#kind of a long post woops

[zaacoy]

Tang in dresses I think he'd like :3c

[daily-odile]

wait quick question is it ok if I say shes pretty in the tags? I fear it may be considered weird or obsessive to some people

I may also just need to ask regardless according to suggestions

friend, being insane about odile is the Point of this blog. Please go fuckin wild.

[avengxrz]

rooster doesn't care (except he does) ; bradley "rooster" bradshaw [part 2]

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader

word count: 11.2k words (woops)

summary: you told him to let go, and he did—at least, that’s what you thought. but now, with the quiet pressing in and your chest aching for the way he used to hold on, you start to regret every word you said. you miss him, even the clingy parts, maybe especially those. and somewhere out there, he’s missing you too. one night, soaked from the rain and heavy with everything he never said, he shows up at your door. the power cuts out. the distance disappears. in the dark, you find his mouth, his hands, the truth. you lose yourselves in it, in each other, and when the morning comes, you wonder—was it love, or just what the storm brought in?

warnings: smut (soft, emotional, detailed, consensual), angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sunshine x grump dynamic, reader is cold and emotionally repressed, rooster is clingy and hopelessly in love, one bed trope, hoodie lore, crying rooster hours, yelling because she cares, post-ejection hospital scene, rooster chokes on jello, thunderstorm cuddles, power outage, forced proximity, quiet confessions in the dark, emotional intimacy, body heat science, rooster being annoying on purpose, reader slowly melting, unresolved tension, rooster finally letting go, second chances, heartache turned comfort, soft love after long silence.

note: thank you so much for all the love on part one, i really didn’t expect it to hit so many of you the way it did. i appreciate every single comment, message, and little scream you guys sent my way! here’s part two—hope it breaks you just the right amount.

part one

masterlist

your call sign is sunbeam.

You found yourself looking for him.

Just... quick glances.

A flicker in the mess hall.

A scan of the benches during warmups.

Your eyes went to the door automatically whenever it opened, searching for the familiar shape of him, the stupid hair, the cocky strut, the dorky grin.

But he never looked back anymore.

And every time you saw him—standing with Phoenix, shoulders slouched, expression carefully neutral—you felt a crack form in the wall you’d built so high around yourself.

A fracture you didn’t know how to fix.

One afternoon, you were late to the locker room.

Training had gone long. You’d stayed behind to check reports. You expected the space to be empty.

It wasn’t.

Rooster was there. Alone. Sitting on the bench, half out of his flight suit, towel draped around his shoulders. He looked tired. Not in the usual post-flight way, but somewhere deeper—like the quiet had settled into his bones.

You froze.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t say your name.

Not even a glance.

You changed quickly. Quietly. Sat on the opposite end. You didn’t know why your chest felt tight. You didn’t know why your hands felt cold.

For once, you wanted him to say something.

Anything.

Make fun of your laces.

Ask if you wanted tacos.

Tell you some bizarre fact about moon landing conspiracies or why birds might not be real.

But he didn’t.

He just stood, grabbed his duffle, and left.

Didn’t even glance over his shoulder.

The door clicked shut.

And the silence stayed with you.

Later that night, you opened your locker and found something tucked just beneath your spare gloves.

It was small. Folded.

A sticky note.

Your heart jumped.

You opened it.

Blank.

No words.

Just that familiar yellow square.

And yet it said everything.

You stared at it for a long time.

Longer than you wanted to admit.

And for the first time since you told him to let go—you wished he hadn’t listened.

It wasn’t sudden.

It was quiet. Gradual. The kind of shift you don’t notice at first—not until it’s already done. Not until you’re standing in the cold wondering when the sun stopped rising in the direction you were used to.

Bradley stopped looking at you.

Not out of anger. Not because he was trying to be cruel. It was the kind of distance that came from someone who finally got tired of running toward a wall that never moved. He stopped hovering, stopped orbiting. Stopped throwing himself into your gravity like it would save him from crashing.

And maybe, once upon a time, you would’ve called that peace.

But now?

Now it just felt hollow.

He still spoke your callsign—Sunbeam—but it sounded like protocol now. Cold. Clean. Like a switch had been flipped somewhere deep inside him. Like the warmth had been surgically removed.

“Sunbeam takes left flank.”

“Sunbeam, status check.”

“Copy that, Sunbeam.”

Nothing behind it. No trace of the man who once said it like it was a secret between only you and him. Like it meant something more than syllables and orders. Like you meant something more than airspace and flight paths.

You caught yourself watching him more than you used to.

In meetings, you found your gaze drifting. Just a second too long on the line of his jaw, on the tired curve of his mouth. In the locker room, you noticed the way he didn’t sit near you anymore. Not even close. He didn’t hum under his breath. He didn’t drop coffee by your locker. He didn’t meet your eyes.

And when you passed him in the hallway, he nodded. Just nodded. As if you were someone he used to know, but hadn’t seen in years.

You should’ve said something. Anything. But your throat always closed up at the worst possible moments.

So instead, you listened for him. Waited for some trace of the old Bradley to slip through.

But he never did.

And it was starting to eat at you.

You didn’t mean to say it like that.

It was a drill day. Nothing special. The sun was too hot, the sky too bright, the air humid and heavy in your flight suit. Everyone was gathered at the edge of the tarmac, running checks, prepping for launch.

You were standing with Bob, double-checking your wing alignment, when you caught sight of Rooster across the way.

He was bent over a panel, sleeves rolled up, jaw tense with focus. Sweat slicked the back of his neck. There was something tired in his posture, something heavy in the set of his shoulders.

He hadn’t spoken to you directly all morning.

You hated it. You hated how much you missed the way he used to fill the silence without even trying. How he used to make the world feel smaller and louder all at once.

You told yourself it was fine. You deserved this. You’d asked for it.

But when Mav came over the radio and started assigning pairs, you felt it—something rising in your chest before you could stop it.

“Rooster and Bob, you’re first in the air. Sunbeam and Hangman on standby.”

And that was when you said it.

Soft. Reflexive. Just under your breath, but audible enough to betray you.

“Rooster…”

You said it like it used to be. Like it meant Bradley. Like it was fond. Like it was yours to say.

And he heard it.

You knew he did.

Because he stilled.

Only for a second. The wrench in his hand paused. His spine straightened. A flicker—barely there. But you saw it.

And then—he moved.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t look at you.

Just finished what he was doing, handed the tool to Bob, and walked toward the bird.

No reaction. No acknowledgement.

No warmth.

He didn’t speak to you for the rest of the day.

Not a word.

Not even a glance.

And that night, when you sat at the Hard Deck nursing a drink you didn’t want, you heard his laugh from across the bar. It was soft. Short. He was talking to Phoenix and Coyote. A real smile tugged at his mouth—brief, crooked, tired.

But it wasn’t for you.

Hadn’t been in a long time.

You stared at the condensation on your glass. The music was too loud. The world felt far away.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel proud of being unreadable.

You just felt unseen.

The Hard Deck was warm with low noise—music, clinking bottles, laughter humming just beneath the chatter. It was a regular night, but the way you sat alone at the corner of the bar made it feel like a movie scene you didn’t audition for.

You nursed a bottle you hadn’t really touched. The condensation slipped down your fingers, gathering in small pools on the bar top. You’d been sitting there long enough that Penny had stopped checking in, which was saying something.

“Careful, darlin’,” came a voice beside you, smooth and smug. “People might start thinking you’re brooding.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Hangman.

Jake Seresin, in all his drawling, golden-boy glory. Leaning against the bar like it was built just for his elbow. Wearing that smirk like it was part of his uniform.

“I’m not brooding,” you muttered, eyes still fixed forward.

“Sure you’re not,” he said, sliding into the seat next to you, his own beer already in hand. “Just staring off into space with all the mood lighting of a noir detective. Very subtle.”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t seem to mind.

He let the silence sit for a moment, like he was waiting for the exact right beat to pounce. And then:

“Y’know, I gotta ask… when did you start looking like someone ripped the moon outta your sky?”

You turned your head slowly. Eyebrow arched. “You practicing poetry on me now?”

“Maybe,” Jake grinned. “But only because you’ve got the energy of someone who’s haunted and refusing to call the exorcist.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to your drink. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m accurate,” he corrected, taking a sip. “It’s been what? Two, three weeks now? Since Rooster shut up and started pretending you don’t exist?”

You stiffened. Just slightly.

Jake noticed.

“Oh-ho,” he said, leaning in just a bit, voice low. “So you have noticed.”

You didn’t answer.

Jake exhaled like he’d won a bet. “Knew it. Because for someone who always claimed you didn’t care, you’re sure staring at the guy like he walked off with something important.”

You stared ahead, jaw tightening. “He’s being professional.”

