#and then does she die before getting to do anything with that??

[dammit-tazmuir]

I really don't think ambivalent is the right word. He doesn't watch the nun die and go, welp, that happened. He dissociates. His memories through that section get fuzzy and scattered. He's moving mechanically, numb in the way of someone who doesn't know how to process everything they're experiencing, watching everyone else die with that same blank resignation, silently gathering up their souls alongside hers, hers that he'd been so desperate to hold onto, and marveling at how it feels like no one even notices him here? (Did they really not? Because they very much did still drag him out to shoot him. Were they shooting and missing, or hitting such non-vital areas he healed like Nona, and in his stupor he didn't even notice?)

But either way, Y E A H, there's the rest, too. They moved in with him immediately when everything went down, separately from G— giving the other three space. Ten thousand years later, they're still bickering about who loves him more and which of them he loves more. Every other death made him shut down with numb grief, but watching theirs is The Part Where I Hurt You.

And yeah, honestly. I think you're right. Her words as she kills him didn't have to be that. She could have given Augustine's flat "no, John" in the second she was already sliding her hands in. She could have said nothing. She was already in his arms. And when she takes him apart, there's millions of reasons to be devastated, millions of their people after all, but there could have been even a tinge of bitter satisfaction alongside it, and there's not. Critical Mercymorn who has trouble not wearing her heart on her sleeve shows no anger through this. She did what she had to do, what she didn't want to make Augustine do. The sin needed to be hers.

This is the woman whose immediate next plan was to go drop herself in the nearest sun, and was upset by Augustine telling her that was no longer on the table. She saw death as a release from their suffering, and John is just as miserable as any of them. (See: The time Harrow catches him ruminating on the BoE attack and he gets embarrassed, and "It was always I when God ideated failure, as if the rest of you weren't accountable for anything" / "God is a dream, Harrow" / him spiraling into a mid-life crisis after losing everything at the end of HtN / etc.)

She asked him to look right into her eyes— into Cristabel's eyes in her face— and tell her he loved Cristabel. And I do think it hurt more that he does, and I don't think "forgive him" means letting go of her pain or anger and moving on, but this is the Eighth House Saint. I can absolutely see "I forgive you everything, Lord" to mean that she's trying to put her love above her pain, that she wants him to know in this final moment that in spite of what she's doing I Still Love You, that she's trying to make reparations and absolve him in a way. He can't very well keep carrying his guilt if he's dead.

Because that's the thing with John. The Lyctors still love him. Cyth isn't even first-gen and is offended by the suggestion she hates him; she's loved that man for 10,000 years, they all did. Alecto still loves him. Harrow, in spite of everything, still loves him, and has zero fear of him. Gideon, despite everything he did to Harrow before she ever met him, despite her being the saddest girl in the whole world, wants to love him. Pyrrha's been saving a Herald bullet for him but I'd be willing to be she has at least some mixed feelings too. It's to a point that hearing the name Alecto isn't what takes Nona apart. Kiriona says her name over 500 words before and she doesn't immediately react. What takes her apart is specifically "John loves Alecto." They are one soul and that soul is filled with limitless love.

And what could ever hurt more than being betrayed by someone you still love, who you know still loves you and everyone else he hurt, and knowing that neither your love nor his will ever be enough to make things okay?

no denying how repeatedly linked harrow and mercymorn are (tricky & wretched of john to entrust harrow to the person who also had a nun in their equation, and tag ianthe onto someone connected to franticide) but ortus’s declaration towards the end of the book applies more to mercymorn than to harrow — who do we blame when the one we lost is both the victim and the killer? where does that hate go, can we really stomach it? these words a bullet that grazed but ultimately missed harrow, because she could never allow herself to hate gideon again. so she hates the person hating whom is second nature, self blame as familiar as breathing. but mercymorn had resisted leading that emotion to its source, and she lived beside this grief's river mouth for 10k years, and she held that emotion close, but slightly to the side.

mercymorn, shrill, critical, unlikeable pink haired mercymorn rattles my brain because female rage can sometimes work like a bargain. scraps and empties, bruses and falsehoods, anything to placate, to pacify, to pin that rage in place for a little while longer. was there really no other way? was our mission truly worth it? did you love cristabel?

and there was another way, and the mission was not worth it. and god never liked cristabel. the second time she died, mercymorn was there to pick up the pieces, but the first time god left her body and soul alone, bloody and shattered on the cold floor. did that mercymorn, - not mercymorn the first, but the first mercymorn - find cristabel? did she go into that room where he'd left her because she checked for her everywhere? did she go on to die herself for john with ignorance or radical acceptance?

the unloveable mercymorn dooming all the nine planets because she was an atheist in love with a nun; someone who loved god well enough to die for him twice, and did not love mercymorn well enough to live for her once.

and god did not even like her.

[callmebyyourcallsign]

Touch and Go

Pairing: Lt. Robert “Bob” Floyd x Pilot!Reader

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, emotional repression, soft yearning

Setting: Post–Top Gun: Maverick, new elite flight program

Summary: You're a rising star pilot hand-picked for an advanced tactical training assignment. Bob Floyd, calm, brilliant, and frustratingly unreadable, is your WSO. You trust him in the air more than anyone. On the ground, though, your hands brush a little too often. Your silences last a little too long. And Bob? He's already gone, in the quiet, devastating way he always does. Love is mutual, but unspoken. After all, you’re both professionals… right?

Word Count: 4,983

Bob Floyd has always been good at silence.

Not the awkward kind, he hates that, actually, but the kind that sits warm in your chest, wraps around your ribs like a seatbelt. The kind that lives in cockpits and libraries and back porches after midnight. The kind that feels like knowing.

That’s the kind you bring with you.

You talk a lot less than people expect from a pilot with your record. But when you do, it’s always something that sticks. A sharp little joke. A perfectly timed one-liner. Sometimes, if he's lucky, one of those honey-dripping nicknames you toss at him when the others aren't around. Flyboy, mostly. Soft and smug, like you know exactly what it does to him.

Bob pretends he doesn’t.

He's good at that too.

The first time you flew together, you turned around in your seat, grinned through your visor, and said,

“Don’t let me crash and die, Floyd.”
He’d blinked, heart skipping a full beat.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Now it’s been months.

You know the rhythms of each other’s breath in-flight. You finish his checklists before he finishes speaking. You know when he tenses by the way his boot shifts under the floor panel, and he knows when you're fighting Gs by the subtle dip in your voice, still strong, still cocky, but just soft enough to make his heart ache.

And still. Neither of you has said it.

Neither of you has said anything.

This morning, on the tarmac, the sky’s the color of the Pacific, soft gray-blue, streaked with sunlight, like someone dragged their fingers through it. You walk toward the jet with your helmet under your arm and a lazy kind of swagger that drives him insane.

Bob is already waiting, running preflight. He hears your steps before he sees you.

“Morning, Flyboy.”

He turns, and God help him, you’re smiling. Not a big one, not like the ones you throw Rooster when you’re teasing, or the bright ones Phoenix gets when she’s kicking Hangman’s ass in a sim. No, this one’s just for him. Subtle. Real.

His hands pause on the panel.

“You’re late.”

You raise a brow. “You’re early.”

He shrugs, looks back down at the jet like it matters. “Wanted to make sure everything was perfect.”

Your voice dips, warm like whiskey. “You calling me high-maintenance, Floyd?”

He flushes. Stutters. “No—no, I—”

You laugh, soft and surprised, like you didn’t expect to get that out of him so easily. “Relax. I like it when you're nervous.”

He says nothing.

What could he say?

I think about you every night before I sleep? I replay every flight, every brush of your hand, like it’s scripture? I’ve been in love with you since day three?

So instead, he climbs into the jet and double-checks your oxygen levels.

