious by then, then you’re absolutely gone when his cock sinks inside. We all know this man is packing, it’s a struggle no matter how well prepped you are. You’re creaming around him just from the stretch alone, and you have a moment of panic where you aren’t sure he’s going to fit. But, ever the attentive lover, he’ll hush your worries away and press soft circles against your clit, massage your breasts, pinch your sensitive nipples, distract you until he finally bottoms out.
“Please, please, please, Mydei…” you can whine, wrap your arms tight around him and pull him close, kiss him sloppy and messy until you’re reaching another high from him simply grinding into you.
He’s hypnotized, hooked on the feeling of you, taste of you, everything about you. He fulfills your every wish of being pummeled deep inside, massaging your walls with every thrust, the head of his cock pressed against the most sensitive spots, with your every breath becoming nothing more than short punched out gasps.
Unfortunately, however, while Phainon is more than eager to fuck his cum inside you, getting Mydei to cum inside is an entirely different matter. He’s so afraid of continuing his lineage in such unstable times, not to mention, he doesn’t want to burden you with his child. But, once you DO convince him that it’s fine, something in his head gets rewired and the idea of ‘gentle’ gets tossed out when he spills inside you for the first time and sees just how excited it makes you. He then has an existential crisis because now he can’t imagine sex any other way and he’s aching to do it again.
Sex with Phainon is easy because he wants to please you and fulfill every dirty dream he’s ever had of you.
Sex with Mydei is a mind game, where you have to ease him in at first, then assure him three-hundred different times that: yes, you want him and yes, you know what you are doing.
2K notes · View notes
dark-night-hero · 3 days ago
Text
Imagine getting married to Caleb ft. non-mc reader.
Imagine you did not even remember when you stopped breathing. One second, you were standing beneath the soft glow of the chapel lights, heart beating inside your chest like something caged but still hopeful and before you even knew it, time simply stopped.
Imagine the string quartet has been playing the same piece over and over again and now it sounds less like music and more like an apology.
Imagine the aisle is long. Beautiful and lined with white flowers and people who love you or at least pretend to and all of them are watching you. Watching as the minutes keep ticking.
Imagine twelve minutes have passes on and then, eighteen. Twenty seven.
Imagine, He's not coming. Thats the thought that slices through you like a blade and you hate it. Hate that your brain dares to whisper it before your heart is ready to accept it. But you’ve already scanned the room three times, and every time your eyes pass over the empty double doors, the weight in your chest grows heavier. Like your ribs are closing in on themselves.
Imagine Leanne's voice, your friend finally cuts through the hush beside you. "Hey." She whispers. "Let's go wait in the back for a minute, okay? Just... Just to breathe. Okay?" You nod or maybe you didn't. Maybe she just leads you and your body follows because it doesn't know what else to do.
Imagine as she takes your arm, you hear the first real whisper that makes your stomach drop. "MC isn't here either." Your legs almost give out. Not from fear. Not from heartbreak. From recognition. MC. Of course.
Imagine she was supposed to be here hours ago. You had texted her when your makeup was done. She did not respond. But that wasn't weird. She had probably been caught up with something. Probably helping Caleb. Helping Caleb. That phrase alone makes your stomach churn now.
Imagine you could feel the crack forming somewhere deep inside. Small. Quiet. But real. More voices follow. "They were at the base together this morning…" "They always had something, didn't they?" "He probably ran to the one person who knows him best." "It's always the best friend."
Imagine the way tbe pain doesn't come in one sudden blow. It comes in pieces. Slow. Deliberate. Like someone's peeling your skin off inch by inch.
Imagine you blink at Leanne as she tries to close the dressing room door behind you, blocking out the whispers. You think she says something, but you're already gone inside your own head.
Imagine as you sat in the middle of the sofa, gown spread out like wasted silk around you. Your hands won't stop shaking. Your bouquet lies forgotten on the floor. Your phone shows one voicemail from this morning.
Apple: No matter what happens, I love you.
5:13 a.m.
Imagine what the fuck does that even mean? Your hands tighten. Your breath comes out in sharp, humiliating gasps. That's not a message from someone running late. That's a goodbye. That's a pre written excuse. That's a coward's escape route.
but Imagine Caleb is not a coward. Is he? God, no. He's not. You love him. You know him. He had never... But she was always there. MC. Always just close enough. Always just understanding enough. Never stepping over the line but never quite behind it either.
and Imagine you trusted her. You liked her. Hell, you thought of her as a friend. She zipped you into this very dress three days ago and told you you looked like a walking promise. And now she's gone. Alongside him.
and Imagine for one gut wrenching second. Just one, you imagine them together. Caleb kissing her temple. MC whispering. "You deserve better than a life that cages you." Caleb agreeing. Caleb choosing freedom. Choosing someone who understands the scars you never earned the right to ask about.
Imagine you hate yourself. You hate yourself for even thinking about it. Because that's not MC. That's not Caleb.
but Imagine the doubt is there now. And doubt, once it takes root, doesn't care how much you believe.
Imagine you slam your phone face-down. You pull at the pins in your hair. You press your hands to your mouth to muffle the sound of your breathing, because if you let yourself speak, it'll turn into a scream.
"Why wasn't I enough?" That's the question that breaks you.
Imagine you hate it. You hate yourself for the shadows in your heart. You hate the silence that Caleb's absence has left behind. And most of all, you hate that you might never get your forever.
[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°
: caleb when I catch you-!!!!
883 notes · View notes
goldfades · 2 days ago
Text
no thoughts—just munch joe
free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!
ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | compilation of munch joe burrow thoughts... need i say more?
ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | smut! oral (fem. receiving), praise, unedited, third person and no use of y/n, cumming in his pants... um 🙂‍↕️🤗
ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | im ovulating. no comment. i hope yall enjoy this compilation of munch joe <3
Tumblr media
it starts off as a joke.
just a throwaway comment joe said once on a mic’d up game day video when a media guy asks him what his pregame meal is:
“pregame meal?” he repeats with a smirk. “my girl.”
(followed by a shoulder shrug and a sly little “what?” when the guys around him start clowning.)
everyone loses it.
it becomes an inside joke on the team—guys are always side-eyeing him pregame like
“yo, joey—did you eat?”
and he’s always straight-faced: “yep. full plate. my girl special.”
but the thing is… it’s not a joke. not really. he’s deadass.
joe swears by it—swears his best games, the ones where he’s locked in, extra aggressive without breaking a sweat—they all have one thing in common: he got a taste of his girl that morning.
like this man has it down to a routine.
home games? he wakes her up early, rolls her over and eats her like it’s brunch service and he’s on shift.
road games? if she’s there with him, even better—he’s lifting her up onto the hotel sink or laying her across the bed, jersey pushed up, her legs over his shoulders while he mutters something about
“can’t play hungry.” or like, “this is the real carb load.”
even if he can’t finish (like they’re pressed for time or he doesn’t want to be late), he still makes it a point to at least get his “appetizer” in. just a couple minutes of her thighs shaking around his head and his hands gripping her tighter than he does a ball.
he’s so convinced it works that when he has a bad game, he’ll literally go back and say:
“i didn’t eat.”
and the guys know exactly what he means.
his girl is mortified every time he says it out loud—and he says it a LOT. interviews? podcasts? casually in the locker room?
if anyone asks about superstition or game prep, he’s like:
“oh yeah. i got a secret pregame routine. tastes better than anything on the team menu.”
so now it’s canon.
“my girl is my pregame meal.”
he says it proudly. smugly. and his girl hates it and loves it at the same time.
because it’s funny—but also he means it with his whole chest.
--
the first time joe had came from eating you out, it was rare—accidental, even. the first time, he didn’t even notice. joe was just locked in, deep in the zone, her thighs around his head and hands in his curls and her voice shaking in his echoing in his ears like—
“j–joe, i’m gonna—”
“good.”
“baby i—”
“i said good.”
and that was all it took. he came in his boxers. fully.
like he didn’t even process it until a few minutes later, when he finally sat up, pupils blown, chest heaving and he realized he was soaked.
she thought it was hot as hell—kept teasing him like,
“damn… didn’t even need me to touch you, huh?”
but joe was literally stunned. like his whole life changed that day. he was already obsessed with eating her out before—but now? now he had proof it was enough.
that he could get off just from her reactions, just from the way she tasted, just from her body trembling under his.
so it kept happening. more and more frequently.
especially when:
she’s pulling his hair while whispering filthy encouragement
she’s being bratty earlier and he’s “shutting her up”
she’s overstimmed and begging and he wants to watch her come undone again
she’s riding his face with both hands in his curls and he’s moaning into her
those are the dangerous combos. he’ll finish in sweats, in tight compression shorts, sometimes even while holding himself back from fully grinding into the bed ora pillow.
like he’ll try to keep it under control but it’s just too much sometimes.
and she knows, she always knows. like her favorite thing to say afterwards is:
“you came again, huh?”
“jesus, joey, you’re actually sick in the head.”
and he just wipes his mouth and shrugs like,
“told you i didn’t need anything else.”
“you’re the whole damn meal.”
(he’s not joking either.)
Tumblr media
↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !
↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡
252 notes · View notes
avengxrz · 2 days ago
Text
the golden boy becomes the fool ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part five]
pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader
word count: 22.3k words (i am so sorry)
summary: jake seresin was the golden boy, then there was you, the fool. he had everything—charm, swagger, a future carved out in medals and glory. you were the quiet one, the weird one, the girl he used and tossed aside like a joke. years passed. ranks changed. you rose. he stayed the same, until suddenly he didn’t. thrown back together in the sky and on the ground, bitterness turned to tension, and tension lit a match neither of you were ready to put out. old wounds were reopened, truths finally spoken, and under texas stars, it wasn’t the fool who broke—it was the boy who begged. and now everyone’s asking the same thing: how the hell did the golden boy become the fool?
warnings: angst, unresolved tension, sexual tension, emotional monologues, past bullying, mutual pining, late-night realizations, texas farm setting, childhood trauma, muddy chaos, jake seresin being painfully in love, emotional breakdowns, slow burn, redemption arc, accidental co-showering, stubborn idiots in love, soft!jake, rogue being a baddie, found family feels, one (1) dog named bingo, and a swing set that saw everything. oh, and did we mention? angst.
notes: finally we are in the last part. to be honest, this was supposed to be just two parts and look where we are… part five. thank you so much for the love, for screaming with me in the tags, for the asks, for everything. i cried writing this. like actually. and oh, did i mention that we will have an epilogue? yeah. buckle up again, babe. it ain’t over just yet
part one , part two , part three , part four , epilogue
masterlist
Tumblr media
your call sign is rogue.
- Jake - 
Somewhere between Rogue’s final words in the boardroom and the low hum of the air conditioning unit above, Jake started drifting. Not physically — no, his boots were still planted, his arms folded like always, that cocky lean still balanced just right. But in his mind? He was spiraling. Because now, now it was starting to dawn on him: this wasn’t about petty ranks, or her showing off, or the universe punishing him for being an asshole once upon a time. This was about how badly he’d fucked up, and how thoroughly she’d risen from it.
At first, he told himself she was bluffing. That she couldn’t possibly be that good. That maybe this was still the nerdy girl who lit up when he remembered her birthday and blushed when he asked if her puppy was still alive. Then she started talking tactics, commanding a room full of aviators and admirals like it was second nature. And it hit him like Gs to the chest — this was not some lucky rise. This was calculated, earned, forged in fire and fury. Meanwhile, he’d spent the years coasting on talent and charm, grinning his way out of reprimands and leaving his wingmen to hang when it counted.
Then came the real gut punch: the memory of her birthday. Not the part with the cake or the puppy. No — the look on her face when her parents smiled at him. The look that said this is the closest you’ll ever get to mattering to me. And he’d still walked away. Walked away like she was nothing but a sweet girl who wanted too much, too fast — when in reality, she was everything he could’ve hoped to become. And he humiliated her.
Back then, it was so easy. He made jokes at her expense because they made his friends laugh. He forgot her name on purpose just to watch her cover up the hurt with a smile. He told himself she wasn’t important — but only because he didn’t want to admit that she was. And now, here she was: outranking him, outflying him, outclassing him in every possible way. Meanwhile, he was sitting in a debriefing room, unusually silent, drawing side glances from Fanboy and Phoenix like he might be having a stroke.
Jake didn’t know when the silence stopped being peaceful and started feeling like drowning. The squad was talking around him now — soft jokes, nervous energy, half-assed optimism — but it all sounded far away. Because in his head, her voice echoed louder than the rest. The calm command of it. The sharp edges hidden beneath the steel. The way she said, “I was just warming up.” And he couldn’t stop wondering — how much of her command came from pain? How much had he put there?
And worst of all… if this was revenge?God help them all.
But what if it wasn’t? What if she never needed revenge — because she won?
And yet, part of him still clung to denial like it was his last parachute. Because if this wasn’t revenge, then it was worse. If this wasn’t personal — if she wasn’t targeting him — then he didn’t matter at all. That would mean she wasn’t even thinking about what he’d done. That she had risen without him in the picture. That he was just… collateral.
The truth burned more than he wanted to admit.
He’d always been the guy. The one everyone remembered. The one who smiled too wide, flew too fast, talked too much. The one who could get away with anything — until now. Until her. Rogue. The name echoed in his skull, rough and wild. He remembered the way she used to sit quietly, the way she’d light up at every crumb of attention he tossed her. How easy it was to take her for granted. Now, she didn’t flinch when he spoke. She didn’t chase. She didn’t even blink.
And yeah — fuck, maybe that’s what rattled him the most.
She was steady. Cold as steel. Calculated, poised, terrifying in her control. Meanwhile, he couldn’t get through a single day without watching her hands, waiting for a glance, parsing every word she said like it held some secret message just for him. But it never did. Not anymore.
He started wondering when the scales had tipped. Maybe it was during the dogfight — when she’d pulled that impossible maneuver, practically bent the laws of physics, and left him choking on altitude. Or maybe it was earlier. That moment in the hangar, when she looked at him like a stranger. That moment when her voice dropped to a whisper and she said, “You were trying to keep up. I was just warming up.”
God. She hadn’t just outgrown him, she’d left him in the dust.
And what stung wasn’t just the pride. It was the sudden awareness that everything she was — everything she’d become — had happened without him. She had built this legacy on the bones of what he broke, and now she wore it like armor. Commanded fleets. Designed the Gauntlet. Wore the Navy’s respect like it was stitched into her uniform. And he?
He was still trying to figure out how the hell he lost her before he ever even had her.
Meanwhile, the squad kept throwing him glances, poking him for reactions he didn’t give. Rooster said something, probably another crack about how hot she was. Jake didn’t even flinch. His mind was too far away, somewhere between regret and awe, caught in the eye of a storm that had her name written all over it.
He’d laughed at her once — humiliated her in front of friends. Told her she was just some PoliSci nerd who got lucky being around someone like him. Now he was the lucky one, just to breathe the same air. And the worst part? She didn’t seem angry. Didn’t seem wounded.
She seemed finished. Finished with him. Finished with the memory. Finished with needing anything from Jake Seresin. And that terrified him more than anything else in the world.
He didn’t hear when Payback called his name the first time. Barely registered it the second. It wasn’t until Phoenix threw a pen at his chest that he blinked, jolted back into the present like a man surfacing from deep water.
“Jesus, Seresin,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
He wanted to laugh. If only she knew.
Because truthfully, he had. She was flesh and blood, standing tall in that flight suit — but she was also a phantom of every stupid thing he’d ever said, every choice he couldn’t take back. And now she haunted him in the worst possible way: by thriving. By being better. By being so far above him it felt like a cosmic joke.
Jake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not without unraveling.
He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the debriefing screen even though nothing was playing. He didn’t know how to explain it — the way guilt had sunk in slow and mean, like a knife twisting over years. Back then, he’d thought she’d bounce back. Thought she’d grow out of it, forget about him, find someone more her speed. Not...turn into someone who made admirals hold their breath. Not outrank him. Not be the best goddamn pilot he’d ever gone up against.
He wasn’t used to losing. Not in the air. Not in life. But this? This wasn’t losing. This was a reckoning.
And what made it worse — what really clawed at the insides of him — was the realization that she wasn’t trying to make him feel it. She wasn’t looking at him with revenge in her eyes. She hadn’t dragged the squad through hell just to watch him squirm.
No. She was just doing her job. Brilliantly. Mercilessly. Like she was born to wear command on her shoulders. Like he’d never mattered at all.
And that was the twist of the knife.
Because if she had hated him, maybe he could’ve worked with that. Anger, he could handle. Fury, he could fight. But indifference? That kind of silence? It was the loudest thing he’d ever heard.
So he sat there, quiet. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. While the others whispered and stretched and griped about the Gauntlet, Jake was somewhere else. Lost in a memory of a birthday candle, a puppy named Bingo, and the girl who had once looked at him like he hung the stars — back when he barely even knew her name.
And now? Now the whole damn Navy knew hers.
Rogue. Hell of a call sign. Hell of a woman.
And hell, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he’d ever stop paying for the day he decided she wasn’t worth remembering. But where the hell did she go?
That sunshine girl — the one with messy notebooks and a smile that could power a damn jet engine — where did she vanish to?
Jake pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing the headache behind his brow to quiet down. His teammates were still talking, vague mutters about the next flight schedule, about fuel consumption ratios, about anything but her. But for him, there was nothing else.
Because when he looked at Rogue — Commander Rogue — he didn’t just see the sharp angles and medals and ruthless authority. He saw echoes. Shadows. Glimpses of someone who used to bake brownies for old folks and let him copy her social science notes just because he’d grinned at her once. God, she was so easy to please back then, wasn’t she? All it took was his attention — even if it came wrapped in mockery, even if it was half-hearted, even if it hurt.
And now?
Now she looked through him like he was just another report on her desk. Just another cocky pilot who needed to be broken down and rebuilt.
Jake stared at the faint scuff marks on his boots, letting the silence stretch.
Maybe that sunshine girl didn’t disappear. Maybe she’d been scorched to ash. Burned out by the very heat of his cruelty, until all that was left was steel. Maybe he’d looked at gold and called it dirt. Maybe he’d clipped her wings, thinking she’d never fly without him, and she turned around and soared so far above that now he was the one grounded.
He didn’t deserve her warmth. He never had. But damn it — he missed it.
He missed the way she used to tilt her head when she talked about theories he didn’t understand. He missed the way her voice cracked just a little when she got too excited, the way her eyes sparkled when she believed in something. And even if he’d never admitted it back then, he missed how she believed in him.
Jake hadn’t realized how dark his world had gotten until she walked back in — not with her sun, but with a storm.
She was lightning now. And maybe that made sense.
Because sunshine forgives.
Lightning remembers.
The debriefing room was thick with tension and silence, stale air and the kind of fatigue that only came from barely scraping through a day like Hell Day. The squad sat in various degrees of slouch and stretch, groaning and muttering like overworked soldiers in a trench. Jake hadn’t said a word since the last evaluation — not even when Fanboy elbowed him gently and whispered some sarcastic remark about being emotionally constipated. He just sat there, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded, thoughts swimming miles away from this room and the people in it.
Then the door opened.
He didn’t even look up at first — probably Hondo coming to collect one of them or Mav stepping in to remind them to hydrate. But the sound of boots, the tempo of those confident steps, pulled at something in Jake’s chest like a thread unraveling from old cloth. He lifted his head, just in time to catch a flash of black flight suits — Rogue, Ruin, and Jinx — walking past the debriefing room window. Their faces were unreadable, all business and command, and there was something in the set of Rogue’s shoulders that made Jake’s body move before his brain even caught up.
He shoved out of his chair with such force it squeaked across the tile. He didn’t excuse himself, didn’t check if he stepped on someone’s boot — and based on Payback’s startled grunt, he probably did. He nearly tripped on the step down from the raised platform but caught himself with a sharp curse under his breath. The squad stared, confused and half-concerned, as Jake threw open the door and bolted into the hallway.
“Commander Rogue!” he called out, voice cracking slightly with urgency.
The three of them stopped.
Rogue turned first, her expression unreadable, eyes sharp under the harsh fluorescent lights. Ruin raised a brow, exchanging a look with Jinx, who just crossed his arms and waited.
Jake jogged toward them, slowing only when he was close enough to speak without yelling. His breath came in fast, uneven pulls, and he hadn’t even thought about what to say. All he knew was that if he didn’t talk to her now, if he let her slip away one more time, he’d lose something he couldn’t name.
“Can we talk?” he asked, trying to sound composed, failing miserably.
Rogue didn’t answer right away. She glanced at her watch, then looked over her shoulder, clearly weighing something. “We have somewhere to be,” she said, her tone clipped but not cold — efficient.
“Please,” Jake added, and that word came out quieter, almost desperate. “Just five minutes.”
Ruin let out a low hum and tilted his head toward Jinx. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” Jinx replied, already stepping back.
“We’ll give you the room,” Ruin said to Rogue, then cast Jake a warning glance — not threatening, but definitely cautious. Like he was letting Jake borrow something precious on the condition that he didn’t break it.
Once the two men turned away, Jake followed Rogue in silence as she led the way down the corridor, toward the temporary officer’s office the Big Three had been using since their arrival. Her strides were purposeful, heels of her boots clicking softly against the polished floor. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. And for the first time in his life, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he should.
The door shut behind them with a soft click, the kind that sounded louder when tension clung to the air. Rogue walked ahead, moving toward the desk at the far end of the room, her posture still poised and unreadable. Jake lingered just inside the doorway, blinking as he took it all in — the quiet space that somehow screamed the presence of three elite operators even in their absence.
It wasn’t a sterile office. It was lived in.
To his left, a small side table had three neatly stacked folders, the corners dog-eared from frequent flipping. One had a cracked navy emblem, the kind only handed out at high-clearance briefings. Above it hung a photo — an unfiltered snapshot of the Big Three: Rogue in the middle, standing tall between Ruin and Jinx. All three were in flight suits, helmets under their arms, the open sky behind them.
Their grins were wide, real, the kind captured between war and silence. Rogue had her sunglasses shoved into her hair, and the wind had caught her braid just enough to give it movement. Jake stared at it longer than he should’ve.
Near the couch — a beat-up leather one that sagged slightly on one side — were two hoodies tossed lazily over the armrest. One read “Death Before Dishonor” in cracked white letters. The other had Get Wrecked stitched in scarlet red on the chest, clearly Ruin’s sense of humor bleeding through.
On the coffee table sat an abandoned protein bar wrapper and an energy drink can with its tab popped but barely sipped. A flight helmet sat beside it — Rogue’s. Her call sign, ROGUE, stenciled across the side in thick matte letters, scuffed and worn at the edges.
Jake's eyes trailed along the shelves. No dust. Books on naval tactics, missile systems, aerospace combat strategy — well-used. A sticky note stuck out of one of them, the handwriting tiny and precise. He couldn’t read what it said from here.
And pinned to the board by the desk was another photo. It wasn’t labeled, but Jake recognized the location — somewhere in the Middle East, by the look of the sand and the sky. The three of them again, this time wearing gear heavier than regulation. Bulletproof vests. Goggles pushed to their heads. War paint smudged and smeared with sweat. Rogue stood at the front, chin lifted. The leader. Always had been, hadn’t she?
Jake swallowed hard. This wasn’t some office thrown together for convenience. This was their ground. Their turf. It was built off years of flying, of bleeding, of trusting each other with their lives over and over again. He was just a guest here. A trespasser with a fractured past and guilt-riddled shoes.
She didn’t tell him to sit. She didn’t offer him water or some smooth way to start the conversation. She simply turned, leaned back against the desk, crossed her arms, and looked at him with unreadable eyes — the same way she had that night she’d left him speechless on the hangar floor.
“Talk,” she said, not cruelly. Not kindly either.
Jake stared back, hands clenching at his sides. God, where the hell did he even begin?
Jake hesitated, the words stalling at the back of his throat like they were jammed behind the pressure of years unspoken. Rogue didn’t blink. Her gaze was a scalpel, sharp and still, dissecting him before he even opened his mouth. She didn’t need to raise her voice — her silence already screamed volumes.
“I just…” He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and shifted on his feet like a guilty schoolboy caught cheating on a test. “If this is about what happened back then—”
“It’s not,” she cut in, calmly. Coldly.
Her voice was even, professional, clipped in the way only officers who’ve given too many post-op debriefings know how to deliver. She didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t soften. She simply corrected him like he was misreading a report.
Jake’s jaw twitched. “It’s not?”
“No.” She stood upright now, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer — but not intimately. She didn’t let him forget where they stood. “You think this is some kind of personal vendetta, Seresin? That I clawed my way through the ranks, designed an entire Navy-certified evaluation gauntlet, and got assigned command on a strategic permanent squadron initiative just to settle an old score?”
He opened his mouth — a reflex — but couldn’t say a damn thing.
She didn’t wait.
“I am here because I earned it. Because I bled for it. Because I sat through mission after mission where people didn’t come back, and I made sure the next ones did. That’s why Warlock signed off. That’s why Cyclone listened. That’s why Maverick respected my word when I said I’d take the lead.”
Jake swallowed, shoulders tensing. “I’m not saying you didn’t—”
“But you are.” She narrowed her eyes. “By assuming this is about you, you’re reducing years of work, risk, loss, and leadership into a high school grudge. You’re disrespecting me. You’re disrespecting Jinx. Ruin. Every damn WSO and pilot who built this alongside me.”
The words hit like thunder — quiet, steady, but impossible to ignore. Jake felt himself shrinking under the weight of them.
“And just so we’re clear,” she went on, voice lowering, more controlled now — like a storm sharpening to a blade, “even if I wanted revenge, I would never risk my integrity, my crew, or my career for it. Unlike you, I don’t use people as stepping stones when I’m running scared.”
Jake flinched. It was subtle, but Rogue caught it. She always caught everything.
“I’m not here to ruin Maverick. Or the Dagger Squad. I fought for them. I reviewed every file, every hour of flight data. You think you’re the only one who cared if they stayed? If this squadron was approved, I fought for it harder than any of you realize.” Her voice cracked slightly — not with emotion, but with restrained fury. “You don't know how many times I had to defend this program. And not once — not once — did I use you as my reason for being here.”
Jake finally found his voice, quiet and thin. “Then why did you say yes to this talk?”
“Because Jinx and Ruin would have called you a coward for running after me in the hallway,” she said, dryly. “And because part of me hoped… maybe you’ve changed.”
She looked at him — really looked — and something unreadable passed through her expression, too fast to name.
But then it was gone, and she stepped back behind the desk.
“You’ve had your say, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”
“No,” Jake said, louder this time — steadier. “I’m not leaving.”
Rogue’s hand froze halfway toward a folder on her desk, her fingers curling slowly as if resisting the urge to throw it at his head. Her brows lifted, that calm mask cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of disbelief — or maybe it was disgust.
“Excuse me?”
“I said I’m not leaving,” Jake repeated, jaw tight, eyes fixed on hers. “Not until we settle this.”
“What exactly do you think there is to settle?” she snapped, voice sharp now — the edge of command laced with a storm of personal fury she had long tried to bury under layers of discipline. “You think this is unfinished business? That I owe you some kind of closure? After what you did?”
Jake blinked. “We never talked. Not really. I—I didn’t know what you were going through—”
“And you never asked!” she cut him off, stepping out from behind the desk so fast the chair rolled back with a soft groan of its wheels. “You never once asked me what was happening. Not when you humiliated me in front of your friends. Not when I handed you your damn project so you wouldn’t fail your class. Not when you let people mock me like I was some punchline.”
Her voice trembled on that last word — not from weakness, but from years of venom held tightly in the back of her throat. Jake took a step back, stunned, like he hadn’t expected her to still be carrying all of it. As if his sins were something time alone could wash away.
“You really think I’ve been up at night plotting revenge on you?” she laughed bitterly. “Jake, I forgot you for years. Or tried to. I erased you because it hurt too much to remember what it felt like to believe someone saw me… and then watch them toss me aside like I was nothing.”
“I never meant to—”
“You did mean to.” Her voice dropped. “You wanted your friends to laugh. You wanted to feel cool. And I was just… collateral.”
Jake’s mouth parted. The words he’d rehearsed, the apologies he’d thought might help, all died in his throat. Because she was right. And now, standing in front of her — not sunshine anymore, not soft and sweet, but steel and thunder in a commander's uniform — he realized that even if she forgave him, he’d never stop being ashamed of who he’d been.
But shame didn’t stop his anger from flaring. “Then why the hell did you fight for us to stay, huh? Why go through all this if you don’t even give a damn anymore?”
“Because I do give a damn,” she hissed. “Just not about you. This isn’t about your guilt, or your closure, or your redemption arc. I fought for Maverick because he deserves better. I fought for that squad because they have potential, even if they’re reckless idiots. I didn’t do this to prove something to you—I did it because it’s my job.”
She stepped closer, her voice low now, seething. “So don’t you dare stand here and twist my work into some schoolyard drama you never outgrew.”
Jake stared at her — lips parted, breath heavy, like he was about to say something else.
But Rogue just looked at him like he was a memory she’d already burned once.
Then, flatly: “Are we done?”
Jake didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, like the words were caught somewhere between pride and regret, tangled in barbed wire he didn’t know how to pull free without bleeding for it. Then he exhaled, sharp and quiet, and scrubbed a hand down his face.
“No,” he said finally, voice rough. “We’re not done. Not until I say what I came here to say.”
Rogue gave him a look—dry, sharp, dangerous. But she didn’t speak. She folded her arms and waited, a soldier in command, daring him to step wrong.
Jake let out a shaky laugh, eyes not quite meeting hers. “You think I don’t know I was a dick back then? Because I do. I know it every time someone looks at me like I’m some goddamn hero, and all I can think about is the girl who smiled at me like I was worth something—and how I spat on that.”
He stepped closer, the weight of his boots heavy on the office floor. “I was stupid. I was selfish. I thought you were just this weird, sweet, nerdy girl who’d get over it. But you didn’t. And I didn’t. And now you’re standing here in a uniform that outranks mine, giving orders, saving asses—including mine—and all I can think is, damn. I deserve this.”
He paused, chest heaving.
“But I don’t want them to pay for it. Not the squad. Not Mav. They didn’t screw up—you didn’t screw them over. I did. And if this whole thing is about revenge, if it’s some twisted full-circle karma, then fine. I’ll take it. I’ll walk away. Hell, I’ll quit the damn Navy if that’s what you want.”
He looked at her then. Really looked. Like a man who finally saw the ruin he left behind and realized too late it had bloomed into something unstoppable.
“But don’t punish the rest of them because I was an asshole.”
There it was—Jake Seresin, laid bare. Not smirking. Not cocky. Just raw and scared and desperate to fix a wound he never thought would still be bleeding.
Rogue didn’t flinch. Not once. She stood there, spine like steel beneath her flight suit, arms still folded like she was holding herself back from hurling something—maybe the truth, maybe a fist.
“Oh, so now you want to fix it?” Her voice was low, razor-sharp. “Now that your cushy little ego is bruised, you suddenly care about consequences? Jake, you weren’t just an asshole. You made me the punchline. You played with someone who would’ve walked into fire for you.”
Jake opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a hand, like a blade. “You humiliated me, in front of your friends. In front of myself. You knew how I looked at you. You let me do your work. You let me believe you cared.”
She was breathing harder now, eyes burning—not just with anger, but betrayal, exhaustion, something bone-deep and old. “And now, what, you want a neat little bow on it? A ‘sorry’? A ‘let’s not ruin this for everyone else’? I have news for you, Lieutenant—this is my job. I don’t play god. I don’t hold grudges over people’s careers. That’s you. That was always you.”
Jake flinched at that—visibly, quietly. But she didn’t stop.
“I didn’t design the Gauntlet for revenge. I did it because I’ve nearly died out there. Because I've watched people burn up in the sky because someone wasn’t ready, someone wasn’t honest, someone thought charm was a substitute for leadership. So don’t you dare stand here and ask me to go easy on a team that still flies like cowboys with something to prove.”