“He’s being gone,” Jake said bluntly. “C’mon, Sunbeam—he used to orbit you like it was his whole job. Now? Man’s flying radio silent. No jokes. No coffee. No dumb chicken metaphors. Hell, he hasn’t even argued with me all week and I’ve tried.”

You were quiet.

Jake swirled the label on his bottle. “I gotta say, it’s impressive. You broke the guy clean. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“That’s not what I was trying to do,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Jake stilled.

He tilted his head. “No?”

You pressed your lips together.

You hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Hadn’t meant to admit that part of you missed it—the chaos, the noise, the way he filled a room like he was made for it.

You missed hearing your name in his voice. Missed how he used to grin when you rolled your eyes. Missed being annoyed, because even when he drove you up a wall, at least you knew where you stood with him.

Now? You didn’t know a damn thing.

Jake watched your silence carefully. Like he knew he was walking a line, but couldn’t help himself.

“You didn’t want him to stop,” he said, quieter this time.

You didn’t move.

“You wanted him to back off, sure. Maybe stop hovering. But you didn’t want him to disappear. You just… didn’t know how to ask for what you did want.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the bottle.

Jake didn’t smirk now. He wasn’t teasing anymore.

“Lemme guess,” he said, voice low and even. “You thought he’d never take the hint. That he’d always come back. No matter how many times you told him to go.”

You finally looked at him.

And Jake—cocky, arrogant Jake—met your gaze with something surprisingly soft.

“You thought he’d never give up on you,” he said.

The words landed like a gut punch.

You looked away again, jaw clenched, throat tight.

He wasn’t wrong.

And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.

“I didn’t think he’d listen,” you said quietly.

Jake nodded, like that explained everything.

“He always listened,” he murmured. “You just didn’t notice how much until he stopped.”

You didn’t reply.

Jake sat back, finishing the last of his beer. He stood, stretching like a cat, then gave you one last look—something bordering on sympathy, but wrapped in his usual smirk so it wouldn’t feel too raw.

“Just sayin’, Sunbeam,” he said, tossing his bottle in the bin. “Some silences ain’t peaceful. Some of ‘em are just... empty.”

Then he walked away.

And you were left sitting there.

Staring at your untouched drink.

With no sound but your own heartbeat.

And the echo of his voice in your head.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

This whole pretending act—playing the part of someone who didn’t ache when you walked into a room, didn’t burn when you looked through him like he was nothing but another squadmate in a sea of uniforms—was never going to work. Not really. Not for someone like him.

Bradley Bradshaw was a lot of things. A damn good pilot. Loyal to a fault. Stubborn as hell. But he was never good at hiding the way he felt. Not when it came to you.

And now?

Now the weight of all that silence was starting to crush him.

He sat alone in the locker room, elbows on his knees, hands raked through his curls like he could physically keep himself from falling apart. The room was empty—everyone else gone home or out drinking, the buzz of the Hard Deck miles away. Just him and the dull hum of fluorescent lights, the distant whir of a fan, and the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He didn’t know what made it snap.

Maybe it was hearing Jake talk about you earlier, loud and smug and familiar. Maybe it was the way you didn’t even glance his way when you walked past after training. Or maybe it was that stupid, soft way you’d said his callsign the day before—Rooster—like you didn’t even know you’d said it differently, like it wasn’t the first warmth he’d heard from you in weeks.

Whatever it was, it cracked something in his chest.

He let out a breath that sounded too close to a sob.

This was pathetic.

He was pathetic.

He’d spent years being your shadow, your anchor, your idiot golden retriever, and when you finally pushed him away, he told himself he could handle it. Told himself he’d rather be near you in silence than lose you completely. Told himself he could be mature, respectful, professional.

He was so damn tired of pretending.

He missed you. God, he missed you. And not just the way you used to be together, not just the teasing or the quiet looks or the rhythm you’d found in the sky.

He missed your voice. The way you’d call him out without hesitation. The dry humor. The rare smirks. The way you’d roll your eyes but still take the coffee he brought you. The way you used to say his name like it meant something.

It used to feel like you were his gravity. Now, he was drifting. Unmoored. Lost.

He slammed a fist into the locker beside him, the metal ringing through the room. His knuckles stung, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t do this.”

Because he didn’t want to move on. Didn’t want to keep acting like you were just a teammate. He didn’t want the silence. Didn’t want this distance. Didn’t want this version of his life where you were close enough to touch but so far removed it made him feel like a stranger in his own skin.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He could feel it coming now—tears threatening at the edges, his chest tight with the pressure of all the words he never got to say.

I miss you.I’m sorry.I didn’t mean to be too much.I didn’t think you’d ever actually want me to go.I thought you knew I’d follow you anywhere.I thought that mattered.

He’d been so proud of himself. So convinced he was being strong by backing off. Thought that maybe, if he gave you space, you’d come back to him on your own.

But you didn’t.

And now he was sitting here, unraveling alone in a locker room, like some lovesick idiot with no clue how to fix what he never meant to break.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered to the air, voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to stop loving her.”

There it was.

The truth.

It wasn’t about pretending anymore. It never had been.

Because no matter how many times he looked away…��

No matter how cold he forced his voice to sound… 

No matter how many nights he told himself it was time to move on…

He couldn’t.

Because you weren’t just someone he loved.

You were the only person he’d ever been afraid to lose.

And right now? He didn’t know if he already had.

The sound of the locker room door creaked open slow.

Rooster didn’t move.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. His hands were still gripping the edge of the bench beneath him, head hanging low between hunched shoulders, breath shallow and uneven.

He’d hoped he’d have longer.

Just ten more minutes alone. Ten more minutes to sit in the wreckage of his own feelings and fall apart quietly without anyone seeing the pieces.

But life never gave him that, did it?

A pause. Then the familiar click of boots across the tile floor.

"Well," drawled a voice he knew too well, "this is a new look."

Bradley didn’t answer.

Hangman stopped a few feet away. Jake Seresin, cocky and loud and impossible to ignore. Except tonight, he wasn’t either of those things. His voice was calm. Measured.

Not mocking.

Just... there.

“Didn’t peg you for the locker-room-crying type,” Jake added, gently this time. “Not saying I’m judging. Just surprised. You usually save your dramatics for the bar.”

Bradley exhaled. A quiet, hollow breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a broken echo of one.

Jake stepped closer but didn’t sit.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Rooster shook his head.

“Didn’t think so.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, and Jake finally took a seat on the bench across from him. No smirk. No posturing. Just sat there like a mirror image—legs wide, arms resting on his knees, head tilted like he was looking at something unfamiliar.

“You’re not okay,” Jake said quietly.

Bradley still didn’t respond.

Jake let out a breath, leaned back slightly. “You know, I always thought you were ridiculous with her.”

That got a twitch. A flick of the eyes. Not much, but enough.

Jake shrugged. “The way you followed her around. The way you talked about her like she personally hung the stars. Hell, we used to bet on how long it would take you to crack a smile when she walked in the room.”

Rooster’s hands clenched tighter. His jaw locked.

“And then she told you to back off,” Jake continued, still soft, still not cruel. “And you did. Instantly. Like flipping a damn switch.”

Bradley’s voice finally scraped out, low and hoarse. “She told me to let go.”

“I know.”

“She meant it.”

“Maybe.”

That word made Rooster’s head snap up, finally—eyes glassy and red, voice rough with held-back emotion. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Give me hope.”

Jake held his gaze. “I’m not. I’m just saying... maybe she didn’t think you actually would.”

Rooster scoffed. Shook his head. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Jake agreed. “It’s not. But you and I both know she’s not made of stone. You think she doesn’t miss it? The coffee? The dumb jokes? You saying her name like it’s a secret she forgot she told you?”

Rooster looked away, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter. She said what she said.”

“And you listened. Like a good little soldier.”

“I had to, Jake. I—” his voice broke, and he raked his fingers through his hair, overwhelmed. “I didn’t want to make her hate me.”

Jake let that sit. Let it land.

“Thing is,” he said after a beat, “I think she already knew how much you loved her. That was never the problem.”

Rooster closed his eyes. “Then what was?”

“I think,” Jake said slowly, “the problem was you never gave her the space to figure out how she felt. You were always so sure. Always there. Always loud.”

“And now I’m not,” Bradley muttered.

Jake nodded. “And now she’s not sure what to do with the silence.”

Bradley didn’t say anything for a long time.

When he finally spoke, it was a whisper.

“I don’t know who I am when I’m not loving her.”

Jake’s breath hitched—just slightly. And when he spoke again, his voice was quieter than it had ever been.

“Then maybe it’s time you find out.”

Another long silence. Heavier than the rest.

Jake stood slowly, the bench creaking beneath him. He didn’t offer a hand, didn’t clap a shoulder, didn’t joke.

He just looked down at Rooster—broken, unraveling, still trying to catch his breath in a war he’d lost to himself.