In the air, you’re like poetry.

You take corners like you’re dancing. Pull into dives with the kind of grace he’s only ever seen in nature, like birds or storms or the ocean at dawn. Bob watches you from behind, one gloved hand hovering by the throttle, the other pressing the radio.

“Looking good, Spook,” he murmurs.

You smile without turning. “Aww, Flyboy. That almost sounded like flirting.”

He swears he hears Hangman laugh over the channel.

Bob clears his throat and looks back at his screen. His heart is loud in his helmet.

After landing, when the others are walking ahead to the locker rooms, you fall into step beside him.

It’s quiet again. But that kind of quiet Bob loves.

“You did good today,” you say after a minute.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”
You bump your shoulder lightly into his. His stomach flips. He wonders if you can feel the way he leans into it just a little too long.
“You still nervous around me, Floyd?”

His voice is soft. “Always.”

You don’t respond, but your hand swings close to his, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

That night, Bob sits in his bunk with a journal he never shows anyone.

He writes down flight stats. Maneuvers. Fuel data. And then, in smaller handwriting, like he’s afraid the ink will betray him

She looked back at me before takeoff.
I think she always does.
I wish she’d stay.

Across the base, you lie still in the dark, listening to the faint hum of the A/C and the buzz of the vending machine down the hall.

Sleep doesn’t come easy tonight.

Not with the shape of his voice still tucked behind your ear, and the way he always leaves a little extra space on the ladder, like he’s waiting for you to catch up.

You close your eyes and see his hands. Careful, steady. Always holding something invisible.

You wonder what it would feel like if it were you.

-

The storm rolls in out of nowhere.

That coastal kind of wild, thick sky, wind like a punch, lightning cracking in silhouette. Half the squadron’s grounded before they even make it off the tarmac. And your jet’s tucked away in the hangar, warm and dry, but completely useless.

Bob pulls his helmet off with both hands, curls of damp blond hair sticking to his forehead.

“We’re not getting out of here for a while.”

You sigh, pulling off your gloves with your teeth. “Damn. And I was looking forward to fighting for my life at 30,000 feet.”

There’s a beat. Rain slams into the hangar roof like it’s got something to prove.

Outside, someone’s truck backfires. Probably Rooster’s. Hangman’s already making jokes. Phoenix is haggling over vending machine snacks.

You sit on a crate, tugging your flight suit down to your waist, tank top sticking to your skin.

Bob looks like he’s trying very hard not to look at you.

“You cold?” you ask, half-sincere, half-testing.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m good.”

You smile, barely. "You always say that."

There’s only one truck back to base tonight. Everyone else finds a ride, Hangman with Coyote, Phoenix and Rooster squished into Payback’s ridiculous little Subaru.

You and Bob?

You get stuck behind.

It’s quiet now.

Stormy dusk bleeding into navy blue, rain still hammering the roof in a steady rhythm. Bob’s sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, flipping through the manual like he doesn’t have it memorized. You’re pacing. Slowly. Like something inside you’s moving too fast.

“You hungry?” he asks, not looking up.

You pause. “Not really.”

“Me neither.”
He hesitates. “But I brought one of those granola bars you like.”

You blink. “The cherry almond kind?”

He nods without meeting your eyes. Holds it out like an offering.

You take it.

You sit beside him, knees not quite touching.

Twenty minutes pass like a sigh.

Bob reads. You pick at the wrapper. He clears his throat.

“You ever think about what it’d be like... to not do this?”

You glance over. “Fly?”

“Yeah. The Navy. The pressure. All of it.”

You tilt your head back against the crate behind you. “Sometimes. Usually when we’re pulling 7 Gs and I think I’m gonna puke.”

He huffs a laugh. “Same.”
Then, quieter: “But then I think about days like today.”

You turn to look at him. “Rainy and grounded?”

“No.”
He finally meets your eyes. “Flying with you.”

Your chest goes still. Like the storm stopped inside you, just for a second.

You want to say something, anything, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

So you offer the granola bar back to him instead.

He breaks off a piece. Your fingers brush. He flinches, like the contact startled him.

You pretend you didn’t notice. Even though it’s all you can notice.

Later, the lights flicker.

You both look up.

“Power must’ve gone out,” you say, unnecessarily.

Bob nods. “Shouldn’t be long.”

You shift closer to him instinctively. Just a little. Just enough to count.

It’s quiet. Not tense, just full.

Full of things you haven’t said. Of all the times his hand hovered near your back when you climbed the ladder. All the glances across the ready room. All the almosts.

He speaks first.

“You ever think maybe—”
He cuts off. “Never mind.”

You nudge him with your knee. “Maybe what?”

Bob shakes his head. “It’s dumb.”

“Bob.”

He closes the manual. Sets it aside like it’s too heavy now.

“Maybe it’s not just flying I don’t want to lose.”

You look at him.

Really look.

The hangar light flickers again. Thunder cracks like a warning.

You say, so quietly it barely counts:

“Me too.”

And that’s it. No kiss. No confession. Just two people sitting on a hangar floor, sharing a granola bar, rain tapping the roof like Morse code.

But it feels like something.

It feels like a shift.

A holding pattern, sure, but maybe next time, you’ll land.

-

You wake up stiff, aching, and warm.

Bob’s jacket is around your shoulders, too big, sleeves bunched up to your wrists, the collar soft with wear. It smells like jet fuel and cedar soap and the weird, sweet nothingness that is him.

At some point last night, you must’ve drifted off on the hangar floor. He did too, slouched against the wall, one leg stretched long, the other bent, chin tucked to his chest.

The storm is gone.

The world is pale and quiet in the way it only gets just before sunrise. The kind of light that makes everything look like it’s waiting for something.

You don’t move.

You just sit there, wrapped in Bob’s hoodie, listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant squawk of gulls outside.

Eventually, Bob stirs. His eyes blink open, slow and owlish. He stretches, winces, notices you watching him.

“Morning,” he says, voice low and gravel-soft.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

He looks down at the jacket around your shoulders, then back up, slightly pink.

“Sorry. You were shivering.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s… Thanks.”

There’s a pause.

And then you say, gently:

“You always take care of me.”

Bob’s mouth opens like he’s going to deflect, say something dumb or self-deprecating, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just nods.

“You take care of me too.”

It’s quiet after that.

The kind of quiet that says everything’s shifted, but no one wants to startle it.

The truck finally arrives mid-morning. Phoenix hops out of the passenger seat and gives you a look like you good? You give her a look like later. Bob loads the gear like it’s muscle memory, avoiding your gaze but staying close.

When he helps you into the truck bed, his hand lingers at your back.

You think about that all the way back to base.

You don’t see him the rest of the day.

You both get assigned separate pre-flights, different trainers. You wonder if he’s avoiding you or just busy. You wonder why that stings.

Later, you find his jacket still folded on your bunk. He must’ve dropped it off during your briefing.

On top of it, a granola bar. Cherry almond.

Folded underneath, a note. Scrawled in Bob’s neat, awkward handwriting.

Thought you might be cold again.

I’ll be in the sim room tonight. Just in case.

You read it three times.

You don’t go.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because your heart is thudding too loud in your chest and you’re afraid if you see him, really see him, you’ll say something stupid.

Like don’t leave again.
Like stay the night.
Like I think I want you to kiss me.

Instead, you write back.

See you tomorrow.
Save me a seat.

You leave it tucked inside the pocket of his flight suit.

Bob finds it the next morning, just before warm-up.

He reads it, folds it up, presses it into the inside cover of his journal.

Then he smiles, just a little. Just enough to count.

-

The sim room smells like coffee and jet oil and a hint of someone’s off-brand cologne. You’re early. So is Bob.