Then, softer—but only slightly, and somehow more terrifying for it—she said, “This isn’t about you anymore.”
Jake clenched his jaw. “It was never about me, huh? Then why are you still this angry?”
Her silence was immediate and blistering.
When she did speak, her voice was calm. “Because I expected better. Because once upon a time, I thought you were going to be great. And now all I see is someone still trying to crawl out of the wreckage he made.”
Jake stared at her, speechless.
And then—
“I’m not doing this,” she muttered, pushing off the desk and heading for the door. “You want to talk like adults, you know where to find me. But this pity parade? This guilt-fueled performance?” She shook her head. “Spare me.”
She reached the door, hand on the handle.
“Wait.”
His voice cracked. Not loud, not sharp—just hoarse and human. And that alone made her pause. Just for a breath.
Jake crossed the space between them in two strides. Not to block the door, not to touch her—he didn’t dare—but just enough to make her stop. Just enough to say it.
“I’m sorry.”
She blinked. Not like she was surprised. More like she was exhausted. Like she’d waited years to hear those words and now that they were finally spoken, they rang hollow in the air.
Rogue turned, slow and deliberate. Her eyes swept over him, scanning for the trick, the loophole, the out. Because Jake Seresin never just said sorry. Not without a catch. Not without a punchline.
And yet—there it was. No grin. No wink. Just a man who looked like he’d finally run out of ways to pretend he hadn’t wrecked everything that mattered.
“For what?” she asked.
He faltered. “For... everything.”
“That’s not an apology,” she snapped. “That’s a blanket statement. That’s what people say when they want to be absolved without being accountable. So try again, Lieutenant. What exactly are you apologizing for?”
Jake swallowed. His throat felt tight, raw.
“I’m sorry for using you,” he said. “For making you think you mattered to me when I didn’t even have the guts to admit you did. I’m sorry for letting other people laugh at you, for laughing with them. I’m sorry I was a coward who needed someone like you to lift me up, and the second you did, I kicked the ladder out from under you.”
Her arms had dropped to her sides now, fingers flexing slightly. But her expression didn’t soften. Not even a little.
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize who you were until you were already gone,” Jake finished, quieter now. “And I’m sorry I still think about you every damn day, even when I know I don’t deserve to.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone. Rogue stood still, unreadable, a statue carved out of every moment he’d let her down.
Then, finally, she spoke. “You don’t get to apologize and expect forgiveness like it’s some kind of trade.”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t expect anything.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I’m not giving it.”
Then, as if she were brushing the entire moment off her shoulders like dust, she stepped toward the door again. “And don’t worry about dinner tomorrow,” she added, almost too casually. “It’s totally fine if you don’t come. Really.”
Her hand hit the door handle. No hesitation this time. And with her back still to him, she said, “I’ll see you in the sky, Hangman.”
The door closed behind her, and Jake was left standing in the space where a second chance used to be.
Jake walked the corridor like a man returning from war—shoulders squared, boots heavy, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked granite. His flight suit felt too stiff, too hot, like it was suffocating him from the inside out. Every footstep echoed in his ears louder than it should’ve. He didn’t look back. Not once. Not after the door closed behind her. Not after she said his call sign like it was just another name on her checklist. No emotion, no hint of what he used to mean. Just Hangman. Just another damn pilot.
By the time he reached the debriefing room, the sound of the others inside bled into the hall—low murmurs, the scrape of boots against tile, someone cursing under their breath about the heat. He paused for just a second outside the door. One beat. Two. Then, with a sharp inhale, he threw on the only armor he had left: a smirk.
Jake swaggered into the room like nothing happened. Like his heart wasn’t a bruised peach inside his chest. His chin was up, his grin sharp as ever, and when Coyote shot him a look—half worried, half suspicious—he just flashed a wink and dropped into his seat.
“Miss me?” he drawled, leaning back like he hadn’t just been torn apart in a quiet office two halls over.
Across the room, Rooster gave him a narrowed stare, but didn’t push. Bob glanced at him and then at Phoenix, silently asking a question neither of them knew how to phrase. Even Fanboy and Halo had gone quiet, watching him like he might combust if touched too hard.
At the front, Maverick stood with his arms folded over his chest, Hondo just to his right. The air shifted when they noticed Jake’s return, but Mav didn’t comment. Instead, he cleared his throat, stepped forward, and nodded once, firm.
“Alright,” he said, tone clipped. “I just finished a conversation with Commander Rogue.”
Jake’s smirk twitched. He didn’t move otherwise.
“She reviewed every maneuver, every decision, every comm log. Every one of your flights during the Gauntlet,” Maverick continued, his eyes moving from one pilot to the next. “And she’s made her recommendations.”
There was a collective inhale. The kind that filled the room with a buzzing anxiety, a quiet thrum beneath the silence. Phoenix sat straighter. Rooster leaned forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him. Jake kept his mask on, resting one ankle over his knee like he didn’t care. Like he hadn’t just begged her to forgive him, and failed.
Maverick’s voice dropped a note lower.
“She was thorough. And blunt.”
Of course she was.
Jake didn’t flinch. He just smiled wider.
There was a long, loaded pause as Maverick closed the folder in his hands. The sharp clap of it echoed in the room, followed by a beat of silence. Then he looked at them all—really looked—and the ghost of a smile twitched at the edge of his mouth.
“She approved it,” he said.
It took a second to register.
Then it hit them like a missile.
A breath released collectively around the debriefing room, like a pressure valve had finally been turned. Maverick didn’t say it outright, but the weight in his voice, the lack of disappointment in his tone—it was enough. They had passed. Maybe not all with flying colors, maybe not without bruises or scars to their egos, but they were still standing. Still in this. And more importantly, still a squadron.
Phoenix gave a low whistle and leaned back in her chair, throwing Bob a look that said, I told you we’d survive. Bob just blinked, dazed but visibly relieved, like he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Fanboy fist-bumped Payback under the table, a quiet gesture that still earned a grin. Fritz clapped Halo on the shoulder, muttering something about “not getting shot out of the sky” being cause for celebration. Even Omaha and Yale, usually reserved, broke into rare, crooked smiles.
Hondo chuckled from the side, and Maverick just gave a tired, proud nod. “Commander Rogue said you all passed—barely, but you passed. She said she’d rather keep a team that learns than perfect strangers who don’t.”
“Yo,” Coyote said, twisting around to face the rest of them, “I say we celebrate tomorrow. Properly. Barbecue at the beach?”
“I second that,” Rooster chimed in, already looking way too excited. “We got through Rogue’s personal hellscape and lived to talk about it. That’s worth a drink or five.”
Harvard raised an eyebrow, nodding thoughtfully. “And food. A lot of food.”
“I’m not grilling again,” Halo warned, deadpan. “Last time y’all nearly set the sand on fire.”
“That was Fanboy,” Payback said quickly, pointing an accusatory finger. “He thought kerosene was cooking oil.”
“It was labeled confusingly,” Fanboy argued.
Jake stayed quiet, still sitting in that deceptively relaxed posture, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. He chuckled along, but it was thinner, a little too practiced. When Rooster elbowed him in the ribs and asked if he was in, he just offered a lazy shrug.
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
The squad kept tossing out ideas—who’d bring what, who’d be in charge of music, how many coolers they’d need for beer—and somewhere in the blur of chatter, someone casually mentioned inviting the big three.
“They’re part of the team now, right?” Yale said, tapping his pen on the table. “Might as well include them.”
“Yeah,” Fritz added. “Maybe if we feed them, they’ll go easy on us next time.”
“They don’t eat,” Fanboy muttered dramatically. “They feast on our fear.”
Phoenix rolled her eyes but smirked. “Still. Wouldn’t kill us to ask. Especially Commander Rogue—”
No one knew tomorrow was her birthday. No one but one person.
Jake’s jaw tensed, but his smile didn’t falter. He nodded absently, muttering something noncommittal about “good idea.” But behind his eyes, gears were turning. Because he knew. He remembered the date before he remembered her rank, before her call sign was etched into his damn skull.
She wasn’t just Rogue. She was his sunshine. Once.
The Hard Deck buzzed with its usual late-night charm, lights dim and golden, music humming beneath the rhythm of laughter and beer bottles clinking. Dagger Squad clustered around a corner booth, half-shouting over each other about marinades, playlists, and who was bringing what to tomorrow’s beach barbecue. Penny was behind the bar, laughing as Fanboy attempted to mix his own drink and nearly set off the soda gun. It was loud, chaotic, and warm.
Meanwhile, Jake Seresin sat perched at the far end of the bar, staring into the amber depths of a half-finished glass. He wasn't sulking, exactly—but he wasn’t glowing either. His usual charm, the cocky swagger, the teeth-and-dimple grin—it was all there, but thin as tissue paper. A performance. He'd laughed when he was supposed to, nodded at plans he didn’t plan to join, and now he was here, hiding in plain sight with his jaw tight and his eyes distant.
Maverick had been watching him for a while. Quietly. Patiently. He nursed his own drink nearby, leaned against the bar with that weather-worn stillness of a man who had lived through things most people only feared in theory. Eventually, he stepped over and sat down beside Jake without a word. For a few minutes, they both just watched the room, letting the weight of the silence settle between them.
Then Maverick spoke, low and without fanfare. “You alright, Hangman?”
Jake didn’t look at him. He smirked instead, lazy and easy. “Peachy, Cap.”
Maverick nodded slowly. “Sure doesn’t look that way.”
Jake finally glanced sideways, his eyes guarded but not cold. “I’m good. Just tired. Long week.”
“Yeah,” Mav said, letting the word stretch with meaning. “Hell of a week.”
Another beat passed. Jake swirled the whiskey in his glass and chuckled under his breath. “You gonna do the whole mentor thing now? Sit me down and tell me I’m spiraling?”
“I’m not your therapist,” Maverick said calmly. “But I’ve been where you are. Stubborn. Stupid. Pretending like nothing’s wrong when everything’s falling apart.”
Jake didn’t answer right away. Then he exhaled hard and said, “I was a real asshole to someone once. A long time ago.”
“Just once?” Maverick joked, and Jake snorted.
“Alright, wise guy.”
Maverick let him speak, didn’t press. Jake tapped the edge of his glass, his gaze locked on nothing in particular. “She was... good. Kind. A little weird, honestly. Smart in a way that scared me. And I made it my goddamn mission to ruin that.”
He paused. Swallowed.
“I thought I was being funny. Cool. I don’t even know why—I think I just... couldn’t handle it. So I humiliated her. Over and over. Like it was a sport. And she still looked at me like I hung the damn moon.” Jake’s voice dropped. “Then one day, she stopped.”
Maverick was quiet. Then he said, “And now?”
Jake shook his head. “Now, she’s—” But he cut himself off.
Mav already knew. He didn’t need the name. Didn’t need the full picture. He’d seen the way Jake looked at her during briefings. The way his bravado twitched when Rogue walked into the room. The way he clammed up every time her voice took command. Maverick was a lot of things, but he wasn’t blind.
“You remind me of myself,” Maverick said softly. “Back when I was your age, I made a lot of choices that cost me things I didn’t know I’d miss until they were long gone. There’s a danger in thinking we’ve got time. In thinking we can burn bridges and still cross back over later.”
Jake didn’t respond, but he didn’t deflect either.
Maverick took another sip and looked over at the squad laughing across the room. “This job—it’ll take everything if you let it. Your body. Your mind. The people you love. You gotta decide what matters, Jake. And if someone mattered to you, even once—don’t let pride be the reason you lose them for good.”
Jake finally looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, he just nodded.
He didn’t say it out loud, but Maverick saw it in his eyes: he knew.
Jake looked away again, his mouth tightening, shoulders drawing in ever so slightly. He ran a hand down his face, fingers catching on the edge of stubble like he could scrub away the guilt gathering beneath his skin. His voice, when it came, was quieter—almost foreign to him. “But what if it’s too late?”
Maverick’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then it’s too late,” he said simply. “But you still show up. You own what you did. You stand there and take it. And maybe they never forgive you. Maybe they slam the door in your face.”
Jake’s lips pressed together. The idea clearly unsettled him. He was used to being liked, even when he didn’t deserve it. He was used to being the golden boy.
“But,” Maverick went on, tapping his finger against the bar, “you do it anyway. Because that’s what we do. That’s what aviators do. We don’t get to cherry-pick the consequences of our actions. If you left damage behind, you don’t run from it. You clean it up. Even if the person never lets you back in—you clean it up because it’s the right thing to do.”
Jake nodded once, but there was a bitter curl to his mouth. “You ever say something so cruel, you still hear it years later? Like it’s stuck under your skin?”
Mav didn’t smile. He didn’t soften. “Yeah. I have. Still do. Every damn day.”
Jake stared down at the bar top. “I didn’t just screw up. I killed something. She—God, Mav, she looked at me like I was a stranger the other day. Like she didn’t even remember the boy I used to be.”
“And maybe,” Maverick said gently, “that boy wasn’t worth remembering.”
Jake flinched. But it wasn’t meant to hurt—it was meant to land.
Then Maverick leaned in, voice low. “But you’re not him anymore. Are you?”
Jake didn’t answer.
“Figure out who you are now,” Mav said. “Then go be that person. Whether she forgives you or not? That’s on her. But the man who walked in here tonight... he’s got a chance. Don’t waste it.”
Jake didn’t move for a long time. The clatter and laughter of the Hard Deck carried on around them, but it was like he wasn’t in the room at all.
Then, finally, he nodded. Just once. Steady.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”
Maverick watched him for a moment longer, his eyes distant like he was seeing something from long ago, something that never really left him. Then he breathed out slowly, leaned back on the stool, and nodded toward the exit.
“Go now,” he said. “Before the years stack up like bad debt and you realize you can't pay it off.”
Jake blinked. His brows drew slightly together.
“Don’t wait for the right moment, Jake. There isn’t one,” Mav added. “Just the one you choose. I waited too damn long, you know? Penny—she didn’t make it easy. I’d hurt her more than I had the right to, but she still showed up. And I…” He shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “I was a goddamn coward. Kept thinking I’d fix things tomorrow.”
Jake glanced over at Penny then. She was behind the bar, her hair up in a loose bun, laughing at something Bob had said. The light above her shimmered against her skin like she was glowing from the inside out. Jake saw the way Maverick looked at her—the way his whole world tilted ever so slightly toward her, like she was north on a compass.
And that’s when it hit him. Jake Seresin had never looked at anyone like that. No—scratch that. He had once. Years ago.
When she wore a stupid party hat and carried a puppy in her arms, surrounded by candles and family and cake and joy. When her laugh sounded like sunlight. When her hand found his under the table and he thought, this is what forever might feel like.
And now she walked past him in command stripes and called him Lieutenant.
- You, Rogue - 
The Texas sun filtered through the windshield like an old friend, golden and familiar, and yet you kept your sunglasses on—not because it was too bright, but because the ache in your eyes hadn’t quite left since you left North Island last night.
You had taken the first flight out, the earliest one available, and didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Not to Rooster, who had made you laugh more than he should’ve been able to. Not to Coyote, who’d offered to carry your bag. And certainly not to Jake Seresin, who had stood in that damn office with those wide eyes and that desperate voice, thinking a single I'm sorry could sew up everything he’d ripped open.
Now, your hands gripped the steering wheel of your mom’s old truck, the same one you learned to drive in when you were seventeen, and the tires hummed against the backroads you used to know like the lines of your palm.
Tall grass danced in the breeze on either side of you. Fences leaned where they always had, weathered by years and still standing. You didn’t need a map for this part of the world—this was home. This was where the sun rose slow and the air smelled like cedar and freedom.
You’d gotten the text early this morning. Change of plans, sweetheart. We’ll celebrate at the old house. Bring an appetite. And maybe don’t wear white—your brother’s bringing the horses in.
You’d smiled at that. It had been a long time since you'd driven this stretch of road. Since you’d seen the wild dogs running along the fence lines or the rusted mailbox that still had the dent from when Jake once hit it with his truck mirror on a dare.
God. Jake.
His voice had replayed in your head all night. That man—no, that boy—had stood in front of you like he still had a right to your time, to your air, to your name in his mouth. And for a second—just a second—you had wanted to believe him.
But the past doesn’t just disappear. Not when he’d humiliated you. Not when you had spent nights trying to convince yourself you were imagining it all. Not when he walked away back then and pretended you didn’t matter.
And now? Now he begged you to let him settle things. As if your pain could be negotiated.
You clenched your jaw, adjusting the volume of the radio, letting the old country songs wrap around your thoughts like smoke. You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You weren’t doing any of this for him.
You’d come this far—become this woman—for yourself. Because you had learned how to command rooms, how to fly faster than anyone else, how to hold your head high even when your heart burned like hell.
Meanwhile, the familiar arch of trees opened up ahead and the house came into view. The white porch. The worn shutters. The yard where you used to set up obstacle courses for your bike and trip over your own feet. The same swing still hung from the oak tree.
You exhaled. Today was your birthday. And for once, it wasn’t about proving anything to anyone.
You were home.
You parked the truck in the dirt patch just to the left of the barn, dust kicking up behind you like the ghosts of old summer days. The door creaked when you opened it, a familiar sound that tugged at the corners of your mouth despite yourself.
Everything was the same. The chipped blue paint on the fence. The faded plastic chairs stacked by the porch. Even the smell—warm earth, hay, a hint of rosemary from your mother’s garden—smelled like memory.
You stepped out slowly, boots crunching on gravel, and tilted your head up to the sky. Texas blue. Endless and unapologetic.
Inside, you could hear your mother laughing with someone—probably your brother—and the sizzle of something on the stove. You didn’t go in just yet. Instead, you wandered around the side of the house, past the rusted wind chimes, letting your hand trail along the familiar wooden siding like it could anchor you to something real. Something before everything.
Before the Navy.
Before Top Gun.
Before Jake Seresin broke your heart and then had the audacity to stand in front of you like a damn open wound pretending he could heal something he didn’t even understand.
You paused by the swing. It swayed gently in the breeze, unbothered by the years. You sat, slowly, gripping the rope like it might tether you back to seventeen—the girl who had once looked at Jake like he’d hung the stars. She didn’t exist anymore. But sometimes, on mornings like this, she whispered from somewhere deep inside you.
And God, the nerve of him. Standing there with his pretty mouth and that I’m sorry like it meant something. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Not really. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t just what he said to you that day back then—it was what he didn’t say. The silence that followed. The way he turned away and never looked back. Until now.
Now, when you’d become someone. When you wore medals and held rank and had the power to ground squadrons with a signature.
Now he wanted to talk.
But you weren’t that girl anymore. And this wasn’t about him.
You smiled despite yourself.
Rising to your feet, brushing your palms on your jeans, you turned back toward the house. The sun was warm against your back. The air smelled like cinnamon and barbecue and honeysuckle. You weren’t ready to let Jake back in. Not yet.
But you were ready to celebrate the woman you’d become.
Because today? Today was your damn day.
The screen door hadn’t even finished creaking shut behind you when the stampede began.
Little feet slapped against the worn floorboards as your nieces and nephews burst from the hallway like a pack of wild horses. They were bigger now—older, louder—but still the same blur of joy and sugar-smeared cheeks as they flung themselves at you.
“Auntie!” one of them shrieked, and your heart cracked open just a little more.
You caught two in your arms, staggering slightly with the force of their enthusiasm. The oldest tried to look cool but you saw the grin tugging at his mouth before he lunged in for a hug too. 
Behind them came your mother, wiping her hands on a dish towel and already reaching for your face like she had to confirm you were real. “There’s my girl,” she whispered, voice a bit too watery. Your father, quieter as always, stood just behind her, but you knew the emotion was there in his eyes. He pulled you into a brief but firm hug.
Then came the rest.
Your brothers—bigger and broader than you remembered, one already holding a beer, the other pretending not to tear up. Your grandparents, slow but steady, offering words of pride in their soft, worn voices. Aunts and uncles who made jokes about medals and jet fuel, cousins who squealed and poked fun at your rank while hugging you tightly.
You barely had time to breathe.
Laughter bloomed in every room. The table groaned under the weight of food. Music played from the old speakers by the window, some twangy country song you hadn’t heard in years but could still hum along to. You were home. And for a moment, just a moment, the ache in your chest dulled. Just sunshine and sweat and summer in Texas.
Until—
“Damn, y’all didn’t tell me she was gonna look this good.”
The voice sliced through the haze like a whipcrack.
Low. Familiar. Dangerous.
Your whole body locked up.
No.
No.
No no no no no.
You turned so slowly you could feel the blood drain from your face before it even reached your toes.
And there he was.
Jake Seresin.
Standing in your childhood kitchen like he belonged there.
Wearing a plain white t-shirt clinging just a little too well to his broad chest, jeans slung low on his hips, and scuffed cowboy boots that had seen more dirt than you were ready to admit you missed. His blonde hair was slightly messy, a bit damp, and his face was flushed like he’d just come in from outside. Like he’d been working. Or running. Or maybe pacing in nervous circles wondering if you’d show up.
He had sweat on his neck.
Your mother, traitor that she was, beamed from beside the stove. “He’s been here since this morning! Helped fix the gate. Fixed the porch swing, too.”
You stared at her, unblinking.
Jake met your gaze from across the room, and he smiled—slow and dangerous and laced with something like hope. “Hey, sunshine,” he drawled, like it hadn’t been years. Like he hadn’t broken your heart. Like you weren’t standing in front of him with a thousand unspoken things catching fire behind your ribs.
Your fingers twitched at your sides.
So many people in this room.
So many things you could throw.
Your mouth dropped open before your brain even caught up with your body. And what came out next was entirely involuntary.
“What the fuck—”
“Ay!” your mom snapped, voice sharp as a whip. “Language!”
Jake had the audacity—the actual gall—to throw his hands up in mock dismay, laughing like this was a damn sitcom. “Yeah, sunshine,” he added, all wide-eyed innocence. “There’s kids present. Watch your language.”
You blinked at him. Once. Twice.
Then your eyes narrowed, lips curling back into something not quite a smile. “You’re joking,” you muttered under your breath, fury simmering under your skin like a Texas thunderstorm just seconds from breaking loose.
“Oh, she’s definitely not joking,” your older brother said, already backing out of the kitchen with his beer like he wanted no part of this incoming Category 5.
Your little niece tugged on your sleeve. “Auntie, who is that cowboy?”
Jake winked at her, all smooth charm and self-satisfaction. “I’m Uncle Jake, darlin’. I used to—”
You cut him off with a stare that could curdle milk.
He grinned wider.
Your hands clenched at your sides. You had dreamed of this moment—Jake Seresin begging at your metaphorical altar. Groveling. Crying. Maybe slipping on a banana peel and falling into a pile of cow dung while you sipped sweet tea on a porch swing, untouched and unbothered.
Not this. Not him in your house. Not here, where the walls still whispered childhood secrets and the air still smelled like soil and sun. This was your place. Your safe haven.
And now it was full of him.
Jake, standing there like he belonged. Looking at you like he always did—like he saw you. All of you.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you hissed, stepping toward him as your family slowly scattered, sensing something heavy crackling in the air.
Jake shrugged, casual as hell. “Your mom invited me. Would’ve been rude to say no.”
“Would’ve been smart to say no,” you muttered.
Your mother clucked her tongue again from the stovetop, giving you the kind of look that had once kept you from sneaking out after curfew. “He’s our guest, sweetheart. Be polite.”
Jake leaned against the counter, watching you like you were a particularly beautiful storm he couldn’t wait to chase. “Yeah,” he echoed, voice dipping lower. “Be polite, Rogue.”
You wanted to throttle him.
Instead, you straightened your shoulders, took a breath, and gave him the most saccharine, venom-laced smile you could muster.
“Welcome to the party,” you said, voice dripping with southern hospitality and suppressed rage. “Try not to choke on the cake.”
You were going to kill him. Not figuratively. Not symbolically. Kill. The kind of murder you could only get away with because you were loved—deeply, endlessly—by nearly everyone in this yard.
And the worst part? He knew it.
Jake Seresin, with that stupidly white t-shirt clinging to his chest like sin, was roaming your childhood home like he’d grown up beside you. Laughing with your uncle, throwing a ball with the boys, helping your grandpa adjust the damn barbecue coals like he belonged there.
No. Nope. Not today, Satan.
You turned sharply on your heel and marched straight to the little ones—your nieces, your nephews, your cousins’ kids—because at least they wouldn’t ask questions about why your ex crush who shattered your heart into military-grade shrapnel was casually flipping ribs in your backyard.
“Auntie, can you help us with the lemonade stand?” little Mila asked, tugging on your hand, her curls bouncing as she ran ahead.
“Yes, baby,” you sighed, following her like she was your designated emotional support human. “Let’s go make a small fortune before the grown-ups get too drunk to notice they’re tipping us real money.”
She giggled, and just like that, your shoulders dropped a little. Being around the kids always did that. They didn’t care who you were in the sky. They didn’t know about commands or squadrons or callsigns or men who left you when they promised they wouldn’t. They just knew you made the best strawberry punch and that you gave the biggest pushes on the tire swing.
So, you spent the next hour ducking the ache in your chest by being useful. Fixing the lemon mix, adding way too much sugar because Mila insisted, handing out tiny cups to your cousins and childhood neighbors.
You caught up with your Aunt Lou, who still talked with her hands and smelled like gardenia. She pinched your cheek and asked, “When are you getting married?”
You almost choked on a grape.
Meanwhile, your uncle pulled you aside and told you the crops were better this year. Your younger cousin asked about the Navy—not about Jake—and your Granfather gave you a nod of approval that still meant everything.
You wove in and out of the crowd like muscle memory. This was your world. These were your people. This house, this land—this life—shaped you. It was sacred.
And yet, he was here. Like a shadow clinging to your sun.
You did everything to ignore him. Didn’t glance his way. Didn’t listen to the sound of his laugh or notice how often he kept checking where you were. You refused.
But there was no escaping it—the hum in your chest, the crackle in your spine, the way your whole damn body knew he was watching you.
And you’d be damned if it didn’t set you on fire.
He just had to do it.
You were halfway through helping the kids repaint the old wooden lemonade sign—your hands streaked with pastel pink and yellow, your hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun that still had wisps falling loose from the Texas heat—when you heard the familiar sound of children’s laughter crescendo into a shriek of delight.
That’s when you looked up. And saw him.
Jake Seresin, all tall and smug and golden, crouched low in the grass with Mila balanced on his back like a tiny, squealing cowboy. Her tiny arms were stretched like wings, and he was galloping across the lawn on all fours, making horse noises—actual horse noises—as the other kids chased after him.
“Giddy-up, Hangman!” one of the boys shouted between wheezes.
“Yeehaw!” Jake whooped, and it was so stupidly charming you almost forgot to hate him.
Almost.
The kids adored him. Of course they did. He was a walking Disney Channel character with cowboy boots. He let them climb him like a jungle gym. He gave Mila his sunglasses and called her “Commander Cool.” He high-fived every single child like he was campaigning for mayor of the backyard.
And then—then, as if the universe weren’t cruel enough—he glanced over. Right at you.
Eyes locked.
He grinned.
Not the cocky, I-know-you-want-me grin. No. This one was softer. Almost bashful. Like he knew he’d been caught being good and didn’t mind it.
You blinked.
Your heart hiccupped.
Then you glared.
Hard.
His grin widened like the absolute menace he was. He gently helped Mila off his back, ruffled the boy’s hair, and made his way toward the drink table like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just disarmed you with joy and children and that damn dimple.
You turned back to the sign and scrubbed at a smudge of pink paint like it had personally wronged you.
He was trying to worm his way in. You could feel it.
And worse?
It was working.
Of course he wasn’t done. Jake Seresin never quit while he was ahead. Not when there was a mountain to climb or—more accurately—a woman to win back with the same stubbornness that once drove you up the wall and straight out of his life.
You kept your back turned to the lawn, laser-focused on helping Mila paint the corner of the lemonade sign. It was something about the way her tiny fingers clumsily held the brush, her tongue poking out in fierce concentration, that almost made you forget he was still here.
Almost.
Because then you heard him.
Not his boots—he was good at hiding his approach when he wanted to—but his voice. Low, sweet, casual.
“You missed a spot.”
You didn’t even need to look up to know he was standing behind you. You could feel the heat of his presence like sunlight pressing against your spine.
“You’re gonna smudge the paint if you keep hovering like that,” you muttered without turning around.
Jake crouched down beside you, just close enough for his arm to brush yours.
“You sure? Looked like you needed help.”
You gave him a pointed glance. “I don’t need anything from you.”
He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did. Just figured you’d want a break. It’s your birthday, after all.”
You scoffed, dipping your brush back into the pale yellow paint. “Didn’t think you’d remember.”
Jake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out something folded. Paper. You recognized the edges before he even handed it over.
The sketch.
Your sketch.
The one you’d done on a napkin years ago—of the farm, of the porch swing and windmill and stars. You thought it had been lost in the fallout. Turns out, it had been with him all along.
“I carried it,” he said softly, not trying to smile this time. “Through Pensacola. Through Fallon. Hell, even had it on me in Lemoore. Kept it in my flight bag.”
Your fingers trembled around the brush. You swallowed. Hard.
“Why are you showing me this now?” you asked, voice too thin, too fragile for your own liking.
“Because I’m not good with words,” he admitted. “But I kept this. Every time I saw it, I thought of you. I still do.”
You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw the paintbrush at his stupid, perfect face. But Mila giggled beside you and tapped your arm with a tiny yellow-streaked hand, and somehow, somehow, you kept it together.
You inhaled slowly.
Then, like a switch had flipped, you plastered on a calm smile, turned your head just enough, and whispered:
“You’re still a jackass, Seresin.”
Jake smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m your jackass. Right?”
You didn’t answer. You stood, handed Mila the paintbrush, and walked off without a word.
He stayed crouched there, that damn sketch still in his hands, watching you walk away like you were the last star in a dying sky.
You told yourself you weren’t going to look.
You swore you’d steer clear, keep your head down, stay with the kids or the cousins or literally anyone who didn’t make your pulse do Olympic sprints in your throat. But no. Of course not. Of course you looked.
Because he was on a damn horse.
And not just on a horse—riding it like he was born in a saddle, one hand casually gripping the reins, the other resting lazily on his thigh. He sat straight, easy in the way only someone who knew what they were doing ever could. His shirt clung to his back just enough to make you forget how to breathe, a thin sheen of sweat darkening the white cotton at the collar and down his spine.
You hated him.
Jake Seresin, of all people, had the nerve to look like a goddamn cowboy catalog cover while chatting with your brother, who was laughing like they’d been best friends since elementary school. They were talking about something mechanical—tractors maybe? Fencing? You couldn’t hear, too far across the yard, but Jake tipped his head back to laugh and your brother clapped him on the shoulder like he belonged there.
Like he’d always belonged there.
“Stop staring,” your cousin whispered beside you, eyes full of amusement as she handed you a glass of sweet tea.
“I’m not,” you muttered, sipping too fast and promptly choking on the ice.
Your cousin didn’t buy it for a second. “Mmmhmm. Girl, you might as well be writing his name in the clouds.”
You rolled your eyes and turned away from the corral, back toward the porch, your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached. But the image was seared behind your eyes now—Jake’s long legs, the easy grin he threw at your brother, the way the sunlight kissed his cheekbones as he swung down from the saddle like it was nothing.
You didn’t want him to be beautiful. You didn’t want him to fit in so easily here. This was your space. Your home. Your family.
And yet… he wore it like it had always been his, too.
You pressed a hand to your chest, felt the traitorous flutter there, and cursed under your breath.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’d deal with this. With him. With all of it.
But right now? Right now, you needed to not melt into a puddle on the damn porch.
Girl, listen—he had no business being that fine.