“I know I talk a lot of shit,” Jake said, calm and serious. “But for what it’s worth? I always thought the way you loved her was kind of beautiful.”

Then he walked out.

And for the first time that night, Rooster let the tears fall.

Not loud. Not shaking.

Just quiet.

Heavy.

Real.

Three days pass. Long, quiet, stretched thin.

Three days where you don’t see much of Rooster—not really. He’s around, sure. At briefings. On the tarmac. In the hall. But he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t hover. Doesn’t try. And for the first time since he stopped orbiting you, the silence starts to bother you.

You try not to let it. You tell yourself you’re fine. That it’s peaceful. But the truth? It feels wrong.

So when Maverick reads off the pairings at the end of the morning brief, you almost don’t catch it.

“Rooster and Sunbeam—you’re up first.”

The room quiets just enough for the beat to echo.

You blink. Glance across the table.

Rooster’s already looking at you.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t wink. But his eyes are bright again—less storm, more sunrise. There’s a flicker of something familiar behind them. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way you do not want to think about.

You nod once.

So does he.

And just like that, you’re walking toward your jets side by side again.

It’s quiet for a minute. The air between you is heavy with all the things you haven’t said in weeks, and yet there’s something... lighter, too. Like the tension that used to choke your throat is finally starting to thin out.

“I, uh...” Rooster starts, adjusting his gloves. “Hope you don’t mind flying with me again.”

You glance sideways, mildly. “I’ll survive.”

He chuckles under his breath. “That’s a better reaction than last time.”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t push.

But the edge of his smile grows a little anyway.

The flight is clean. Smooth. Almost unsettling in how natural it feels. Like you never stopped flying together. Like your birds missed each other more than you did. You fall into rhythm fast—his voice on comms is warm, calm, and this time, careful. Like he’s figured out how to match your silence without smothering it.

"Sunbeam, you got eyes?"

“Always,” you reply.

He hums. “Still like hearing that.”

You roll your eyes instinctively, but it’s a little softer this time. Less annoyance. More... muscle memory.

And when you both touch down, it’s weird. Because you’re still sweating, still processing, still tired—but you’re not irritated. Not bracing for him to say something ridiculous.

Instead, he just walks beside you. Doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t throw out a million questions or jokes. He lets the quiet sit.

“Nice flying,” he says simply.

You glance at him, and for some strange reason, you don’t look away right away.

“You too.”

He beams.

God help you, he beams.

And that’s the first crack.

The rest of the day is strange.

Because Rooster is still Rooster—but not the one who used to cling like ivy. He jokes with the others. Smiles more. Talks a little louder. But he’s not performing. Not showing off.

And when you walk into the locker room later, he’s sitting on the bench like always—but this time, when he looks up and sees you, he just nods.

No joke. No sun pun. Just... acknowledgment.

You nod back.

And when you sit across from him, you feel something strange settle in your chest.

Something warm.

Something dangerous.

The next day, it’s the same thing.

You’re paired again.

You don’t question it. Mav’s clearly on a mission and you’re not about to call him out for whatever matchmaking scheme he’s cooking up. But it doesn’t feel forced.

It feels like muscle memory again.

Rooster’s voice on the comms is back to its familiar rhythm.

“Sunbeam, you ever think about how dumb this name is?”

You snort. “You gave it to me.”

“Yeah. Worst mistake of my life.”

You tilt your head. “That’s the worst?”

There’s a pause.

“Okay, second worst.”

“What’s first?”

Another pause.

Then, quietly: “Letting you think I ever wanted to be anywhere else.”

You blink. Your heart stutters.

But before you can reply, the radio goes quiet again.

Back to work.

Back to formation.

But your grip on the throttle isn’t as steady now.

Not because of nerves.

Because something else entirely.

That night, you catch him at the Hard Deck.

He’s surrounded by the squad, grinning, a beer in hand. Laughing at something Phoenix said. You watch him from the bar, unseen.

And for a moment, you feel like you’re looking at him for the first time.

Not as the leech.

Not as the golden retriever.

Not as the boy who followed you through every deployment.

Just… Bradley.

Just a man who changed. Quietly. Steadily.

A man who pulled away not to punish you—but to heal himself.

And somehow came back brighter.

You don’t say anything that night.

You just sit a few stools away, nursing your drink, listening to the sound of his laughter. Familiar. Comforting.

This time, it doesn’t grate.

This time, it makes you smile.

Just a little.

But it’s a start.

It starts small.

A coffee cup on your locker bench. No note. No dramatic gesture. Just the drink he knows you like, still warm, sitting there like it belongs.

You spot it, glance around the room. He’s across the hangar—laughing with Bob, goggles pushed back into his curls, half-listening to Phoenix rant about something that went wrong with her bird. He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t wait for your reaction.

And somehow, that’s what makes it land harder.

You drink it.

You don’t tell him you do, but the next morning, it’s there again.

He talks to you now, but it’s different.

The words come soft, casual, like sunlight warming up steel. He slips them in between mission briefings and hallway passings and cockpit checks. No more cloying metaphors. No more jokes that beg for your eye rolls. Just... him.

Real.

Relaxed.

And it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him like this without the try-hard energy. Without the need to make you laugh or look or react.

He tells you about a bird he saw on the roof of the mess hall yesterday—“just sat there like it owned the place, strutted around like Hangman with feathers.” You snort into your protein bar, and he doesn’t comment. Just smiles to himself and keeps walking.

Another day, he mentions that the clouds looked like spilled marshmallows during warmups. “Kinda dumb, I know,” he adds. But you shake your head once, and he grins at that.

You start replying more.

Not much.

Not dramatically.

But where there used to be silence, now there’s space for something else.

Like when he walks beside you after training and says, “You flew like hell today.”

And you shrug. “You didn’t crash into me, so I’ll give you a pass.”

He laughs, loud and real. “You missed me, admit it.”

You sip your water bottle. “I missed quiet.”

But you’re smiling. Just a little. And he sees it.

He doesn’t point it out.

He just bumps your shoulder once, gentle. Like a nudge you barely feel until it’s gone.

It builds, day by day.

You don’t mean to notice the way his voice lights up when he talks to Bob. Or the way he always saves you a chair during debriefings now—doesn’t announce it, just places his folder on the seat beside his and acts like it’s nothing.

You don’t mean to notice when he’s not there, either.

Like yesterday. When he didn’t show up to warmups.

No call. No excuse. Just... absent.

Your eyes flicked to the hangar doors too many times. You told yourself it was routine concern. That it didn’t matter.

Then you heard he’d just overslept. Slept right through his alarm.

You rolled your eyes. But your chest eased up the moment you heard it.

The squad starts to notice.

Phoenix eyes you both during drills. Bob smiles a little too knowingly when he catches you sharing a quiet exchange near the lockers. Even Hangman raises a brow once, muttering something like, “Look at you two being civil. World’s ending.”

You tell them to shut up, obviously.

But you’re not cold about it anymore.

And Rooster? He just shrugs and grins, shameless as ever. “Guess she’s finally seeing I’m irresistible.”

You scoff.

But you don’t walk away.

It’s a week later, after a long training run, when it finally clicks that something has changed.

You’re both sweaty, exhausted, grounded after a near-flawless simulation. You pull off your helmet, shake the heat from your neck. He’s already waiting near your bird, watching you with that familiar tilt to his head.

“Hell of a flight,” he says, voice low and fond.

You nod once, out of breath. “You didn’t suck.”

“That’s basically a love confession coming from you,” he quips.

You glance at him.

He’s beaming again—but not in that loud, desperate way he used to. It’s softer now. Worn-in. Patient.

You blink, slowly.

And then, without thinking, you say it.

“You’re being yourself again.”

He stills for a moment. Not alarmed. Just surprised.

You think maybe he’ll joke it off. Make some crack about having “gone through a phase” or how he’s always been the picture of maturity.

But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you—really looks—and shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Guess I stopped pretending not to care.”

You nod once. Then walk past him, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You’re not ready to say anything else. Not yet.

But when you glance over your shoulder, he’s still smiling.

And this time, you don’t look away.

It’s late when it happens. Post-training dusk, the kind of hour where the sky starts folding in on itself—blue fading to gray, clouds smeared across the horizon like ash. The tarmac’s mostly empty. Everyone’s either inside the hangar or already headed home.

You’re still in your flight suit, sleeves tied around your waist, tank clinging to your back with sweat. The heat of the day’s begun to die down, but your skin still hums from the adrenaline.

Rooster’s next to you, crouched down beside your bird, checking a loose panel you mentioned earlier. You didn’t ask him to stay. He just did. As if it were second nature.

He doesn’t talk. Just works.

You don’t talk either. You just watch.

And it’s weird, because for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not trying to keep your guard up. You’re not waiting for him to say something stupid, or loud, or clingy. He’s just… here. Present. And it feels good.