He’s standing at the control panel, fiddling with his headset, glasses pushed up into his curls. The simulator’s screens are still dark. Outside, the sky’s starting to smudge purple.

“Hey,” he says when he hears you.

“Hey,” you say, voice lighter than you feel.

You take the copilot’s seat beside him. Close, like always. Closer, maybe.

Bob’s legs are longer than yours. One of them brushes yours under the desk. Neither of you moves.

The sim loads.

You start the mission. Standard approach, familiar territory. You and Bob in sync, calling coordinates, updating status, ticking boxes. It’s smooth. Too smooth.

And then, turbulence.

Not real, but simulated. Unexpected.

Your console flickers. You lurch slightly forward.

“Whoa—”

His hand flies out and catches you.

Fingers splay over your ribcage.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

You freeze.

Bob does too.

His hand stays there, warm through your flight suit, palm over your side like a tether. You turn your head. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, breath caught.

“Sorry,” he says, barely a whisper.

You shake your head, equally quiet. “It’s okay.”

But he doesn’t let go. Not yet.

There’s something unsaid sitting heavy in the space between your mouths. Not even a breath away.

And then.

“Pilot One, altitude dropping—”

The console voice crackles, breaking the spell.

Bob pulls back like he’s been burned. His hand drops to his lap. He stares forward, ears red, jaw clenched.

“You good?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Fine,” he mutters.

But he’s not. You can see it. Feel it.

Neither are you.

You finish the sim. Land the jet clean. Call the end of the exercise with the same forced calm you use when your hands won’t stop shaking.

He logs the results. You shut down the system. Neither of you speak.

You walk out together, side by side, the hallway lit with that same bluish hum. When you reach the locker room doors, you hesitate.

“Bob,” you say.

He stops.

Turns.

Eyes soft. Scared. Hopeful. Tired.

You don’t say what you want to.

You don’t say you can touch me again.
You don’t say I wanted you to keep holding on.
You don’t say I think about you all the time.

You just say

“Thanks. For catching me.”

He nods, slow.

“Anytime.”

You part ways. Locker rooms. Showers. Briefings. Dinner.

But when you’re lying in your bunk later that night, wrapped up in the same silence you’ve carried all day, you touch your side where he held you.

Like maybe the shape of his hand is still there.

Like maybe it always has been.

-

It’s weird, not flying with Bob.

Not wrong, exactly. You’re a professional. He’s still on base, still training, still just a few hangars away. But it feels like the air shifts without him in the backseat, like the jet flies fine but not quite right. Like muscle memory tripping over a heartbeat.

The switch wasn’t personal. Scheduling conflict, maybe. A re-routed assignment. You didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. All you know is when you checked the flight log that morning, someone else’s name was listed as your WSO.

And his name was missing.

Your new WSO is capable. Sharp. Quick on comms. He does everything right.

But he doesn’t know how you like your patterns called out. Doesn’t echo your thoughts mid-maneuver like Bob does. Doesn’t glance up at you through the canopy after a perfect landing like he’s proud of you in secret.

You miss that.

You miss him.

Bob’s been quieter, too. Around the locker room. The mess. Even in briefings. He’s not avoiding you, exactly, but he’s not seeking you out either. The silence between you has stretched, uncertain and loaded. Like you’re both waiting for the other to say something first.

And neither of you does.

You catch a glimpse of him two days later on the tarmac, post-run. He’s halfway through a bottle of water, sleeves rolled up, curls damp with sweat. There’s a red mark on his jaw, helmet, maybe, and his eyes are on the horizon like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You open your mouth.

You almost call out.

But then your new WSO claps you on the back, says something loud and dumb, and Bob flinches like the sound hit a bruise. He walks away before you can stop him.

That night, you find yourself in the hangar.

It’s mostly empty, just a few shadows and the hum of after-hours maintenance. One of the jets, the one you flew today, is parked under a dim light.

You rest your hand on its nose cone and stare at the stars through the open bay.

“Miss me already?” a voice says behind you.

Your heart lurches.

You turn.

Bob’s standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable.

You try to joke. “You wish.”

He half-smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

That quiet hits you hard.

You swallow. “Why’d they pull you from the rotation?”

He shrugs. “Said they needed me to run backup sims. Training the newer guys.”

You nod. “Makes sense.”

Neither of you says what you’re thinking.

Makes sense. But it sucked.
Makes sense. But I wanted to look over my shoulder and see you.
Makes sense. But nothing else felt right.

You sit on the edge of the wing. He stands next to you.

The hangar is all hush and echoes.

Then he says it, softly

“I don’t like not flying with you.”

It’s not dramatic. Not even particularly romantic. But it hits you harder than anything has in days.

You nod, slowly.

“Me neither.”

There’s a long pause. Then

“I’m sorry,” Bob says.

You look up. “For what?”

“For leaving you in the air without me.”

Something cracks open in your chest.

“I don’t feel steady without you,” you whisper.

His breath catches.

Then, gently, he leans his arm against yours. Barely a touch. But it’s enough.

“I’ll be back in your backseat soon,” he says, voice low and certain.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in days, you feel your heart start to level out again.

-

The base wakes before dawn, but you’re already tangled in thought, and maybe a little frustration.

Bob didn’t show up to breakfast.

No text, no word. Just silence that hums louder than the engines on the flight line.

You sip cold coffee, eyes on the muted chatter of the mess hall, but all you can hear is the thrum of your own heartbeat, tight, impatient, restless.

He’s been distant since the hangar night, like there’s a wall he’s building brick by brick, and every time you try to reach him, the mortar’s fresh and unyielding.

Later, you’re suiting up for another sim run. Your new WSO is ready, calm, competent , but he isn’t Bob.

You glance over at the empty seat beside you, where the cockpit light never flickers without him.

You fight down the ache curling in your chest, because this mission is important. Because professionalism means showing up even when your heart is jamming on stall warning.

You taxi down the runway, engines roaring to life, but it’s the silence in your headset that’s deafening.

Mid-flight, something goes wrong in the sim, a sudden mechanical failure on the enemy’s side. Your fingers tighten on the stick, muscles tense, and instinct takes over.

“Bandit at your six!” you bark into the comm.

“Copy that,” comes a voice you don’t recognize. It lacks the familiar edge you crave.

You’re scrambling, trying to shake the imaginary tail, but inside you’re scrambling for Bob, his voice, his steady calm, his fierce presence.

A bead of sweat runs down your temple. You miss him.

Hours later, back on the ground, you find him in the briefing room, eyes dark and jaw tight.

He’s barely spoken all day, swallowed behind a mask of professionalism.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say softly. “We need to talk.”

He looks up, startled, like you broke some unspoken truce.

“What about?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “This… us. The distance. The silence.”

Bob’s gaze flickers, like a storm barely contained.

“It’s not that simple,” he mutters.

You cross the room and stand in front of him, heart on your sleeve, voice shaking but determined.

“It is that simple. We don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

He looks at you, eyes searching, and for the first time in days, you see the truth shining beneath the surface:

He wants this too. But fear is tying his hands.

The air between you thickens, heavy with everything unsaid.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against his.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he sighs, low and rough.

“Why is it so damn hard?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

You smile, bittersweet.

“Because it’s worth it.”

And just like that, the dogfight shifts from the skies to your hearts, a battle for courage, for honesty, for the quiet, messy beauty of letting someone in.

-

The squadron’s quiet buzz hums through the ready room, but all you feel is the weight of the moment pressing against your ribs.

Bob sits beside you, closer than before, but the space between you still tastes like a question unanswered.

You both know that whatever was there last night, no, whatever’s been there for months is waiting to be named. Waiting to take shape beyond stolen glances and tentative touches.

You glance at him. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the briefing screen, but you see it, the hesitation. The part of him that’s still afraid to cross the line.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say softly, voice barely above the hum of the room.