You’d tried. Swore up and down to every relative, every sticky-fingered kid clinging to your legs, that you were not going to fall into the trap that was Jake Seresin and his dumb, gorgeous cowboy energy. You were here to celebrate your birthday, not combust into flames.
But then—then—he did something unforgivable.
He took his shirt off.
It started simple enough. He was helping your uncle haul a bale of hay from the shed—one of those heavy ones, wrapped tight, stacked tall. You watched from the shade of the porch with narrowed eyes and a paper plate in your hand, just trying to enjoy your damn macaroni salad. You weren't even looking at him. Not really. Just... in the vicinity.
And then the man tugged at the back of his shirt, lifted it clean over his head, and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck like this was a Marlboro ad come to life.
Time paused. The sun wept. Your fork clattered onto your plate.
Tanned skin, broad shoulders, that stupid tattoo on his shoulder blade you used to trace with your fingertips in the dark—all of it was on full display. His abs weren’t just abs; they were architectural. Like if God had sculpted a man from summer heat and Southern charm and said, “Yup. That’s the one that’s gonna ruin her peace.”
He slung the hay over one shoulder and laughed at something your cousin said, the sound low and smooth, dripping in Texas. Then he spit to the side—spit, for God’s sake—and somehow even that was hot.
“What in the cowboy smut novel is this,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face.
Your mom passed behind you and gave you a little hum of amusement. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d say someone’s got a type.”
“I don’t,” you snapped. “He just… looks hydrated.”
And maybe you were not.
Because now he was leaning on the fence, shirt still off, muscles flexing as he talked to your older brother like they were planning your family’s next barn renovation. His fingers tapped absently on the wooden post, drawing your eye down, down, down—
“Need a drink?” someone asked beside you.
You didn’t even know who said it. You just nodded and reached for whatever they had.
Water. Wine. Holy water.
At this point, you’d drink it all.
You just needed to breathe.
The house was full. The yard was fuller. There were children sprinting like tiny missiles across the porch, uncles hollering about the grill, your mother fussing about potato salad and forks. And him. Jake Seresin, the unholy Texas mirage, was walking around shirtless like he didn’t just ignite your central nervous system every time he smirked.
So you slipped away—quiet as a whisper—toward the old well tucked behind the barn, the one your grandfather built with his bare hands. It was quiet there. Still. You could almost hear your heartbeat, feel the wind in your hair. That familiar creak of the wooden bucket, the low hum of cicadas in the grass. You rested your hands on the worn stone edge and exhaled.
Just one minute. One moment of peace. No chaos. No memories. No him.
“You always ran off here when you were mad,” came the voice behind you—smooth, low, and damn near sinful.
You didn’t even jump. You just groaned.
“For the love of—” You turned. “Do you own a shirt?”
Jake Seresin stood there in all his shirtless, sun-kissed glory, arms crossed casually over his chest. There was a sheen of sweat on his collarbones and a devil-may-care look in his eyes that made you want to throw something at him. Preferably your dignity.
“Probably,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “Didn’t think I’d need one. Not when it’s this hot out.”
“Go away.”
“Can’t. Kinda like the view.”
You rolled your eyes, tried to ignore the way your pulse leapt. “If you’re here to flirt, try again when you aren’t radiating ‘country boy thirst trap’ energy.”
He grinned. “I don’t remember you complaining about it last time.”
“Yeah, well…” You looked back at the well, swallowing hard. “Last time, I was young. Stupid.”
Jake took a few more steps until he was right beside you, the heat from his body sinking into your skin. He didn’t touch you. Just stood close enough that the air felt charged—like lightning waiting to strike.
“I was stupid too,” he said, quieter now. “But not about you.”
You froze. His voice was lower, more honest. The kind of voice you remembered from nights wrapped in his arms beneath a quilt of stars, when he whispered promises against your skin he never had the courage to keep.
You looked at him then, really looked.
And for a second, it wasn’t Commander Rogue or Lieutenant Seresin standing in that golden Texas sun.
It was just you. And him. 
The silence between you shimmered—tight, fragile, electric.
Jake was too close. Too warm. Too Jake.
You could smell the sun on his skin, that familiar scent of old leather, cedarwood soap, and whatever reckless sin made him walk around like that in broad daylight. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady, while your own lungs forgot how to work. Every nerve ending in your body was on high alert, tuned to the space between his mouth and yours.
He wasn’t touching you—but god, it felt like he was. Like his heat had fingers, like his gaze was dragging along your collarbone and down your spine. Your grip on the stone edge of the well tightened.
“Still mad?” he asked, low, like he was trying not to spook you.
You turned your head slowly. “Is that a serious question?”
Jake gave a soft, crooked smile—the kind that used to undo you, back when you were foolish and seventeen and let that mouth talk you into the backseat of his truck.
He leaned a little closer. You felt it before you saw it: the flex of his arms, the slight roll of his shoulder as he planted a hand against the well, boxing you in. Not forceful. Not trapping. Just... a little too intimate. A little too familiar.
“You’ve always had a temper,” he murmured.
“And you’ve always been an arrogant jackass,” you shot back, heart pounding.
He chuckled, deep in his chest. “Yeah. But you used to like that.”
You hated the way your body remembered. The way it leaned just slightly into his space before your brain caught up and screamed, abort mission. You turned your face away—big mistake. His breath brushed your cheek.
“You used to like me,” he added, voice like gravel dragged through honey.
“I also used to believe in Santa Claus.”
That made him laugh. And god, that laugh. You remembered it in the worst ways—in dark barns and truck beds and your childhood bedroom when you swore you could keep a secret from the whole damn town.
You tried to step back. Your shoulder hit his arm.
He didn’t move.
Instead, his eyes dipped lower, taking in the line of your throat, the heat flushing your neck. You could see it then—the moment his cocky little grin faltered. The shift. The hunger. Like he’d just remembered the exact sound you made when his hands were on your hips and his mouth was on your skin.
“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, voice raw now. Quiet. “Even when I should’ve. Even when I didn’t deserve to.”
You felt your pulse slam against your ribs.
But you didn’t say anything.
You couldn’t.
Not when every inch of you was screaming, don’t kiss him don’t kiss him don’t kiss him—
“Auntie!”
The two of you snapped apart like teenagers caught behind the barn, you nearly bumping your elbow on the stone lip of the well. Jake blinked, disoriented for half a second, before scrubbing a hand down his face and stepping back.
A herd of small feet came rushing around the corner, your nieces and nephews tearing toward you like a tactical strike team. One of them had a cowboy hat too big for his head; another clutched a popsicle that was now just red sugar water dripping down her arm.
“Auntie, Auntie! Come play tag with us!”
“Uncle Jake’s it!” one shouted, smacking Jake on the hip and running away squealing.
Your jaw twitched. “Uncle—what?”
Jake gave a helpless shrug, smirking like the devil himself. “Guess I got promoted.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve known them for less than twenty-four hours.”
“And yet I’m already the favorite,” he said, casually starting to jog after the kids, chest still annoyingly bare, voice all sugar and sin. “You better keep up, sunshine.”
You glared at his back as he disappeared into the trees behind the barn, chased by three of your brother’s kids and what felt like the rising heat of your own blood pressure.
The worst part? You wanted to follow.
God help you.
By the time you caught up to them—shoes soaked, jeans streaked with specks of damp soil—Jake had already been tackled into the grass by a pack of laughing children. One clung to his back like a baby koala, another tried pulling his boot off, and the youngest had climbed onto his stomach with a triumphant yell of, “Victory!”
“Help,” Jake groaned dramatically, his hands pinned by tiny, sticky fingers. “I’m under attack. Man down. Send reinforcements.”
You stopped short at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over your chest, breath stilling for half a second.
God, he looked... absurd.
Sunlight filtered through the trees, catching in the droplets of water clinging to his hair. His white shirt from earlier had vanished—long forgotten or maybe tossed aside somewhere in the chaos—and his jeans were now grass-stained and muddied at the knees. One of the kids had drawn something across his chest with blue chalk, and another had clearly poured water from the bucket left beside the well.
Jake Seresin, golden boy, Navy pilot, hotshot of North Island—absolutely wrecked by five small children.
It made something in your chest ache.
“Stop staring and get over here, Lieutenant Commander!” he called from the ground, giving you a lopsided grin. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”
“Not likely,” you said, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
And then the smallest—Avery, your niece—sprinted up, grabbed your hand, and beamed up at you.
“Come on, Auntie! You’re on my team!”
You were halfway through the word “Wait—” when Avery yanked you straight into the mess.
Your boots sank into the mud with a wet squelch. Your balance wobbled. And then, like some twisted cosmic joke, Jake reached up and tugged—lightly, playfully—on your wrist just as you tried to catch yourself.
You landed with a soft oof right beside him in the grass. Mud splattered up your arms and soaked through your shirt.
“Jake!” you gasped.
He blinked innocently. “Oops.”
Before you could lunge for him, he was already rolling out of your reach, laughing, the kids cackling with delight as they jumped in after him.
And suddenly, like it hadn’t been years of anger and silence and ghosts between you, like there weren’t a thousand things unsaid still lodged in your throat—you were laughing, too.
The sound was light. Real. It hadn’t been pulled from you like a demand or forged like armor. It just… slipped out.
Jake looked over from where he lay sprawled on the grass, hair wild, dirt on his cheek, and something almost reverent in his gaze.
“Sunshine,” he murmured under his breath, so quiet even the wind barely caught it.
You didn’t hear him.
But maybe, just maybe, part of you felt it.
- Mom -
From the edge of the porch, camera in hand, your mother watched the chaos unfold in the muddy clearing with an expression somewhere between wonder and suspicion. She stood still, the warm light of late afternoon catching in her silver-streaked hair, her apron smudged with flour from the pies cooling behind her.
She hadn't meant to come out here. Not really. She just wanted to get a peek at the noise—children squealing, someone yelling “mud war!”—and maybe call everyone in for lemonade. That’s all. But what she found instead made her stop dead in her tracks, heart twisting in her chest.
There you were. Laughing.
Muddy from head to toe, grass in your hair, sleeves rolled up, chasing after one of your nieces with wild joy in your eyes that she hadn’t seen in—God, how long had it been?
And right beside you… him.
Jake Seresin, the Texas boy with charm sharp as spurs and a reputation that had, once upon a time, made her raise an eyebrow more than once.
He was covered in mud too, shirtless and grinning, water dripping down his jawline as he hoisted your nephew up in the air like it was the easiest thing in the world. One of the kids had drawn a smiley face on his back with marker. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t care.
Her breath caught.
And then it happened—you stumbled back from a slip in the wet grass, and Jake reached out without even thinking, catching you by the waist, steadying you as if his body still remembered the shape of yours. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, startled. He said something she couldn’t hear, and you rolled your eyes, trying to shove him off—though not very hard.
Her fingers moved before she even realized.
Click.
One photo. Then another. Then another.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But there was a knowing tug in her chest—like an old song she hadn’t heard in years playing quietly in the background of her thoughts.
You looked like a girl in love.
And Jake? Well… he looked like he had just remembered what it felt like to come home.
She lowered the camera slowly, eyes never leaving the pair of you, and smiled just a little to herself.
“Maybe,” she murmured under her breath, “just maybe.”
- You, Rogue - 
You didn’t mean to fall.
One second you were lunging after your nephew, hand outstretched to snag the edge of his shirt before he could escape the muddy ambush you and your niece had planned. The next, your foot slid in the wet grass, your arms windmilled, and then—
You were airborne.
“Shit!”
You barely got the word out before someone caught you mid-fall, arms wrapping around your waist, the rest of you crashing against something—someone—solid and stupidly warm and annoyingly familiar.
“Gotcha,” Jake drawled right against your ear, like a cowboy catching a tumbleweed.
And just like that, he had you. Picked you up. Just… scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all. His bare chest was damp from sweat and hose water, his jeans soaked and clinging to strong thighs, and you hated the way your breath caught at the feel of him. At the sound of his damn laugh when your muddy hand smeared across his shoulder.
“Put me down!” you shouted, squirming in his grip, even as the kids screamed with laughter around you.
“Nope,” he grinned, spinning with you in his arms. “You look like trouble, darlin’. Gotta keep an eye on you.”
You slapped at his chest, legs kicking. “You’re the one with a smiley face on your back, you idiot!”
He paused mid-spin. “Wait—what?”
You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound cracked out of you raw and surprised. The chaos around you—the kids yelling, someone spraying a hose again, your brother hollering something from the porch—it blurred into a warm blur of color and sound as Jake finally dropped you gently onto a pile of soaked grass.
You landed on your butt with a graceless thud, hair a mess, shirt clinging to your back, and mud streaked down your arms. Jake stood over you, grinning like the damn sun, and offered you a hand like a gentleman.
You took it.
Just to pull him down with you.
He yelped, hit the ground with a grunt, and for a second—just one heartbeat-long second—you both lay there, breathless and laughing, side by side in the summer haze, the world spinning around you in children’s shrieks and distant music and the smell of grilled corn and cut grass.
You turned your head. He was already looking at you.
The sky above was impossibly blue. His eyes were impossibly green. And for a split second, you swore the whole damn world slowed down.
You didn’t kiss him.
But God, it was close.
- Jake -
Jake wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Maybe it was the moment your laugh cut through the summer air like something ancient and wild, or maybe it was when your muddy hand smeared across his bare chest and you didn’t apologize—just glared at him like you were still that girl who could outmatch him in every way that mattered. Maybe it was earlier, back when he caught you mid-fall and realized that you still smelled like salt and sunshine and the kind of life he never thought he deserved.
Whatever the hell it was, it hit him like a bullet. Fast. Deep. Irreversible.
You were in front of him now, yelling something at one of the kids, your hair sticking to your neck, droplets glinting on your skin like gold in the dying light. The sun hit you just right—like it always had—and he felt that ache all over again. That same gut-punch he felt the first time he saw you grin under the Texas sky years ago, before he messed it all up with his arrogance, his ambition, his own damn fear.
Meanwhile, you were so alive. That’s what wrecked him. It wasn’t just your smile or your voice or the way your jeans hugged your hips—it was the way you moved like you belonged here. Like the earth and sky were built around you. You weren’t just beautiful, you were real. Real in a way most things in his life weren’t.
Then you looked at him. Brief. Barely a second. But you looked at him with those eyes—sharp and guarded and unknowingly soft—and Jake knew. He knew, in the most terrifying, infuriating way, that he was in love with you. Not some crush. Not some what-if. Love. That stupid, all-consuming kind.
He kicked at the grass, trying to shake the thought loose. Tried to convince himself it was the sunstroke or the adrenaline or the leftover tension from every unsaid word between you two. But it wasn’t. It was just you. And the quiet knowing that the second he saw you again, this version of you—commanding and sun-drenched and laughing through mud and kids and chaos—he was a goner.
And worst of all? He didn’t know if he deserved even a second of it. Not after everything. Not after the years. But damn if he didn’t want to try.
Jake Seresin swore the sun had nothing on you.
He’d spent years in cockpits, chasing horizons, burning through the sky like he had something to prove—and maybe he did, back then. But none of it, none of the blinding sunsets or golden-glow mornings that kissed the edges of the world like something out of a dream, ever touched what you looked like in this moment. Hair messy and pulled half-back with a strand falling loose against your cheek. Mud on your knees.
Shirt clinging to your spine in the heat. And that smile—God, that smile—sharp as ever, soft where no one else got to see. He remembered it. He’d never forgotten. It haunted him in the quiet and crept into his thoughts on missions and long flights, the ghost of it grinning like it had unfinished business.
Meanwhile, you were laughing with your cousin’s kid, crouched in the grass like you belonged to the wild. You flicked water at Jake and didn’t even look his way, too focused on teasing the children, too alive to notice the way his entire world tilted. It was maddening. It was holy. It was like watching the kind of woman poets write about and soldiers carve names into locker doors for—except you were real. And you hated him. And maybe he deserved it.
He ran a hand through his hair, watching as you stood up and stretched, the sun hitting the line of your waist in a way that made him clench his jaw. It should’ve been illegal. That easy sway in your hips. That tired but proud glint in your eye like you knew you ruled this little corner of earth and had no plans of giving it up.
Then you bent down to scoop a toddler into your arms, spinning her, laughing as she screamed with delight. And Jake…well, his knees almost gave out.
Not because he imagined you holding his kid like that—though, Jesus Christ, he did—but because it reminded him of everything he’d tried to shut out.
How warm you could be. How dangerous it felt to love someone who glowed from the inside out. And how badly he wanted to earn even an inch of that warmth again.
He tore his eyes away, just for a second, just to breathe—but it was no use. You were everywhere. In the sky. In the dirt. In the back of his goddamn mind. A storm in boots and a baseball cap. A fever he could never shake.
And Jake Seresin was parched. Starving. Hopelessly, humiliatingly thirsty—for a woman who looked at him like he was a closed chapter. A footnote. But still…he stayed. 
Because watching you now, sun-kissed and mud-streaked and all fire? It was the closest to heaven he’d ever gotten.
Jake didn’t realize when the noise around him faded—the laughter, the barking dogs, the clatter of beer bottles and ice buckets—until all that remained was the soft lilt of your voice somewhere across the yard.
You were bent at the waist again, helping one of your nieces wash off a muddy hand, and the light struck your profile like it was painting it for keeps. He could trace every angle by memory. He had, once. Quiet nights in his bunk. Long flights with nothing but time and guilt.
And now, the fantasy was whispering again.
It started small—just a flicker in the back of his mind. You in that kitchen you’d once dreamed about. Windows wide open. Coffee brewing. A dog at your feet. Then it deepened.
A blur of tiny footsteps racing across a hardwood floor, squeaky with morning. A giggle that sounded like you. A scowl that mirrored his. And then you, barefoot in the hallway, holding a sleepy-eyed toddler on your hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Jake blinked hard, suddenly warm beneath his collar. He wasn’t the kind of man who let himself want like that. Not anymore. But the image burned anyway—you and him in a little house tucked somewhere quiet, the kind of place where he could build what he never thought he deserved.
Maybe a swing in the front yard. Maybe a pickup in the driveway with a car seat in the back. Maybe he plants lilies along the fence because you once offhandedly said they were your favorite, and the look on your face when you saw them? Worth every sunburn and scraped knuckle.
He’d never even bought a girl flowers before. Never stayed long enough to learn what they liked. But with you? Lilies. White, soft, stubborn things. Grew in the sun. Survived the storms.
Just like you.
Meanwhile, you stood up and laughed again, brushing your hands off on your jeans. One of the kids tugged at your hand, pulling you back toward the yard, and Jake felt something in his chest twist. Not ache. Not quite. It was want—raw and deep and bigger than anything he’d felt in years.
He wanted to be the one you turned to. The one who carried in the groceries and kissed your temple just because. The one who gave you lilies every damn birthday, no matter where he was in the world. The one you leaned into when the world got loud.
Jake Seresin wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t that simple.
But God, for the first time in his life, he wanted to try.
And if you’d let him—just give him one more chance—he’d give you the whole damn garden.
He didn’t notice you walking up at first. He was too far gone, stuck in that half-dream where your hand fit perfectly into his and the world was quieter, softer, wrapped in summer cotton and the scent of lilies. But then your shadow crossed his boots, and your voice—sharp, familiar, home—sliced clean through the haze.
“Seresin,” you said, firm as ever.
He blinked up, caught like a deer in headlights. Your arms were crossed, your brows drawn together like they always did when you were irritated. There was a smudge of dirt on your cheekbone, a streak of dried mud on your shirt, and somehow you still looked like you could knock the wind out of him without even trying.
You didn’t wait for him to come up with something clever.
“You’re muddy,” you said, blunt and unimpressed. “Go clean up. Dinner’s soon, and my mom will actually murder you if you track dirt onto her porch.”
That tone. That exact brand of annoyed-but-secretly-concerned that made him grin before he even meant to.
“Aw, sweetheart,” Jake drawled, lazy and smug, “you always talk this sweet to your guests, or am I just special?”
Your eyes narrowed into something that could’ve cut steel.
“Don’t push me, Hangman,” you warned, voice low. “You are already on thin ice.”
He lifted both hands, palms up, like he was some innocent cowboy who’d never done a damn thing wrong in his life.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But you didn’t smile. You just gave him one last glare—like a warning shot—and turned on your heel. Your boots squelched softly in the dirt as you headed back toward the house, leaving him blinking after you, still half-caught in the image of you in a sundress and muddy boots, tossing him that same frown thirty years from now with a ring on your finger.
Jake exhaled slowly, watching you disappear into the crowd.
Get it together, Seresin.
Dinner was coming.
And so was trouble.
The guest room was small but warm, the kind of place that smelled like cedarwood and old books, like history and a lifetime of love carved into the floorboards. Jake dropped his duffle bag by the edge of the bed, the springs creaking just a little when it hit. He paused, blinking at the sight of another bag already there—dark green canvas, fraying a little at the seams. Not his. He frowned.
Probably belonged to one of your brothers. Or a cousin. Or a friend of the family passing through. The house was full of bodies and boots and energy, after all. He didn’t think too hard about it. The need to get clean tugged at him harder than the mystery of who claimed what.
Your mother had been sweet, as always, showing him the room like he wasn’t the guy who’d broken her daughter’s heart clean in half once upon a time. She smiled kindly and said, “There’s hot water. Fresh towel’s hanging. Go clean up, darlin’. You look like you rolled through hell and back.”
And he had—in a way.
So, he peeled off his shirt first, tugging the fabric over his head and feeling the dried mud crumble like dust onto the hardwood. His boots came next, then the rest of his clothes. The bathroom mirror caught a glimpse of his reflection—sunburned shoulders, flushed cheeks, that damn stubborn smirk still ghosting across his mouth like a man who had no right.
Jake stepped into the shower and twisted the knob. Steam poured in seconds later, curling up around him like a memory.
The water hit him hot and hard, sluicing over skin and sweat, washing the afternoon off his shoulders. But the thoughts didn’t go away. If anything, the quiet made them worse.
He braced one arm against the tile, head down, water beating across the nape of his neck—and that’s when she showed up.
Not in person, no. In his damn head.
You, soaked in rain and mud, laughing in the yard as kids screamed and chased each other. You, yelling at him to clean up, but eyes flicking down his bare chest like you couldn’t help it.
You, standing under the Texas sun, defiant and glowing, fire in your glare and something soft flickering underneath. A kind of softness he remembered. A kind he used to know.
Jake exhaled, long and low, like he could breathe you out. Like the heat of the water could chase your face from his mind. But it didn’t.
It got worse.
Your voice. Your eyes. Your mouth.
His hand curled into a fist against the slick tile wall.
"Get it together, Seresin," he muttered to himself. "This ain't the time."
But God, it had been a long time. And suddenly, the idea of you sharing this room—of that duffle bag maybe being yours—hit him with the force of a jet engine.
Oh, he was screwed. And not in the way he wanted.
- You, Rogue -
The sun had started its slow descent behind the fields, casting golden rays that poured into the corners of the farmhouse like warm honey. You’d just about had enough of the noise, the chaos, the squealing of kids using your childhood bedroom like it was a damn jungle gym. Your old dresser was littered with dolls that weren’t yours, stuffed animals whose eyes stared blankly, and one suspicious-looking crayon mural on the closet door that hadn’t been there twenty years ago.
You pouted. Unapologetically.
Your father had chuckled, all gravel and warmth. “Spare guest room’s empty, sweetheart. You can crash there for now.”
You didn’t argue—just nodded, already tugging your duffel bag from beneath a pile of someone’s blanket fort. That morning, you had dropped your stuff in the guest room before helping your mom out front.
Now, covered in a layer of dust, dirt, and sticky child-handprints, you pushed the door open and let it shut behind you with a soft click. It was quiet in here, cooler too, the way old farmhouses always held the chill of dusk in their bones.
You locked the door out of habit, drew the curtains, and stripped down without ceremony. Your robe was nowhere in sight—probably left in the trunk of your car—but you weren’t about to go looking. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you padded barefoot across the hardwood, steps quiet as you made your way toward the bathroom.
Then you paused.
There—on the bed. Something that definitely wasn’t yours. A second duffle bag. A wrinkled T-shirt. Socks. Boxers. Oh, for the love of—
You rolled your eyes with the weight of a thousand exasperated sighs, arms folding as you marched across the room to investigate. Maybe it was one of your cousins. Or maybe—
The bathroom door opened with a hiss of steam.
And then—
“Well… well,” came a drawl, slow and rich as molasses.
You whipped around, eyes wide.
Jake Seresin stood there in nothing but a towel, drops of water tracing the carved lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, glistening like he was carved out of sin and every bad decision you ever made. His hair was damp, mussed perfectly without trying. His smirk? Lethal.
And oh—his eyes locked on you, towel-clad and stunned mid-step, and lit up like the Fourth of July.
“Would you look at that,” he said again, voice lower now. “Talk about walking into paradise.”
You blinked.
He grinned.
And the towel around your body felt suddenly very, very insufficient.
The steam curled from the bathroom like smoke from a lit match, clinging to the air with the scent of cedar soap and something sinfully masculine. You barely had time to process the fact that the mystery toiletries on the sink weren’t yours before the door swung open—and there he was.
Jake Seresin.
Dripping wet.
Shirtless.
Smug as hell.
And wrapped in a towel that was doing the bare minimum.
His broad shoulders glistened, golden from the remnants of the setting sun slipping through the curtains. Water ran in rivulets down the defined lines of his chest, cutting through the faint dusting of freckles and tan like the universe was outlining sin itself. That damn smirk curled onto his lips the second he saw you—towel wrapped tight, hair damp, standing in front of the bed like a deer caught in a thunderstorm of what the actual hell is happening.
He didn’t even flinch. No shame. No embarrassment. Just that cocky, damn-near-illegal glint in his eyes as he leaned lazily against the doorframe, water still dripping off the ends of his hair, traveling down the slope of his neck and vanishing behind the cotton barrier wrapped snug on his hips.
“Well,” he drawled, voice deep and slow like whiskey on a southern summer night. “Wasn’t expecting company… but I gotta say, I’m not mad about it.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Words were there—maybe a curse, maybe a scream—but none made it out. Instead, you just stared. At him. At his bare chest. At the way his abs flexed subtly when he shifted. At the slight dip of the towel where his hipbone peeked out like a damn invitation to ruin your life.
“What the hell are you doing here?” you finally hissed, clutching your towel tighter with both hands like it was a lifeline.
Jake blinked, faux-innocent. “Your mom said the spare room was free. Guess we both had the same idea.”
You were going to combust. Not from embarrassment—no, that ship had sailed the second you caught a glimpse of the way a single droplet of water trailed down his sternum and disappeared beneath the fold of the towel—but from sheer, blinding, seething indignation.
“This is my room,” you snapped.
“Looks like it’s our room now, darlin’,” he said, cocking a brow as his gaze slipped—not rudely, but boldly—from your face down to the curve of your towel-wrapped figure. “Unless you want me to leave.”
You wanted to punch him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw something.
And maybe—just maybe—you wanted to drop the towel and see if he’d still be standing there all smug.
Jake must’ve sensed that dangerous crossroads of thought because he stepped forward slightly, his voice dipping. “You gonna kick me out, sunshine? Or are you gonna admit that you missed me?”
You scoffed, cheeks burning. “I didn’t miss you. I forgot you existed.”
“Oh,” he murmured, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, eyes still on you like you were something sacred and forbidden. “Then why are you staring like that?”
You weren’t staring. You were not staring. Absolutely not. You were simply—
Then his towel slipped just an inch lower on his hips, and you made a noise in your throat that could only be described as a choke.
“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” Jake teased, grinning.
You snapped out of your stupor like you'd been slapped. “Put some damn clothes on.”
“Say please.”
“Jake.”
He winked, slow and lazy, then stepped back toward the bathroom door. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good.”
He turned—and you got a full view of his back muscles working under skin still damp from the shower. You gulped.
The door closed behind him.
And you just stood there, staring at the space he’d been in, cheeks burning, pulse racing, and towel clutched like a lifeline.
Hell.
This was going to be a long weekend.
By the time Jake exited the bathroom, the air around him was thick with the scent of soap, aftershave, and smug satisfaction. He was still towel-drying his hair, now dressed in a white t-shirt that clung too well to his chest, and a pair of jeans that hung low on his hips in a way that should’ve been outlawed in polite society. His boots were off—thank God—but that cocky, heat-soaked grin? That was very much still on.
He passed you with a small nod and a whistle-soft, “Don’t take too long now. Dinner’s soon, birthday girl,” before tossing his damp towel onto a nearby chair like he owned the damn place.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.
Because the second the door clicked shut behind him, you lunged into the bathroom like it was your last salvation.
The moment the door locked behind you, your back hit the wall, and your towel nearly slipped with the force of your breath. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a five-mile sprint—not walked in on a man you allegedly forgot you were in love with. The steam in the room hadn’t dissipated yet, and it wrapped around your skin like a memory, thick and too damn hot.
You blinked.
His soap still clung to the air. His scent still lingered in the steam.
You cursed under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.
Why the hell was Jake Seresin always ten times hotter when you were actively trying not to think about him? Why did he have to look at you like that? Talk to you like he had all the time in the world and nothing to lose? Stand there like a walking sin with a towel hanging so low on his hips you were pretty sure your ancestors felt that down their spines?
You were burning up.
Not just from the heat in the room, but from the fire crawling up your neck and down your spine like molten sugar and hellfire. That man had the audacity to exist like that—just exist—with a smirk and soft drawl and biceps that looked like they could throw you over a fence.
And you let him.
You watched him.
You remembered every drop of water sliding down his chest, every twitch of that cocky little smirk, every brush of his voice when he said your name like he’d never forgotten it.
God, you needed a cold shower inside a blizzard under a glacier.
Instead, you groaned and stepped under the still-warm spray of water he’d left behind, muttering curses to yourself as if that would rinse the images of him out of your head.
They didn’t. They only got worse. Because now you could see him there, in this space—his footprints still on the mat, his breath still clinging to the mirror. And your knees might’ve wobbled just a little as you gripped the edge of the sink and whispered to yourself—
“Get a grip.” But you didn’t believe it. Not even a little.
You were finally clean. The kind of clean that only came after scrubbing off not just mud but the weight of the entire day — your skin warm from the water, your hair damp and curling against the nape of your neck, steam fogging up the mirror like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. You’d taken your time, hoping the silence might scrub away the image of Jake Seresin standing shirtless in the same damn bathroom just minutes ago. It didn’t work.
Wrapped snugly in a towel, you turned toward the door, ready to put an end to this spiral — only to realize something crucial. Your clothes. Your actual, decent, non-humiliating clothes? Still in your duffel bag. Which, naturally, was not in the bathroom. No. It was on the bed. Out there. With Jake.
Your stomach dropped. Your face flushed instantly with heat that had nothing to do with the shower. You stared at the bathroom door like it had personally betrayed you.
You considered your options. You could march out, wrapped in nothing but your towel, and grab the bag yourself — risk walking past the man who’d already seen far too much. Or, you could bite the bullet. Ask for help. Humble yourself.
Groaning under your breath, you cracked the door just slightly and peeked through the gap. Jake’s voice drifted through before you could even speak — humming off-key to some old country song like he was just a man enjoying his own company and not the reason you were considering climbing out the bathroom window.
You exhaled sharply and said his name. “Jake?”
The humming cut off, replaced by a beat of silence. You could hear the shift of fabric, the soft creak of the floorboards as he turned toward the door. Then, far too amused for your liking, he answered, “Well, well. Sunshine. Miss me already?”
You resisted the urge to bang your head against the doorframe. “I need my duffel.”
Another beat. You knew exactly what kind of grin was spreading across his face. The smug one. The one that belonged to a man who had never once let you live anything down.
“You mean the one out here? With your clothes in it?” he asked, faux-innocent.
You closed your eyes. “Yes, Jake. That one.”