There’s a comfortable rhythm to it. His hand brushing over the metal, your eyes following the path of his movements. The soft clinking of his tools. The sound of him breathing.

And then, quietly, he says, “I like this.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says again, without looking up. “Us. Like this.”

You don’t answer right away. The words settle around you like dust.

He finally glances over. “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know.”

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

It’s not intense. It’s not some cinematic, eye-locking, music-swell moment.

It’s just real.

Simple.

Sincere.

And that’s what makes your chest go tight.

He looks down again, lips twitching. “Sorry. That probably made it weird.”

“It didn’t,” you say, surprising yourself.

He pauses.

Then—just barely—you see the tension leave his shoulders.

“You ever wonder,” he says softly, screwing the panel closed, “if we’re just bad at timing?”

You inhale slowly. “I think we’re bad at talking.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. That too.”

Another beat passes.

Then he stands.

You’re facing each other again, the wind picking up just enough to brush his curls over his forehead. You’re still silent, but it’s not cold. Not tense. Just charged. Like the air before a storm.

He reaches down to hand you your helmet.

You reach out at the same time.

Fingers brush.

Only for a second. Maybe even less.

But it’s enough.

It jolts through you like static—your skin buzzing, pulse skipping, breath catching just enough to feel.

And when you look up again, he’s staring at you like he felt it too.

Neither of you moves.

The silence stretches.

Then slowly—like he’s afraid to spook you—he shifts just a little closer. Not touching. Not invading. Just... nearer. More real.

“I missed this,” he says, voice lower now. Honest. Worn thin. “I missed you.”

Your throat tightens.

You should deflect. Shrug. Walk away.

That’s what you always do.

But this time?

This time you stay.

And softly—so quietly you barely hear yourself—you say, “I know.”

His breath hitches.

And still—you don’t move.

The sky cracked open at 1432.

You remember the exact time because you were watching from the control tower, your gear still half-on from the earlier sortie, helmet tucked under your arm, eyes lazily tracking jet trails like it was just another routine afternoon.

Until his bird dropped out of formation.

It happened fast. Too fast. One second, Rooster’s voice was on the comms, steady and playful—“C’mon, Payback, bet you ten bucks I get back before you do”—and the next, static.

Then a garbled sound. Alarms. Movement.

“Mayday, mayday, this is Bravo Zero-One, engine failure, I’m going down—”

You didn’t realize you’d started running until you were halfway down the stairs.

Didn’t realize you were yelling into the nearest radio for updates until someone grabbed your arm to stop you from bolting across the tarmac.

The next few hours were a blur—Mav’s grim face, the rescue team scramble, the painful stillness of waiting for a chopper to return. You tried to play it off, arms crossed, jaw locked, face blank.

But your hands were shaking.

And when they said he was alive, you didn’t even pretend to be relieved. You just nodded once, muttered “of course he is,” and walked off before anyone could see the way your shoulders slumped.

You didn’t visit him right away. Couldn’t.

Not because you didn’t care. But because you did.

Too much.

You needed time to get your rage under control.

Spoiler: it didn’t work.

Two days later, you’re storming into the Naval hospital wing like a hurricane with one target.

You’ve already threatened two nurses with a glare alone, snapped at the front desk when they said visiting hours were almost over, and slammed the door to his room open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Bradley Bradshaw is sitting up in bed, wearing a faded hospital gown, one arm in a sling and an IV taped to the other. He’s balancing a cup of sad-looking green jello in one hand, plastic spoon halfway to his mouth.

He looks up just in time to see you standing there, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

“Hi,” he says around a mouthful, smile sheepish. “Miss me?”

You explode.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

He flinches so hard he chokes on the jello.

Literally.

He starts coughing violently, the cup rattling in his grip as he tries to breathe and also not die. You do not rush to his aid. You cross your arms and wait, face thunderous, foot tapping with fury.

Finally, red-faced and wheezing, he clears his throat and croaks, “Damn. Sunbeam. You do talk.”

“Don’t test me,” you growl, storming across the room. “You ejected, Bradshaw. You crashed. You could’ve—you—I swear to God if you say one more dumb thing I will end you myself!”

“Noted,” he rasps, wiping his mouth, eyes wide like you’re a wild animal in aviators. “Okay. Wow. So, uh, how’ve you been?”

“I’ve been losing my mind, you absolute moron!”

His brows shoot up. “Oh?”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me!” you snap, pacing now. “Do you have any idea what it was like hearing you go down? Listening to your comms cut out like that?! I thought—I didn’t even know if you—”

Your voice breaks. You swallow hard.

Rooster’s grin fades.

The silence stretches.

You stop at the foot of the bed, breathing hard, fists still clenched like you're ready to punch a hole through the hospital wall.

“You’re not allowed to die,” you mutter, low and sharp. “You got that?”

His throat bobs. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I got it.”

You glare at him a moment longer, then snatch the jello cup from his tray and stab your spoon into it before plopping it back down.

He watches the jello jiggle.

Then, softly: “...That was actually kind of hot.”

You throw the spoon at him.

He yelps and laughs and winces at the same time.

And for a second—just a second—you almost laugh too.

Almost.

It’s late when the knock comes.

You’re halfway through reheating leftovers in the microwave, thunder rumbling outside like the sky’s trying to shake loose, rain hammering against the windows with the kind of fury that drowns out even your thoughts.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

The knock sounds again—three short raps, too polite to be a neighbor, too specific to be a stranger.

You sigh, set your fork down, and pad barefoot to the door.

When you open it, Rooster Bradshaw is standing on your front step, soaked to the damn bone, curls dripping into his eyes, jacket clinging to him like seaweed.

“Hi,” he says, voice sheepish and hopeful. “Can I crash here? It’s, uh… really raining.”

You stare at him for a beat. His sneakers squish when he shifts his weight. He looks like a drenched golden retriever someone forgot in the backyard.

You step aside without a word.

He lights up like Christmas.

“Thanks, Sunbeam,” he says, stepping in and peeling off his jacket like it personally betrayed him. Water pools onto your entryway floor. “I swear I didn’t mean to get caught in this. Weather said light drizzle—drizzle, my ass.”

You close the door behind him, deadbolt clicking. “Take your shoes off. You’re dripping all over the rug.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says immediately, already toeing off his soaked sneakers. “Sorry, I should’ve brought a towel or—”

You disappear down the hallway before he can finish. When you come back, you toss a towel at his chest and drop a bundle of clothes on the coffee table.

He blinks down at the hoodie sitting on top.

It’s gray, a little worn at the sleeves, the red cartoon chicken on the front still intact after all these years. College issue. Dumb, ridiculous. He’d gotten it from a novelty stand during one of those campus events you always rolled your eyes at.

He gave it to you after a bad exam week. Said you looked like you needed something stupid to wear.

You never gave it back.

Rooster reaches down slowly, like the thing might vanish if he touches it too fast.

“No way,” he breathes, grinning wide. “You still have this?”

You cross your arms. “It’s warm.”

“That’s why you kept it?” He gasps like you just told him you were secretly married. “Not because it reminded you of me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I forgot it was yours.”

He places a dramatic hand to his heart. “That hurts. That actually hurts. You wound me.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you mutter, already heading back to your food.

“Still cold, still heartless,” he calls after you, towel draped over his head. “You’re lucky I find that so charming.”

Fifteen minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom in the chicken hoodie and a pair of sweats you forgot you owned. His curls are towel-dried and fluffy, his cheeks pink from the hot shower, and the hoodie’s a size too small—years of muscle added since college making it stretch a little too snug across his chest.

He spins once in place. “So? Do I look cozy or what?”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “You look ridiculous.”

“Exactly,” he says, beaming. “Full-circle nostalgia. This is emotional closure, Sunbeam.”

You say nothing. Slide over your plate of food without meeting his eyes.

He blinks. “Is this… for me?”

You shrug. “I wasn’t that hungry.”

His voice softens immediately. “You’re lying.”

You say nothing.

He smiles anyway, taking the plate and plopping onto your couch like he’s lived here for years. He digs in, humming in exaggerated delight between bites.

You don’t join him. You curl up in the armchair across the room, scrolling on your phone like you’re completely unfazed by the fact that Bradley Bradshaw—drenched, dramatic, and now hoodie-clad—is lounging in your apartment like he belongs.

But your eyes flick up every so often.

And every time they do, he’s already looking.

Still smiling.

Like rain or not, he’d walk through a thousand storms if it meant being here, in this quiet moment with you.

In your home.

In your hoodie.

And for once, you don’t tell him to shut up when he won’t stop humming between bites.

You just let it happen.

It happens halfway through his monologue about college dorm horror stories. You’re seated on opposite ends of the couch, him folded like a human golden retriever into the hoodie he hasn’t stopped mentioning, and you—with your usual detached expression—are pretending to care by occasionally grunting at the right moments.