He turns, eyes meeting yours, surprised but steady.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say. “The almost, the maybe, the silence.”

Bob exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for too long.

“I know,” he admits. “But it’s not easy.”

You nod, heart pounding.

“Nothing worth it ever is.”

The briefing ends, and you walk side by side to the hangar, the sun filtering through the windows casting long shadows that seem to reach for you both.

Your fingers brush, light, accidental, but this time neither pulls away.

“Why did you stop coming around?” you ask quietly.

Bob’s eyes flicker, vulnerability softening his usual edge.

“I was scared,” he confesses. “Scared of what this could mean. Scared of what I might lose.”

You stop walking, turning to face him fully.

“You won’t lose me.”

His gaze drops to your hands entwined, then back to your face.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says. “Not with you.”

You smile, something gentle and fierce blooming in your chest.

“Then let’s stop pretending. Let’s take the risk.”

That night, the base hums a quieter tune.

You find yourselves on the roof, under a sky strewn with stars, vast and endless, like the possibility before you.

Bob reaches for your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and you squeeze back, steady and sure.

You don’t need words.

The silence between you says everything

This is the beginning.

You lean in slowly, breath mingling, hearts racing, and for the first time, the line you’ve both been afraid to cross becomes the bridge you’re ready to walk.

-

The morning light seeps softly through the blinds, painting the room in muted gold. You wake before Bob, your fingers still laced with his, the warmth lingering like a secret promise.

His breathing is slow, steady, a rhythm that somehow feels like home.

You watch his face, the way his brow smooths, how his lashes flutter, delicate and vulnerable. It’s a side of him few get to see, and it makes your heart swell with something deeper than you expected.

When Bob stirs, his eyes open to meet yours, wide and raw and honest.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice husky with sleep and something more.

“Morning,” you reply, voice barely a whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile bubble you both inhabit.

There’s a long pause, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full of everything you don’t say yet.

Bob’s hand tightens around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles like a question.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits, eyes searching yours for forgiveness or understanding.

“You don’t have to be,” you say. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He smiles then, slow and shy, like he’s afraid to believe it’s real. And maybe it isn’t perfect, maybe it’s messy and uncertain, but it’s yours.

Later, the base feels different.

Every glance between you carries a new weight, every touch lingers longer.

You walk down the hallways with a secret shared just between the two of you, like you’re part of something no one else understands.

During briefings, you catch Bob’s eye and see the spark that’s always been there, only now, it’s not just longing; it’s something steadier, more fierce.

After drills, when the adrenaline fades and the world quiets, you find your way to each other again.

One afternoon, you’re sitting on the wing of the jet, the sky a brilliant blue canvas.

Bob sits beside you, helmet set aside, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Ever wonder what it’d be like,” he says softly, “if we didn’t have to keep it all so guarded?”

You turn to him, heart quickening.

“I do,” you confess. “More than anything.”

He laughs quietly, a sound full of warmth and relief.

“Me too.”

For a moment, the world shrinks down to just the two of you, breath mingling, laughter light and free.

And then, almost without thinking, Bob’s hand finds yours again, fingers weaving together like they belong.

That night, in the quiet dark of the bunk, you lie awake, the afterglow of the day wrapping around you.

It’s not fireworks or grand declarations, just a steady, simmering warmth, the kind that roots deep and promises more.

You don’t need to say the words aloud.

You already know.

-

The day starts normal, but the air feels heavier, thick with the kind of silence that’s waiting to snap.

You and Bob are prepping for a joint training mission, the kind that demands every ounce of trust and synchronicity you’ve been building. But underneath the routine checklists and briefings, something feels off.

Maybe it’s the way Bob’s eyes flicker away when you glance at him. Or how his jaw tightens just a little too much when the instructor calls out formations.

You want to reach for him, steady him like he’s steadying you. But there’s that wall again, the one you thought you’d chipped away with every quiet moment.

The mission begins with familiar drills, engines roaring to life, the world narrowing to speed and precision.

You’re locked in your cockpit, the steady hum of the jet syncing with the pounding in your chest.

Bob’s voice comes through the comms, clear, but clipped.

“Ready when you are.”

You respond, heart thudding.

The sky blurs around you, adrenaline sharp and bright. You move together, two halves of the same pulse, perfect in motion.

But when you land, the air is still thick with unspoken words.

Later, in the dim glow of the briefing room, you catch Bob alone, staring at a map like it holds the answers.

“I messed up,” he says without looking up.

You step closer. “What happened?”

He swallows, voice tight. “I lost focus during the run. Missed a call. Could’ve put us both at risk.”

You shake your head. “We all mess up.”

“But this—this felt different,” he admits. “Like I’m carrying more than just the mission.”

Your heart clenches. “Bob…”

He finally looks at you, eyes raw and vulnerable. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of what this means—us.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek.

“You’re enough,” you whisper. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline.

That night, the tension hasn’t lifted, but something’s shifted.

You find yourselves sitting side by side, neither speaking, just sharing space.

Bob’s hand finds yours again, tentative but desperate.

And in that quiet grasp, all the fear and hope and longing swirl together.

It’s messy.

It’s real.

It’s yours.

-

The base is quiet in the early hours, a fragile calm that feels almost sacred.

You’re leaning against your jet, the dawn light soft against the glass. Bob slides in beside you, the world outside still waking, but beside him, time slows.

His eyes catch yours, no words needed. The space between you is charged, filled with every unsaid confession and yearning.

“Talk to me,” you finally whisper, voice trembling just a little.

Bob’s gaze drops, then lifts again, steady, sure.

“I’ve been scared,” he admits. “Scared of losing control. Scared of what this means. But mostly... scared of losing you.”

Your heart twists, but you reach for him, fingers threading through his.

“You’re not losing me,” you say softly. “We’re in this together.”

He smiles, small, genuine, and it breaks through every wall he’s built.

The jet rocks gently as he moves closer, breath mingling with yours.

“I want you,” he breathes, voice low and raw. “Not just when the world falls apart, but when it’s quiet. When it’s real.”

You lean in, the distance dissolving, lips brushing in a hesitant, trembling kiss that blooms into something fierce and tender.

In that kiss is everything, the fear, the hope, the long nights and silent battles.

When you finally pull apart, the world feels different.

Brighter.

Clearer.

You rest your forehead against his, breath mingling, heart pounding the same rhythm.

“We don’t have to have it all figured out,” you say.

Bob nods. “No. Just... this.”

Outside, the sky is vast and endless, a promise of more flights, more moments, more love.

And inside this small cockpit, you both know you’ve finally found your safe place.

Ao3

[foxviant]

Not Your Fault.

summary: After a devastating loss, Joel Miller seeks comfort in your arms, battling guilt and grief as you hold him through the storm. Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader. Word Count: 1k Warnings: Emotional guilt, past character death, self-blame, mild language, hurt/comfort, soft intimacy

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He never does when things are bad. The kind of bad that has him slipping through your door long after sunset, eyes hollow, jaw clenched, like he’s holding himself together by threads.

Tonight is one of those nights. You’re at the table, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea when you hear the door click shut behind him. You look up, but Joel won’t meet your eyes. He pulls off his jacket like it weighs a hundred pounds and tosses it across the back of the couch. Then he just stands there, shoulders tight, hands flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You speak gently. “Joel.” His eyes finally lift to yours, and it hits you whatever happened today, it’s more than just a bad run. It’s eating him alive.

Without a word, he walks over to you. One step. Then another. And then he’s dropping to his knees beside your chair like he’s been punched in the gut, like it’s the only way he can stay upright without falling apart. Your breath catches.