A low chuckle rolled from his chest, and you heard him moving, footsteps heading toward the bed. “I got you,” he said. “Only because it’s your birthday. And because I’m a gentleman.”
You didn’t grace that with a reply. Just pushed your arm through the crack in the door, fingers wiggling impatiently. The second the canvas of the duffel hit your palm, you yanked it through — but of course, Jake couldn’t help himself.
“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I’ve dreamed about this moment before.”
You were already turning away when he added, just loud enough to reach you, “Didn’t say it was a dirty dream.”
The door shut on his smirk, and you leaned your forehead against the cool tile, clutching the duffel bag like it was a shield. Your pulse was still hammering. Your ears were red. You hadn’t even changed yet and already you felt half undone.
Inside the steam and silence, you whispered to yourself, “You are not losing your mind. You are not attracted to him again. You’re just... hot. It’s just the weather.”
But even as you unzipped your bag, you couldn’t deny the truth.
Jake Seresin, the human migraine, was getting under your skin again. And he hadn’t even really started yet.
The backyard had been completely transformed. String lights were strung between trees and porch posts, glowing amber for the deepening blue of a Texas evening later. Long tables had been set with checkered cloths and mismatched plates, pitchers of iced tea and lemonade sweating on every surface. The smell of grilled meat lingered heavy in the air, tangled with the warm, comforting scent of sun-warmed grass and citronella candles. Laughter echoed like a hymn — soft and constant, as if the whole world had taken a breath and decided to stay right here.
You stepped into it dressed and clean, your hair still damp, pulled back in a quick braid that clung to the back of your neck. You had slipped into a loose cotton dress that your mother had left on your childhood bed, the kind of thing that made you feel like someone softer than what the Navy hardened.
Your boots hit the porch step with a solid thud. Then you scanned the crowd — cousins shouting over a cornhole match, your uncles gathered around a cooler, your aunts near the grill gossiping like it was religion. And right there in the thick of it, beer in hand and talking to your brother like he’d belonged all his life, was Jake.
He looked up like he felt you before he saw you. His eyes met yours across the backyard, and for a moment, the noise faded out. He was wearing a clean white t-shirt now, sleeves rolled up, jeans low on his hips, his hair still damp from the shower — the cocky bastard looked every inch like the boy you used to curse under your breath and secretly stare at. But this wasn’t some reckless flyboy anymore. This was a man, and that was somehow worse.
You tried to act unaffected, crossing the yard with your chin high and spine stiff. But the way Jake stood up when you got closer — the way he pulled out the chair beside him, grinning just slightly — you knew he was going to get under your skin again. He always did.
“Birthday girl,” he greeted as you dropped into the seat, ignoring the flutter in your chest.
The plate in front of you was empty for two seconds before Jake reached for it and started piling on food like muscle memory. Ribs, your aunt’s corn pudding, slices of brisket, and a scoop of the macaroni your cousin swore she made from scratch but absolutely did not.
“This much brisket?” he asked, shooting you a look.
“You’re lucky I don’t shove it down your throat.”
Jake grinned like you’d just told him a love poem. “Threatening violence on your birthday. Classic you.”
“You want me to add the fork in your eye to my wish list?”
“I missed you,” he said under his breath, and that? That almost made you drop your glass. Almost.
The table was loud — too loud, and the warmth in your chest too unfamiliar. Jake passed you the cornbread without asking, refilled your lemonade like he had every right to. He didn’t push. Didn’t flirt. Just stayed close, smiling whenever you spoke, listening when you didn’t.
Then came the moment you’d been dreading.
“Happy birthday to you…”
You groaned, dropping your head into your hand as your family sang with full volume and zero tune. Jake leaned in close, voice low beside your ear.
“No use hiding, sunshine. Take it like a pilot.”
You elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he just laughed. He never even looked at the cake — his eyes stayed on you the whole time, like you were the flame, not the candles.
When it was time to blow them out, he leaned in again. “Make a wish.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I already got what I wanted.”
His brows lifted in surprise. “Oh yeah? Me?”
“Silence,” you deadpanned, then took a bite of cake like you didn’t notice the way his smile turned into something tender.
Your mother raised a toast. Your father gave a speech. The table clinked glasses and passed plates, and through it all, Jake didn’t move from your side. And you let him stay.
Dinner had long wrapped, but the yard still buzzed with life. Lanterns swung lazily from the trees, casting a soft, golden glow over the evening. Kids shrieked and laughed as they ran barefoot across the grass, dodging sprinklers and slipping in the mud.
Adults lingered in clumps around the grills and tables, voices lowered now, soothed by full bellies and the sweetness of homemade pie. It was the kind of night that made time feel like it bent a little — like it curved inward and held everything close.
You were about to help clean up when a familiar sound cut through the hum of conversation. A wheeze. A low huff. Nails on the wooden porch.
You froze.
And then you saw him.
“Bingo?” you breathed out, like the word alone might summon him closer.
The old Labrador came hobbling down the porch steps, slower than he used to be, his once-golden fur now dulled to a soft cream shot through with gray. His tail swayed, not wagging as wildly as it had when he was younger, but still moving, still trying. Still happy.
You dropped down into the grass without a second thought, your dress catching on a twig, your hands reaching out. “Hey, old man,” you whispered, cradling his tired face. “You still remember me?”
Bingo leaned into your hands and licked your cheek, huffing softly against your skin. You laughed, even as your throat tightened, and blinked against the burn behind your eyes.
And then, like gravity — like clockwork — Jake was there. He moved into the scene like he belonged, crouching down beside you, boots sinking into the earth. His gaze softened at the sight of the dog.
“Damn,” he murmured, running his hand down Bingo’s back with a tenderness you hadn’t seen in years. “Still kickin’.”
“He’s a tough one,” you replied, not looking at him.
“I always knew he’d outlive all of us,” he said with a lopsided grin, still looking at the dog. “Still got better instincts than half the squadron.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Bingo huffed again, content to lean his weight against both of you — like he didn’t care about time, or history, or everything unspoken hovering between the two people he loved most.
Then your mother’s voice called out from the porch, light and warm, “Hey! Let’s get a picture. Come on — just like the one from before!”
You looked up, heart sinking just a little.
Before.
Before everything.
Still, you didn’t argue. Not when your dad had already joined your mom on the steps, waving you both over. Not when Bingo began trotting that way with all the shaky dignity he could muster.
You stood and followed, wiping your hands on your dress. Jake moved beside you, just far enough not to touch, but close enough to feel.
On the porch, the photographer — your cousin Ellie — arranged you quickly. “Okay,” she chirped, “just like before! You and Jake in the middle. Bingo between you. Your parents on either side.”
You and Jake took your places, shoulders brushing. You both knelt again. Bingo plopped his butt between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Jake glanced at you, his arm settling gently behind Bingo’s back. “Ready?”
You didn’t look at him. “Just smile, Seresin.”
The camera clicked. And there it was. A snapshot.
You in your old boots and a sundress, Jake in a white T-shirt and jeans, his hands muddy and hair a mess. Your parents standing tall and proud on either side. And Bingo, the last link to who you used to be, smack in the middle.
You felt something lodge in your throat when you stood. Something small, sharp, and unspoken. You didn’t know what it meant yet. Maybe you didn’t want to.
Jake’s hand brushed yours when he stood beside you. You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t reach back, either.
The swing creaked as you sat down, the familiar groan of old wood and rusted chains filling the quiet air like a memory. The sun had dipped lower now, slanting gold across the horizon, painting shadows long and low across the fields you once called home.
You swayed gently, toes brushing the dust-soft ground, fingers curled loosely around the chain links. The cool breeze carried the scent of cut grass, barbecue smoke, and rain that had never quite come.
And then you heard footsteps.
Not rushed. Not hesitant either. Just… there. Steady, familiar. And you didn’t have to look to know.
You kept your eyes on the sky, the pale orange bleeding into pink. “If you’re here to bother me again,” you said, voice calm, cool, unreadable, “I swear to God, Seresin—”
“I’m not here to bother you.” His voice was quiet, too quiet for Jake Seresin, and that alone made your hands tighten around the swing’s chain. “I just… saw you come out here. Thought maybe—” He paused. “Thought maybe you didn’t want to be alone.”
You snorted. “You thought wrong.”
He didn’t answer. You heard the rustle of grass as he walked around, and then he was in your peripheral vision, hands in his back pockets, boots scuffing the dirt like he was twelve years old and about to confess to breaking a window.
You didn’t look at him. He didn’t sit.
“I wasn’t going to come,” he said finally, voice low. “To today. To any of this.”
“No one asked you to.”
“I know.” A pause. “Your mom did.”
You closed your eyes briefly, jaw clenching. “Of course she did.”
He shifted again, then leaned against the old post of the swing set. You could feel his gaze, hot and heavy, but still you didn’t turn.
“I meant what I said. Back there, in the office.” His voice was quieter now, steadier somehow. “I wasn’t lying to you.”
“And that’s supposed to mean something?” you asked, tone sharp like a snap of wire. “You weren’t lying now, but you were lying then. You lied to me, Jake. You used me.”
“I was a kid,” he murmured.
“So was I,” you snapped, finally looking at him. The anger rose like a tide, quick and bright. “But I didn’t turn someone’s heart into a party trick.”
Jake didn’t flinch. He just looked at you, solemn and still. “You left.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said you left.” His jaw worked. “You didn’t just walk out of my life, you disappeared from the damn map. No calls. No message. Nothing. I turned around and you were just… gone.”
Your chest tightened. “I left because I had to. Because staying meant looking at the version of myself I became around you—small, pathetic, invisible.”
“I never wanted you to feel that way.”
“But you didn’t stop it either,” you said, standing now, fury crackling beneath your skin. “You stood there while they laughed. While I was trying so hard not to cry in front of everyone. And when I gave you everything I had—my time, my loyalty, my belief—you threw it back like it was nothing.”
Jake’s voice came out quieter. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it meant that much to you.”
You laughed, cold and bitter. “You think this is about a grade? About a project? You were the first person to make me feel like I was worth seeing, Jake. Like maybe I wasn’t just the weird, quiet girl who loved jets and read manuals for fun. And then, when it mattered… you made me feel like I was a joke.”
Silence stretched between you. The wind pulled gently at your dress, lifting strands of hair across your cheek. Jake’s face was pale in the soft light, his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know what the hell to say.
Finally, he stepped forward. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I’m not asking for that.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you asking for?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Maybe just… to not be a ghost in your story anymore.”
You looked at him. Really looked.
He wasn’t the boy you remembered—too smug, too handsome for his own good, too damn reckless with hearts that weren’t his. This man in front of you was older, weathered in ways you hadn’t expected. He wore guilt like a second skin, pride chipped away beneath a uniform and call signs and medals that didn’t erase the kid who once broke you.
But still.
It wasn’t enough.
“You’re not a ghost,” you said finally, voice soft but cold. “You’re the bruise that never fully faded.”
And with that, you turned back to the swing, sitting down again with a sigh. The air felt heavier now, but somehow clearer too. Jake didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, watching the woman he once thought he could forget.
Meanwhile, the cicadas began their slow chorus. The stars blinked into being, one by one. And neither of you moved.
Jake exhaled. It was shaky, like it had been trapped in his chest for years. Then, quietly: “I know I don’t deserve to ask anything from you.”
Your eyes flicked toward him, but you said nothing.
He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. You didn’t move. Not away. Not toward. Just still.
“But I’m going to say it anyway,” Jake murmured. “Because I’m tired of letting the best things in my life slip through my fingers just because I was too proud or too scared to admit I screwed up.”
There was a tremor in his voice now. Barely there. But it cracked on the next breath.
“I used to think you were a detour,” he said, his hands clenched at his sides. “Just a stop along the way. A girl who knew too much about engines and didn’t laugh at the right jokes. But you… God, you were everything. I just didn’t know it yet.”
You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted in disbelief.
“You were fire wrapped in softness. You were brilliant, and kind, and so damn loyal it scared me. And I—” his voice broke, and he looked away for the first time, dragging a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together.
Then he looked back. And his eyes… they were wet.
“I was the fool. Not you. I was the coward who needed everyone to think he was cool, even if it meant throwing away the one person who actually saw me. Really saw me. And I hurt you. I used you. I mocked what you gave me like it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered more than anything.”
His throat bobbed, his voice raw and cracking as he stepped even closer, as if the distance between you was burning him alive.
“You don’t have to forgive me,” he whispered. “You don’t even have to look at me again. But I needed you to know... I love you. I never stopped.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, the words hitting like a punch to the chest.
Jake’s shoulders shook now. He tried to breathe, but it came out a choke. He covered his mouth with his hand, tried to blink it back, but the tears were already falling—silent, slow, like the kind that don’t beg for pity. Just truth.
“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’ve loved you since the day you handed me that stupid project and told me not to fail. I just didn’t know how to be someone who deserved you.”
You stood slowly, eyes locked on his. He was crying, nose pink, jaw trembling—Jake Seresin, who never flinched in dogfights, who never let anyone see the cracks.
And now, all of him was cracked wide open. Just for you.
Your voice was quiet at first. Almost too quiet to hear above the creak of the swing swaying slightly behind you. But Jake heard it—heard you—and the sound of your breath hitching as you tried to keep control, tried to keep steel where there was only the slow-melting ache of grief.
“I wanted to forget you,” you whispered, eyes burning. “And God, I tried. For years. I told myself you didn’t mean anything. That it didn’t matter how you looked at me like I was worth nothing in front of your friends. That it didn’t matter how you let them laugh, let them joke about the quiet girl who knew too much and felt too much.” You swallowed, hard. “I told myself you didn’t mean it. That maybe you were just young. Stupid. Caught in the wrong moment.”
Jake stood frozen, barely breathing, eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever mattered. Because you were.
“And now?” you continued, voice breaking at the edges. “Now you show up like this. With words I waited for years to hear. And it’s not that I don’t want to believe you—God, Jake, part of me wants to. But I’m terrified.” Your voice cracked completely now, tears slipping down your cheeks like they’d been waiting for this. “Because if I forgive you… if I let myself fall for you again, and you leave—if you break me again—I won’t come back from that.”
Jake’s face crumpled. All of his armor, the cocky smirks, the playboy confidence, the golden-boy glow—shattered. He stepped closer, slowly, then dropped to his knees right there in front of you, in the dirt, like none of it mattered. Because it didn’t. Not if he couldn’t reach you.
“I won’t leave,” he said, his voice thick and hoarse. “I won’t hurt you again. I swear to you, I swear on everything I’ve got left—I will never, ever let you feel like you’re not enough. Not again.”
His hands were on your waist, trembling, grounding him. His forehead lowered against your stomach, and you felt his body shaking—not with cold or nerves but with something deeper. Something broken and rebuilt, still raw at the edges.
“I love you,” he said again, almost pleading now. “And I know that word isn’t enough. I know I’ve got a hell of a mountain to climb to prove it. But I’ll do it. I’ll prove it every damn day for the rest of my life if you let me. I’ll give you every flower, every sunrise, every second chance you thought you’d never get.”
He looked up at you, eyes wet, voice soft but sure. “I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not running. Not from you. Not from us. I will never leave you behind again.”
And as you looked down at him—at Jake Seresin, on his knees, shaking in your arms, eyes wide and begging like prayers—you realized he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness.
He was asking for forever.
You stared at him, at the man kneeling in the dirt like he wasn’t born of sky and pride but forged from something heartbreakingly human. Jake Seresin—your first betrayal, your oldest wound, your almost. His hands were still on your waist like a tether, like if he let go, he’d float off and lose you again.
And God, your chest ached with it—with the heat of his words, the trembling in his shoulders, the way his eyes never once strayed from yours. You wanted to run. You wanted to scream. You wanted to collapse into his arms and never let go.
Instead, you knelt in front of him.
It startled him—his breath caught, his eyes widened like he didn’t expect you to meet him on his knees. But you did. Slowly. Carefully. As if any sudden move might break you both again.
“I used to imagine what this would look like,” you said, your voice rough, lips trembling with the effort it took to speak. “You, apologizing. Me, finally getting to ask why.”
He opened his mouth, but you shook your head, not finished.
“I used to think if I ever saw you again, I’d slap you. Or worse. And maybe I should’ve.” You laughed wetly, bitter and exhausted. “But then you looked at me. Not the way you used to—God, not like that—but like I was real again. Like I wasn’t just something you stepped over to get where you wanted.”
Jake’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He was still crying—quietly now. Steady. Like it wasn’t a thing he could stop, just a thing he carried.
You reached up, thumb grazing his cheek, brushing a tear away. “You were my first heartbreak, Jake. And maybe that means I’ll always flinch when you get too close. Maybe I’ll always wonder if I’m just a placeholder again.”
Jake gripped your wrist gently, turning into your palm like it was the only lifeline he had.
“But maybe,” you whispered, “I want to find out.”
His breath hitched. “You do?”
“I’m still mad,” you said, your voice cracking with a laugh, with something like fragile hope. “I’m still scared. But if you’re willing to do the work… if you’re really in this, Jake—then yeah.”
His mouth was trembling now, his shoulders shaking harder. “I’m in. I’m so fucking in. I don’t want anyone else.”
“I don’t want pretty speeches,” you warned, even as you leaned closer, forehead pressed to his. “I want the truth. I want actions. I want the man you are now—not the boy who broke me.”
He nodded, over and over like he couldn’t believe you were saying this, like he needed to etch the words into his heart before they disappeared. “I’ll be him. For you, I’ll be him.”
Then, finally—finally—you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. And Jake folded into you like he’d been waiting years just to breathe again.
A quiet, shared exhale against the tender press of foreheads—him on his knees, you holding him like he might fall apart if you let go. And maybe you would too. You could still taste the ache between you. Years of silence, of what-ifs and almosts and never-agains. But in that moment, wrapped in the soft amber of dusk and the hush of the farm behind you, there was only one truth left.
You kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle, not entirely. It was hesitant, then desperate, then sure. The kind of kiss that tasted of memories and apologies, of pain soothed and promises rewritten. His hands cradled your face like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he was scared you’d vanish if he blinked. And you held him like he was no longer the boy who hurt you, but the man who swore he never would again.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. You looked at him—really looked—and there it was: the wonder in his eyes, the salt of old regrets on his lips, the trembling hope in his touch.
“You’re crying,” you whispered.
“I’ve been crying since I saw you in that swing,” he murmured, grinning through it now. “You kissed me.”
“You begged,” you shot back with a smirk, cheeks burning.
Jake laughed, forehead against yours again. “Damn right I did.”
And somewhere behind you, the sounds of laughter and music and clinking glasses carried from the house. But in the quiet between heartbeats, it was just the two of you. No call signs. No ghosts. No armor.
Just the girl who ran wild in the fields and the boy who didn’t know what he had until she left.
Funny, really.
Once, you’d been the fool for loving him. The quiet one. The invisible one. The girl no one expected to rise.
And he—he’d been the golden boy.
But life has a wicked sense of humor.
Because now, as he knelt there beneath the stars, still trembling from the kiss you gave him, there was no mistaking it:
The golden boy had become the fool.
And he’d never been happier to be one.
253 notes · View notes
killishin · 3 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
inconveniences are a common instance in your line of work, it springs up in the most unimaginable ways in the most horrid times but you— you handle them. you can.
that's what you always told yourself.
you had found yourself involved with jason regarding a certain undercover mission, it required both of you to stay close to the target.
at this moment, you and jason are standing in the hotel room he booked which, coincidentally, has only one damn bed. he is someone you're deeply annoyed of, maybe even dare to say hate, but you're a nice person, you don't hold such extreme feelings. he isn't that bad, sure he's got a mouth on him but he is tolerable—
"well isn't this interesting."
"i will actually hit you."
you hate him.
you throw the bag on the bed, which had two towels beautifully rolled into swans, joined to form a heart. butchered it, just like you might have to the entirety of this nonsensical establishment. who even makes those stupid heart swans anymore?!
"what the hell did you do jason?" you took a huge inhale, sharp, while rubbing your face as if to somehow magically erase this situation from existence. you were trying to keep your cool, after all, you're the calmer, more sane vigilante of the two.
"right. real mature of you to shove all the blame on me." he scoffed as he practically sauntered off to the chair by the window, sitting on it comfortably before putting his legs on the small round table. his confidence, like he owned the damn room, which he did technically since he paid for it, was itching your soul.
your brows furrowed as your lips parted in confusion, "im not shoving any blame, i am putting it at its rightful place." clearly your composure was long gone, like a poof in the air.
his lips tugged up lazily in a knowing manner, he did this a lot, as if he knew you better than you did yourself. "i had texted you about the shortage of rooms. you said, its fine. go on, sweetheart, check." he goaded you, tilting his head back as that self assured smile remained plastered on his face.
you didn't had to check, you remembered it well but you still couldn't stomach this. "you didn't tell me they gave us only one room— did you even tell them that we needed two, separate rooms?"
"like I'd wanna be stuck in a room with you."
"well did you?" you pressed on annoyingly, teeth almost gritting and he simply raised his brow, giving you a pointed look.
your stomach twisted and churned while your cheeks, having a mind of their own, started growing warm. with a groan you rubbed your face again before pushing your hair back and marching to the landline.
"i'm calling room service. they— they have to fix this—" you muttered firmly while squinting your eyes to find the number.
"you do that, watch them tell you this is the last room."
"how do you know that?"
"i've read books."
you turn your head over your shoulder to give him a deadpanned look, "this isn't a rom com."
cut to two minutes later and you're sat on the edge of the bed with a half mortified, half dumbed out look, staring into the space. he was right, they said it was the last room.
"oh my god," he laughed, eyes crinkling into cresents as he couldn't keep it in.
"what?"
"we are in a rom-com."
"is the romance in the room with us?" you deadpanned and his cackled even more.
shaking his head, he took his legs off the table before getting up and taking his jacket off. his amused eyes linger on you, lips threatening to spill more to add to your irritation.
your eyes find his and you huff quietly in irritation before getting up and heading to your duffel bag. as you fetch a change of clothes and head to the bathroom, you pause. you turn on your heels, an arm resting on the wall as your brows furrow, like you just had a very serious thought.
"jason."
"hm?"
"how against sleeping in the hallway are you?"
"i will throw you off the window. scram." he replied without missing a beat.
the shower wasn't as pleasing, how could it be? the impending doom of sharing a bed with him— jason, of all people. its not like you had a secret, unrequited love for him. no, it was something more persistent, annoying, a headache.
there was this lingering tension between you. it was more than lust, yet not something you could put a name on. neither of you could, you didn't know what it was. but it was evident in the lingering gaze, the brush of the other's touch, insults that turned to flirting, caring in ways you think is indirect but seems obvious to others— there was this connection. a bond that had formed over years of working together, arguing and making up with quiet, reluctant apologies. and as much as you hated it, you were scared of those very bonds, like him. you were scared of its fragility.
which is why, maybe, you kept that line between you, even it was long blurred.
you stepped out of the bathroom, bravado again going poof as you stand awkwardly for a moment. jason was beside the bed, checking his phone with that little frown on his face, lower lips slightly jutted out. you averted your eyes just as the world 'adorable' entered your mind.
'get a grip, dumbass' you reminded yourself before shaking your head and clearing your throat before heading towards the bed.
"well i hope you like the floor." you said nonchalantly, your eyes averted and fixed on the bed that you're straightening and fluffing... which is already made.
his eyes glanced up from the screen, a brow raised slightly, "..why?"
you pull the blanket off before getting under them, still averting your eyes, hands still fluffing the blanket. "cus you're gonna sleep there."
he scoffed, loud. keeping his phone back on the table he crossed his arms, staring right at you with narrowed eyes. he seemingly couldn't comprehend why it's such a big issue. or maybe he just doesn't like the fact that you're that against sharing a bed with him.
"what is your deal? it's just one night." he said, unbothered and so casual that for a moment it did make you feel conscious about your actions. why were you the only one affected by this?
"you're my deal—"
"oooh." he grinned mischievously and your eyes widened with a glare before you threw a pillow at him, which he caught with ease.
"i meant you're the problem. i cannot share a room with you, much less a bed!" you hissed, but with each word your voice died down to an angry whisper because you're pretty sure the walls are paper thin.
"and why is that?" he questioned, the delight and tease in his voice increasing ten fold. he was enjoying your misery, more so the way you're getting flustered, be it anger or something else.
for a moment you sputtered, dumbfounded that he even had to ask that, but then he hummed at you questioningly, deep and amused, and that sound did not help at all.
your nose scrunched into a frown as you snatched his pillow and put it on your side, "you're fucking huge, alright. you big ass pole. i just don't want you hogging the whole bed and the blanket."
"ah." he nodded to himself, his lips twitching as he made his way to the bathroom. he then paused at the entrance, looking over his shoulder, "you're scared you won't be able to resist me."
with that, he closed the door, humming some stupid song, leaving you fuming while your heart begging for mercy.
"resist my ass. what's there to resist? killing him in his sleep?" you muttered to yourself before switching off the lights and laying down, pulling the covers over your head.
you tried to put yourself to sleep before he came, you tried counting to hundred, breathing tactics— everything. but your silly little mind was busy freaking out. its a wonder how you lasted this long in the vigilante field.
just as you heard the opening of the door to the bathroom, you went still, made sure to keep your breathing quiet and even. you heard some ruffling around, some sighs before you felt the bed dip beside you and you swore your heart's never jumped this bad.
you stayed still, very, very still. eyes open under the covers but body limp as dead.
"you're not sleeping."
"nope."
"why not?"
"don't want you to stab me the second i close my eyes."
"i won't."
since there was no point in keeping up the obvious act, you pulled the covers off your face and shifted to get comfortable.
"if your foot even touches me for a second tonight i will cut it off." you murmured and he sighed with a roll of his eyes, shifting to get comfortable and, of course, his foot touched yours.
"jason!" you angrily whispered, and basically snatched your foot away from him, "it wasn't intentional!" he chuckled.
"wai— stop hogging the blanket you fucking hulk!"
"you're the one hogging it all!"
"well i run cold!"
"that's a you problem."
you finally opened your eyes and turned to glare at him. big mistake. that's when you realised how little the space was between you both. maybe it was because he was built big and broad, or maybe the bed was unbearably tiny.
your breath got caught in your throat as your eyes stared— admired him up close. harsh lines, blemishes, scars old and new running from his face to the sliver of his chest that was visible. and still, despite everything that usually views him as rough and untouchable, the dim light from the window makes him almost gentle. maybe this was the jason that hides from the world, tucked in the most sacred corner of his heart.
"done staring you pervert?" he murmured, his eyes still closed and you rolled your eyes before looking away.
"i hate you."
"as long as you don't hog the covers, i don't care." but he does.
underneath that cool, sarcastic and teasing exterior, his heart's a chaotic mess. he could feel the warmth radiating off of you, smell the vanilla off your skin and it makes his ears go red. he was just as shocked as you when he found out there was only one bed. the mere thought of sharing a bed with you made his heart shut down.
and he hated that. he hated the way his soul finds you even when he shouldn't.
there's nothing between him and you, even if some part of him wanted otherwise.
maybe an hour passed or two, but neither of you could sleep. you were worse than him, with all the turning and sighs.
"jesus can you stop?" he lazily murmured in irritation and you frowned. "I can't sleep."
"well then sleep on the goddamn chair and let me sleep."
silence.
"fine." you sighed but he recognised that stubborn firmness that meant he messed up.
"ugh wait—"
"zip it." you got off the bed and rounded the bed before plopping down on the chair, pulling your knees up to your chest and laying your head back.
now, normally jason wouldn't give a flying fuck, he'd instead hog the whole bed, laying like a starfish. but this is different, you're different. you have weaseled your way in his life and he can't pretend it doesn't matter.
"alright sleep in that tiny chair. let's see how long you last there." he muttered as he crossed his hands behind his head.
maybe a minute passed.
and then ten...
another ten...
"alright get your ass in the bed." he grunted as he got up, sighing while rubbing his forehead in annoyance.
"piss off."
"real mature, ha ha ha. now come on, grow up and get in the damn bed!"
"why do you want me in bed so badly, huh?"
"cus i can hear your shitty brain cursing at me—"
"oh yeah? suddenly you're a telepath? huh?"
"fuckin' hell—"
"nah its something else."
"get–"
"you're being sooo weirdly clingy–"
"i swear—"
"what, you in love with me or something?"
dead silence.
"alright."
you didn't mean to say that, it slipped. the heat of the moment got into your head and mixed the wires, resulting in one huge mess. while jason on the other hand, it really was radio silence in his mind. whatever he was doing, about to do, it was all on autopilot. his reasoning, he had enough. consequences be damned.
your eyes shot open just in time to see him throw the covers off before getting off the bed. his face was unreadable, stoic— even more blank in the dim light from the window. he came to a stop just infront of you, making you jerk back and crane your neck to stare at him warily.
"....what are you—"
"im gonna say one last time." he said before leaning down, keeping both his hands on the arms of the chair, caging you in.
"get. your ass. in the goddamn bed." his voice had dropped down to a rough murmur, yet the warning was firm enough to send shivers down your spine.
you stared back at him, even in the darkness his blue eyes gleamed green, such beautiful hues they could be another set of weapons for the red hood. bless the helmet.
"......no— WHAT THE FUCK?!" you screeched as, in a second, you were hauled into his arms bridal style, effortlessly. your face grew impossibly warm, eyes widened, lips agape. "WHAT are you DOING ?! oh my god— get off me—"
he sighed, like you were nothing but a mild inconvenience and then extending the hand beneath your back, he captured both your hands in his hold.
"stop scratching me, you fucking canine."
if it was possible your jaw would fall to the floor. it was all too much, the audacity, the disrespect, the sheer warmth of his chest and how cosy it was in his arms, the way his face was so close to you— close enough to feel his breath fall on you.
your senses were overwhelmed.
and so was his.
he was the picture of calmness, yet on the inside he was panicking like a teen confessing to his first love. what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—
he laid you down, pulling the covers over you and then rounded the bed before getting in. and you thought that'd be it.
and then you felt his arm snake around your waist, splayed flat against your stomach, before pulling you back to his chest. his warmth enveloped you while his breath brushed your neck, and you knew what restraint was. he was close to making this a full blown cuddling session, but the little logic that remained in his mind was holding him back.
you thought it was your heart racing like a train, but no, no it was his. his was much faster, much louder than yours, his hands were maybe even trembling.
oh.
oh.
"jason."
"shut up."
"...."
"you do know how awkward—"
"i know."
" we have to talk. tomorrow. about...whatever you did."
"and what you said."
"hey yours is way more embarrassing—"
he slipped another arm beneath your head and gently wrapped it around your head, closing your eyes. "sleep before i kick you out."
nothing could have stopped the smile that threatened on your lips. your tense body gradually relaxed into his, growing heavier against his. the you that was screaming in your head was now merely a whisper, for despite the uncertain questions the future now has, a lot has been answered and known.
also, your pride might have just inflated a bit knowing he's more affected than you.
"you're such a loser, jason."
his body stilled for a moment, your laugh ringing in his mind till it got saved as something precious. his lips tugged upwards as he pulled you closer, his lips kissed the air above your head. he was much too afraid to touch you anymore than he already has.
"i know."
yeah he's a loser. how could he ever win against you?
Tumblr media
dividers by @enchanthings
NOTE: if it isn't obvious i love this trope, its a little silly AND I LOVE IT. prompts taken from this post by @celestialwrites, her prompts are sooo awesome.
reblogs are appreciated! :)
334 notes · View notes
steddieas-shegoes · 2 days ago
Text
last summer
for @corrodedcoffinfest prompt 'i know what you did last summer'
rated e | 773 words | no cw | tags: brief mentions of eddie with other people, fuckbuddies, friends with benefits, idiots in love, getting together
also on ao3
💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘
Eddie’s kind of a slut.
Sue him.
He likes sleeping around with any willing participant, mostly because there aren’t all that many willing participants to begin with. He’s in a small town and he’s weird enough that most of his conquests are doing it for free drugs or because they wanna know if the rumors are true.