He’s mid-sentence. Something about a raccoon, a vending machine, and someone named Kenny.

“—so then Kenny’s dumbass actually climbs into the—”

click.

Darkness.

Total.

Immediate.

And followed instantly by a loud, echoing “AAAAHHH!” from the idiot beside you.

There’s a beat of silence. Rain still hammers outside. The room is pitch black.

You blink once into the dark. “...Really?”

“I panicked!” Rooster says, voice a little too high-pitched. “That was a panic yell. Completely normal. Totally justified.”

You sigh. “Power’s out.”

“Yeah, no kidding, Sunbeam.”

There’s some shuffling as he fumbles around the couch. You hear him knock something over with his elbow. “Okay, okay, it’s fine, we’ve trained for worse. Carrier landings in storms. Midair refuels in pitch black. I can handle—OW.”

A thud.

You squint through the dark. “Did you just fall?”

“I tripped. Over your couch leg. Which, by the way, is criminally low to the ground.”

You exhale slowly through your nose, standing. “Stay there. I’ll get a flashlight.”

“Too late, I’m already blind. I see nothing but regret and betrayal.”

You don’t respond. You grab your phone from the counter, flick on the flashlight, and shine it toward the couch.

Rooster’s on the floor, tangled in the throw blanket he insisted wasn’t for “aesthetics,” hoodie slightly lopsided, curls a wild mess, and eyes squinting up at you like you’ve just rescued him from a cave.

“Oh thank God,” he says dramatically. “My savior. My light. My guiding star.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just point the flashlight at the hallway. “Go change. I have candles.”

He groans as he rolls up, clutching his side. “If I have a bruise, you’re legally responsible. This couch is a health hazard.”

“I warned you about moving,” you say flatly.

As you start lighting candles in the kitchen, he shuffles over and slumps dramatically onto the floor beside you, cross-legged, eyes fixed on the flickering flame like a caveman discovering fire.

“This is romantic,” he announces.

You shoot him a look.

He grins. “Like a period drama. Forbidden love. War-torn letters. Unspeakable yearning.”

“You’re literally just sitting on my kitchen tile.”

“Tragic,” he whispers, clutching the hoodie to his chest. “We’ll never survive the blackout.”

You light another candle and place it on the counter, ignoring him.

He watches you in silence for a second. Then, softer, “Hey. You’re not... freaked out by this stuff? Storms? Power going out?”

You glance at him. “No.”

He nods, like that makes sense. “Of course. You’re too cool to be scared.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just not dramatic about it.”

He hums thoughtfully. “I kind of like that about you.”

You pause, briefly, at the cupboard. “That I’m not dramatic?”

“That you’re steady,” he says. “You’re always... there. Even when everything else is nuts.”

You don’t respond. Just hand him a mug of warm tea you made with your still-hot kettle before the power went. He takes it like it’s the holy grail.

“I love it here,” he sighs. “Even in the dark. Especially in the dark.”

You settle back on the couch, curling up with a blanket. “You’re not sleeping in my bed.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Couch is fine. Floor is fine. Bathtub, if necessary. But—hey.” He points to his chest. “This hoodie? Prime bedtime real estate.”

You toss him a pillow without looking.

It hits him in the face.

“Worth it,” he mumbles happily, snuggling into it like a satisfied cat.

And as the storm howls outside and the room flickers with candlelight, you say nothing. Just sip your tea, steady and quiet as always.

But you don’t kick him out.

And when you hear his breathing slow from the floor, hoodie tucked under his chin, a smile twitching at his lips even in sleep—

You don’t smile back.

But you do pull the blanket higher.

Just a little.

The thunder wakes you with a crack so loud it sounds like the earth split in two right above your apartment.

You jolt upright on the couch, heart thudding in your chest. For a second, you forget where you are—then you feel a heavy weight slump against your side and remember, unfortunately, Bradley Bradshaw is still here.

He groans sleepily, curls smashed flat on one side, cheek red from the floor. “’S too early for the apocalypse,” he mumbles, blindly groping for the blanket you yanked off him in your panic.

You stand up and stretch, squinting into the darkness. The candles are long out, the power still hasn’t returned, and the storm outside sounds even worse than it did earlier. The wind whistles through the walls, and rain taps frantic fingers on the glass.

“It’s freezing,” you mutter, rubbing your arms.

Bradley, still horizontal, lifts his head like a meerkat. “We should cuddle.”

You stare at him.

He grins sleepily. “For body heat. Survival. Science.”

“You’re on the floor.”

“And I’m suffering,” he says dramatically. “Come on, Sunbeam. We’ll both freeze out here. Just one night. One innocent cuddle. I’m very warm. Extremely warm. Practically a human space heater.”

You sigh like you’ve just been asked to sacrifice something deeply personal.

He sits up, eyebrows raised, clearly expecting you to say no.

Instead, you turn and walk toward your bedroom.

Bradley scrambles after you like a golden retriever invited on the bed for the first time in its life.

The room is pitch black. You can barely make out the shapes of your furniture in the darkness. The sheets are cool when you slip under them, and you’re already regretting not having more blankets.

Bradley climbs in beside you with entirely too much enthusiasm, pulling the comforter up to his chin and letting out a dramatic sigh of bliss.

“Ohhh my God,” he whispers. “This is so much better. This is paradise.”

You turn away from him, facing the wall. “You say one word and I’m kicking you out.”

“I say lots of words,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Silence falls between you again. Except now, it’s close. His warmth seeps into your side, slow and steady. His breath is quiet. Measured. You can feel him smiling even though you can’t see it.

And then, after a long minute, your voice breaks the silence.

“You know,” you say quietly, “you snore when you’re on your back.”

He gasps. “How dare you.”

“You also kick.”

“I do not—”

“You kicked me twice.”

“That was the floor attacking you.”

You shift slightly. He does too, until his arm brushes yours.

“You always talk this much when you’re nervous?” you ask.

He goes quiet for a second. Then, softly: “Only when I’m really happy.”

You hate the way your chest tightens at that.

He shifts again, clearly getting comfortable. You feel his hand resting lightly between you—near but not touching. A silent offer. No pressure.

You sigh once. Then slowly—very slowly—you reach over and pull his arm across your waist.

A beat.

And then you feel it.

Bradley melts.

Not figuratively. Not just emotionally. Like, full-body sigh, soft little hum, cheek pressed to your shoulder like he’s home for the first time in years.

You roll your eyes into the darkness. “You’re smiling like an idiot.”

“I am an idiot,” he whispers against your neck, grinning into the hoodie you’re still wearing. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

Another thunderclap rolls over the building, louder than before.

You don’t flinch.

But his arm tightens around your waist.

And you don’t pull away.

Not even a little.

It’s late.

You don’t know how much time has passed since you both drifted into that heavy silence. The storm still murmurs outside, but softer now—like it’s finally tired, like the sky itself is worn out.

The room is cold, but he’s warm against your back. One arm curled around your waist, chest rising slow and steady behind you, breath tickling the strands of your hair he can’t help nudging closer to.

You should be asleep.

You’re not.

Neither is he.

You know it by the way his fingers twitch slightly against your shirt, like he’s trying not to move, not to disturb you. Like he’s thinking too loud in the dark.

Then, just when you think maybe he’ll leave it alone—let the moment pass and fall into dreams like always—

His voice comes, low. Barely more than a whisper.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn. You don’t answer.

But he knows you’re awake.

“I don’t know when it started,” he says quietly. “Or maybe I do. I just didn’t want to admit it. Back in college, I think. You were so… you. You didn’t need anyone to like you. And I was always—loud. Trying too hard.”

He laughs, but it’s soft. Bitter in the way memories sometimes are.

“I thought maybe I’d grow out of it. The way I felt. Like it was just this thing I’d get over. You’d disappear from my life and I’d move on. But every time we end up in the same room, I’m back to that dumb kid who followed you around like a lost duck.”

You breathe in, slow. Quiet. Still facing the wall.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says. “I swear, I’m not saying this to make things weird. I just—I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter.”

His voice shakes just slightly. He swallows.

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s the truth he’s been carrying around forever. Small. Simple. No strings.

“I love you,” he repeats, softer. “Not in the way I thought I would, either. Not some fairytale. I love the way you roll your eyes when I talk too much. I love that you’re quiet. That you don’t fill the space just to fill it. That you wear that dumb hoodie like it doesn’t mean anything. I love that you let me in—just a little. I love you even when you don’t say a word.”

Silence again.

Heavy.

Holy.

He exhales, like the weight’s finally off his chest. “Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s all. You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.”

He settles back like he means to sleep. Doesn’t try to touch you more than he already is. Doesn’t beg for a reaction.

And that’s what makes your heart ache.

Because it’s real.

Because it’s him.

Because you weren’t supposed to feel anything at all.