“Joel, what—”

“I lost her,” he says, voice broken. “The kid. Tess and I—we were watchin’ her. She was just a kid. Too small for this world. And I let her die.” You reach for him instinctively, your hand brushing through his hair. He leans into your touch, eyes squeezed shut, like he’s bracing for something. Like he expects you to pull away.

“She got caught in crossfire,” he mutters. “I was five feet away. Five. I should’ve—damn it, I should’ve done somethin’.” You kneel in front of him, hands cupping his face gently, forcing him to look at you.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say. His voice rises, raw. “How can you say that? I was right there, and now she’s gone. Another kid, gone because I didn’t move fast enough.”

The silence after that is thick and aching. You’ve heard that tone from him before low, jagged, the same one he used the night he told you about Sarah. But this is worse. This isn’t memory. This is fresh. Bleeding.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him in, holding him so tightly he finally lets out a sound—a broken, stuttering exhale that catches in his throat. He buries his face in your shoulder, clutching the back of your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“She was just tryin’ to help,” he mumbles into your neck. “Wanted to be brave.” You stroke his back, slow and steady, grounding him. “She would’ve died even faster if you weren’t there. You know that.”

“She was too young,” he says again. Like he’s trying to argue with fate itself.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just hold him. Let the fire crackle behind you both. Let him grieve. Joel doesn’t cry—not really. But this is as close as he gets. His breath shakes against you, his hands gripping tighter, like he thinks if he lets go, the ghosts will catch up.

Finally, after what feels like hours, you whisper, “You can’t save everyone.” Joel pulls back, eyes red but dry. “That’s what people say when they’ve given up tryin’.”

“No,” you say firmly. “It’s what they say when they’ve done everything they could and still had to survive it. Like you do. Every goddamn day.”

His stare holds yours like he’s searching for something.. punishment, maybe. Or permission to let go of some of that guilt. You reach up and smooth a thumb under his eye. “You’re not a monster, Joel.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like one.”

“You’re not.”

Silence again.

“I didn’t come here to make you hold all this,” he says, eyes falling to your hands. “I just… didn’t know where else to go.”

“I’m glad you came,” you reply without hesitation. “I want you to come to me when it’s this bad.” He lets out a breath. Almost a laugh, except there’s no humor in it.

“I just wanted to see you,” he admits. “Didn’t want to be alone. Couldn’t be.” Your chest tightens. You nod, then guide him gently toward the couch.

“Come here.” He follows, almost sheepish now, like the weight of being cared for is too much. But when you sit down and open your arms again, he comes willingly. He settles into you, his body warm and solid and tired.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle. “You don’t have to be strong with me. Not always.”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the way he softens, the way the tension in his back eases by inches. The way his breathing steadies into something calmer.

“You’re allowed to be tired,” you whisper. “You’re allowed to hurt.” Joel murmurs something you can’t quite catch maybe your name, maybe just a thank-you but you don’t press. You hold him a little tighter, pressing a kiss into his hairline. And for the first time tonight, he lets go just a little.

[hellfirebarnes]

Slow-Burns Part 9

@crowleythesexydemon

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I split this up in several, shorter parts because I know the feeling when you want to read a fic but don't have the time or energy to get through a 10k+ words one. Also if you hate my writing you can just read part 1 and then leave it. Win-win I guess?

Anyway, this is set after Thunderbolts so if you haven't seen it - spoilers I guess? It absolutely does not follow canon, but yeah better to be safe than sorry.

Summary: Bucky has fallen. Hopelessly. And the only thing more hopeless is his team trying to help him get to the end of this slow-burn.

Bucky x fem!SHIELD!reader

1.2K Words

Fluff, ''normal'' violence and descriptions of injuries. For sure out of character stuff, but I am who I am. Your appearence is barely desribed what I can remember, I think your hair and a couple types what clothes you're wearing?

You're referred to as ''Agent'' and ''Sunshine'' in a desperate attempt from me to not use Y/N.

Let me know if there's anything else I should warn about.

Otherwise, enjoy :)

Bucky was in the kitchen, minding his own business with a glass of water and half a protein bar, when the front doors slammed open like someone had kicked them.

Correction: someone had kicked them.

“I win again!” Yelena announced, arms up in victory, staggering only slightly.

Behind her, you were clinging to a coat rack like it might save your life.

“Yelena,” Bucky said slowly, “what the hell-”

“Victory, Barnes,” she said, grinning. “Two vodka bottles, three cocktails, one suspicious flaming shot, and your little sunshine just tried to drink me under the table.”

You pointed at Yelena with deep conviction. “She cheats. She’s Russian.”

“I am better,” Yelena countered proudly.

You groaned and peeled yourself off the coat rack. “I’m gonna die.”

“No you’re not,” Bucky muttered, stepping in before you could faceplant. He caught you around the waist and whoa. You melted into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You smell safe,” you mumbled into his chest.

He blinked. “That’s… nice?”

Yelena saluted. “She’s your problem now,” she said and strolled off humming “Toxic” by Britney Spears.

Bucky managed to get you into your room with only two near-death wobbles and one time you accidentally hit the wall and apologized to it.

You flopped back on your bed with a groan.

“You want water?” he asked.

“No.”

“Ginger tea?”

“No.”

“You want to keep your liver or…?”

You groaned louder. “Stop being so nice. I’ll fall in love with you.”

His breath caught. Hard. But you didn’t seem to notice - eyes closed, one arm over your forehead like a tragic 18th-century poet.

He knelt beside the bed, watching you with cautious affection. “You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow.”

You opened one eye. “You’ll still be here though?” Then - before he could stop you, before he could process it, you leaned forward.

You kissed him. Just a quick, warm peck at the corner of his mouth.

And then you promptly face-planted onto your pillow and muttered something about “space horses” before falling asleep.

Bucky sat there like he’d been hit by Thor’s hammer.

The next morning you walked into the kitchen looking like you'd lost a fight with a blender. Yelena handed you a bottle of coconut water and a fist bump.

John said, “Hey, starshine. You look like someone who made bad decisions and worse friends.”

You groaned. “Someone put a hit out on my skull.”

Bucky was already making toast for you.

You looked up, sheepish, as he slid the plate in front of you. “Hey. About last night…”

He paused. Heart leaping. Maybe-finally-

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line,” you said. “I was so drunk. That was… just drunk me being dumb.”

Bucky smiled. Not because he was okay. But because that’s what you do when someone pulls the rug out from under your whole heart.

“No worries,” he said, soft. “Didn’t even register.”

“Oh thank god,” you exhaled. “I’d hate to make things weird.”

Too late, he thought. Way too late.

Bob walked in just in time to sense the emotional tension and announce: “Something sad just happened, didn’t it?”

Alexei followed behind with waffles and said, “It is fine. We will fix it. With matchmaking and carbs.”

And Bucky? He sat in silence, trying to convince himself he hadn’t just tasted something perfect, only to be told it didn’t mean anything at all.

You hadn’t meant to find the box. You’d been looking for an extra patch cable for your comms unit. Bucky’s gear was the neatest of the team’s (which wasn’t saying much - John once stored grenades in his sock drawer), so you’d poked into his cabinet, meaning to just borrow and leave a note.

What you found was a metal box tucked in the back, labeled in faint, near-faded Sharpie: “Journals. Old.”  You didn’t open it. Not at first.

You’d picked it up, and weighed it in your hands. Thought about how heavy it must be to carry your whole life like that - years, maybe decades, of someone who never really let anyone see past the armor.

And you hadn’t meant to snoop. You hadn’t. But there was a photo tucked under the lid, half-sticking out - like it had been placed there and forgotten.

You pulled it free. And saw yourself.

Or more accurately: yourself, blurry and mid-laugh, seated on the common room floor surrounded by empty takeout containers. Bob had snapped it, clearly. And next to you - Bucky.

Looking at you. Really looking. Like you were gravity and he was just… orbiting.