He keeps it as lowkey as he can, still. Except for the summer before he follows Steve Harrington.
****
Steve is nice, way nicer than he thought he would be. He’s a flirt, but he’s shy, and it’s not even an act. He’s a dream.
Eddie fucks him until he cries.
But before he does that he fucks a lot of people until they cry. Double digits.
He goes all out because he’s fighting off the growing feelings for this man he knows he has no real shot in hell with. He fucks to forget the way Steve pulled him in, the way he moaned around his fingers when he insisted he wasn’t full enough, the way he licked into Eddie’s mouth when moaning wasn’t enough to say how much he was enjoying the way Eddie fucked into him.
Sarah was nice, but too loud even for Eddie.
Ryan was the typical Guy Trying Guys For The First Time, so he was nervous and trying to be macho even with a dick in his ass and it just wasn’t working for him. He came, he saw, he left quickly and didn’t give him his number.
Amy and Amanda were best friends since middle school and did everything together, including fuck guys who were no good for them. Eddie gave them both exactly what they wanted and went home.
Jackie was much too kind of a girl to be anywhere near him, but he adjusted and went slower, spoke nicer, gave her a kiss before he left.
Frankie, not to be confused with his friend and bandmate, was insistent on doing the fucking, and Eddie was in a mood, so he agreed. He limped out of there, sore enough that he knew he’d regret it all in the morning, but not upset about it.
His mind kept going back to Steve, though.
So he fucked him again, in his pool, under the stars and moon in some romantic subplot to his summer. They had to be quiet so the neighbors wouldn’t hear, but Steve’s quiet whimpers and whines as he fucked into him slowly, ripples of water crashing against their chests echoing against the concrete of the pool deck, were still loud enough that Eddie had to cover his mouth and move slower. He’s stunning with his hair wet and slicked back, his sun-kissed skin glistening in the moonlight. Eddie wants to write a song about this.
He fucks Laura the next night, doesn’t even think to ask her name before she’s screaming his. He finds out after, when he sees her necklace after she’s facing him in bed. He kisses her cheek and leaves.
No one is Steve.
****
“I wrote a song about you,” he admits while he’s holding Steve against his chest, rubbing his fingers up and down his spine. It’s the third night in a row he’s come over, the third night where he’s held Steve until he’s asleep and then snuck out as if he’s just another one of his slutty moments.
“Mm?” Steve’s exhausted, probably wrung out from two orgasms in the last hour. He’s barely awake.
“You’ve got in my head, Harrington,” Eddie says, voice dripping with fondness.
“Sing it for me?” Steve asks.
He can’t deny him a damn thing. He sings what he has, though he’s still working on the melody a bit. Steve won’t care.
It’s shaky because he’s trying to stay quiet, doesn’t wanna ruin this moment they’re in.
Steve snuggles in closer, hums contentedly.
Eddie feels splayed open when he’s done. He keeps holding onto Steve, waits for him to pull away and ask him to leave.
Instead, Steve kisses his chest, right over his frantic heartbeat.
He’s quiet, just lets his lips linger on his skin for a bit. His fingers are curled into Eddie’s side.
“If you can be just mine, you can come with me,” Steve finally says.
“Go with you where?” Eddie didn’t know he was leaving.
“Chicago. My parents are paying for my apartment while I go to school. They don’t have to know I brought my boyfriend,” Steve explains.
Eddie doesn’t even have to think about it.
“Yeah. I’m in.”
Every summer after that, Eddie’s still a little bit of a slut. But he’s a slut for Steve and Steve only.
197 notes · View notes
playg0d · 2 days ago
Text
about you | a carmen berzatto x reader songfic
summary: you’re the one carmen can never let go of, no matter how hard he tries. based on the 1975 song.
wc: 8k
warnings and tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, swearing, claire mentions, some spoilers for s4
a/n: hello everyone! this is my first work in a long long time so i took it as a pen exercise, trying to write for the biggest tv crush i've had in a while to one of my favorite songs. i got so carried away with it beware 💀 i had to get my feelings out after watching s4 y'all!!
i know a place. it's somewhere i go when i need to remember your face.
he opens his eyes in the middle of his dark room. just like that. no reason, no sound. just awake.
it’s been happening a lot lately. so often that he doesn’t even get annoyed anymore. waking up before the alarm, his body already heavy with the weight of the day ahead. tired in a way that no sleep seems to fix. his muscles ache from another late night at the restaurant, a few hours of rest never enough to undo the strain. and he hasn’t even moved yet.
carmen blinks hard, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes, gaze settling on the window. it’s still dark out. only the orange streetlights casting vague shapes across his room, giving the shadows some kind of meaning.
his brain starts doing that thing again. jumping ahead, building the day's list before he can stop it. the stress creeps in before he even leaves the bed. he’s already forgotten something, he knows it. already late for something, even if the clock says otherwise. he can hear sugar’s voice in his head like it never left: did you check the budget i sent last week? how are we supposed to keep paying all these people if you won’t even sit down and read it? did you know jimmy’s supposed to come this week to talk about—
his alarm cuts in.
too loud. too sharp. especially in all this quiet.
he grabs the phone from the nightstand, silences it before it can ring more than a few seconds.
once the room goes still again, a bit of clarity returns. not peace, exactly, but something close. he exhales slowly through his nose, thumb still resting on the phone, and unlocks it. his fingers move without thinking. open messages, scroll down. the screen lights up, casting a cold glow across his face. it’s your thread.
this. this is another thing he’s been doing too much lately. and he doesn’t really know how to stop. at this point, he’s pretty sure it’s veering into something unhinged. obsessive. like he’s clinging to something that’s not there anymore and pretending it is.
you: the future looks bright chef!
that was the last message. weeks ago.
he frowns, but scrolls anyway. because this small, digital space, this ghost of a connection, is all he has right now. and somehow, it brings him a weird kind of comfort. not the real thing. not even close. it’ll never be the same as seeing you walk into the restaurant every day, laughing at something richie said, your perfume hanging in the air like a memory he doesn’t know how to let go of. but it’s something. and he’ll take something.
he stops on a selfie you sent from that birthday party. friend-of-a-friend. he remembers you whining about it the day before, pouting in that way that always made something in his chest loosen. you’d told him you didn’t want to go, that your friend had begged you to come so she wouldn’t be alone.
trying to hang on to any kind of connection outside of work, he’d boldly and very stupidly, asked you to send a selfie. for proof, he’d texted. he cringes now just thinking about it. what the hell was he doing? trying to be smooth? that wasn’t him. it never would be. he’d freaked out for a full half hour, especially when the word seen sat quietly under his message, taunting him.
until your reply came in. a photo of your face. cheeks flushed, a mischievous smile aimed straight at him, eyes shining.
you looked so pretty. all dolled up for your night out with your friends. and he wanted to say just that. god, he almost did.
but he didn’t.
too much of a coward. too afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being rejected. of crossing a line. because at the end of the day, you were still one of his employees.
so instead, he reacted with a thumbs-up emoji and went to bed, heart racing, already half dreaming of you.
he keeps beating himself up in the shower, replaying everything he could’ve done differently. wishing he’d kept the conversation going. asked you what the hell you meant, talking about the future like you weren’t planning to be in it. it follows him through the morning. into the chill of the city streets, the L train, the walk to work. chicago isn’t fully awake yet and neither is he. just noise in his head and cold in his lungs.
he tries not to think too hard about the fact that you’re still on his mind.
but you are.
we get married in our heads. something to do while we try to recall how he met.
if richie knew, he probably would’ve laughed and called you a dumbass. after having a heart attack.
you knew richie loved carmen. despite all the shit he talked, all the complaints about his insane work ethic and the new way he ran the restaurant. you knew it. but you also remembered the way he used to go off about how carmen needed to get a fucking grip if he ever wanted to let someone close. because no way in hell that was gonna end well. not with how he was. that person would probably end up running for the hills. 
so yeah, you did start to feel a little worried when you noticed how your palms got sweaty anytime carmen leaned in to talk to you about something completely mundane at work. how the tiny hairs on your neck would stand up when he passed behind you, muttering “behind,” and placed a light hand on your back. 
you’d always felt so far removed from all the mushy romantic shit, so it was kind of shocking how your body kept reacting to this guy. it made you feel ridiculous, like some schoolgirl with a silly crush.
until time passed. and you started noticing how carmen watched you just as much as you watched him. how his voice would soften when he talked to you, how he’d leave his bad attitude at the door whenever he had to face you. how that hand on your back? it started lingering a little longer each time.
it didn't take long before you started to realize just how much carmy was your type. you hadn’t even known you had a type. but there he was. hard-working. completely focused on his craft. someone who actually cared about people. you saw it in the way he kept pushing syd, little by little, to be her best. in the way marcus lit up just listening to his stories about the insane dishes he’d worked on in those spectacular restaurants before he came here. how he was trying to turn that run-down sandwich shop into something meaningful for the sake of everyone who showed up every day to keep it alive.
and, yeah, it didn’t hurt that he was hot as all hell: wild curls, strong arms, that whole constantly-stressed-out genius thing. and those eyes.
falling in love with carmy had been so easy. you hadn’t meant to. richie’s voice echoed in your head from time to time, but honestly, you didn’t really care to listen. not once the two of you started to talk. really talk. 
he opened up about his brother. someone you only knew in pieces, through the fragments richie had shared. his own memories.
but one night, carm gave you his memories. he told you how much he looked up to mikey. how much he missed him.
to this day, you’re still not sure why he told you what he did, but he said it anyway. that he did go to mikey’s funeral. something richie never lets go. he’s always throwing it in carmen's face: you weren’t there, you fucking baby, you didn’t show up when it counted.
but carmen had shown up.
and you never told anyone.
he was intense, sure, but he could be so sweet. charming in that unintentional way that made it even worse. like how he thought you didn’t notice when he started changing up his schedule. taking breaks when you did. hanging around just long enough to keep the conversation going from the day before.
or maybe just to be there. to have those rare, quiet moments where it was only the two of you. no yelling, no tickets, no chaos. just silence and the way it wrapped around you both like it knew something neither of you had said out loud.
he made you feel too much.
and what made it even harder was how he kept responding to you. bar for bar. matching every glance, every shift, every subtle move. like he was just as caught up in it as you were.
you didn’t realize it until you were in too deep.
a night you still carry with you, when it was just you and carmy, the restaurant quiet after everyone had gone home. you were so drained from the long day, you couldn’t help flopping down on the bench in front of the lockers. carmy came out of the office and found you there, eyes closed, still sitting.
you thought he would grab his things and call it a night. but he didn’t move. maybe he didn’t want to disturb your peace.
when you opened your eyes, he froze.
you felt him watching you. of course you did. but you didn’t want him to stop. you wanted his eyes on you. always. you wanted him.
so when it was just the two of you, sitting in that quiet, feeling the tension like it was something alive between you, you reached out and took his hands.
his hands. god, how often had you thought about them? in passing, in silence, in the lonely hush of nights you didn’t want to spend alone. you ran your thumbs gently across his tattoos, the ink marking him with stories you hadn’t heard yet. you wanted to ask. you wanted to know all of it. but not now. not if it meant breaking the spell of this moment.
carmen looked down, confused at first. then he shifted, taking your hands this time, his fingers curling around yours.
but he didn’t say anything. just looked at you. his eyes held something you couldn’t read, like he was trying to tell you what he didn’t know how to express with words.
your heart was pounding so loud you swore he could hear it. 
and when he reached up, touched your face with the hand inked with the chef’s knife through the palm, you forgot how to breathe.
you didn’t even realize it until it was too late.
you shouldn’t have let it get this far. shouldn’t have let it consume you like this.
you should’ve listened to richie.
you and i (don’t let go) we’re alive (don’t let go). with nothing to do, i could lay and just look in your eyes.
it started as a little comment here and there. a name you’d never heard before slipping out of fak’s mouth.
then came a conversation you overheard while working alongside richie, with fak buzzing around the place like always. they were talking about an old family friend. a girl. how she turned out amazing (“a doctor, can you believe it, man?”). how fak saw her again recently. how he wished things could go back to the way they were. back when all of them had the best times. the bestest times. with claire.
claire.
you had no idea who she was. you’d never seen her around the restaurant, and sugar had never mentioned her. neither had carmy.
if you hadn’t been so intrigued, you probably would’ve felt annoyed. all this talk, putting her on a pedestal. it couldn’t be that deep, right? still, you couldn’t deny the jealousy creeping in as you listened to richie go on about claire as well. how she’d helped him through… something. honestly, you’d tuned out halfway through. something from back before he and tiff split.
you didn’t want to care. you really didn’t. but eventually, curiosity got the better of you. you even asked sydney if she knew who this claire person was.
she didn’t. she was just as lost as you.
meanwhile carmy was in peak stress, trying to change his family restaurant to a high dining establishment. you could see how much it was weighing on him, so you did what you could to be there, even in that weird, undefined place where you both were. trying to see through the fuzzy lines of your relationship. you didn’t know what it was and how to call it. but you remained supportive, in the form of listening to him rant or go to the nearest home depot when the paint ran out.
he still gave you butterflies, even with everything he had on his plate. the pressure, the stress, the weight of trying to rebuild something from the ground up. it never kept him from making you feel seen. important. like you mattered.
you could still feel his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t looking and that alone was enough to set your heart racing.
and your conversations, they didn’t just continue, they evolved. they became deeper, more intimate. he wanted to know you, really know you. not just the surface-level stuff, but your dreams, your fears, the things you’d kept tucked away for years, unsure if anyone would ever really want to hear them.
so you let him in. slowly. carefully. but you did. and with every shared secret, every charged late-night exchange, you started to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something real growing between you. something worth holding on to.
it happened on a random day. nothing special about it. syd walked in with that look on her face, the one you’d come to recognize: frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, begging for a place to land. she didn’t even say hi before diving in, words spilling fast like they’d been waiting to escape her all morning.
“i finally figured out who claire is,” she said, tossing her tote bag onto a stool. “turns out she’s carmy’s sort-of childhood friend slash first love, which, by the way, i don’t even know what the hell's going on with them and they're already getting on my nerves. because now he’s distracted and i need him focused on this right here.” she waved her arms around the empty space to drive her point home.
you blinked, trying to process her words, but it felt like they hit you all at once.
you just stood there, frozen in the middle of the gutted kitchen, stripped bare for renovations.
your heart dropped.
you hadn’t seen that one coming.
wait (don’t let go) and pretend (don’t let go). hold on and hope that we’ll find our way back in the end.
he curses himself for telling fak he ran into claire at the grocery store. like fak was ever going to keep that to himself. now everyone knows. and everyone’s being weird. asking him a million questions about her, like he’s supposed to have some kind of plan. but he doesn’t. he hasn’t seen her in years. people expect him to pick up where they left off, but he doesn’t even know what that was, let alone what it’s supposed to be now.
carmy was painfully shy back then. when claire was around, always orbiting, always close but just out of reach. he never acted on how he felt. he just… pined, like a stupid kid. kept it all to himself. mikey used to tease him when he found those sketches in his notebooks. half-finished portraits of claire he never meant anyone to see. sugar would roll her eyes and tell him to man up, tell claire how he felt.
but he never did. and now, all these years later, people are acting like nothing’s changed. like he's supposed to feel the same. be the same. like some nice story about rekindled young love, which sounds great in theory, but in his case? those memories are laced with chaos. with the noise and mess of his old life. his life, period. it doesn't feel like something worth revisiting. he's not sure.
seeing claire again was nice. she was happy to see him, she remembered things he hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten. that part felt good. he won’t deny it. but this whole thing? it’s just one more thing added to the pile.
the renovations are behind schedule. jimmy’s breathing down his neck about the money. he can’t seem to get on the same page with syd. sugar’s riding his ass about everything from schedules to invoices.
and then there’s you. drifting further away from him every single day.
and that is what really stings. more than any of the rest of it.
he feels it all the time. in the little things. the small gaps where you used to be. the way your breaks never seem to line up with his anymore. how he used to find you already outside when he stepped into the alley, and now he just runs into you at the door, your break already over. he tries to catch your eyes in those moments, but you look down and walk past him like it’s nothing. like he’s nothing.
he watches you throughout the day, desperate for a sliver of connection. trying to catch you in conversation, even if it’s just something small. but you’re always busy. always somewhere else. always anywhere but with him.
and it’s killing him. he wonders if you’ve already figured it out, how fucked up he is. if you’ve seen too much and decided to back off before it’s too late. or maybe he overwhelmed you with the way he felt. crowded you, hovered over every little moment the two of you had. like he was one of those gross dudes who only came in to try and chat you up, get a peek at your ass and pretend it was about the food.
yeah. if you ever saw what was inside his head, you’d probably run.
because he craves you. constantly. and he’s done lying to himself about it. he likes you. likes being around you, likes how your mind works, the way you talk about things that matter. he loves that you don’t take yourself too seriously, but always seem to have the right words when someone’s in need. how you show up for your people without hesitation, no questions asked.
he loves your voice. your laugh. the way you look at him when you’re teasing, or when you’re serious. your silky hair, your pretty eyes, those pouty lips, and yeah, your body. that incredible body.
fuck. he’s lost count of how many times he’s imagined you underneath him, imagined how you’d sound, how you’d move, what it would be like to make you feel everything he’s been feeling.
he wants to give you that. all of it.
carmen hasn’t felt this way, this deep, this insane about anyone since… claire, maybe.
and he knows you felt it too. the something between you. it wasn’t just him. even if it was unspoken, it was there.
if he’s this wrapped up in you, then why did he catch tina and his sister talking like it’s obvious? like it’s real? 
“have you seen him? he follows her around like a lost puppy,” he remembers sugar laughing, sounding embarrassed.
“she’s not far behind,” tina has said, not missing a beat.
so why were you pulling away?
the answer became even harder to grasp the afternoon you walked into the office, clearly expecting to find just natalie. you startled slightly when you saw him sitting there too, then quickly masked it with a polite smile and a too-casual tone. said you had something to tell them both.
you were quitting.
a new opportunity had come up. sudden, unexpected, but too good to pass on. you said it aligned better with your professional goals, that it made more sense for where you were heading. your voice was soft, almost apologetic, sweet in that way that made it sting more. like you were trying to spare them, spare him, but still walking out the door.
his mind stopped registering your words after that. his body went still. mind blank. he kept his eyes down, too afraid to look up and see whatever expression was on your face. he just stared at the floor while you and sugar kept talking like everything wasn’t shifting underneath him. everything in him had gone still, cold.
he wanted to speak. to ask why. to understand. but the words sat heavy in his throat, unmoving. and as your voice trailed off and you turned to leave, his face flushed hot, his hands began to tremble. those early signs of panic tightening around his chest.
he should’ve followed you. should’ve asked what changed, what went wrong. why it suddenly wasn’t enough.
but he didn’t.
instead, he ended up in the back of the restaurant, alone, heart racing and breath caught in his lungs, trying to keep it together. hoping, praying, you’d show up like you always did. like you always had.
but this time, you didn’t.
and there was something about you that now i can’t remember. it’s the same damn thing that made my heart surrender.
you couldn’t forget the restaurant even if you tried.
richie had been on your case for days after you quit. texting, calling, refusing to believe it. it blindsided everyone, but it hit him harder than most. because it was you. you had each other’s backs in there. if something had been off, why hadn’t you said anything?
you did your best to ease his worry. said there was nothing wrong, nothing dramatic. gave him the same explanation you’d given sugar. and carmy, though you weren’t sure how much of it he’d heard.
you were moving on.
the restaurant had been good to you. more than good, sometimes. you met people who felt like family, and for a while, it really felt like you belonged. but you had to think about yourself too. your goals, your growth. and the new job? it was a step forward. a better fit for the direction you wanted to go. you kept reminding yourself of that.
still, you couldn’t ignore the way things had shifted in those final days. how often claire’s name came up. how often you saw carmy tense at the mention of it, even if he tried to hide it.
fak, richie, even people you’d never seen in the restaurant before were suddenly showing up, nudging him toward her. pushing him to give it another shot. telling him she was good for him, that he’d be crazy to let her go, that this was his chance.
and every time you heard it, something in you sank.
because no matter what you and carmen had shared in the quiet, in the glances, in the almosts... you didn’t have a history like that with him. not old memories tied up in childhood and old neighborhoods. maybe that’s what it came down to.
syd and marcus were still your friends, even outside of the restaurant, and you thanked the heavens for that. you’d found something real with them: true friendship. if the restaurant left you with anything, it was that.
they kept you updated, told you everything with bright eyes and proud smiles. how the new place was coming together. how different it all felt from where you started. not just the food, but the energy. the ambition. the chaos.
you loved hearing their stories. the quirky guests, the impossible nights, the small wins that made it all worth it. you could tell how much they loved it, even when it was hard. and you were happy for them.
they told you about richie too. how much he’d changed. you told them you’d seen it too, because you still saw richie. he was too special a person to let go of.
then they’d mention carmy. how his meltdowns were getting more frequent. how things had shifted. you didn’t know much about him after you left. you hadn’t asked. they told you how he was seeing claire more seriously now. how marcus had casually dropped the word girlfriend when talking about her.
it stung. more than you let on. but you didn’t flinch. you nodded and smiled. you told yourself you’d moved on. you’d removed yourself from that world.
still, every time they talked about the bear, its struggles, its wins, the people inside it, it felt like hearing about a life you no longer lived.
and it was particularly hard because the bear wasn’t just a restaurant.
it was carmy, and after all this time everything still felt like him.
you might’ve felt completely defeated by that thought if it weren’t for syd.
over coffee one afternoon, she said it like it was nothing.
“he asked about you,” she uttered, her words cutting deep. “wanted to know if you were okay, if you’d ever come by.”
and i’ll miss you on a train. i’ll miss you in the mornin’. i never know what to think about.
carmen still wakes up before the alarm, long before the world stirs. the sky outside is dark, the streets quiet. that part hasn’t changed.
but he’s not alone in his bed anymore.
claire has started staying over sometimes, says it’s easier after her shifts, more convenient. he tells himself he doesn’t mind.
he slips out of bed carefully, trying not to wake her as he begins the ritual of getting ready. his movements automatic.
lately, the days have felt heavier. long, restless weeks stacking on top of each other. he’s been going through the motions, but the certainty that once drove him, the feeling that he was building something meaningful, has started to fade.
he used to believe that cooking was his purpose. that the kitchen was where he belonged. but now he isn’t so sure. maybe it was never really about the food. maybe it was just his way of holding onto mikey, of staying close to the memory of someone who once made him feel like there was something worth chasing.
and now that he’s here, with everything he thought he wanted, it still feels like something’s missing.
he’d had a really tough conversation with syd about it. one of those that left him feeling raw, exposed. richie had walked in halfway through and joined in, adding his own thoughts, his own frustration. by the end of it, carmy felt like he was letting everyone down, yet again. stepping back from the restaurant felt like the right call, perhaps the only way the bear could truly thrive free from his constant micromanaging and inevitable screw-ups. maybe, just maybe, he could rediscover the spark he'd lost, the part of him that used to love this.
he takes the train like he does every morning. the platform’s nearly empty, and when the car doors slide open, he steps into a quiet space with only a few scattered passengers. it's a small relief. no eyes on him, no one who knows his name or expects anything from him. just a few minutes of anonymity. a little room to breathe. maybe even think. maybe relax, though that's a stretch.
he had hoped that being with claire would help. that now, finally with her by his side, he’d start to feel more like himself again. like the younger version of him. that the shy, quiet kid who once thought having her would fix everything—was finally getting what he’d dreamed about for so long. but it doesn’t feel like that. not really.
and carm hates himself for it. because claire is wonderful. kind and patient. she jokes about the heavy things, tries to lighten the weight he carries, even if just for a second. she’s trying to help him heal, to pull him out of the worst parts of himself. and he knows that. but still, something feels off.
and that’s when he wonders… does that last message in the thread need a reply from him? should he beg richie for his phone again, like some desperate teenager, just to sneak another look at your instagram profile? should he face sydney, after everything he’s put her through, and ask once more if she’s heard from you? i think about you.
sometimes he lets himself imagine it. running into you. what he’d do. if he could get past the initial punch of seeing you again. really seeing you, after all this time. would he shrink back like he always used to, hide behind silence so he can keep pretending your absence hasn’t hollowed him out? or would he finally say something? ask for the truth. demand it, maybe. not to make you feel bad, but just to know. to confirm that it wasn’t all in his head. that everything you shared, everything he felt, wasn’t just one-sided. that thinking about you this much still means something.
as if that could ever actually happen. still…
he’s been secretly holding out hope all this time. clinging to the stupid fantasy of a chance encounter with you. on the L. on the street. some accidental moment that would change everything. he’s even taken the long way home more than once, just because he knew it passed near where you used to live. just for the slim chance of seeing you. but it never happened.
and as much as he tries to keep moving, your absence still lingers in the spaces he exists in.
tina still sighs about not having her dance partner during breaks and how no one laughs at her neighborhood gossip like you did. natalie wishes you were around so she could finally introduce you to sophie, her voice going soft every time she says your name. and richie? richie never shuts up about you, still clinging to the version of life where you and he had each other’s backs in the thick of it. he holds onto that chapter fiercely, and part of him is just waiting for you to walk back in and see how far he’s come and be proud.
but for carmy it’s different.
he didn’t just miss you.
he fell in love with you.
(don't let go)
he never said it, but it’s the truth.
it’s in how he still checks the door without realizing, expecting you to walk in. in how your voice still echoes in his head during the quietest parts of the day. in how nothing has felt right since you’ve been gone.
you didn’t just leave the restaurant. you took something with you when you walked out. and no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get that part of him back.
do you think i have forgotten about you?
carmen’s no stranger to guilt. it’s been living inside him for years, settled deep in his bones. he remembers the feeling in new york, thinking of sugar and mikey, how he left them to deal with their mom and all her turmoil and unpredictability. remembers the guilt curling in his gut when he got that phone call, sugar barely able to get the words out between sobs: mikey's dead. guilt again, heavy and paralyzing, when he couldn’t get out of the car at his own brother's funeral.
and now it’s back. except it’s different. not the same restaurant stress that eats at his stomach on the regular. it’s outside of that. beyond it.
it’s every time he looks at claire.
it shows up in moments that are supposed to be soft. like when claire’s curled into him, warm and willing, tracing her fingers over his chest. saying something sweet, being provocative. trying to love him. telling him how good he is, and all he can think about is how much of a lie that is. how he doesn’t deserve this version of her. 
because his mind drifts, like it always does.
to you.
he’s not proud of it. he hates himself for it.
she’s here, she’s trying. she’s giving him something real. and you’re still in his head. still there when he closes his eyes, still the one he wishes he could see when he opens them.
he’s tried to snap out of it. thrown himself into his new role in the kitchen, started mending his relationship with his mom, tried being the kind of boyfriend claire deserves: one who listens, who shows up, who holds her when she falls asleep.
but none of it’s working.
and it’s not fair to claire. she doesn’t deserve to be the one holding the weight of something that was never hers to carry. so he did something he’s never really done before. not like this.
trying, really trying, to follow through on this whole doing things differently thing, carmen sat richie down and told him the truth. about how things with claire had started to fall apart. how it wasn’t her fault. how he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.
richie, being the closest person he had left, felt like the right one to tell, to get it out. and carmen took responsibility, fully. said it straight: he was the one messing things up. he’s the reason it’s falling apart.
but richie wouldn’t hear it.
“what the fuck are you talkin’ about?” richie’s already pacing, eyes wide, hands flailing. “you’re done with claire? now? jesus christ, cousin.”
“i didn’t say i was done, i just–i don’t know. it’s not working,” carmen shifts, trying to stay calm. 
“not working?” richie snaps. “what the fuck does that even mean? you finally got her and now you’re just what–bored?”
“it’s not about that,” carmy mutters, jaw tight.
“bullshit,” richie throws back. “you know how many guys would kill to be where you are right now?”
“i-i’m tellin’ you, it’s me. it’s not her,” carmen tries again, voice low.
richie scoffs, shaking his head. 
“you already pulled this shit once, carmen. you already broke her heart. and now you’re doin’ it again?!”
carmen looks away, but richie doesn’t let up.
“you serious right now? after everything she’s done for you? you’re the problem? oh wow, man, what a revelation.”
“i am the problem, richie. that’s what i’m saying!” carmen’s voice rises a little, frustrated. 
“then fix it!” richie shouts. “don’t throw her away just ‘cause you’re all fucked up inside.”
richie was pissed, and not in the loud, joking way he usually was. no, this was different. this was a disappointment he felt deeply. he looked at carmy like he couldn’t believe he was watching him do this all over again, backing out the moment something good got too real.
he started pacing again, running his mouth about claire, about how she didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. “she’s claire bear, man,” he muttered under his breath, like that should mean something holy. and it kinda did, to richie. she’d been around since carmy was a little kid. familiar, kind, safe.
but carmen just sat there, bent over at the edge of the table, elbows digging into his thighs, hands locked at the back of his neck. guilt was burning through his stomach like acid. and not just for claire. for richie, too. for not being able to live up to the version of himself everyone kept hoping he’d finally become after getting with claire.
he didn’t fight richie on it, didn’t throw words back, because he knew richie was only half wrong.
the older man, never one to back down when carmy got quiet, leaned in with a little bite in his voice.
“you know i even told her once, right? about this?” he said, almost casual, throwing your name in there. “funny thing is claire wasn’t even in the picture yet and i already knew you were gonna pull this kind of shit.”
carmen froze. his lips thinned into a hard line and something dark settled behind his eyes.
he looked at richie, really looked at him, like he was trying to figure out if he was serious or just pushing buttons like he always did. but richie held firm.
a bitter wave of heat rose in his chest.
“did you–” carmy’s voice cracked, low and strained. “did you fucking say something to her?”
his words came sharp, like they’d been caught in his throat too long. 
“richie, what the fuck did you say to her?”
richie visibly flinched. his mouth opened and closed again. then he let out a laugh, humorless, almost stunned.
“you gotta be kidding.”
something in carmy’s face had changed, the shift in his voice when your name came up stopped him cold. he stared at him for a long second, piecing it together.
and it hit him like a ton of bricks.
“you motherfucker,” richie’s voice grew louder, half disbelief, half something else. anger, probably. or disappointment.
“you were into her and you didn’t say shit?” he pointed at carmy like he was trying to trace the outline of this massive mistake. “you let her walk outta here when you–”
he stopped himself. dragged a hand down his face, pacing, fuming.
“you know what? don’t even answer that,” he snapped, his anger visibly flaring again. “wanna know what i told her, jagoff? i didn’t tell her anything that she couldn’t tell by sharing space with you, you little fuckin' narcissist bitch.”
carmy finally looked up at him, teeth gritted, throat working like he was swallowing glass. richie’s eyes were hard now. protective and furious.
“she’s not just some second act of claire, cousin. she didn’t come around to fix you, that's not what she’s about!”
it came after a beat of silence, after richie had already seen through every layer of bullshit and nailed him to the wall.