And now you do.

You don’t speak right away.

His words linger in the dark like smoke—soft, fragrant, impossible to ignore. You hear them on a loop, quiet echoes of things you never thought he’d say out loud.

You love the way you don’t fill the silence.

It stings. Not in a bad way. In the way truth sometimes does—warm and aching all at once.

You swallow. Roll over slowly.

He’s already watching you.

The shadows barely touch his face, but you can see the flicker in his eyes. The way he’s scared, even now. Like he’s still ready for you to say nothing. To shut him out like you always do.

You hate that look.

“I heard you,” you say quietly.

His breath catches, but he doesn’t speak.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Just enough to make sure the words don’t come out careless. Just enough to mean it.

“You’re right,” you say finally. “You’ve always been loud. Always everywhere. Always following me around like a damn puppy.”

He chuckles under his breath, sheepish.

“But I never told you to stop.”

That silences him.

“I could’ve,” you add. “Could’ve shut you down years ago. Could’ve transferred out, requested new partners, pushed you away harder. But I didn’t.”

His eyes are wide now. His fingers twitch against your waist again—like he wants to reach, but won’t.

And you’re still not smiling. Not swooning. Just looking at him like you always do—steady. Clear. Unafraid.

“I’m not good at saying things,” you admit. “I don’t do big speeches or confessions. But… I missed you when you weren’t there.”

The storm rumbles again, far off in the distance.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to,” you say. “Not with the way I treated you. Not with the way I am.”

His hand lifts slowly, brushes your hair behind your ear. Gentle. Careful. Like you’re something rare.

“You don’t have to be any other way,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

You let out a slow breath. “I don’t love easily.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “So… if that counts for anything—”

“It counts for everything,” he says, too quickly, too earnestly.

And finally, finally, you let the corner of your mouth twitch.

He pulls you closer. Not all at once. Just enough.

You bury your face in his chest and breathe him in—detergent and rain and something that smells like home.

Neither of you says anything else.

But there’s no need.

Because for once, it’s not about the words.

It’s about staying.

And this time, you both do.

The room feels warmer now.

Not just from the body heat—though Rooster was right, he is annoyingly effective at radiating warmth—but from something else. Something quieter. Thicker. Like the air between you two has finally shifted from years of teasing and tension into something... safe.

His hand is tracing slow circles on your back now, lazy and gentle, like he’s not even thinking about it. Just a rhythm he slipped into, like breathing.

You don’t stop him.

“You ever think,” he murmurs into your hair, “how wild it is that we ended up here?”

You hum. “Define ‘here.’”

“In your bed,” he says, smile audible in his voice. “Wearing the chicken hoodie I gave you in college, post-near-death experience, while a literal storm rages outside.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes half-lidded and dry. “I think the wild part is that you’re still talking.”

He grins wide. “There she is.”

You settle back against him with a quiet sigh. The silence stretches again, not awkward—never awkward now—but soft. Settled.

He speaks again, this time quieter. “I used to rehearse it.”

You blink. “Rehearse what?”

“Telling you how I felt,” he admits. “Back when we were just... whatever we were. Friends. Teammates. You glaring at me in the break room. I’d run through it in my head like, a million times.”

You snort. “What were you gonna say?”

“Oh, you know. Something stupid. Classic Bradshaw lines. Like—‘Sunbeam, I’ve loved you since the moment you insulted my playlist choices in the cafeteria line.��”

You make a face into his chest. “They were bad.”

“They were themed!”

“You had a playlist called ‘Aviator Vibes Only.’”

“And it slapped!”

You laugh—actually laugh—and he freezes for a second, like he’s afraid he imagined it. Then you feel him smile against your temple, wide and full and a little bit victorious.

“I used to think you hated me,” he says after a beat, softer now.

“I did,” you say. Then, more honestly, “Sort of. Not really. I just… didn’t know what to do with you.”

“I’m a lot,” he admits, shrugging a little.

“You are,” you agree. “But you’re also... constant.”

He goes quiet.

“I didn’t realize how much I counted on that until you weren’t there,” you say. “Until the crash. Until the hoodie. Until now.”

You lift your eyes again, watching him in the dark.

“I don’t say things much,” you continue. “But I feel them. You make it hard not to.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”

You lean into him, letting his warmth wrap around you completely.

“You better not snore tonight,” you murmur sleepily.

“I make no promises.”

“If you kick me, I’m pushing you off the bed.”

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“You’re a walking space heater. Of course I will.”

He laughs again, low and content.

And when your breathing slows and your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his hoodie, he whispers one last thing.

“I love you, you know.”

This time, you whisper back.

“I know.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that—tucked into him, fingers curled lightly in the sleeve of the hoodie he gave you back when neither of you knew what this was becoming.

The storm outside has softened into a lazy drizzle, but the quiet between you feels louder now. Every breath. Every shift of fabric. Every pulse.

Bradley hasn’t said anything since your last whisper. But you feel him. In the way his thumb brushes just under your shirt hem. In the way his cheek is resting against your temple. In the way his heartbeat stutters when your hand moves—just slightly—against his chest.

You tilt your head back slowly, barely enough to look at him.

He’s already watching you.

Eyes soft. Half-lidded. A little scared, but not in a way that wants to run—more like he’s afraid to break the moment.

You stare at each other for a long second. Breathing. Just breathing.

Then you say, almost too quiet, “You’re staring.”

His smile is slow. “So are you.”

You open your mouth to deflect, to tease, to bury the feeling under something safer—but then he leans in.

Slow. So slow it’s like he’s giving you every second to stop him.

You don’t.

You close the distance.

It’s nothing like you imagined. Not fire and fireworks. Not instant passion.

It’s warm.

Soft.

Steady.

Like a sigh between two people who’ve been holding something in for too long.

His lips mold to yours like they already knew how. He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear—but also like he trusts you won’t.

Your hand slides up into the curls at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His breath hitches. You feel him smile against your mouth.

He pulls back just barely, forehead resting against yours. “That okay?”

You nod once. Voice gone. Chest full.

He kisses you again.

Slower this time. Like he’s memorizing the shape of it. Like he’s etching it into the part of his heart that’s always been reserved for you.

You pull him closer, hoodie and all.

And when you both finally part, barely breathing, he laughs.

Quiet. Wonderstruck.

“I’ve waited so long to do that,” he murmurs.

You don’t say anything.

But you kiss him again.

And that’s answer enough.

It starts with your breath on his lips.

Barely parted, both of you still half-tangled in sheets and stormlight, the world outside dim and forgotten. Your fingers are still in his curls from the last kiss, and he hasn’t moved more than an inch—hasn’t dared.

But now you do.

You move first.

Your mouth brushes his again, slower this time, less hesitant. And when he responds—when his lips part just slightly to deepen the kiss—it’s like something long-caged breaks loose between you.

Bradley sighs into your mouth, relief spilling out of him like warm wind. His hand slides over your hip, tentative and slow, asking instead of taking. You shift forward in response, and suddenly your legs are pressed against his, knees bumping under the blanket.

His touch never roams far. It’s not rushed. Not greedy. He kisses you like he wants to memorize you, like he’s finally allowed to love you the way he’s always wanted—without needing to hide behind jokes or looks cast across briefing rooms.

“You sure?” he whispers against your lips, already breathless.

You nod. “Stop asking.”

He exhales a soft laugh, but it stutters when your fingers slip beneath the hem of the hoodie he gave you. The cotton lifts easily, and he helps you pull it off without a word—eyes never leaving yours.

“You still wear it,” he murmurs, eyes scanning your face like it’s something holy.

You shrug, breath catching. “It’s warm.”

Bradley smiles. His hands cup your face gently, brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones. “You’re warm.”

The kiss that follows is deeper. Hungrier. His hands trail down your sides, fingertips brushing over skin like he’s never known softness until now. You sigh into him, sliding your palms over his bare chest, feeling muscle twitch under your touch.

The hoodie’s gone. So is hesitation.

He touches you like you’re breakable—but wanted. Like he knows you can handle anything, but still treats you like you deserve softness. You do.

You pull him closer—body to body, skin to skin—and everything shifts. There’s a hitch in both your breaths, a heat blooming low between you, quiet and pulsing. The room stays dim, shadows flickering from the storm outside, but the warmth here is overwhelming.

You tilt your head, whispering into his jaw, “Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just—” He swallows. “I want to remember this. All of it.”

And then he moves—hands guiding, mouth worshipping, breath steady as he kisses down your throat, your shoulder, everywhere your body lets him in. You arch into him, not dramatically—just a slow unraveling, like the steady peeling back of walls that have stood for too long.

Clothes fall away in pieces. Not fast. Not frantic. Like a ceremony. Each movement says I know you. I see you. I want all of you.