Your heart caught.

At that exact moment Bucky was pacing outside the rec room while Alexei and Bob scribbled on a whiteboard:

“OPERATION: COURTING SUNSHINE”

“I can’t do this,” Bucky muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“You can,” Bob said, drawing a stick figure holding flowers and then labeling it “You but handsome.”

“You are a super soldier!” Alexei exclaimed. “You have faced Hydra, aliens, and American bureaucracy! You can ask a girl to coffee!”

“Not this girl,” Bucky mumbled. “This one makes my hands go stupid and my mouth stop working.”

“She kissed you!”

“She apologized for it!”

“She was drunk, Bucky,” Bob reasoned, kindly. “She probably doesn’t remember how soft you looked after.”

“Soft?!”

Alexei placed a meaty hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “We will make her fall in love with you.”

“Please don’t.”

“It is already happening.”

Later in your room, you were still holding the photo when someone knocked. You shoved it under your pillow like a teen hiding contraband and opened the door to find - of course - Alexei.

He beamed. “Walk with me.”

“Do I get a choice?”

“No.”

He led you down the hall like he was walking you to a secret treasure. Which, honestly, with Alexei, was entirely possible. When you got to the training floor, he stopped, looked both ways, then whispered, “It is time.”

“For…?”

“For Bucky to begin his courtship.”

You choked. “I- what?”

“He does not know I am telling you,” he said cheerfully. “But it will help him feel like he has agency.”

“Alexei-”

“Just… let him be awkward. Let him bring you tea. Let him say something strange and broody that means ‘I like you.’ He has been trying to impress you with his knife-throwing skills for a month.”

Your mouth fell open. “That’s what that was?”

“He is very subtle,” Alexei said proudly. “Like tank.”

That night you sat curled on the couch in the common room with a book and a vague sense of unease. Not bad. Just… buzzed. Something was coming.

And then - Bucky walked in. Not in stealth mode. Not with his usual “if-I-don’t-make-eye-contact-I-can’t-be-emotionally harmed” energy. No. This time he came in carrying two mugs of tea. And he sat beside you. Not too close. But closer than usual.

“You like lemon, right?” he asked.

You blinked. “Yeah. You remembered?”

He nodded. You sat in silence. He fidgeted. Took a sip. Set the mug down. Then said, too fast, “You doing anything Saturday?”

You stared. “…Uh, probably not?”

“Cool. I mean- not cool that you’re free, just- ...cool, ‘cause I thought maybe we could-” He paused. Frowned. “Never mind. That sounded less stupid in my head.”

You bit back a smile. “You’re asking me out?”

“…Yes?”

You tilted your head. “Like a date?”

“…Yes?”

You nodded, slowly. “Okay.”

He blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Just, maybe make sure Alexei doesn’t show up with a boom box.”

“No promises,” Bucky muttered.

You sipped your tea and nudged his shoulder.

And from the hallway, Bob fist-pumped silently. Alexei wept into a sock like it was a tissue.

[drhedicalhalpractice]

Okay fuck I've got more to say on the subject of how Wilson thinks House feels about him instead of just tag ranting (though I'll have to repeat some of that tag ranting) because holy shit my dudes.

As a basic premise, from the very start of the show, it is very clear to us the viewer that House has this best friend who is very, very important to him. That's just never a secret – House, who actively pushes everyone away, doesn't want to interact with patients, pretends he doesn't care about people, never tries to hide that he cares about Wilson. This is both towards Wilson himself and to other people – sure, maybe he doesn't come right out and say it, but it's so very clear in so many things he does and says.

Here's some scenes (very much from memory and out of chronological order, please bear with me) that highlight this very clearly:

After Vogler gets Wilson kicked off the board and Wilson accuses House of not thinking that their friendship (or Wilson's job) matters enough to him to give that speech. House started out making light of the situation, kind of twisting it into a joke, refusing to take accountability etc. but the moment Wilson says that, he immediately sobers and just straight up admits that no, actually, they do matter ° I remember being very surprised by this because this is only in S1 and I didn't expect House to be this sincere with Wilson ° Hell, the pilot had someone asking Wilson if House cared about him and Wilson was like "I don't know", so I took that as an indicator that House doesn't show he cares. But as it turns out, this is very much a Wilson problem, not a House problem!

The "You DOSED me!" conversation. 11/10 one of the most hilarious scenes in the show, but also! House is understandably upset that his best friend is depressed and he didn't know about it, but Wilson straight up tells him to stop acting hurt because he doesn't actually care. This is wild to me because everything in the way House talks suggest that he isn't just mad because he missed a puzzle piece, he genuinely wanted Wilson to tell him about this, but Wilson didn't trust him with it

Living together in Amber's apartment post-Mayfield. Wilson thinks he can't talk to House about his grief after Amber's death and prefers to talk to her instead of talking to House. Even when House directly offers/asks him to talk to him instead, Wilson outright rejects him and tells him that talking to him doesn't make him feel better but talking to her does. ° Amber is dead, she will not reply to him, yet Wilson considers this more of a comfort than anything House would offer him. Except, House is carrying so much guilt about Amber's death, I genuinely feel like he would've made an effort to be supportive in this instance ° In fact, at the start of S5 before Wilson leaves, House even says, "I know you're not [okay], but maybe I can help." and Wilson doesn't even acknowledge it (instead just proceeds to tell him that he should have been alone on that bus, good lord)

Two instances I clearly remember where they're arguing about things House genuinely seems insecure about in their friendship: ° When Wilson moves out of Grace's place and back into a hotel because he doesn't think it's a good idea to move back in with House, House asks him if they're okay despite all of it. His expression in that scene actually takes me out because he looks so sincere and the insecurity behind it is very badly hidden ° "Does it bother you that we don't have a social contract?" The fact that House feels the need to ask this and make sure that Wilson is fine with their dynamic speaks volumes imo

Honestly the entirety of the episode Wilson (S6E10). "If you die, I'm alone." All the trying to push Wilson to grow a spine and not let Tucker take advantage of him. Sitting by his bedside both as he wakes up from surgery and then again while he's recovering from the surgery. In fairness though, Wilson doesn't outright deny that House cares about him in this one.

During the roadtrip to House's dad's funeral. "And there's the foundation of our entire friendship. If you hadn't been bored one weekend, it wouldn't even exist." – "Hey, there were 3000 people at that convention. You're the one I thought wasn't boring." imagine being told that out of 3000 people there, the man who notoriously does not care about anything that doesn't intrigue him, picked you specifically to be his friend and has been obsessed with you ever since, and somehow rewriting that into a bad thing??? The way he says the "if you hadn't been bored" part sounds accusatory and kind of bitter, when that's just how friendships get formed sometimes? Wilson, what the hell are you on

The entirety of S8 following Wilson's cancer diagnosis is basically one huge declaration of love from House. But to be fair, I think by this point, even Wilson realizes that (...mostly, even though he still somehow interprets it as a "House needs me so he doesn't want to lose me" kind of thing instead of just fucking accepting that maybe the man just loves* him and that's why he doesn't want to lose him, god) *love being used non-romantically here, even without Hilson goggles on, they just undeniably love each other, however you choose to interpret it

All of this just makes me wonder what the hell Wilson's got wrong with him that leave him so completely and utterly unable to fathom that House could possibly care about him, despite the fact that House very explicitly shows him over and over. Wilson is usually so good at reading House and figuring him out, just not when it comes to himself, apparently. Dude has some serious issues and I am so very intrigued by it <3

[gothicdolores]

Spoilers for killer of killers LOOK AWAY MY LOVES

Having said that;

How are the bad blood girlies and gays feeling cuz yall fucking won I feel 😖😖😖 yes we don’t quite have their clans affiliation confirmed but given that Dan took some of the only best parts of Predators and The Predator I’m wiling to bet there’s something there that will finally give us some bad blood lore beyond the books and comics