“i know–i know that,” carmy finally said, voice low, almost strangled.
it sounded awful, even to his own ears. pathetic, but it was the truth.
and even though richie looked at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, like carmen had just handed him the messiest, most out-of-pocket confession, he felt something shift in his chest. relief, even if just a little.
finally someone else knew. someone understood the depth of what he was carrying. how much it wrecked him. how deep it went.
no more burying it behind routine or the bear or claire.
and now richie knew.
god, now richie knew.
so much for doing things differently.
he hadn’t really talked to richie much after that. things still felt off and he didn’t have the energy to untangle it just yet. instead, he tried focusing on getting back on the right foot with syd.
she’d asked for help with a new dish she was developing for the menu: something deeply personal, something that reflected the people she held closest to her heart. her family and her friends.
she told him she was stuck, unsure about the final flavor profile, and though he didn’t want to meddle too much (this was her creation, not his), she kept nudging him for input. said she trusted his instincts.
so he thought about you of peaches.
he said it lightly, almost offhand, but it stuck.
he didn’t know if syd would connect the dots, maybe she wouldn’t even ask. but if she did, if she ever wanted to know why, he’d say something about the brightness of the flavor, the way it lingered, felt right.
peaches were your favorite. 
he can’t help being taken back to that night again, when it was just you two alone, the restaurant emptied out, you sitting on that bench looking up at him with those beautiful eyes that haunt him still.
he’d been completely transfixed by you, by everything you were. by all the things you made him feel without even trying. your beauty, somehow untouched by the long day behind you, still shining through in the artificial light.
and when you reached for him, your fingers brushing his with a touch so gentle it felt deliberate, he swore he died right there. your touch… delicate, intentional, reverent, hit him harder than anything else had in years.
your hands were so soft, so careful, like you were learning him by touch alone, tracing every part of him without rushing. he remembers how it made his skin come alive, how each stroke of your digits lit him up. how much he wanted more. 
he wanted to pull you in, let you keep exploring all the parts of him no one else ever got to touch. he wanted to kiss you, slow and deep, to finally know if your lips tasted like peaches, just like he imagined.
carmen wanted to give himself to you completely in that moment. mind, body and whatever was left of his soul. and he’s never really stopped wanting that since.
that’s why he did it, why he reached out and cupped your face, unable to stop himself. it wasn’t instinct or ease. it was pure need. there were too many feelings rushing through him, building up after everything you had shared, everything left unsaid.
he wanted you. not just in that moment, but for longer than he could admit to anyone, maybe even to himself. and still, even now, after all the time that’s passed and after everything that’s changed, he hasn’t stopped wanting you.
he hasn’t stopped thinking about that night or stopped regretting the way he pulled back, how he let the moment slip through his fingers because he was too afraid of ruining it, of being too much and scare you off.
but now, looking back, all he can think about is how real it was. too real to pretend otherwise. undeniable. and how foolish he was to walk away from something so honest, so rare.
he wonders if you recall that night as often as he still does.
it’s a thought that’s lingered for what feels like forever now, something quiet and constant at the back of his mind. 
but tonight, it’s louder than ever. 
especially after hearing the buzz of surprise and excitement ripple through the kitchen when richie, halfway through reading the night’s guest list, said your name. 
carm tried to play it cool, to keep scrubbing down his station like his lungs weren’t suddenly constricting.
tonight was a new friends and family night. syd’s idea. a soft reset, she called it. a chance to breathe a little, reconnect with the people who mattered and quietly debut a few changes to the menu.
he could feel richie’s eyes on him all day: watchful, heavy, like he was waiting for something to go wrong. richie wasn’t subtle when it came to the people he cared about and carmy knew that look: apprehension. concern. maybe even a little warning.
and carmy got it. richie had watched him fall short more times than he could count, he’d seen carmy spiral, shut down, push people away, so of course he’d be on edge. especially tonight. especially with you.
pepto bismol had become his closest companion through the day, sipped like water in between prep and the minutes before doors, just to keep himself upright.
as the the guests began to arrive, he stationed himself near the window overlooking the dining area. just waiting.
eyes scanning every new arrival.
heart pounding harder with each one.
waiting for the moment you’d walk through the door.
he’d spent the whole day bracing for this, imagining it over and over, but when you finally appeared, all that careful anticipation crumbled in an instant.
because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for the reality of you.
a familiar, dizzying lurch hit him in the gut.
how could you still look like that? like everything he’d been missing without even fully realizing it. like a punch straight to the ribs and a lifeline all at once. like something too good to be real.
you looked beautiful. god, you looked so beautiful.
and it wasn’t just the way you were so exquisitely dressed for the occasion or how your hair caught the light. it was the way you looked happy to be there, genuinely. like no time had passed. it knocked the breath right out of him.
the smile on your face when you greeted sugar and pete made his own mouth twitch up, he caught himself mirroring it, dumbly, before he could stop it. then came richie, arms out, wrapping you into a hug, whispering something in your ear. he guided you toward your seat, and carmy quietly sent a thank you into the universe when he realized your seat was directly in his line of sight.
you sat facing the kitchen.
richie turned around just before disappearing back to the floor, and their eyes met. that usual don’t fuck this up look was still there but now something else flickered underneath. something softer. protective. understanding. a silent: i see you.
and carmy, even in his nerves and with his stomach a knot of regret and adrenaline, gave him a small nod. a quiet thanks.
you being here, sitting where you’re seating tonight, was richie’s move.
he told himself to stay focused on service, especially tonight. he owed that to sydney. she had put her trust in him, asked him to show up and get it right. and he was trying, really trying, to keep his head down and stay sharp. but the longer the night went on, the harder it got.
you still hadn’t looked at him. not once. and it was slowly unraveling him.
you knew he’d be here, right? 
you knew this place. you knew the setup, knew exactly where he’d be standing. was it on purpose? he couldn’t tell, but watching you laugh so easily, catching up with syd’s dad and chester, it made him feel disoriented, like he was watching a version of you he didn’t have access to anymore.
every second that passed without your eyes meeting his made his chest feel tighter, heavier. he was falling apart in real time, trying to keep it together behind the pass.
and then came the dish.
fak had announced it a little too loudly, of course, but it landed. 
“new to the menu,” he said, “from chef sydney and chef carmy.”
carmen stood there, watching you the whole time, heart hammering, barely breathing.
you leaned in, tilted your head, examined the plate like it was something that really mattered, eyes soft and focused. you took in the smell first, then a bite.
and then, like gravity itself shifted in the room, you looked up.
right at him.
peaches.
and he knew, in that split second, you remembered too.
do you think i have forgotten about you?
the tension of all the conversations that veered too close to something real. the breaks you shared, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the quiet between the chaos. you remembered the glances, the ones that lasted a second too long, the ones that said more than either of you ever dared to say aloud. you remembered that night when it was just the two of you.
you remembered what it felt like.
he could see it on your face. the recognition, the weight of it all. the way you held his gaze, steady and certain, made something in him shift. and he took it as a sign.
no more hiding behind glances, no more waiting for the right moment that never came. carmen was done being the guy who only looked when you weren’t looking, the one who kept everything to himself out of fear.
because the truth was, he felt so much for you. still. all of it. untouched by time.
still in love.
and now he was ready to say it, to show you, to fight for you.
he finally understood everything had always been about you.
and as service wound down and the restaurant quieted, all he could think about was finding you before the night ended–
to tell you that.
 ₊˚⊹♡
thank you for reading. please reblog and comment. or both ☻
184 notes · View notes
macherouviere · 14 hours ago
Text
What We Don't Say About Ruin
I look like a horror movie that can’t even be sung. I’ve seen how heartbroken he is, and how everyone else is. God, I don’t even know how to describe the feeling I got right now. But I felt like my head was exploding. Even “devastating” doesn’t come close. I was actually hanging out with my friend, watching the match, and I thought having a lot of reconnecting, buffering, and laggy moments would be the hardest part I’d see tonight. Not until the video cleared. I had missed a moment. I screamed with joy, looking at him playing in the background and telling my friend how good he looked tonight. But then I saw him, just staying still near the goalpost. Not down, not out, but frozen. And the keeper was crying.
I asked what happened, why he was crying. My friend said, “That’s because he’s sad”. I didn’t think too much of it. I just said, “Oh, okay, cool? Why though?”. But then I saw it. The man that I love, just staying there. There were people in blue jackets around him; medics, I guessed, but I didn’t even know how to name them in the moment. Some of his teammates were close, and even a few players from the other team. And then the game stopped. Like, actually stopped. The match was paused. And panic crept in. I opened Twitter to find something, anything, to anchor the moment. I still joked around. I didn’t want to believe something was wrong.
But then my friend tagged me in a post. It showed the moment I missed. It was sickening. I watched the clip and everything in me just shut down. The sound stopped. My thoughts dissolved. I couldn’t even hear the room. The only thing left was whatever was going on in my head, it might’ve been ringing or some kind of alarm. It felt like a drum, low and steady and dreadful, vibrating from deep inside. Then my ears actually started to drum, as if my own body was trying to warn me about what my brain couldn’t yet process. I felt like my heart had moved up into my skull and was pounding inside my head, louder and louder.
I couldn’t think. I couldn’t say anything except “fuck”, over and over again. Maybe I was angry. Maybe I was scared. I felt so close to throwing my phone. I ditched my laptop like I’d never use it again. I locked myself in my room, but I didn’t know what to do. Sleep wasn’t even a consideration. I didn’t know how to move forward. Everything had just collapsed. And all I wanted in that moment was to cry with him. If I could, I’d go to him and wrap my arms around him and walk with him through whatever hell this would become. Because I know I could make it if it was for him.
But I don’t know how he’s feeling right now. I don’t even want to try guessing. And I especially don’t want to hear someone say, “It’s going to be okay”, because it won’t. Not yet. Not tonight. Not in a way that makes sense. There’s no word to fit this moment. Even “devastating” feels hollow. I just want to hold him. I want to cry with him, over everything; his pain, his fear, my heartbreak, our helplessness. Everything feels upside down, like my world’s been spun onto the tip of a needle and left to tremble.
I can’t scream for help. No one can help me. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I thought about deleting social media altogether. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this. But I know what I saw, that shockwave, the moment he realized what was happening. He knew. I could see it in his face: the confusion, the pain, and that creeping realization that something might be lost forever. And I, God, I don’t know who I am anymore after seeing that.
It felt like a crisis. A real one. Like if I didn’t ground myself, I might disappear. I even thought that doing something bad would make more sense than this moment. My world fell apart the moment he went down. And so did his. I knew it. And he knew it too. Because it’s not just a game. This is his everything. His joy. His meaning. His world.
I kept questioning everything after that. About him. About life. About myself. I kept thinking about how fragile everything is. And then I thought about how one of my lights; one of the few things that makes life feel bright, is flickering. I remembered how I once joked that “almost is never enough”, but now I don’t even find it funny. I don’t think I find anything fun anymore. The light’s gone. The fun’s gone. It’s all gone.
It didn’t just look painful. It felt like something was taken away. Like a whole future cracked before our eyes. Like time snapped. My head is still buzzing from the shock. I knew it when I saw it. Something shifted, and I knew the version of him I knew might not return. I can’t even think about his career or when he’ll return. I don’t care. I just want him whole. I want him safe. I want to know that his spirit, his smile, his softness… Will survive this.
But the fear is real. I knew it the moment it started to creep in. I knew he might not be the same. I knew he might stop. I knew he might never dance the same way again. And it’s terrifying. Can he ever smile again, truly? Will he be okay? Will he still be… Him?
I’m grieving. I know that now. Everything around me is blurry. God knows I’m still sitting on the edge of something I don’t have words for. Not despair, not heartbreak, just, grey. A silent, shapeless grey that smothers me. And not even a horror movie could explain what I feel. I just want to mourn.
And this grief, it caught in my throat. Not like sobs. Not like tears. Like a scream that didn’t have the courage to be loud. Like something stuck there, pressing down on my chest, twisting up my ribs. At some point, I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to throw up. Because maybe that would finally let the feeling out. They say it’s not numbness, but that this kind of sadness doesn’t follow rules. It knots itself inside you. It tangles with your breath and your heartbeat and your hope.
I kept asking myself, “Why am I this upset? Why does this hit so hard?”. But I didn’t want the answer. I didn’t want to reason with it. I just wanted to be in it. I sat still. I drooped low, and even the ground didn’t want me. My jaw locked. My body stayed curled, like it wanted to disappear. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to be perceived. I wanted the world to go quiet and stay there.
They say caring is a beautiful thing. I don’t know if I believe that. Because this doesn’t feel beautiful. It feels like being torn open by something you can’t fight. It feels ugly and relentless. It feels like love in its most painful, consuming shape. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to care this much. I don’t want to live in this.
I didn’t sob. I didn’t break down. But my grief showed up anyway, in the silence. In the tension. In the way my throat felt like it was holding back a hundred words that didn’t exist yet. My body held onto everything it didn’t know how to express: the fear, the sorrow, the helplessness, and the hope I’m still terrified to lose. It’s like crying without sound. Mourning without movement.
Now, the tears come easily. They roll without warning. I’m not crying loudly, I’m just, unraveling. Quietly. And every time I think about it again, the frustration comes back. It’s fucked up. And I don’t even know who to blame. But I want to blame someone. Anyone. Because someone should have kept him safe. Someone should have stopped it.
And still, all I want to do is cry with him. In 5th of July, the horror movie that won’t be able to light on, in my theater.
Tumblr media
Landscape of Roman Ruins (François de Nomé, 1593 - 1644)
492 notes · View notes
dixonsbugaboo · 1 day ago
Text
𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.
ꜱᴀᴊᴀ ʙᴏʏꜱ🎵
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 4 - 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵
Tumblr media
Summary: Reincarnated in the body of a demon from the last film you saw before you died, you have decided to change the script of the story in your favour. But you didn't count on your presence in the story changing everything.
Warnings: slow burn, swearing, Romance being flirty, kinda suggestive if you read between lines, Jinu being annoying, ooc (probably), cringe (surely), no proofread (oopsie)
Word count: 2100+
A/N: hello there my little lovely readers! Again I want to thank you all for all the kind words and the support on these series. I'm really happy seeing that it's loved and appreciated! I'm trying to answer to everything you send me :)
This chapter is a little filler but is needed for the relationship building (relationship building being the reader collecting hearts like Pokemon apparently) but I hope you still find it funny and interesting. Next chapter is already in the oven and nearly finished (hope I can post it this weekend) and AT LAST the real real plot (the movie related one) it's starting to bloom there!
Again thank you for your comments, likes, reblogs and specially for those few who hit me in the directs, I love you guys! Let me know what do you think about how the story is going so far :)
Ch. 3
︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿
You were in your room, lying on your bed, sketching possible costumes for the boys, when a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream made you jump up.
Why did it seem impossible to be calm and relaxed in that madhouse?
There were less than forty-eight hours to go before their debut. Couldn't they enjoy some peace and quiet before they became famous?
You opened the door as fast as you could and ran towards the source of the scream.
Sang and Dasom's room.
Another scream, even higher-pitched than the last one.
Who were they torturing? You opened the door without even knocking and found Romance alone inside, perched on top of the wardrobe, pale and terrified.
"Dasom? What's going on?"
He was curled up in a ball in the space between the top of the wardrobe and the ceiling, and simply pointed down at the floor in the middle of the bedroom. But there was nothing there, was there?
"Dasom…?"
"A SPIDER!! IT'S HUGE, MONSTROUS, DISGUSTING… THERE'S A HAIRY SPIDER RIGHT THERE. PLEASE KILL IT. KILL IT, KILL IT, KILL IT!"
You opened and closed your mouth a couple of times, not quite sure what to say. You approached the approximate spot he was pointing at, and there you saw the ‘huge, monstrous, disgusting hairy spider,’ which was about the size of your little toenail.
You let out a sigh.
Well, it was better than someone being tortured, wasn't it? Although you never imagined that Dasom could reach such high notes under pressure.
You took off a slipper and squashed the poor little spider with some regret, then approached the wardrobe and, with your face completely tilted upwards, began gesturing for Dasom to come down.
"Come on, it's over. There's no spider anymore. You can come down from there."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I squashed it. I didn't know you were afraid of spiders."
Dasom pouted.
You still couldn't understand how he had managed, at his height and size, to hide in that space.
"How do I get down?"
"Damn it, Romance, I don't know. You're the one who climbed up on the wardrobe."
Dasom didn't seem very sure, but he decided that, knowing there was no longer an army of arachnids waiting for him on the carpet, he could let himself fall.
And that's what he did.
But he did it… on top of you, who was right underneath him.
Both of you fell to the floor, a tangle of arms and legs, and you, who was on the bottom, hit your bum and hip hard.
Romance, semi-conscious of the blow, managed to get a hand under your head so that at least you didn't hit it.
"Ouch… why the hell did you drop? You're a ducking demon, you can teleport!"
Romance's eyes widened, remembering that detail. Fear had blinded his reasoning… or so he told himself.
You both remained silent, finally understanding what had just happened… and the strange (and uncomfortable, especially for you) position you were in. You were lying on the carpet, your hair tousled around your head, and he was on top of you. One of his legs was between your thighs, keeping him more or less upright; one of his hands was still under your head, acting as a pillow and keeping it off the cold floor, while the other was on one side of your head, supporting him so he wouldn't fall face-first onto you again. Your chests were almost touching, and your faces were definetely too close.
His heart-shaped fringe fell on either side of his angular face, framing it exquisitely, and the rest of his hair tickled your neck.
"Romance…?" you whispered as you watched him remain very still and silent, just staring at you.
But the things is… you had never been so close to him before. You were always on the defensive, especially with him, and you tried to keep your distance from all of them, as if they had the plague or something.
From that position, so close to you, he could see things he had never seen before: the flecks in your eyes, the length of your eyelashes… You were completely still, your mouth slightly open, not quite sure what to do. In his eyes, you looked like a frightened little animal, although he knew you well enough to know that this was far from the truth, and that if he tried anything, you would punch him.
But why didn't you push him away? Why didn't you move him away?
He tilted his face slightly, just a few millimetres closer to yours. Now his fringe brushed against your cheek.
He shifted his weight from his hand to his elbow, so he could gently stroke your hair, brushing a strand away from your face. He had always found you attractive… so charming… he liked it when you got violent when he did something you didn't like, he loved that you had no qualms about speaking your mind, saying what you thought, and he was fascinated by your tough act. But now, beneath his body, looking that small, with your eyes wide open and your ears red as tomatoes, not quite sure what to do… you were driving him crazy.
He didn't understand why you didn't want to play with them and flirt. He didn't understand why you couldn't be this close all the time, or why he couldn't lean down a little closer and bite your lower lip, just to see how it felt. Just thinking about it made his heart skip a beat. You'd probably kill him if he did it, but it would have been worth it.
Besides, what harm could a little flirting and some affection without any commitment do?
Romance ran his tongue over his lips. The heat coming from your body was exquisite, and he found it hard not to bury his nose in the hollow of your neck to smell you and bite you. But just then, you reacted. You put your hands on his chest… was that an invitation?
…and you pushed him. Hard. To one side.
Romance fell onto his side, to one side.
Your heart was about to jump out of your chest.
What had just happened…?
You took a deep breath, counted to ten, and stood up as best as you could, trying to calm your racing heart. This was wrong, very wrong. It couldn't happen again. You couldn't let it happen again. Not with Romance, not with anyone. You weren't there to play at love, you were there to change the course of history. You had to give them back their souls, not… that. Whatever it was.
It's not like you had a lot of time to play around, considering you hadn't made any progress at all towards your goal.
"There are no spiders anymore. I'm going to check on the others," you managed to say, turning your back on Dasom, who was still on the floor.
"The others aren't here," he replied, sitting on the floor and avoiding looking at you at all costs. "Sang has gone to the gym, Byeol and Minjun have gone to buy some groceries, and I have no idea where Jinu is, but he's not at home."
What had he been about to do…?
"Well, anyway, there's no need for me to be here anymore. I'm going to go for a walk."
And with that, you left the bedroom, closing the door behind you. The best thing to do would be to go out for a walk, breathe some fresh air, and maybe touch some grass. Anything but stay alone there with Romance.
¸.*☆*.¸.*☆*.¸.*☆*.¸.*☆*.¸
You were walking along peacefully, bubble tea in hand and headphones on, humming to yourself and trying not to think about anything after the events of the last few days. You were exhausted, both physically and mentally. And you still weren't quite sure how to change the course of history. How could you get all the Saja Boys to regain their souls without Gwi-ma finding out?
Suddenly, you bumped into something hard and lost your balance for a moment.
Goodbye my dear bubble tea, you thought.
But an arm wrapped around your waist and held you firmly in place before you could fall face first. You looked up and took off your headphones with your free hand (thankfully, your bubble tea had survived) and found yourself face to face with Jinu.
You were about to apologise for bumping into him because you were distracted, but it was Jinu, and since he was a bit insufferable (especially with you), you decided not to.
"Watch where you're going, Manager," he said without letting go of your waist.
"Hey, sorry, but you're the one walking in the middle of the pavement. The street isn't yours."
He raised his eyebrows. How fun (and easy) it was to tease you. Besides, you always had something to say back.
He took the opportunity to look you up and down, studying you.
Heart-shaped sunglasses? How tacky.
But that tight top, however...
Nuh-huh, he would never admit it.
You were carrying something strange in your hand. It was like a large plastic cup with a straw sticking through the lid, and inside was a lilac-coloured liquid... Was that hamster eyes at the bottom of the cup?
Ew. Disgusting.
"Hey!" you shouted, taking a step back when you realised that not only was he still hugging your waist, but he was also giving you a look of genuine disgust. "Is this a staring contest?" you asked with a half-smile as you brought the straw to your lips and sipped, enjoying the fresh taste of the tapioca tea.
Jinu opened and closed his mouth several times, like a fish out of water.
Did you just...?
You raised an eyebrow, still sipping your drink slowly. You put your headphones back on and decided to continue on your way. You didn't feel like verbally abusing Jinu; the accident with Dasom that morning had drained all your energy. You just wanted to enjoy your music and your bubble tea, alone if possible.
You had managed to recover the account you used to use on your favourite music app, with all the K-pop playlists you listened to before you died.
Those were the days.
So, with iKON's Dive blaring through your headphones, you walked past Jinu, brushing your shoulder against his side (because you knew it would be impossible to shove him away).
You had already taken a couple of steps when someone grabbed your free wrist and pulled you around.
Ducking Jinu again.
"Can you let me enjoy the day in peace...?" you had started to say, with your headphones still blasting music, when you witnessed Jinu leaning towards you.
He held your wrist tightly but not painfully with one hand, while the other rested on his hip. He leaned closer and closer, impossibly close to your face. Your breath caught in your lungs, your heart beating faster and faster.
He was too close.
His eyes had turned golden, like in his demon form, and he was smiling sideways, showing his fangs.
Damn, he was so handsome.
He moved his lips, saying something that you couldn't hear because of the music. Your noses were so close that if he leaned a little closer to you, they would touch.
He let go of your wrist and ran his hand up your arm in a caress to your shoulder. Then he took your other hand, raised it to his mouth, put the straw from the drink you were holding between his lips, and sipped. All this without breaking eye contact and without losing that stupid smirk.
You couldn't react. You couldn't do anything. You just watched as he took a sip, let go of you, and stood up straight, moving away from your now flushed face.
He said something else, which you didn't hear, turned around, and left.
You swallowed hard. What had just happened? Your heart was still racing.
You bit your lip hard, frustrated. Why did it have to be like this? Why did he have to make everything so difficult? You felt your face burning with embarrassment. You glanced sideways at the bubble tea cup, which still had some left in it, and frowned. There were traces of Jinu's chapstick on the straw.
You turned around and threw the cup into the nearest bin, frustrated.
Because of Jinu, you couldn't even finish your bubble tea or listen to Dive again without imagining his attractive, idiotic face.
You hoped he would meet Rumi soon and leave you alone.
Because that was really what you wanted to happen, wasn't it?
For him to stay away from you for good...
You slapped your face. You took a deep breath and decided to continue on your way.
And you didn't see that on the other side of the street, watching everything that had just happened, were Baby and Mystery.
Flabbergasted.
︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿
A/N: First of all, aracnophobia is NO joke... but Romance cowering on top of a wardrobe kinda is. AND! For you, all the Jinu starving readers... here you go! More content! This chapter is a little slower and shorter than the rest (I'm sorry), BUT this is a slow burn and sometimes you have to be patient :)
Hope you like it as much as the previous ones and you want to continue reading this series! 'Cause I have lots of things planned up my sleeve and I can't wait for you to read!
Also: who is your favorite Saja Boy up until now? haha
Thank you for reading, for all your support and kind words. Remember that those comments, likes and reblogs help me a lot as motivation! :)
Taglist: @just-set-things-on-fire @nightmarewasteland @ph1lo-s0ph1a @gremlinartstudio @strayharmony943 @smoophie @valeriele3 @confusedparticle @queenskippy @enerofairy @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @nonetheartist @queeniecrystal @zariahthewitch @smoophie @lovely-maryj @nerdsconquerall @feelya @doggyteam2028 @snowy-violet @iivantablackii @satansdaughter123 @bexeris @redkitsu03 @simplyscrewed @pipperika @soukoku63 @prettylittlelavvy @kyxmlii @cloud-9ine @edgycatx @wishiwaswritingrn @ikykwkleeknowwww @starmee-lodurrson @otakusef @rubyninja1 @gblubrry @lyunsafebubble @vixyvlo @uniquecutie-puffs @sunnywrites101 @amery-benson-cvii @strawberrydutchling @apelepikozume @junebug161 @chirikoheina @anything-and-everything-here69 @aurorab-0-realis @jaxyy219
330 notes · View notes
pleasantlycrazyworld · 1 day ago
Note
Hi friend !! I love your writing so much, it’s so good.
I have a request if you’d be down ?? Bob / Sentry / Void x y/n. Bob was married before the events of Thunderbolts. Like maybe they got married out of high school or something. Valentina finds out about his wife & uses her as leverage to get him to agree to the Sentry project. It doesn’t go quite as well as she’d hoped because she doesn’t realize Sentry & Void love y/n as well because they can see Bob’s memories with her & understand how he feels. Val & her helpers haven’t been very nice to y/n, like hitting her & stuff, so that sets Sentry off & y/n is the only one who can talk him or Void down without it being a fight.
Just a random thought I had for a story I thought you might enjoy 🫶🏻
I absolutely love this idea!!! Thank you so much for sharing this and letting me being the one to write this for you I hope I did it justice <3
>>>><<<<
The worst part was how she was using you. 
Bob hadn’t seen you in years. Not because he didn’t want to. But because the world made him believe that he was too dangerous to love anything. Especially you. You, with your soft laugh and stormy temper, the girl he knew he had to spend the rest of his life with even at just fifteen when the two of you started dating, the girl who he married straight out of high school. You were all fire and loyalty, too loud for small dreams and too real for a man who believed he’d be nothing but an addict. So, he decided to get clean. He knew he wasn’t getting many good things in this life, that you were by far the best thing to ever walk into his life and he refused to let you slip away. 
He took notice during his small moments of clarity that his addictions were taking a toll on you, you weren’t sleeping, you were skinnier than before, the way your eyes would light up when he would just stumble into your shared apartment broke his heart every time. He had a hard time believing he was the man you wanted, he knew he sure as hell wasn’t the man you deserved, but he was determined to become that man for you.
He promised he’d be back in just a few months, “It’s-it’s like a spiritual awakening type thing babe…I-I don’t know I think it’ll help…I mean how can I not get clean if the shit isn’t around me anymore, right?”
So he disappeared. 
And then they took you.
When Val found Bob once again, she realized she needed him. However, he just wouldn’t corroborate. 
Then she had a brilliant idea of finding you, it was easy to track you honestly, you hadn’t moved out of the apartment the two of you shared from high school, Pathetic really, she scoffed, after all this time you still hadn't left? She waved her hand and sent the information to one of her assistants to take you to make sure Bob would start behaving.
He didn’t remember much about agreeing to the Sentry Project. Not really. Valentina smiled too sharply. The others stood so stiffly in black suits and said words like containment, protocol, oversight. And then she dropped the photo on the table like it meant nothing.
Seventeen-year-old you, in the random white dress you found at a thrift store outside of the courthouse holding the marriage certificate, your smile shined brightly even through the creases and worn edges from being folded too many times. Seeing the picture made his heart stop, his breath got caught in his throat and his head spined with questions. How the hell did she find you?
“Sign the papers, Bob. Or she disappears.”
He tried to hold it together. For you. He let them drug him all over again. Chain him. Train him. Mold him into something that they deemed “manageable.” But Valentina made a mistake. She thought she could control him. She forgot who was watching.
Sentry knew your name. The Void knew your name.
They could feel it – something soft and bright in the back of Bob’s mind. Neither of them had a good understanding of what love was supposed to be. But they knew you. You were warm hands over trembling shoulders. You were the taste of sunlight. You were the one memory that made Bob feel human again, that Bob clinged to. And so Sentry loved you too, in his own confused, possessive way. 
Void didn’t love easily. He destroyed.
But even he curled protectively around your name in Bob’s head. He hated everything. But not you. Never you.
Val didn’t expect it to matter. Her entire team thought you were just leverage. By the time Bob found you–through layers of classified files, locked doors, and “not your concern” responses–you were bloodied and bruised. Dried cuts across your cheekbone. A limp in your step. You didn’t scream. You did cry, you did smile when you saw him.
That broke him. The scream that tore from his throat shook the entire facility. They tried to sedate him. Too late.
They always talked about the Sentry’s power like a scale. But they couldn’t truly understand all that he was capable of. It wasn’t Bob that scared them. It wasn’t even the Sentry.
It was the Void.
And now the Void was wide awake and alert.
Everything was red.
Walls crumbled like paper. Screams ringed loudly through the background– every member of security was scrambling. Someone begged for a tranquilizer. The glass melted from the hallway cameras as the lights stuttered and died.
He didn’t even look human anymore. Gold eyes. Black smoke curling from his skin like tar. He wasn’t walking–he was gliding forward, radiating fury. A voice like thunder cracked the silence:
“Who touched her?”
You coughed from where you were curled on the cot. Blood on your lip. You tried to stand, but stumbled. The moment your knees hit the floor, Bob shattered. Or maybe that’s when Sentry took over fully–no longer able to be held back by human guilt, no longer softened by protocol. He didn’t stop at the door. It exploded open with a blinding flash, heat searing the air. A trembling agent fired.
Bad choice.
Sentry caught the bullet mid-air and snapped his fingers. The gun evaporated. The man screamed as his arm bent the wrong way, suspended by nothing.
The Void was rising–blotting out all reason.
“Bob,” you rasped. “Stop. I’m okay--”
But he wasn’t Bob anymore. Not fully. He turned toward you–crackling energy rolling off him. Void and Sentry both trying to surface, pulling at the same body, eyes blazing gold then blinking and glowing black.
“They hurt you,” he growled, low and guttural. “They will die for that.”
You stumbled toward him, dragging your broken leg. “Hey,” you whispered, touching his chest. His heat nearly burned–but you didn’t pull away. “I’m here. I’m okay.” 
He flinched.
The Void’s rage twisted, but Sentry’s light pulsed under the surface. Torn in two.
“Don’t make me watch you become something you’ll hate knowing I witnessed,” you breathed, leaning into him. “You found me. That’s--that’s what matters.”
He dropped to his knees like a falling star. The energy hissed and died around him. His shoulders shook as tears fell down his face. You touched his jaw, guiding his face to yours. “Come back to me, Bobby.” He was crying. Quiet and broken, breath ragged. “I thought you were gone,” he whispered. You wrapped your arms around him. His frame trembled like a dying sun. “I thought you were gone. You’re mine, my husband, my love,” you murmured into his neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”
>>>><<<<
Valentina survived.
Barely.
She limps now. She constantly looks over her shoulder, when the lights flicker her breathing stops until they go back to normal.
Because while the world still calls him “Sentry” and prays he’s contained–She knows better. She knows you are the only thing that keeps him human. The only thing that can control him.  And if they ever try to take you again? There won’t be anyone left to stop the Void.
>>>><<<<
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed :) If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open<3
Tagging:
@msfirth
@my-name-is-baby
@metalarmsandmanbuns
@live-love-be-unique
@disillusioniary
@you-bloody-shank
@sarcazzzum
@itsjustisa
@qardasngan
@freakyflora
@nishinoyastoes
@jesterghuleh
@zzz000eee
@ginarely-blog
@nubecita040
@murnsondock
@sxbrinajade
@articel1967
@krystalyn7171
@erule
@saucysasha2035
@awesompawsum
177 notes · View notes
norristrii · 2 days ago
Text
ALL OR NOTHING.