And when he finally enters you, it’s quiet. A slow joining. No sharp gasps or rushed words—just the sound of rain on glass and two people breathing in sync. His forehead rests against yours. His hand finds yours in the dark.

It’s full. Deep. Close.

He moves like he’s trying to tell you everything he’s never said. You let him.

And when you look up at him—sweat-kissed, jaw clenched from holding back, eyes wild and full of you—you see it all. The years. The longing. The love.

You whisper his name once.

That’s all it takes.

The rhythm falters, shudders. He lets go. You follow. And the world is nothing but the heat between you and the quiet in his chest when he holds you through the after.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

And when you finally do, it’s barely a whisper.

“Still warm?”

He laughs—messy, breathless, in love.

“You have no idea.”

You don’t know how long you lie there in the quiet after. Long enough for your breathing to slow, for the sweat to cool on your skin. Long enough to feel the weight of what just happened settle into your chest like something permanent.

Bradley’s still beside you, one arm folded beneath his head, the other tracing lazy circles on your bare back. His eyes are half-lidded, but he hasn’t stopped looking at you since you let him touch you like that.

He looks undone. And worshipful.

You should be exhausted.

But something simmers under your skin now. A low, hot hum that hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown sharper. Louder. Like the part of you that spent years trying not to need him is suddenly starving.

Your fingers drift down his stomach, slow and featherlight, and you feel him twitch under your touch. His jaw clenches. His breath catches.

“Again?” he says softly. Not teasing. Not smug. Just... hopeful. Just wrecked.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

Bradley moves like a storm this time—low and intense, all heat and reverence and hunger. His hands slide over your hips like they’re familiar territory now, like your body was a map he memorized long ago but only now gets to trace without fear.

He rolls you beneath him with careful strength, lips finding yours again—deeper now, wetter, full of need. The kiss drags something from your chest you didn’t know you were holding. You gasp against him, fingers clawing into his back, and he groans low in his throat.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters against your jaw, voice rough.

You pull him down, mouth finding the curve of his shoulder, and this time you bite. Not hard—just enough. Just enough to feel his whole body shudder.

It’s messier now.

Hotter.

The pace isn’t slow and exploratory anymore—it’s familiar and greedy and real. Your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth is everywhere—your neck, your collarbone, your chest—like he’s trying to kiss every part of you that’s ever known loneliness.

He presses into you again, deeper than before, and your breath breaks apart. There’s no space between you now—just skin on skin, sweat, tangled limbs and open mouths.

He groans your name like a prayer. You arch into him, chasing the friction, biting back a sound that threatens to escape.

He thrusts harder.

You meet him.

The rhythm builds, wild and aching and perfect. Each time his hips meet yours, it knocks something loose in you—something you hadn’t let anyone touch before. He feels it. You know he does.

His forehead presses to yours, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I love you,” he whispers again. “Every version of you. Even when you hated me. Especially when you didn’t.”

You grip his hair, pulling him down into another kiss, all teeth and heat.

And when you come apart beneath him this time—it’s not silent. You cry out his name, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re anchoring yourself.

He follows fast. His mouth opens against your neck. Shuddering so hard you feel it in your bones.

When it’s over, he collapses gently beside you, arms pulling you close, chest heaving against your back.

You’re quiet for a while. Only the sound of rain and breath and the soft shift of sheets between you.

Then, without looking at him, you murmur, “That hoodie better not go missing.”

He chuckles hoarsely, pulling it off the floor and draping it over you both.

“Baby,” he says, voice rough, kissed with sleep. “That hoodie belongs to you now. Just like I do.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just stare at him—at the way his lashes rest heavy on his cheeks, at the hoodie he gave you months ago now draped across your bare legs like it never left. Like he never left.

Maybe you didn’t really hate how he clung too close. 

Maybe you didn’t hate the late-night calls, the way he’d wrap around you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth. 

Maybe what you hated was how much it scared you to need him back.

Your fingers brush through his hair, slow, unsure. He hums, half-asleep, and that hoodie still smells like him. Like memories, and airports, and something softer than you ever let yourself believe you deserved.

You whisper, barely audible, like you’re admitting it to yourself more than to him: “Maybe I belonged to you first.”

And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

[definefaulty]

summer sex with step-bro

~ mlm nsfw , incest , long post ~

your older step-brother is home for the summer, apparently visiting from college, you hadn’t met him at all and there was an apparent lack of photos on his end. either way he was going to be home for a few months, and when he walked in the front door there was a stir in your stomach and your pants that you couldn’t ignore. he was, good looking, yeah, tall and muscularly built. you could feel the heat rise the second his eyes landed on you, with a playboy smirk on his pink lips.

turns out he’s kind of an ass, cocky and rude, and after a week you were already tired of him (not that you weren’t furiously jerking off at night thinking of him, or getting hard at his shirtless form or that plump muscular ass of his). and then one weekend both your parents were out of town, leaving the two of you alone at home, a terrible time for the AC to be out, for him to be shirtless from then on, and for you to be wearing thin shorts.

being locked in your room since the morning when your parents left, it’s startling to hear a knock on the door. it swings open for you to find your step-brother leaning against the door frame, his pecs pressing together by his large biceps, your eyes drag down his body without your permission, darting back to find his eyes reading you.

you swallow and clear your throat, turning your attention back towards your phone.

“what?”

“nothing. just making you’re not dead in here, shut in,” he says, sauntering inside.

you notice the popsicles by his side now, he drops one on your bed and opens the other, sucking on it immediately. its annoying how transfixed you are, watching his lips get wetter as he drags his mouth down and then up, its annoying how quickly your cock gets hard at the sight.

“want some?”

“huh?”

he smiles, rather devilishly, and looks down at your bulge. dropping your hands you look away quickly, snatching the popsicle from where it’s laying.

“sure—thanks.” you all but tear off the plastic and take a bite off it, cold hitting your teeth.

“aren’t you hot?” he says, returning the popsicle to his mouth.

fuck.

you furrow your eyebrows, tilt your head at him.

“the heat? why don’t take your top off.”

you almost chock, and wipe the drool starting to drip down your chin, “uhm, i have a little more decency than you, i guess.”

he laughs, shaking his head, “it’s just us boys this weekend, bro, get comfy, c’mon.”

he advances before you can say anything else, grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling, knocking the popsicle out of your mouth, you feel the cold hitting your skin and dropping onto your shorts, right ontop of your boner.

“woops, sorry,” he says, still smiling with his eyes dragging down your body, and stoping at your bulge, “damn, are you hard little bro?”

“dude! just—“

your mouth snaps shut when his hand grabs it, he leaves his popsicle in his mouth as his other hand grabs the dropped one, putting the tip of it on your lips. shocked, and unbelievably hard your mouth opens for it. he keeps eye contact as he slides it in, your chest heaving and your heartbeat thundering in your ears. he lets it go, but not your cock, taking his popsicle out of his mouth, a string of spit staying connected. he puts his on your nipple, getting a jump out of you.

“oh sorry,” he coo’s, “got your shorts dirty, lil bro.”

you can’t look away from him, your dick throbbing in his hand, instinctively your hips start grinding, desperate for some friction with his hand.

he looks down with a smile, peaking back up at you, “is my bro horny? you need big bro to get you off?”

your eyes squeeze shut, your mouth drooling around the melting popsicle in your mouth, which is starting to hurt—but your hands won’t respond.

you feel him take it out for you, dropping it on the night stand.

“use your words baby, you wanna get sucked off?”

you gulp, forcing your eyes open, every muscle shaking.

“y… yeah, please.”

“please what?”

“please… suck my dick.”

“please who?”

your eyes plead with his in confusion, before you realize what he wants to hear, sick fuck.

“please suck my cock big bro.”

“good boy,” he lets go off your cock, a whine coming out of you, “but first you gotta earn it.”

he drops his own pants, you hadn’t noticed his own growing bulge till then, his erection bouncing once released into the air.

“suck it.” he commands.

you stare at his dick, angry veins running down his thick shaft, and then look back up at his eyes, staring down at you with total lust.

“fuck yeah,” you grab his shaft, first running your tongue over the head where you taste precum.

your other hand grabs his low hanging balls and massages them gently, tugging on his sack. you look up for his reaction, his facial expression not having changed, he raises an eyebrow as if to say, that all you got?

so you push your head down on his cock, taking the whole thing till the tip touches your throat, a gag fighting its way up. finally he moans, throwing his head back, he’s loud and cusses. his dick tastes salty and sweaty, his trimmed pubes giving off a light musk. you keep your hand on his balls, let the other explore the abs you’d been drooling over the past week, you grab his pec and squeeze, then pinch his nipple.

“goood boy, good little bro, yeah suck your big bro’s cock, fuuck,” he grabs both sides of your hair, the popsicle forgotten somewhere, and starts thrusting in and out of your mouth.

you fight the gags as they come, tears running down your face. through the face fucking you grab his thighs for stability, squeezing the meaty mass. he spits on your face—

“my little fag brother.”