Alot of how they operate doesnt really feel all that honorable, and bet that this could just be the new status quo, but Ive said time and time again Dan is very deliberate with that he does w the yautja so far. I don't feel as if he's turning his nose up at the extended lore, but that he likes playing with parts that keep being pushed to the outskirts of canon and given them a proper moment

To include something from what looks to be a proper yautja codex that can be interpreted many ways is genius "go amongst the starts and seek out the most worthy prey, become the killer of Killers" that sounds very standard to what weve seen yautja do! Going out and finding the best - and it's only been one specific group that's taken that mission to mean literally take them

Now we got this opportunity to explore the fact that different yautja are interpreting that message differently and that's 👀 oh so interesting

Translator device babes HERE IS YOUR TROPHY CUZ DAMN LOOK AT THAT COLLAR THING

The fact that it translates yautja but not inter-human languages feels so........poignant idk to me it's always been apparent that in they KNOW humans are crafty and in a pack? Deadly, that's why it's always been a thing to pick out one from a group, going one on one

Which again lends itself to this idea that this particular tribe might not be on the up and up, as the idea that the humans refuse to fight each other seems to confuse them and king Daddy's only solution to that is to blow them up before the good folks around him start catching or empathy cooties

IM JUST SAYING

And I know a lot of folks hate when the yautja die, but the last few movies have made it look like that's a shitty thing to do, when, if done right, reminds us why these guys are obsessed with us in the first place

Not to be all The Indomitable Human Spirit but they have left survivors alone in the past BECAUSE we prove we are indestructible gremlins who won't stop until we literally drop. The yautja of the earlier movies weren't meant to be particularly heroic (but damn are they hot 🥵) but we could respect them on the grounds that they had limits and rules and respected us when we met certain criteria.

Scar, wolf, cruci, fugitive are more far nobler yautja in contrast, so of course we don't want THEM to die, but we mightve lost the reason why we actually want some of them to live if we get upset when every random asshole dies

me personally I love seeing yautja doing some dumbass thing and biting it THATS WHY I LIKE THEM they fuck up, they bleed, that's why I think Dan made it a point for the Clan Leader or whatever to be double teamed by our humans because at the end of the day 👀 hey man if your going to be axed by three little humans maybe you shouldn't be our leader MAYBE IDK

Which brings me to the other thing that's scratching my brain: I truly think this particular group of yautja are just straight up stealing other clans kills

The yautja guards and everyone directly around and taking orders from Gunnar have a very distinct look. I know some are saying the three yautja from the three stories share a trait but I straight up don't see it at all. They're all varied and weird. These hunters fell to their prey and their prey was picked up after the fact - particularly Torres

Bare with me; Ursa's yautja relied so heavily on their prosthetic that it was almost a crutch that she could take advantage of, I didn't find anything particularly weird about the ninja/samurais hunter outside of their facial appearance which could just be a variance, but the dogfight hunter did all that for shits and giggles, there was no way he could've gotten trophies from that, I truly think that yautja was a badblood who was feeling himself

But Torres was literally back home and long since awarded when he was hunted down. That was SO LONG after his fight that I feel like this group just looks up anyone who bested a yautja before and snatches them up. And it tries to the fact that in the credits for Prey, Naru is seen facing down a yautja ship the same as torres

I feel ursa and the samurai had the same experience of "winning" but getting snatched up at some later point - which leads me to say my next words not lightly:

I think this clan of yautja, if not bad bloods, operate like poachers

These aren't big game hunters, these aren't the yautja we've run in before, I truly believe this particular clan poach other yautja's prey and claim them for their own

Gunnar is very showman-y, he knows his people want blood and excitement, he offers himself as the ultimate opponent because if he didn't have the gonads to put himself on the line, why would anyone follow him, he's very glitzy and glamorous but in a yuatjan way. A single "winner" wouldn't cause him any trouble, so it's easy to say hell fight them, but we've seen a FAIR fight would absolutely make him look bad.

...the crops circles were cute btw

But anyway, all those parked yautja ships? This place might look like it's on yautja prime but I live in Vegas and I know a rave when I see it, these folks were out here for a good time not a long time

These yautja are carnies I SAID WHAT I SAID

They take what entertainment they find and dress it up nice but you can't tell me something wasnt off about this whole operation, there is a reason why these yautja freeze their prey instead of letting them go and I don't believe it's because Dan is making any sweeping changes to the more I really don't. He has his OC on the front lines, I will follow Naru anywhere

But what a delight guys! I could actually go on such a tangent about so much but these are my initial thoughts; by all means come scream at me or with me I have time tonight to enjoy it either way

[ponlypone]

MOVING FORWARD

Haha hey so I finally make a tribute for the arc I absolutely love from Re:Zero.

As you can see, the concept is as simple as: Those who face the imaginary Reinhard are the ones "who wish to 'save' him." While those who face other sides are ... well, they have their own agenda.

Also, I've just listened to a song that really suits Felt a lot in this arc; that's what inspired me to make this art:

"That's right. What I've always wanted to be isn't a mere heroine, but a hero who goes to the rescue." –––Suisei Hoshimachi "Stellar Stellar"

It's obvious that Felt doesn't fit the mold of a typical heroine or princess. Well, maybe the 'I've always wanted to be' is rather inaccurate because Felt's desire to relieve Reinhard's burden is only developed later on after a year of bonding. (but what can I do. It's part of the lyric LOL). But anyways, the way I see it, she is definitely the "hero" in this story. Simply because she has the desire to 'rescue' Reinhard.

Felt doesn't fight Aldebaran because she wants to get herself a good name to better her reputation for the Royal Selection nor because she particularly resents him, but because "she has the power to fight off the imminently approaching peril and for the sake of her one and only Knight, who bore the duty of being the first one to hasten into such situations." –––quoted from Arc 9, Chapter 18

So ofc I gotta draw her in a way that makes her look like the protagonist here. She's been getting a lot of highlights, after all! (Deserved)

Moving on from Felt-sama... Let's talk about Yae.

I give her a bloodshot, bombastic side-eye because, since day 1, this gurl has been wanting to kill Felt. She even puts Heinkel and Felt together because she hopes they'd kill each other. Her only leash is Al's demand to not have anyone die, ngl.

Now, Aldebaran.

Reinhard to him is simply like a lid to his extreme methods. He needs him alive, but does he care about Reinhard's well-being? Hell nah. Bro is simply one of the tools in his grand plan.

Roy Alphard.

[ashamed, tiny voice] Wow I don't really understand bro actually...! That's why I only put him behind Al and make him far from being the focus of the art, like "hehe this dangerous lil gremlin who is one of the trump cards for the antagonist."

Heinkel.

Aaah ofc he MUST look troubled. Bro has been extremely conflicted here and there since the beginning of this arc. I'm definitely not a Heinkel expert but even just reading his feelings and circumstances, you can definitely tell that he's currently being in complex situations innerly and outwardly. But yes, he is one of the rescue gang..! But let's put him rather behind because he is sneaky sneaky. If anything, I can catch glimpses that he genuinely still cares and loves Reinhard... Man . . .

Wilhelm.

Yknow, he is added rather later in my art draft. Was about to draw him lying on the ground, but no space, also skill issue. So I'll just draw him standing (because lying down will ruin the composition consistency too). Anyway, he is super beaten up from his fight with Yae and Alcanica, not to mention Heinkel's surprise stab. So far, he is out of commission; that's why this one of Reinhard's rescuers is facing downward, with frown tho. Because his last words before losing consciousness was literally something like, "Heinkel you stupid son. Bruh you think your method can save Rein??"