Tumblr media
IN WHICH… how he would be as your teammate rival. (who secretly likes you)
featuring. Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, Lewis Hamilton.
warnings. rivalry, rivals to lovers, idk ?
Tumblr media
LANDO NORRIS
─── constant comparing: You joined the team and achieved more in one season than he has in years. It hurt. He hid it with jokes, but deep down, he was frustrated—and impressed.
─── passive aggressive: He’ll drop lines like, “Congrats. Must be nice to get it all handed to you,” even though he knew you earned it. It stings because he was jealous.
─── got weird when you beat him: If you place higher or make a smart move on track, he went quiet. Not cold—just… affected. Like losing to you meant more than losing points.
─── just teasing…or?: He teased you nonstop. Said you’re lucky, too confident, too shiny. But behind the banter? There was real emotion he didn’t know what to do with.
─── confessed at the worst time: One race, you both end up out after colliding. The team is upset. You argue. And then… “You came in and did in a year what I’ve been chasing for seven. I wanted to hate you. But somehow I just… didn’t.”
MAX VERSTAPPEN
─── thought you were overhyped: From day one, Max was skeptical. He saw the media buzz around your debut and thought you were just hype—flashy, fast-talking, and bound to fade by mid-season. “Let’s see if she survives one season," he said, watching your first out lap with arms folded, unimpressed—but watching all the same.
─── tried to ignore you: You beat him in qualifying early on. He said nothing. No handshake, no acknowledgment. But later, when you weren't looking, he lingered in the sim room and pulled up your lap telemetry. He told himself it was to “analyze the rookie.” In reality? He just needed to understand how the hell you were already that good.
─── refused to praise you publicly: When reporters asked about your growing success, he deflected. “Let her prove it over time.” But on team comms? You’d occasionally hear coded praise slip through: "Sector 2… clean. Not bad."
─── jealous when others hyped you up: When fans or journalists started calling you Max’s toughest challenger, his smile thinned. His body language shifted in press conferences, suddenly rigid. The next session? He drove like he was out to silence every headline
─── admitted it quietly: After a tense debrief, where you'd just barely out-qualified him again, the room emptied out. You expected a cold comment. Instead, he stayed silent, then finally said: “I hated that you made it look easy. Like I wasted years being careful.” You didn’t speak. He added—quieter this time: “Then I realized… I didn’t hate you at all.”
OSCAR PIASTRI
─── barely acknowledged your arrival: Oscar was always been reserved, but when you joined the team, he barely looked up. He figured you'd be fast, maybe clever—but still someone he'd out-race with calm calculation.
─── oddly fixated on your driving style: You noticed it during sim runs—he'd pause your data, replay your apex choices, then recreate them himself. He never said it out loud, but his way of understanding you started with your telemetry.
─── corrected you once, and hated it: During a strategy meeting, he publicly disagreed with your call. Later, he found you alone and said, "I wasn’t trying to prove you wrong. I just wanted to sound like I could keep up." the air between you shifted.
─── always races you clean, but just a little too close: You notice he never goes aggressive against you. Always leaves space. But his battles with you feel more intense than any other driver. Almost like he's chasing something more than a result.
─── flinched when you got hurt: After a minor crash, the team rushed to check you. Oscar stayed behind... until he thought no one’s watching. Then he headed to the medical room, peeked inside, and said: “Don’t do that again, you scared the shit out of me.”
CHARLES LECLERC
─── judged you harshly at first: Charles saw your rise as threatening. You were fast, fearless, and already drawing headlines. “She’s good,” he admitted once. “But she hasn’t been broken yet.” He believed true greatness came through loss—and waited to see how you'd handle pain.
─── felt exposed every time you beat him: When you started outrunning him, he wasn’t angry—he was rattled. You reminded him of everything he used to be before years of heartbreak dulled his spark. He avoided you after big wins. Quiet jealousy. Quiet awe.
─── raced you harder than anyone else: With others, he was clean. Precise. With you? Pushes to the limit. Wheel-to-wheel, late braking, side glances across the cockpit. He said it was competition. You knew it was something else.
─── shared brief moments that hit like thunder: After one qualifying session where you outpaced him, he passed you in the hallway and whispered: “That was beautiful.” You turned—but he was already gone.
─── found excuses to talk to you off track: Asked about setup tweaks he didn’t really need. Discussed race strategies as if your opinion mattered more than telemetry. Every conversation was him trying not to say the real thing: I trust you. I admire you. I think I’m falling.
CARLOS SAINZ
─── saw you as a challenge from day one: Carlos clocked your pace immediately and didn’t take it lightly. You weren’t just quick—you were clever, and that ticked every box on his threat radar. “She’s too confident,” he told his engineer with a smirk. Then you beat him in your second qualifying together. The smirk disappeared.
─── flirted with precision: Where others teased, Carlos was calculated. Compliments with bite: “Nice line through Turn 11… I almost used it myself.” The banter never felt casual—it felt like fencing with words, both of you pretending it wasn’t flirting.
─── tried to beat you and impress you at the same time: Late braking into turn battles, daring overtakes in FP1—it was all war, but you knew when he left just enough room, it wasn’t just good racecraft. It was respect. Maybe even care.
─── got possessive without realizing: When the team praised your setups more, he stayed quiet—but switched engineers mid-season. When another driver posted a photo with you, he liked it hours later, but unfollowed them quietly a week later. Carlos plays it smooth, but jealousy makes him messier than he admits.
─── nearly said it during a media storm: Rumors flew after one dramatic wheel-to-wheel battle. Pundits speculated teammate tension. In a quiet moment in the motorhome, Carlos looked at you, tired and maybe just a little unguarded. “I didn’t come here to fall for the person who’s beating me.” Then added— “But I guess you’re better at surprises than I thought.”
LEWIS HAMILTON
─── underestimated the emotional impact of you: Lewis welcomed you to the team with calm confidence. He’d seen rookies come and go. But when you started beating his lap times? His composure held… and cracked quietly beneath the surface.
─── watched, studied, remembered: You’d mention a setup preference once—he’d remember it weeks later. You joke mid-briefing? He quotes it under his breath during press. He says he’s focused on racing… but you live in his mental playlist now.
─── kept up appearances—but starts slipping: Always gracious in public. Smiles when you shine. But alone in the sim room, his fingers hesitate. You’re faster. His heart’s louder. His pride and feelings blur. “She is brilliant,” he tells his trainer. Then adds, quieter—“Too brilliant”
─── pushed harder when you challenged him: You beat him in Q3. His answer? A flawless overtake the next day, surgical and silent. Post-race, he hands you your helmet with a nod that feels… heavy. You ask, “Problem?” He shrugs. “Just learning what it feels like to lose to someone I care about.”
─── almost broke during a night flight: After a rough weekend, you're seated beside him on the team jet. Quiet. Tension simmering. He finally whispers: “You remind me of me before I was careful.” Pause. “Maybe that’s why I can’t stop wanting you to win. Even if it breaks me when you do.”
Tumblr media
© norristrii 2025
babsie radio ! quick headcanons, I’m starting to work on roommate! lando 🫶🏻
377 notes · View notes
John Walker X Reader: Handle with care
Tumblr media
Warning: just a little angst, fluff, kissing, cuteness, John being John, no use of y/n, happy ending
Word count: 1.9K
“What the fuck happened to your face?”
He hadn’t even made it out of the elevator, and you were already on his ass. Typical.
John glanced at you, a faint grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady—but you caught the slight hitch. He was hurting, more than just skin deep.
You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing.
“Nothing that makes you look like you got hit by a truck? Come on, Walker, you’re not fooling me.”
He sighed and rubbed the side of his jaw, wincing.
“Mission went sideways. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
You stepped closer, tone softer now.
“Doesn’t look like it. Sit down—let me take a look.”
His stubbornness was on full display, but something in your voice—something steady, familiar—made him pause. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he sank into the nearest chair.
You pulled out your first aid kit, hands steady despite the slight tremor in your chest. You caught him watching you from the corner of his eye.
You unfolded a towel and reached for your water bottle.
“Seriously,” you said, “you don’t have to tough it out alone, you know.”
John snorted, but there was a catch in it—like laughter that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m not exactly made of glass.”
No shit, you thought. He was a super soldier. He’d taken the serum. Made himself “invincible.” Whatever the hell that meant. But the bruises told a different story. The bruises reminded you that, despite everything, John Walker was still a human being.
You wet the cloth and pressed it gently to the swelling on his cheek. He flinched, lips tightening, trying not to show it.
“Look, I get it. You want to prove you’re the damn U.S. Agent, the tough guy who can handle anything. But sometimes, even heroes need a hand.”
He didn’t answer. Just let out a dry breath, eyes locked on the ceiling, like he was avoiding your gaze.
Your chest tightened the way it always did when he looked like that—like he was carrying the weight of the world. You hated that he felt like he had to do it alone.
You’d tried time and time again to show him he didn’t have to hold it in. Didn’t have to handle it all by himself. But you weren’t the greatest at showing how you felt. A lot of the time, your version of caring came out as teasing.
You were working on it. Still weren’t one hundred percent.
“Yeah, well... maybe I’m used to handling my own mess,” he muttered.
You didn’t miss the vulnerability buried beneath the stubbornness. You just pressed the cloth a little longer and let the silence stretch.
Then, carefully: “So what do you mean by that? ‘Handling your own mess’?”
John’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked down to meet yours for a second before sliding away again.
“I’ve always had to,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I like it. But it’s just how things are.”
He had been through it the past couple years. He went from Captain America to hated man, to wanted criminal. Divorced. Best friend dead. The list went on. And if he let himself really think about it, the feelings would crawl into his chest and spill out before he could stop them.
So he didn’t let them. He ignored the hurt. Numbed the pain the best he could.
You shook your head, frustration simmering low in your chest.
“It doesn’t have to be like that anymore. You don’t have to do it alone.”
He blinked, surprised by the softness in your voice—no teasing, no sharpness. Just something real. For a moment, he looked almost... unsure.
“Why are you so damn persistent?” he muttered, but there was no bite in it.
You gave him a small smile. The one you reserved for moments like this.
“Because I’m tired of watching you pretend you’re fine when you’re clearly not. And maybe because... I care.”
John’s eyes locked with yours, a flicker of something you couldn’t name passing through them. The walls he’d built so high wavered—if only for a heartbeat.
The Thunderbolts, the “new Avengers,” whatever the hell they were... they’d changed something in him. But opening up? That still didn’t come easy. He’d gotten good at deflecting.
So when you sat here—close, steady, vulnerable—it surprised him.
John’s eyes flicked away again, voice rough.
“People don’t usually... care about me like that.”
You raised an eyebrow, drying your hands on the towel.
“Because you’re an asshole?”
He let out a bitter laugh.
“Yeah. ‘Junior varsity Captain America.’ ‘Loose cannon.’ ‘Captain Crash-out.’ ‘Asshole.’ That’s the highlight reel.”
You stepped a little closer, softening. As you reached up to clean a cut near his temple, your heart stuttered. He was warm. Close. The tension between you tightened like a pulled thread.
“Doesn’t mean it’s true,” you said quietly. “And it doesn’t mean you have to carry that weight alone.”
John’s breath hitched—and before either of you could stop it, his hand came up, brushing a stray strand of hair back from your face. It was quick. Hesitant. But it was there—a crack in the armor you’d been waiting to see.
You swallowed, your chest tightening as his gaze held yours. The man who’d been so guarded, so sure he had to be the toughest in the room, suddenly looked vulnerable in a way that made your insides twist. 
He wasn’t U.S. Agent in this moment. Wasn’t the disgraced soldier or the man with a million labels.
He was just John. And for the first time... he wasn’t pushing you away.
In fact—he was pulling you closer.
You didn’t even notice it at first, not really. Just the shift of his knee brushing yours. The way his fingers lingered near your jaw after brushing the hair from your face. And then suddenly—his face was inches from yours.
Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
Close enough that the ache in your chest turned sharp and heavy, like the moment was balancing on a wire.
John’s eyes searched yours like he was still trying to figure out if this was real—if you were real. Like maybe he hadn’t meant to get this close, but now that he was here, he didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to let go.
And you didn’t pull away either. You couldn’t.
The air between you was charged, humming with something heavy and quiet and unfinished. His hand hovered near your jaw again—close enough to feel the heat of it but not quite touching. Your heart was pounding, each beat screaming say something, do something, but the words got stuck somewhere behind your ribs.
And then—
A door creaked open.
Footsteps. Voices.
You both jerked apart, as if the moment had never happened.
John leaned back in the chair, jaw tight, eyes cast down. You stepped away too fast, heart still racing, towel clutched in your hand like a lifeline.
“Hey,” Buckey called out from the hallway. “Briefing got moved. Ten minutes.”
“Copy,” John answered, voice sharp again, like armor snapping back into place.
You didn’t look at him as you packed up the kit.
He didn’t look at you either.
The compound was quiet. Most of the team had gone to their rooms or disappeared into their routines. But you couldn’t sleep. And neither, apparently, could John.
You found him in the training room, half in shadow, sitting on the edge of the sparring mat like he’d been stuck in his own head for too long.
He looked up when you walked in—surprised, but not startled. Like maybe he’d been hoping you’d show.
You didn’t speak at first. Just sat down beside him, leaving a careful few inches between your shoulders.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
There was a pause.
“I wasn’t going to—” he started, then stopped, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I mean, I didn’t mean to get that close.”
You looked at him then. Really looked. He wasn’t defensive, wasn’t retreating behind bravado. He looked… torn. 
You tried not to let his words get to you. You knew he didn’t mean to make your heart break a little. He was trying to tell you it hadn’t been intentional. That it was okay if you didn’t want him close. And that hurt—because how could he even think you wouldn’t want that?
“That’s a shame,” you said softly.
His gaze met yours, something flickering behind it. “What do you mean?”
You didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle again, heavy but not cold. And then you turned to face him, brows raising slightly as you stared. You couldn’t get yourself to say it just yet.
You needed him to acknowledge it first. And when his eyes widened in realization, lips parting slightly, you knew he understood what you meant.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said finally.
You leaned in, just slightly—just enough to let your shoulder brush his.
“I’m not exactly great at it either.”
You looked away, eyes shifting to the wall in front of you. You didn’t want to rush this. Didn’t want to move too fast and scare him into hiding. John Walker was a lot like an armadillo in some ways—ready to retreat into his shell the moment things got too real.
John didn’t say anything right away. But this time, he didn’t pull away.
Didn’t deflect.
He just sat there with you, the quiet pressing in around both of you. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something either of you needed to break.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
You were both just… there. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the edge of the mat in the low hum of the training room. The tension between you was different now—softer. Unspoken, but not hidden.
John’s arm brushed yours again, and this time, he didn’t pull back. He let the contact stay.
His voice broke the silence, low and rough. “I used to think… caring about someone would just make things worse. Give people another weapon to use against me.”
You turned your head, met his eyes.
“Do you still think that?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. But sitting here with you right now?” He shrugged slightly. “It doesn’t feel like a weakness. It feels like—” He shook his head, frustrated with the words, or maybe himself. “—something I don’t want to lose.”
Your breath caught.
“I know I’m not… easy,” he added, voice quieter now. “I’ve screwed a lot of things up. Burned bridges. Pushed people away before they could do it first.”
You smiled faintly. “I’ve noticed.”
That earned a small huff of laughter, but it faded quickly. He turned toward you more fully, something fragile behind the storm in his eyes.
“I keep trying to stop myself,” he said. “From doing this. From wanting to.”
You didn’t look away. “Then don’t.”
He blinked—like that simple permission startled him. Like he hadn’t even realized it was something you could give him. His hand moved first—resting lightly on your thigh, then sliding up to your cheek, slow and cautious. Giving you space to pull away if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
You leaned in the last inch for him.
And when your lips met, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It was steady—like both of you had been holding your breath for months and were finally letting it out.
His hand cradled your jaw like you were something he hadn’t expected to find in this life again. And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe you were the unexpected thing he didn’t know he needed. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was warm and uneven, but his voice was soft.
“I don’t know what this is gonna look like. But I want to try.”
You closed your eyes, heart full in your chest. “Me too.”
154 notes · View notes
majiq · 5 hours ago
Text
Tumblr media
if i told you that most of my wifes are gods and sometype of angels..
and above the gods there is infinity ampunt of levels which will be never known to the human mind...the max we know is gods..
its impossbile by any means to describe there beauty, taste, natural smell of their body..just impossbile by any means and its real..
the beauty is natural like the tree is natural..compare to plastica and general image how woman need to look like..
above the human there is aliens, above them is another live thing called angels and above them is gods..and above the gods there is infinty amount of levels up to the source,
yes..there is a source to everything..and gods is something different...
in the begining
they didnt believe you can generate electricty forever for free..or to open dimension which is real...
and other real stuff...or bring information..secret knowledge that worth hundred trillions...its proved..not theory..far away...
i can close in phone call the debt of USA which is 40 trillions...not only close to move them to + hundred if trillions...
i can explain to facebook how to make more 50 billions a day without investing single cent...its in front of their face...
50 billion a day...
i know things..ir call its secrets..which no amount of money can buy them...hundred of gazzilions its nothing compare to this...
the mirror people see every day is a smart hard disk that contains information and beyond the word magic...
did you hear about solar hologram..hell ..its beyond words
its even not 0.000000000000000001%..
of what i know...
i explained how electric car charge it self in a second..and you dont need to charge it..if tesla was today ..was put his hat down...
generations and they didnt get to it...such secrets worth hundred trillions...you dont need affiliate such things..its different here..
all the start ups you know is bullshit and we can check them one by one..
i know people that you cannot imagine how powerful they are and who they are..
did you know that there is global hidden police..
G.H.P
which did the most bizarre assinations in the entire history..and i explained one of them.
they did spy after sometype of aliens on earth..the real real man in black...compare to fake stories or the russians capture alien and know there technology and in real time the results are different..stay true i say
i know the man who control all the armies of Europe...and explain him how to generate electricty very is and alot..to not be depended on russia gas
i know the biggest man in usa which is my family...
littel bit about me..
and yes most of my wifes are angels and gods which appear as woman...and the beauty, taste, everything is beyond any words ever will be, if man or woman see them...they will cum forever and its far away from joke... because the body tasted high voltage energy...
above gods there is inifinty amount of levels which i cannot describe their name, abilities in nature and much more compare to the last level known for us which called gods...
all real real...they beauty is natural...and very dangerous to see...
this infinity is seen everywhere in nature...the see, space, air...
and all our reality with whatever inside there from dimensions and other stuff is a littel dot in a mystical card...and we will never know what go in other dot...
when you move dimension..you still inside your reality..its have infinty deepness...
now why its like this...the answer is simple...
from dinosaur burn something big compare to butterfly..the genetics DNA is different..
so why this reality is big and only dot in the end in a mystical card...is because the source..what ** burn from
ABA
mean dad is from Kabbalah..and its impossible to explain it deeply its so far away for the human mind...
its called the desret that burn from dad and why its so big...in the real Kabbalah there is explanations about the dna..of
ABA...
real science, not theory..or philosophical empaty talk which lead to depression..
we are one sand from the desret which is infinty... imagine for a second that the reality/sand we are in...is infinty...from dimensions to wormhole..gods..aliens..
and way more beyond our imaginations..and in the end is just one sand from the infinty desret which called the card..we will never ever know what goes in different sands..
yet the reality/sand we are in is beyond any imagination from infinty to other things...
Tumblr media
334 notes · View notes
fuckyeahisawthat · 1 day ago
Text
The Old Guard 2 story structure thoughts under the cut. I'm going to write a separate post about the action sequences because I have more specific things to say about what the first film did well and where I think TOG2 missed the mark.
Yeah, I thought a lot of the new lore was dumb as hell; it raised more questions than it answered and some of the retcons (the birthmark jfc) were very silly. And Discord and Tuah were about as shoe-horned in as I was expecting. (Remember back when many of us assumed Quỳnh would be the main antagonist of TOG2? It seems likely to me that there was pressure to add another A list star to the cast, and I would guess that once Uma Thurman was on board, the whole story bent a bit around her despite her character being...not much of anything at all. Call this the Chris-Hemsworth-in-Furiosa problem if you will.)
But many of these elements could have worked with a stronger script that gave more conscious thought to what it was trying to say in terms of character arcs and themes. The poor writing is most egregious with Nile, because she was a co-protagonist of the first film, and Gina Prince-Bythewood pushed hard to have her journey be central to the film. But really no one had much of a character arc to speak of, so it's not even like Nile's screentime was sacrificed in order to develop another character better. It was just...not there.
(I know I am always the person saying movies are too long, but I really think about 20 minutes is missing from the second act of TOG2. The movie is a skimpy 1:38 without credits. The ending action sequence is very long...but not egregiously longer than the ending of TOG1, which flows beautifully. But there should have been at least one and maybe two more sequences in the second act, which would have made room for so much more character development.)
Even accepting that all the stuff I thought was kinda stupid still had to be in there, it's not that hard to imagine how arranging the story a little bit differently would have made it stronger.
Nile's arc in the first film was about coming to accept her place in this family of immortal warriors--realizing that she was Different, that there was no going back to her old life, and accepting that using her immortality for good sometimes includes doing violence to protect the people she cares about. Nile is the newbie, but it's already implied that she is worthy of being Andy's successor as leader of the team ("next time, you go first.") Throughout TOG1 she is shown to be Andy's equal in determination, stubbornness and bravery, if not in years of experience. Andy is an ancient warrior but Nile was an active-duty member of a modern military; she has first-hand knowledge of how war is organized in the 21st century. She is the perfect person to bridge the transition between past and future.
Andy's arc in TOG1 was about finding her purpose again. At the end of that arc, she becomes mortal, but she has already decided that she wants to keep fighting, setting up a great set of stakes that should have been explored further in a sequel.
In the final fight of TOG1, we know Andy is mortal. She goes into the fight already wounded and bleeding, and we're worried for her the whole time. We see her awareness of her mortality and her decision to push through moments of fear around it to protect her family. We also see the whole team--following Nile's cue--adjust tactics to protect her without ever explicitly talking about it, including taking turns to shield her with their own bodies. It's a beautiful piece of action storytelling.
But throughout the fights in TOG2, Andy's mortality rarely felt like a real danger. We were reminded of it in the laziest way possible--a line of dialogue saying something both characters would already know--but we weren't shown it in the action choreography. In the opening fight she is paired with Copley, the only other mortal person on the team! What's the point of having a bunch of immortal battle buddies if one of them isn't there to be a human shield for you when necessary? (Yeah, Nile looked good af in that boat, but Nile and Copley's positions should have been swapped.)
Given where TOG1 left off, in a sequel, Nile's arc should have been about moving from being the new kid on the team to being a leader. And Andy's arc should have been about confronting the limits her mortality now places on her, and maybe coming to accept that she cannot always be at the front anymore, and that her role in training Nile to some day take her place is purpose enough for her. And then after she accepts that...she becomes immortal again and has to reevaluate everything once more.
If we follow these general arcs, then the first fight sequence should probably have been: Nile is leading the team, but she's not an expert at it yet. Andy is trying to hold back and let the others protect her, but she's not good at that yet either. At some point, Nile makes a mistake or a wrong call, and Andy has to step in and brute-force a solution, reminding us of her unparalleled skill as a fighter, but putting herself at risk in a way that makes everyone else on the team nervous. It turns out fine! But she could very easily have been killed or seriously wounded.
No one is happy about this state of affairs. Nile feels like she's not ready and Andy feels like she's being babied.
In this version of events, I think Andy would go to try to meet up with Quỳnh alone, over the objections of the rest of the team, maybe even sneaking away without telling them. Andy and Quỳnh's reunion is one of the strongest parts of the film, and as much as I like Nile being stubborn about going with Andy, having Nile and Discord in there at the same time ends up being a distraction from the very impactful stuff that's going on between Andy and Quỳnh. Maybe it takes Andy longer to find Quỳnh and the beautiful walk-through-time long take becomes a whole sequence of Andy looking for Quỳnh in their old haunts and remembering the time they spent there.
The whole thing with Nile being able to take away others' immortality could have been done in an interesting way, but they made the wrong narrative choices with it at pretty much every turn.
If you want to do this plotline in a way that gives Nile agency, then I think the solution is that Nile learns this information first, and alone, from Discord. This information needed to be set up way earlier in the story, at least by the beginning of the second act.
Then, back with the team, Nile brings up what Discord said, and here you could have the blah blah "there are legends" stuff etc. But also who knows, this could be bullshit, we don't even really know what Discord's motivations are at this point. Why are we gonna believe some rando who just popped up yesterday claiming she's the oldest immortal?
We could watch the characters work through the same questions and skepticism that we the audience have. What about Lykon? Why did the stab wound Nile gave Andy seem to heal, and it's only later that Andy noticed something has changed? Had Nile not even once nicked Joe or Nicky in six months of training together? (They realize she hasn't; she is pretty new to bladed weapons so they have mostly been training with dummy swords.) These conversations would still be exposition-heavy and you might not totally be able to avoid the Wise Asian Exposition Man problem that Tuah presents, but they could also function as character moments, the way the dinner scene at the Charlie safehouse does.
If Booker is there, he's the one who's like, well there is an easy way to test this out, and volunteers to have Nile wound him. Which she refuses. Maybe this is bullshit, but she's rattled enough that she doesn't want to risk it, and she's not about to reinforce Booker's own sense that he's expendable.
Crucially, Andy is not there during this time and they agree not to tell her anything for now since it's just a theory.
Then, the theorizing gets interrupted by Plot Things, and they have to go off and do some action. Andy isn't there and they all agree that Nile should be the one leading the team. We get space for all her feelings about all of them unhesitatingly trusting her to lead them when she's still not sure she's ready for that and also whether she's immortal kryptonite or not. Maybe they trust Booker enough to come with them; maybe they don't yet and there are feelings about that either way. Tuah could also be there I guess. (If they were going to put Tuah into the final fight I would have loved to see him do...anything distinctive at all. Tuah and Quỳnh having distinct fighting styles favoring different East Asian martial arts and weapons would have been cool as hell!) Or maybe Tuah and Booker are back at the safehouse waiting for Andy and that's where we get the piece of information that immortality can be transferred, setting up that possibility but still making it something only Booker and Tuah know about.
During this mission Nile has another chance to make a crucial call and she gets it right this time; maybe it's a trap and they have to abort whatever they were trying to do but she successfully extracts everyone safely. She saved them all. Their trust in her was not misplaced. Meanwhile, Andy comes back without Quỳnh; Booker and Andy could still have the conversation they do about expiration dates.
Then, the third act. Nile in the lead, confident in her command this time. All of them fighting together, side by side as a team. (God I hated that the choreography of the final fight split them up so much.) Including Booker, who betrayed them. Including Nile, who might kill them all. Including Andy, who's mortal.
They are trying their best to protect Andy. But during the fight she is mortally wounded, and that's when Booker gives up his immortality. He probably does it in much the same way--making Nile cut him "accidentally", and then fighting his way to where Andy is pinned down, wounded, and getting seriously injured himself in the process. So now Andy is healing and Booker is dying, and Andy still doesn't understand why, but Booker gets to die surrounded by his family instead of alone in a hallway at a moment that's not even a turning point in the battle. I'm sure many people still would have hated this plotline on the basis of "suicidal person ends up dying anyway, just finds a way to make it a Noble Sacrifice," and I understand why that leaves a bad taste in a lot of people's mouths. But I do think this is consistent with Booker's characterization. He would have traded his immortality to save his dying son if he could, but he couldn't, and that haunts him. So giving it to Andy still makes his arc a tragic one instead of one about healing and moving past self-loathing and survivor's guilt. But I think it would have felt more narratively earned this way. Booker is the first immortal we know to have died since Lykon! It's a big deal! Ending the movie with the rest of his family not even knowing it happened feels weird and bad!
And then...yeah. There are ways to do an open ending of a middle part of a trilogy where characters in an ensemble are split up that still feel emotionally satisfying. (The Two Towers and The Empire Strikes Back both do this very well.) There are ways to do a last-minute twist ending that also work well. (See: TOG1.) But the end of TOG2 did neither of these, and while I felt like the Andy and Quỳnh part of the story did leave off in a satisfying place, the rest of it was a bit like...wait. That's it??
So I think there could have been a good (or at least...better) movie in there, even burdened with a bunch of elements that wouldn't have been my choice for a sequel. But unfortunately that wasn't what ended up on screen.
77 notes · View notes
Text
The Somnambulist
(Dean x female reader, Dean x Lisa)
Summary Dean returns to Lisa's house after sleeping with you again. He feels shame, self-hatred, a million other things. But more than anything, he's longing for you. For who he used to be. Sequel to Payback. CWs Cheating. Dean spiraling. Self destructive behavior. Self hate. Some explicit sexual content. 18+. 4.2k words.
Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
Tumblr media
Dean stands in the kitchen, in front of the sink, scrubbing soap over his hands so hard he’s sure he’s about to tear the skin off.
He showered at the motel. Once you’d gone, he kept lying there for a while, staring at nothing. The realization of what he’d done slowly sinking in. Cheater, he thought. Traitor. Liar.
The last one he isn’t yet, but it’s only a matter of minutes. He’ll have to walk upstairs at some point, into Lisa’s - their, his - bedroom. She might be asleep already, or she might have waited up, the way she so often does. It’s sweet, he knows it’s sweet, that she’s wanting to spend more time with him, ask him about his day. Boy, will he have something to tell her tonight.
He takes a sharp breath, scrubs harder. Like it’ll do any good. 
The last of the soap washes off his hands, disappears down the drain and he turns the water off. Thinks about washing his mouth with the soap too, the way his dad used to do when he would be caught cussing as a kid. Well, one time he did that, and then he seemed to not care anymore.
Dean only kissed you, didn’t even eat you out or anything, so he’s not sure where the impulse comes from. He washed his dick under the shower in the motel, his hand that he touched you with, the one he had in your mouth and the one he fingered your ass open with before fucking you there, he washed that, the sudden need to do it again overcoming him when he walked in the front door.
The truth is, he doesn’t want to lose the taste. He wishes you were still all over him, that he could go back and un-shower himself. Wishes he could catch whiffs of you, the way he used to, back then, when you’d fuck and then he’d walk around with it all over himself the rest of the day. Your essence still on his cock, his fingers, on his tongue. You said you liked it, and he did too.
He closes his eyes. How could he have fucked up so tremendously.
“Dean?” he hears a soft voice call from upstairs. 
He keeps his eyes closed. Lisa’s voice is quiet so as not to wake Ben Fuck, Ben, who was probably waiting to hang out with him before bed, play some video games. Dean clenches his jaw.
“Be right up,” he whisper-calls. It’s unlikely Lisa heard him come in, seeing as he was quiet, but she would have heard the kitchen faucet.
He needs to move, he knows that. He needs to walk upstairs, and somewhere between here and there, he needs to fix his face so that Lisa won’t read the truth on it. Sure, he could be honest. That’s another option. But it’s not just that he fucked someone who’s not Lisa. It’s different. It’s you.
You’re everything he’s left behind, not just a woman who lured him back into her bed with only a dozen sweet words, but a symbol of his past life. With Sam gone, down in Hell, his hunting gear stowed in his car, the car he hides away in the garage so he doesn’t have to look at it, seeing you was like walking into your childhood bedroom after thirty years, nothing moved, everything the same, the same smell. Of course, Dean doesn’t know what that actually feels like, and neither do you. Lisa might. Ben might, one day. But not the two of you.
You called him, pretending it was over a case. And Dean thought he owed ya, with how he’d ended things. Well, rather not ended things, more appropriately. Sam told him he wanted him to get out, live a real life. His little brother thought you were just Dean’s most reliable hook-up, ye olde faithful. He can’t help but internally scoff at that little pun. Sam never understood what you and Dean had, what you shared. How could he?
So what is he gonna do? The cheating is one thing. It’s situational, right? The circumstances are less so. He met you, pretended to himself that it was to help you, to make up for, a little bit at least, leaving you high and dry and going to live with another woman, a woman he’d met all of three times in his life. But the truth is that’s not why he came to that bar. 
He came cause he wanted to see you. Cause seeing your number when you contacted him, hearing your voice, it threw him right back into what he knows and loves. And misses. God, he misses it.
He needs to move. He needs to move now, get his ass upstairs, or Lisa’s gonna come down and check on him and if she finds him standing in the dark of the kitchen staring at nothing, she will know. She’s a smart woman. She’ll know.
So Dean walks upstairs. Slowly. The low light of the upstairs hallway greets him. The door to the bedroom is ajar.
He could turn around and leave. He’s still got a duffel of clothes in the Impala he never bothered to take inside. He could get in, leave, drive away and never have to look Lisa in the face again. He could do that. Maybe she and Ben would remember him fondly. At least somewhat.
He pushes the door open. Lisa’s in bed, looking beautiful and clean, a book in her hands. She looks up with a practiced, calm smile. Dean smiles back. It feels all wrong on his face.
“Hey, babe,” he says. God, did that sound as put-on as he imagined it? Surely he can’t be that obvious?
He walks over to the dresser, turns his back on Lisa. Takes off his watch. Slowly.
“How was drinks?” she asks. Dean freezes, the kind of freezing you do when you think you see a shadow in the dark. Drinks. Drinks.
Of course. He texted Lisa that he was going out for a drink with some of the guys from work when he went to meet you. Kept it vague. Instinctually covering his tracks. Does that mean he is a liar already? Was he from the get go?
“Good,” he says, sniffs. He turns, not sure what to do with his hands. “Kinda tired now.” Lisa nods, keeps looking at him, like she expects him to say something. 
“Just gonna brush my teeth,” he says with another forced smile, and then fucking raises his hand to point at the ensuite bathroom door. Bad. Bad all around.
He walks over, closes the door quietly behind him. He puts both hands on the sides of the sink, and lowers his head. Closes his eyes. 
It’s a mistake, he realizes a second later. What he sees on the dark screen of the inside of his eyelids is your back, ass pushing back against him. What he sees is the moment, just two hours ago, when he pulled out of you, turned you over. Your face flushed and lids low from the orgasm you just had. The way you squeezed your eyes shut when he pushed into you again.
He feels his cock twitch violently, once, twice. He’s sure he can still feel where your fingernails ran down his back when he came. Can still feel himself pulsing, deep inside of you. 
He’s growing hard before he can do much about it. He wishes he wasn’t, but at the same time, the lust - not want, not horniness, lust - he feels at the memory of you wishes to be expelled. He wants to use it, feast on it. Have it run down his chin, drip down on his chest, cover him all over.
Avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, he brings his hands to the front of his jeans, unbuttons them. He closes his eyes, pushes one hand inside.
There was that one night the two of you spent in Reno. He’d sent Sam ahead on some nonsense errand, but what he really wanted was you all to himself. He wrapped his arm around you, pushed you up onto the table. Grabbed the hair at the back of your head, pulled it back. Made you look at him while he pressed his tongue into your mouth.
When the two of you were done, sweat covering your bodies, chests rising and falling slowly, you took his face into your hands.
“I see you,” you said. “I know exactly who you are, Dean Winchester.”
It felt like something beautiful back then. Now it feels like a threat.
Dean begins pumping himself. With his eyes closed and his hand not having taken him out of his briefs, he can almost pretend he’s not doing anything. Just keeps thinking of your face, your voice. The way he could never put one over on you, and the way he was terrified and ecstatic about that, and–
“Now why would you hide that away in here?” he hears Lisa’s voice right behind him, and his heart jumps so hard he’s sure it’s about to leap into his throat. 
He opens his eyes, and she’s standing right behind him, smile on her face. Just then, she wraps her arms around him, Dean frozen where he’s standing. She kisses the back of his shoulder without taking her eyes off his reflection. She managed to sneak up on him. How did that happen?
He gives a stifled laugh as he feels her hand travel down, slip to where he’s still holding himself. 
“Thought you might be tired,” he says, and his traitorous brain adds: you never had to worry about that with her. He knows that’s not totally right, that he only gets to think that because you and him never lived together, never had any normalcy in your life. Every day felt like life and death, because it was. You never had the privilege of getting bored of each other, getting tired.
Lisa pulls his hand along with hers from his jeans, then leads him into the bedroom. She’s wearing that blue negligée he likes, which makes him realize that she was waiting up for him. And he was stroking himself to the thought of you in the bathroom.
She drags him onto the bed with a perfect, feminine giggle. All the things that should drive Dean crazy, and have, for the longest time. All these displays, all these little acts. But right now, that’s the last thing he wants. It’s too bright, too much. There’s a pain in his chest he can’t understand.
She starts taking off his clothes and then gets busy on his cock. The panic in him, the thick ache of the betrayal he is committing even now, is making it difficult to stay hard, so he closes his eyes. Imagines you.
Your hair between his fingers, your sounds. Your nose pressing against his pubic hair. There’d be scars on your back, unlike on Lisa’s. There’s a half-moon one he always saw when you did this. He knows if he opens his eyes, it’ll be gone. So he doesn’t.
When Lisa stops and drags him on top of her, he can open his eyes a little, look just past her. He presses into her and then kisses her, but she feels all wrong. He grabs her thighs, hoists them up by his sides. And starts thrusting.
Now he sees you. The way you’d tilt your head back, eyes closed and he’d watch every miniscule movement on your face. That almost ugly expression that told him you weren't faking it, because if you were, you'd try to look more put together, prettier. You always threw yourself into pleasure like you had nothing to lose.
“You fucking love this,” he’d say through clenched teeth, like it was some sort of gotcha. It always was, the give and take between you two. The game you played. But Dean never had the upper hand. Not once. Not until the end when he was the one who decided that things were over. And it didn't feel like he had the upper hand, even then. Sure didn't feel like it when he kissed you the moment the motel room door closed behind him, so hard, like his life depended on it. 
“Shut up,” you’d pant and he’d grin and keep going.
“Slow, baby,” Lisa says and Dean needs to blink quickly, focus on where he is. Remember. She's under him, and in the half-dark of the room he's not sure what her expression is like for a second. He's stopped, but now he starts going again, slower, as requested.
He feels Lisa's thin, perfectly manicured fingers run along his neck and then into his hair. They're so soft, like a baby's fat cheek or something. Gentle, even when they grab some of the shorter hair at the back of his head. You were never gentle. You'd grab on to them as hard as you could. Make it feel like you were gonna pull them clean out of his head. And he loved it.
Lisa feels different everywhere, inside and out, so it's hard to keep up the illusion. He searches his mind for another memory of you, but then what he sees instead is your face the last time he saw you. Not when he broke things off, no. He was weak-spined enough to do that over the phone. After disappearing off the face of the earth when Sammy went into the cage, and he showed up at Lisa's front door. You'd kept calling him, asking him if he was okay. Begging, in the end, for some sign that he was alive. He'd never heard you sound like that.
“Please, Dean,” your voice message had implored him. “Please, just, if you're out there somewhere, just let me know you're okay. That's all I ask. Just, fucking, please.”
He'd listened to that message, then blindly hit the dial button. Not giving his brain any time to think about what he was doing.
But no, before that. The last time he saw you in person. He'd told you he and Sam would be doing something, something dangerous. Stopping the apocalypse. Sure, it meant he'd lose his brother forever. But he couldn't think about that. Panic pounded in his head and chest, but he was practiced at pushing it just to the side of his periphery. You'd leaned forward, looked up at him with challenge in your eyes.
“Big fucking deal, aren't you?” you said, and what could Dean do but grab your face, kiss you. You allowed him to fuck all his fear into you that night. Had let him take the lead when he needed it, surrender your body to him for everything he needed. And when the panic took over, you'd taken over, too. Made sure it all went somewhere. Made sure his head was empty, empty, empty, and he got a blessed few hours of dreamless sleep before it all came rushing back.
In a way, it's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for him. You knew he wasn't gonna want to talk, or cry, or anything like that. You knew you couldn't offer him a solution. This was what you could give him, and you did.
All this time, he's been fucking Lisa. It can't be doing much for her, and it's not really doing much for him. Still, he keeps going. What else is he supposed to do?
His orgasm, when it comes, is weak. His mind’s not stimulated, he’s always needed that, it’s just a physical reaction, and Dean feels more shame at that gush over him the minute he’s emptied. Fucked Lisa like she’s his fist, and then not even enjoying it. They have good sex, usually, passionate, rules clearly assigned and no stepping out of them, but it’s good.
But it’s not what he had with you. Not where you did whatever felt good in the moment. Not where he came so hard sometimes he thought his brain was gonna melt out of his ears. Not where there was that chemical, biological, whatever connection that just can’t be explained, that just exists. 
He pulls out of Lisa. Gives her another quick kiss, but the shame is so thick in his body that he’s pretty sure he’s trembling. Gets her some tissues so clean herself up, then does the same to him. She’s quiet, and she must know something’s going on. But she must be so used to Dean being out of sorts that she’s just taking it in stride. At least he’s here, he’s not drunk, or waking from a nightmare. No, no, he only betrayed her, after she took his sorry ass in.
He’s as low as they come. He knows that.
She scoots close to him when they go to sleep, rests her head on his chest. Dean wraps his arm around her. Stares at the ceiling. And waits.
Tumblr media
The blue light of morning is just breaking through, the first birdsong outside, when Dean finds himself sitting in the Impala. He’s dressed, did so in the dark so as not to wake Lisa. He has a bottle of Jack in one hand and his phone in the other.
He wanted to sit outside, because it felt like the walls were coming closer, were going to press down on him, squeeze him until his eyes popped, kill him. But he’s just barely got the decency to not sit in the garden with a quart of liquor when the sun rises, for all the neighbors to see. And he didn’t want to sit in the living room, cause the house still felt too tight there, like it was gonna collapse on him, plus Lisa or Ben could come downstairs, look for him, find this husk of him there. Maybe run away screaming
But here in his car, he feels a little better. He’s still inside, hidden from view by the thick, grey walls of the garage, but if he’s not looking straight ahead at the garage door, he can almost fool himself into thinking he’s outside. Parked somewhere on the side of the road. Just between cases. 
He takes another swig. It’s not the first time he’s drinking in the morning, not even the first time since he moved in with Lisa. But it’s been a while. Fuck it. He’s betrayed her so much tonight, one more shouldn’t make a difference. 
He squeezes his eyes shut as the liquor runs down his throat. The slight burn, the one he stops feeling when he drinks a lot. He likes it. It feels like his attempts at being a decent man are being burned out of him.
The dial tone feels endlessly loud in his ear. He swallows, throat dry. He doesn’t know what’s worse - that you do pick up, or that you don’t. There’s a click in the line, and then your voice.
“What do you want?” you say, and Dean’s stomach drops, down through his feet and into the core of the earth, where it burns up. Terror. Pain. And something different. Something like relief that makes him close his eyes, lean his head back. Some of the painful anxiety in his chest finally dissipating, but replaced with something equally violent. Longing.
“I need to see you,” he says, his voice rough and dark. It feels like someone scratching at it. He thinks he hears some sounds in the background of your call, maybe a TV. You scoff.
“Right,” you say. “Probably to wring my neck. Nice try, Dean.” Dean presses his lips together. That’s what he should want, right? Fucking kill you for what you made him do, for using your feminine wiles, your body, your perfect, fucking body, your seduction skills to lure him into bed. But that’s not what happened. He’s a big fan of finding blame somewhere else, but he can’t in this case. He simply can’t.
“No,” he says, his voice a little breathless on top of everything else. “I just, I just need to see you.” Need to touch you, he doesn’t say, because he’s pretty sure it’d sound pathetic. He needs you to give him a reason to drop everything and escape this life, to promise him some way out, because he can’t go back. He doesn’t fit anymore. He never did, but now he thinks he’d have to cut off part of himself to press himself into the mold.
“Well,” you say, voice sounding neutral. “I’m already out of state. So too bad.” Dean bites his lip, presses himself deeper into the leather seat.
It’s possible that you’ve made it that far. If you started driving the moment you left, didn’t stop. To get away from him, as fast as possible. What did you think he was gonna do? Come after you? To do what? But the truth is, you know him as well as he knows himself. Know that he’d blame everyone under the sun for what he did before pointing at himself. Know that he’s always been good at justifying his actions. If that requires you to be the bad guy, so be it. Except that Dean would never do that. And he hates that you think he would. It’s worse than anything.
“Please,” he says, not meaning to, but like a prayer when you think you’re about to die, it comes out of him. You’re quiet, don’t answer. He hears the TV - a commercial. Happy music, shrill. 
He doesn’t want to think about why you’re up at this hour. About why you didn’t collapse into bed the moment you checked in. About the fact that maybe, just like him, you couldn’t sleep. If he lets himself think that, he needs to turn the key in the ignition, start driving. If there’s any chance you still want him.
“I fucked up,” he says, voice quiet, because it’s a terrifying thing to say. He’s so deep in this. No matter which way he turns, someone’s getting hurt. “I shouldn’t have…” He stops. Once he says it, it’s out there. It’ll be in the air. It’ll waft around him, and everyone will be able to smell it, to read it. To understand that Dean Winchester should never have gotten out of the life. That he was doomed from the beginning. That he made, maybe, the single most significant mistake of his life when he left you.
“Shouldn’t have what?” you ask, and maybe he’s imagining, but your voice sounds softer. “Shouldn’t have what, Dean?”
“Left you,” he says, taking the plunge. “I should have stayed with you.” You take a slow breath. Hold it for a moment. Don’t seem to let go of it.
“Well,” you say, “it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” And is it? Can’t he just go? He could roll down the window, turn up the radio. Drive to you and join you, go back to being who he used to be, rather than this stranger he’s pretending to be every day. This sleepwalker. Dean’s seen actual zombies, and they seemed more alive than he feels.
But Sam asked him. Asked him to get out. He owes him that, his little brother who jumped into Hell to save the world. And Dean so completely powerless about it, so this is the only thing he can do. And he knows you’re not getting out - God, you’d probably end up skinning the neighbor’s cat in the first week. So what does he do? How does he keep going? In the end, you decide for him,
“It’s late, Dean,” you say, your voice almost soft, and it’s not late, it’s early, but you’re right. It feels late. “Go to bed.” Dean feels like something is about to break out of him. Maybe he’s gonna beg you. Maybe he’ll disgrace himself like that.
But he doesn’t get to. There’s a click in the line, and he knows you’ve hung up.
He keeps the phone up by his ear for a while longer. Morning breaks over the neighborhood, already hot. At some point, Dean puts down the bottle in the footwell of the car. He’ll need to get rid of it or Lisa will think he’s drinking in secret, but right then, he doesn’t have the strength. He takes off his jacket and collapses on the couch in the living room. Face pressed into the nice, blue fabric, eyes wide open.
He’s already being watched by his brother, but Dean doesn’t know that. It doesn’t matter to him, in this moment. 
He’ll put on his clothes, in just a little while. Go to work, joke around, drive his car. Sit at the dinner table, kiss Lisa, play with Ben. That’s all he’ll do.
But he’ll have his eyes closed the entire time.
Tumblr media
110 notes · View notes
elixirfromthestars · 1 day ago
Text
Temptation has won over and I am ready for my pirate love story! 🙂‍↕️💖
More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩
After months of being away, it was always a joyous reunion when he would return. He would swing you up in his arms, twirling you until your little giggles turned into full blown laughter. He would set you back down on your feet and greet your mother with an affectionate kiss to her temple before tugging you both into his arms. “My best girls are always here to greet me when I get home,” he’d grin.
^ wait, stop what a cute family! 🥹🩷
You took the few, small steps up to him, taking his hand in yours excitedly. “My name is y/n,” you chirped up at him. “What’s yours?” The boy studied you with pursed lips. “Bradley,” he muttered. Your father had let out a booming laugh, causing Bradley to jump.“ That’s the first answer we’ve been able to get out of him since we caught him rifling through our supplies on the ship!” he guffawed.
^ I am so here for big brother Bradley 🥹🫶🏼
…when your father was home, he would take you and Bradley down by the docks to teach you the ways of sailing. “You want to tie it like this, sweetheart,” he’d say to you as he guided your hands on how to move the rope. “It’s one of the most important knots a sailor needs to know. It’s called the ‘bowline.’”
^ I love that the dad is teaching both of them! 🥺
“Because, my little minnow,” your father smiled, “it’s an important skill to know and have.”
^ my little minnow? 🥺💖 you always come up with the cutest nicknames I swear! 🥹
“As the dead, lad,” your father said solemnly, rubbing the bowl of his pipe. “Ghosts walk amongst the living, as real as you or I. Some even sail the seas, waiting for the day Davy Jones lets them pass into the great beyond.”
^ Davy Jones you say??? 👀👀
“Would you ever go looking for treasure?” you questioned. Your father smiled. “I’ve already found my treasure,” he said, casting a fond smile to your mother, who blushed under his gaze.
^ Okay so I’m about to get a cavity from all the sweetness 🙈💕💕
“That’s enough, Maverick,” your mother had chided. Your father had the good sense to look sheepish. Maverick was a name your father had earned during his time at sea, and your mother only called him that when she was cross. Usually, she called him by his given name; Peter or Pete. “My apologies, Penny, my dear,” he said.
^ MAV AND PENNY?!?! 👀👀 I was not expecting that reveal, but I adore it!! 🫶🏼
A good, long while was not long enough in the end. It was six years later when you got the news that your father’s ship had gone down in a storm off the coast of the Caribbean. Your mother had been beside herself, crying all hours of the day as you and Bradley did your best to stay strong for her sake.
^ Okay…so by now I should be used to getting my heart torn out in these stories by you my dear Liz, but I didn’t expect it so soon 🥲💔
Tumblr media
“It’s not fair,” you cried. “We didn’t even get to bury him.” “I know, Guppy,” he sighed, hugging you tighter. Bradley wasn’t very good with words, and he sure as hell wasn’t good with emotions. “But he wouldn’t want us to dwell on this, you know that.” “I know,” you sniffled, rubbing at your eyes. “He always loved the sea.” “He loved being here, too,” Bradley countered. You looked up to see his own eyes glassy with unshed tears.
^ The fact that he’s still there for her even though he’s not good with handling emotions I— 😭😭
Tumblr media
Your mother had followed your father not long after. She had stopped eating and barely took a sip when you begged her to drink some water. She would stay perched by the window in the bedroom she once shared with your father, just staring out at the sea as if willing him to return. It had ended up being a fever that had taken her one early, autumn morning. It was your turn to be inconsolable as you once again found yourself buried into Bradley’s shoulder as he held you tightly. You buried your mother on the hill that overlooked the sea, forever waiting for your father to return home.
^ “buried your mother in the hill that overlooked the sea, forever waiting for your father to return home.” AS IF HER DEATH WASN’T HEARTBREAKING ENOUGH 💔💔
Tumblr media
“I see them,” he interrupted you, smiling confidantly. You fixed him with a puzzled look. “I see Mav and Penny just over there past the waves.” Your heart stopped and hot tears licked at your eyes as you looked back at the churning waters. It was then that you saw what Bradley had been talking about. You saw your mother and your father with smiles on their faces, staring at each other with adoration clear as day on their faces. You wiped the tears away from your eyes as you looked back to see them waving at you. You huffed a laugh and smiled back at them with a wave of your own. “Looks like Davy Jones let Mav come back for his treasure,” Bradley said. You threw yourself into his arms, holding him tightly. “Thank you, Bradley.” The sea could be cold and cruel, but you had the strength to weather the storm.
^ Okay so don’t mind me just sobbing over here, there’s nothing to see 😭❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 These two siblings by fate might just become my favorite pair 🥹🩷 Bradley is such a sweet big brother 🤧💖 And now that they only have each other to count on, I wonder what path life will take them 🥺
So I will be fighting with myself continuously to choose which stories’ part I read next, but oh well 😂🩷 Maybe I’ll put all your stories on a little wheel Liz and spin it when I can’t decide which story to continue next 😂 I am so intrigued by the start of this, and I’m even more excited to meet Captain Jake Seresin 🤭💕
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Fool's Fare: Prologue
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Fool's Fare: Prologue
Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader
Summary: Captain Jake "Hangman" Seresin had come close to swinging from the gallows more times than he would care to admit. He's stolen, cheated, even killed. The worst thing he's ever done? Broken the heart of a woman. Having broken the heart of the woman whom Davy Jones himself had fallen for six years ago, Jake is now cursed to live as something not dead, but not alive. He's doomed to live a half-life for the rest of his existence unless he manages to obtain the treasure Davy Jones deems most valuable. The problem? He has no idea what it is, and he only had seven years to obtain it.
Trigger Warnings: Death of parents, angst, talk of ghosts and the supernatural, Big Brother!Bradley...I think that's it?
Word Count: 2.3k
A/N: I couldn't help myself, so I went ahead and wrote this. I am just as interested as y'all to see where this fic goes lol As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are encouraged and appreciated! I'll be doing Drabble Sunday this weekend to celebrate my first 100 followers! So get your requests ready!! 18+ ONLY!! And you can find me on AO3 under arcane_vagabond!
Series Masterlist || Moodboards || Playlist
Tumblr media
The ocean was a deep, terrifying swirl of forgotten pasts and harrowing mysteries. The vicious pull of the waves sending many sailors to their graves for thousands of years without mercy. No, the ocean was not kind. It was the source of life on the best of occasions and cruel and unforgiving on the worst.
Your father had been a sailor. Working for a large shipping company hauling various goods from one end of the sea to the other, he was often gone for long stretches of time. After months of being away, it was always a joyous reunion when he would return. He would swing you up in his arms, twirling you until your little giggles turned into full blown laughter. He would set you back down on your feet and greet your mother with an affectionate kiss to her temple before tugging you both into his arms.
“My best girls are always here to greet me when I get home,” he’d grin. Your mother would hum, running her hands through the beard he’d grow during his time away.
“Come inside,” she’d say, leading you both into your modest, seaside home. Your father would sit at the table as your mother fixed him a plate. He would tell her that he was more than capable of fixing his own plate, but she would wave him off and place the food gently in front of him with a kiss to the top of his head.
One day, when you were a little over four years old, your father had come home from a voyage with a scraggly looking boy who looked to be about twice your age. Your father had been dragging the boy by the scruff of his collar when you and your mother had come out to greet him. The boy had dark brown hair that had been bleached from time in the sun and steady, brown eyes that held steady as he took in the house before him.
“Found this one on the coasts of the Carolinas,” your father had said with a grin, letting go of the boy’s shirt. He stumbled forward, almost falling headfirst onto the ground. He looked back at the older man with a scowl before turning to look at the two of you.
“My, don’t you look a sight?” your mother had said with a small smile as she took the boy in. He puffed out his chest in a bid to make himself seem bigger and your mother had laughed. You took the few, small steps up to him, taking his hand in yours excitedly.
“My name is y/n,” you chirped up at him. “What’s yours?”
The boy studied you with pursed lips.
“Bradley,” he muttered. Your father had let out a booming laugh, causing Bradley to jump.
“That’s the first answer we’ve been able to get out of him since we caught him rifling through our supplies on the ship!” he guffawed. “C’mon now, boy. Let’s go get us some supper.”
And so your family had taken in Bradley Bradshaw as one of your own, and he settled in fairly quickly amongst the rest of you. He would help your mother out with different chores around the house, and when your father was home, he would take you and Bradley down by the docks to teach you the ways of sailing.
“You want to tie it like this, sweetheart,” he’d say to you as he guided your hands on how to move the rope. “It’s one of the most important knots a sailor needs to know. It’s called the ‘bowline.’”
“Like this?” Bradley had asked, holding up his own rope for your father to inspect.
“Atta boy, Rooster!” your father had laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. Bradley had earned the nickname not too long after he had joined your little family. Your father had just gotten back from another transporting job. He had been woken from his sleep by sounds coming from the kitchen. When he had stumbled into the room, he had seen Bradley already working on feeding the fire for the day.
“The sun isn’t even up yet, Bradley,” your father had laughed as the boy shrunk in on himself. “I doubt even the rooster is awake! Looks like you’re gunnin’ for his job.”
And the name had stuck.
Now, Bradley was more confident in his place within your family. Now, Bradley was much taller and his form was filling out thanks to the many hours spent doing the heavy lifting around your home.
“Keep this up,” your father started, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips, “and maybe I’ll take you with me on a job here soon.”
Bradley’s face lit up. “Do you mean it?”
“Let’s see, you're about, what, sixteen now?”
“Yes, sir,” Bradley nodded, a smile etched onto his face. Your father nodded thoughtfully.
“Yeah, you should be ready here soon.”
You looked down at the rope in your hands with a frown. “I’ll never get this. Why do I even have to learn this?”
“Because, my little minnow,” your father smiled, “it’s an important skill to know and have.”
“But Mama says that women aren’t even allowed on ships,” you muttered. Your father smoothed the hair out of your face with a thoughtful hum.
“It’s true, women were once considered bad luck to have on ships, and many men still consider them to be so,” he began. “But times are changing, and maybe one day soon you’ll get to set sail with us.”
“Really?” you asked him, eyes filled with hope. He laughed and nodded, turning to look at Bradley.
“C’mon you two. Let’s go see what Mother’s been cooking.”
The three of you trudged up the hill to your home where your mother was already standing outside to greet you. Greeting her with a tender kiss, your father ushed you and Bradley into the house.
When supper was finished and the table had been cleared, you all gathered around the small fireplace. Your father sat in his favorite chair while Bradley and your mother took up the other two. You sat by your fathers feet, resting your head against his knee. The smell from your father’s pipe permeated the room and left you with a sense of fond familiarity as he slowly stroked your hair.
“Papa,” you said, “will you tell us a story?”
“And what kind of story would you like to hear, little minnow?”
“An adventure!” Bradley had grinned. You shook your head.
“No,” you argued. “A ghost story.”
“Ghosts aren’t real, y/n,” the older boy scoffed. Your father hummed with a low chuckle.
“I wouldn’t be so sure o’ that, Rooster,” he smiled. Bradley fixed him with an incredulous look.
“Surely you can’t be serious?”
“As the dead, lad,” your father said solemnly, rubbing the bowl of his pipe. “Ghosts walk amongst the living, as real as you or I. Some even sail the seas, waiting for the day Davy Jones lets them pass into the great beyond.”
“What does Davy Jones even have to do with the dead,” Bradley huffed. Your father arched an eyebrow at him.
“He has everything to do with the dead at sea, Bradley,” he replied softly. “Davy Jones is a powerful man. Not quite human, not quite god. He’s as cruel and unforgiving as the sea, and some even think he was born from the waves that beat against the rocks by the shore. They say his very will controls the tides, and any man foolish enough to invoke his wrath is met with a gruesome fate.”
“Those are just superstitions,” Bradley countered with a scowl.
“You’re free to believe that,” your father began, “but you’d be a fool to. No sailor with a lick of sense is going to take that chance. Davy Jones will come for us all.”
“Why does Davy Jones stay at sea, Papa?” you chirped.
“No one is quite sure,” your father mused. “Perhaps he’s searching for treasure.”
“Would you ever go looking for treasure?” you questioned. Your father smiled.
“I’ve already found my treasure,” he said, casting a fond smile to your mother, who blushed under his gaze.
“Have you ever seen Davy Jones?” you prodded with wide eyes. Your father chuckled, patting your head in reassurance.
“No, little minnow. But those who have are few and far in between. Davy Jones isn’t in the business of letting witnesses stay alive.”
“That’s enough, Maverick,” your mother had chided. Your father had the good sense to look sheepish. Maverick was a name your father had earned during his time at sea, and your mother only called him that when she was cross. Usually, she called him by his given name; Peter or Pete.
“My apologies, Penny, my dear,” he said. Looking back down at you, he offered a smile. “Alright, y/n, it’s time for bed. You too, Bradley. I need you up bright and early tomorrow morning.”
You and Bradley bid your mother goodnight as your father followed you down the hall. When you had crawled under your blanket, he had made sure to tuck you in tight.
“I didn’t scare you too bad, did I, little minnow?” he asked. You shook your head vehemently.
“No, Papa. But, what if you meet Davy Jones one day?”
“That won’t be for a good, long while, sweetheart,” he said with a smile. You nodded, resting your head back down onto your pillow. Your father leaned over to peck your forehead before standing to walk out the door.
“Goodnight, y/n,” he said. You smiled.
“Goodnight, Papa.”
Tumblr media
A good, long while was not long enough in the end. It was six years later when you got the news that your father’s ship had gone down in a storm off the coast of the Caribbean. Your mother had been beside herself, crying all hours of the day as you and Bradley did your best to stay strong for her sake.
Bradley had caught you crying by the fireplace one night after you thought everyone had gone to bed. He sat next to you, and pulled you to his side as you cried into his shoulder.
“I miss him so much,” you sobbed.
“I know,” he said softly. “I do too.”
“He should be here.”
“I know.”
“It’s not fair,” you cried. “We didn’t even get to bury him.”
“I know, Guppy,” he sighed, hugging you tighter. Bradley wasn’t very good with words, and he sure as hell wasn’t good with emotions. “But he wouldn’t want us to dwell on this, you know that.”
“I know,” you sniffled, rubbing at your eyes. “He always loved the sea.”
“He loved being here, too,” Bradley countered. You looked up to see his own eyes glassy with unshed tears.
Tumblr media
Your mother had followed your father not long after. She had stopped eating and barely took a sip when you begged her to drink some water. She would stay perched by the window in the bedroom she once shared with your father, just staring out at the sea as if willing him to return. It had ended up being a fever that had taken her one early, autumn morning. It was your turn to be inconsolable as you once again found yourself buried into Bradley’s shoulder as he held you tightly. You buried your mother on the hill that overlooked the sea, forever waiting for your father to return home.
You and Bradley had stayed by her grave until the sun began to set.
The following days were filled with familiar motions and quiet sobs hidden behind closed doors long after the stars began to shine in the night sky. One night, you had set a bowl of stew in front of Bradley after he had come home from working at the docks. The two of you sat in silence for a few more minutes before Bradley pulled you to your feet. You went to say something, but he motioned for you to be quiet as he pulled you through the front door and out of the house.
“Where are we going?” you hissed quietly.
“Just trust me,” he shot back, dragging you down to the beach. The cool sand rubbed against the soles of your feet as you followed him, and he stopped you when you both were standing at the edge of the water. The water felt like ice as it licked aginst your ankles, and you felt a shudder run up your spine.
“There!” he called out, gesturing towards the open sea. You looked, but saw nothing but the white caps of waves.
“I don’t see anything,” you mutter, shaking your head. Bradley offered you a smile.
“That’s because you aren’t looking hard enough,” he murmured. He bent down, pointing his finger so that it was directly in your line of sight. “There, do you see it now?”
You squinted your eyes, trying to see what it was he was looking at. “Rooster, I don’t-”
“I see them,” he interrupted you, smiling confidantly. You fixed him with a puzzled look. “I see Mav and Penny just over there past the waves.”
Your heart stopped and hot tears licked at your eyes as you looked back at the churning waters. It was then that you saw what Bradley had been talking about. You saw your mother and your father with smiles on their faces, staring at each other with adoration clear as day on their faces. You wiped the tears away from your eyes as you looked back to see them waving at you. You huffed a laugh and smiled back at them with a wave of your own.
“Looks like Davy Jones let Mav come back for his treasure,” Bradley said. You threw yourself into his arms, holding him tightly.
“Thank you, Bradley.”
The sea could be cold and cruel, but you had the strength to weather the storm.
Tumblr media
227 notes · View notes