Smh. Honestly these 3 (Felt, Heinkel, and Wilhelm) need to just sit down and have a nice talk around bonfire while eating skewered fish whatever and discuss the best way to save Rein. (I knew it. There is none. Tappei told me btw).

Lastly, Reinhard.

In this art I sure want to emphasize his "resignation" to fate/what the world expects from him. He doesn't object; he doesn't even show effort to run away or break free from his duty. To him, this is something he /must/ do, and that's why he's closing his eyes, absolutely resigned and accepting. He doesn't even wish to be saved. His own feelings don't matter at all before his sense of duty.

Shadow hands are obviously Witch of Envy's to depict their longlasting battle.

As for the halo around his neck, it's Od Lagna (Thanks to @j2x3e for the idea btw!). Sure, he is the saint, the antibody to all the shitty things in Re:Zero world, but apparently, this monster can also feel things, and I can't even imagine how taxing it is to deal with Witch of Envy's overwhelming attacks, nonstop, no rest, can't even have his focus decreased a single bit or else world destruction is guaranteed. Soooo this saint, finds the halo suffocating, choking his freedom, even though he doesn't realize it, or maybe doesn't even allow himself to feel that way because he feels undeserving to let personal emotions cloud him. Thus why, even bloodied and surrounded by harming elements, his face is peaceful just like sleeping! :D Closing his eyes, closing himself from all the possibilities, just keep doing his duty.

Anyway, it's been so long since the last time I got so hyped and excited over a story. Thank you, Tappei.

[liberalk1tsch]

Both Katniss and Peeta had to deal with their mothers not totally acting like normal mothers would when their children are being reaped. Katniss's mom knows Katniss gave up on her but a normal mother would do something like say I love you or squeeze Katniss's hand before leaving when she thinks her daughter is going to die.

oh absolutely. it’s something they quietly have in common from the jump. both of them walk into one of the worst days of their lives already knowing their mothers won’t show up for them emotionally.

peeta’s mum says outright that district 12 might actually have a winner this time — and she doesn’t mean her own son. like imagine hearing that. there’s no comfort, no affection, just detachment and cruelty dressed up as practicality.

and then you’ve got asterid. she shows up for the goodbye, yeah — but not in the way katniss needs. she holds her daughters but doesn’t offer anything of herself emotionally. no “i love you,” no “i’m proud of you,” not even the kind of physical intimacy that might suggest she’s about to lose her child. katniss ends up managing the conversation entirely — giving prim survival tips, begging her mum not to shut down again, trying to hold them together even as she’s about to be marched off to her own televised death.

what really cuts deep is that katniss does say “i love you” at the end. and only then do they say it back. it’s like she has to take the emotional lead, even now. like she always has.

so yeah, neither of them gets the kind of parent a child should have in that moment. they’re both emotionally orphaned in a way. it’s not just about being reaped. it’s about realising, in that moment, that if this is it, your mother’s last words to you are still going to be something you had to pull out of her.

[fidenciocryptidcreechur]

Love this

Types to be "nonchalant" because they only beg 40 times

ACE (unironically thinks this is him being nonchalant due to how intensely he felt but also he low-key lacks full self awareness in that he knows the action as desperate and he would have made fun of anyone else but he will die before he admits that's how he is. His unawareness is only because he doesn't want to look into it, unironically thinks this is him being nonchalant but if he took a quick sec he'd know),

Sebek (somewhat like Ace, he unironically thinks this is the bare minimum however he thinks this is what everyone should do if they're serious about earning their place, he's doing what he can and he's not doing half assed anything),

Malleus (mr world ending overblot cause my dad is retiring would consider begging 40 times light work how dare you), cater (slightly self aware but like he genuinely could go bigger, this is his tame level of desperate, he will go harder),

ROOK need i explain... That's just how he's gonna act tbh

He knows he's not being nonchalant, perhaps he's even being extremely chalant, he is still gonna beg 40 times he's just self aware.

Jack (he knows what he's doing, he knows how he's acting, he knows, but he really really does care and he can't afford to lose someone just cause of his tsundere tough guy facade)

RIDDLE (he is unwell and can't stand the idea of losing someone and the thought of losing one of his few connections, his few loved ones, sends him into despair. He's fully aware what he looks like and what he is acting like- his mother did quite the job ingraining the idea of what perfect behavior she wanted but he really really can't stand the idea of losing you. He's lost enough connections because of enforced standards and propriety, he will beg. Self aware he's not being nonchalant but he doesn't care)

Azul (he's sobbing on the ground I'm so sorry, i can't be convinced he wouldn't crumble and get desperate in a scenario where someone he cares about and doesn't want to break up with tells him they're gonna leave him but he does have a chance to get them back. Like he's immediately becoming unwell.)

[a-cipher]

a man stands at the literal door of death and says "I want to live" and he's hated for it.

[brionysea]

if stranger things 5 comes out and they're like 'omg! the upside down has been a product of someone's dark and twisted mind this whole time! it's... WILL!' I'll immediately lose interest

[arolesbianism]

Time for more eternal gales isat au, this time featuring Sier as Isabeau, creating a sprite I can never use next to Aris’ because despite my best efforts it would make them look tall

[taserbats]

she is a POET she is a DYKE she is HILARIOUS but most importantly she is a HATER. i need her biblically.

[hauntingblue]

Jaya time

I love these moments of nearly cosmic horror when they encounter inexplicable things (at first) they are so intriguing

Is strawhat here?! *Megan thee stallion saying AAH 😜*

This cover just goes hard... Get it chopper

[thistlerock]

The Bad Kids Are Funny because they're all fairly violent and get really aggro really quickly (hey that's what you get for making a highly competent adventuring party a bunch of teenagers who don't go to therapy) but then Riz is somehow just two steps above everyone else and they barely acknowledge it. Fury of the Ball is the most wonderful thing.

The "face" of their party around school would probably be like Fig or Fabian, maybe Gorgug. Wow they're so strong aha. Hey who do you think is the most brutal, probably the half-orc barbarian who seems to mostly repress his rage until it's time to throw down right? Right?? No it's the little guy in the corner. Yeah, the one who just hid in the shadows and now you can't see him anymore. Yeah, he shot a pixie's fingers off one by one to get information, yeah, he ate a live dragon, yeah, he offered to tear someone's eye out for his best friend, yeah, he said the words "make sure his head is cut off so he can't be revivified" about another student. Yeah, he's a fucking goblin and so unapologetic about it at this point.

I always imagine his "fury" (which is a goblin trait which implies Sklonda has it too btw, never forget) being like oughhh pupils blown so wide, hair standing up, hissing claws out, kill maim stab. Just for a few seconds. You can elect to use it after hitting, I imagine him sinking his sword into a big meaty enemy and going "hm wow this guy's pretty tough. I need him dead though. Needs to die." and he twists the blade puts his whole weight in it and just drags it down no matter what's in the way. It HAS to be so gross and brutal every time and his friends are just like oh there he goes, the Ball cleaning up again.

Especially fun with the Kipperlilly thing. Oh two rogues fighting without sneak attack, that's gotta be a slow careful battle where they chip away at each other. Oh she does like seven damage rushing past him, oh he's gonna do the same wait never mind he uses his fury he stabbed her SO badly. No rogue finesse no show about it just the intent to kill. Kid with traumatic past does in fact end up fucked and it isn't actually fun or quirky or interesting, who would have thought. Shoutout to hold person over the lava that goes disgustingly hard and is also so gruesome, imagine being paralysed and watching yourself fall into a pit that will burn you alive.

The thing with classic rogues is that you're "dead before you know you're being attacked" and it's "quick and easy and possibly painless" but if Riz kills you it's gonna hurt. You're gonna know and it's gonna hurt but hey high chance you don't get to do anything about it still. Phenomenal character.