—your hands find their way up to his ass, grabbing and squeezing his cheeks.

“oh,” he says, head tilting into a smirk, “what has lil bro found now?”

you take that to be a green light, since his huge cock is abusing your mouth, and pull his cheeks apart to find his hole. you run a finger over, and he’s honestly sweaty enough that your finger breaches his hole up to your knuckle, and you squeeze another finger in, feeling around till you find his prostate and start rubbing it. he groans even louder, shouting your name so loud you fear your neighbors might hear, but nothing’s stopping you two now.

“fuck! i’m gonna cum! you’re making me cum lil bro—fuck yeah!” he smiles, letting his tongue hang out his mouth.

he feel his cum start filling your throat and try to swallow the initial pumps, still it floods your mouth and spills down your chin and his cock, he gives a final thrust and a last rope of cum hits your throat. you gag and push his cock out your mouth, shoulders rising with your desperate breaths.

“have i,” you gasp, “earned a blowjob?”

you look up at his smile, he leans down and kisses you, his tongue quickly invading and finding his left over cum. he swallows, a hand wrapping around your throat, the other rubbing your dick through your shorts, which are now so tight it’s painful. he pulls back with a loud smack, drool connecting your lips.

“yes you have, take those shorts off,”

you quickly unbutton and push both the shorts and your underwear off, your cock so hard it bounces with the movement. he kneels down between your legs, running his hands on your thighs to spread them open. he looks from your cock up to you, licking his lips.

“such a big cock on my little brother.”

“shut up just—“

he wastes no more time, swallowing the whole thing into his throat, your moan comes out broken and mixed with his name, he hums vibrating around your cock, you feel his tongue lick your ballsack.

“holy fuck!” you groan, grabbing the top of his brown shaggy hair.

he sucks like a pro, picking up speed as he deep throats your cock and then rises to the tip, its dizzying and your eyes roll back, drool starting to drop from your mouth. your ballsack gets tight as you get close, and you feel him pull away with a pop, his arms resting beside you as he leans in and steals another kiss, your tongues rubbing against each other, he sucks yours into his mouth as he pulls back slightly, you two make eye contact in the moment, totally lost in the summer bliss. he pulls back fully, gasping for breath as are you, still staring into each other’s gaze.

“are you a virgin?”

“huh?” you blink in surprise.

“a virgin? ever fucked?”

“i! well—“

“let’s change that,” he says as his grin grows, your stomach drops a bit, your cock seems to get harder, “you wanna tap your big brother’s ass?”

you swallow, whatever guilt you should be feeling is missing in action, “fuck yes.”

“good.” he pushes you down onto the bed, turning towards your bedroom door, “sit there and edge, i’ll be right back, don’t fucking cum!”

when he returns he has a bottle of lube in hand and you have your cock mid-stroke, you meet his eyes again. silently he tosses the bottle by your pillows, getting onto the bed and crawling on top of you with his ass over your head.

“you gotta prep your bottom first, you know?”

you nod, grabbing his hips and bringing down the weight onto your face. his cheeks are warm and cover your face, his musky scent filling your nose, your tongue laps at his hole and starts pushing its way in. he moans onto of you, your hands slide over his cheeks and his back, finding it arched, you go back to slap his ass as your tongue makes its way in, pushing and rubbing around his walls.

“eat your brother’s ass, yeah!” he grinds his cheeks on your face, and you have to push his butt off with all your strength to gasp for air.

then you let it crash back down, his hole now more accommodating for you, you feel his mouth on your cock again and you smile to yourself, under the weight of his ass as you two sixty-nine. you keep lapping at his ass, grabbing and massaging his cheeks, he hums and groans around your cock and you feel yourself start to get close, smacking his ass again and getting your face out from under.

“pull off!” you gasp, “let me fuck you.”

he laughs, his head rising he looks back at you over his shoulders and huge ass.

“so demanding!” he moves off of you and turns, now on his back he finds the half melted popsicle on the night stand.

you rise to your knees and grab the lube bottle, squirting a ton on your cock and then his hole, stroking it over yourself. you line up your head with his hole which pulses slightly, a little gaped and wet, you meet his eyes again and find his smirky playboy expression, sucking on the popsicle. fine then.

you push your cock in at once, his soft wet cunt sucking you in, his head drops back as he shouts loudly.

“Fuuuuuck! you’re so deep little bro!”

you lean over him, grabbing his pecs and pushing them together again, your own grin spreading.

“take it all, ya’ slutty big bro.”

your pace starts deep and hard, he moans with every thrust and you have to grab his hair to get him to look at you, with your other hand you snatch what remains of the popsicle, rubbing the cold ice on his nipples. he stares into your eyes, glossy and his mouth opened, his pecs bounce with your thrusts, your cock getting sucked back in his tight pussy with every movement, your release already approaching. you lean forward to kiss him this time, shoving your tongue in his open mouth. he grabs your head as you two make out, his legs wrapping around your waist. when he pulls away you grab his meaty legs and push them up, folding him even more beneath you.

“i’m gonna cum… fuck i’m gonna cum bro!”

“cum in me—cum in me,” he pleads, moaning and nodding, his eyes are totally lost, his chest heaving with every breath, you feel his hole squeeze around you, “get me pregnant, give big bro your cum!”

“fuck! fuck!” you groan, hitting that point of no return, and give a hard deep thrust, burying your cock to the hilt inside him.

your mouth finds his again, his eyes rolling back in a orgasm as you swallow his moans. you cum more than you ever have, rope after rope filling him up. between your bodies you feel his cum leak out of his dick and get mixed up with both of yours sweat. it takes you a few seconds to come down from your high, slowly fucking your step-brother through his orgasm. he moans, holding his thighs spread as you slowly pull out, his hole giving you up with a squelch. you lean back on your hands breathing hard, watching his pussy throb around nothing, your cum leaking out of him.

he lets out a groan, dropping his legs gently, and takes another few breaths before slowly picking his head up, folding his arms behind him.

“damn,” he says and grins at you.

“damn,” you echo him, stroking your sensitive cock, covered in lube and your own cum.

“i think we’ll get along after all.” he says, rubbing his hands over his face.

you nod with a laugh, “i’ll actually miss you when you go back to college.”

he sits up suddenly, grabbing your shoulders and planting another kiss on your lips.

“then we’ll have to make sure you have plenty of experience while i’m home,” he says, licking your drool from his lips, “and then you can have your own fun in college, just like your big brother.” he winks.

you roll your eyes, “you’re such a slut.”

“that much is obvious, lil bro.”

[lissyneedstopissy]

tuna mayo ! miya osamu

chapter two – another atsumu?

wc 1419

MDNI.

if you'd like to join the taglist , please fill out this form !

15:11.

You were currently 7 hours and 11 minutes into your 8 hour shift. 

Earlier in the day, Miya Atsumu went on the MSBY Black Jackals official Instagram account (with over 7 million followers, mind you), and posted a picture of a meme of Seong Gi-hun on the account's story.

Even though it was only up for 3 minutes, a few news pages, including TMZ Japan, posted about it on their accounts, basically making fun of the whole ordeal.

MSBY’s social media supervisor, Suzuki Dai, called an emergency meeting for everybody who worked in public relations to “talk” about this situation.

Earlier, 08:29.

You, and your coworkers were all sitting in your respective chairs, with a white table in the middle. “Who even let this happen?! Do you all not understand how embarrassing this is for us, as a professional volleyball team?!?!” 

You gave one of your coworkers, Yamamoto Akane, a ‘whatthefuck’ look, but that didn’t go unnoticed by Suzuki. “Is there something funny, [L/N]?!” Returning your focus to him, you respond with a shrug, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t act dumb! I saw you give a look to Yamamoto!” He retorted. “If you want to say something, then say it now.” 

You already knew this was going to be a long day, and this yelling just wasn’t helping anything.

“What’s your deal, Suzuki? Can you stop aiming your anger at me?” You hissed back, crossing your arms. “Everybody who’s talking about this situation isn't insulting our professionalism. If anything, it’s making our social media more popular.”

He put both of his hands on his desk. “I don’t CARE if it’s making us popular, we are still getting made fun of!” 

You raised an eyebrow, and tilted your head a little bit to the right. “You– huh?” You pause for a second. “You don’t care if it’s making us–” You cut yourself off, and leaned back in your seat. 

You knew better than to continue a conversation with stupid person.

Present time.

‘Ramen… no. Maybe yakisoba?’ You were in the middle of thought. Specifically about what to eat when your shift ends.

After the whole ordeal that happened, plus an apology, MSBY’s instagram account was up 15 thousand followers, which was very good in terms of gaining new fans. This caused you to become pretty carefree, well at least for the time being.

ding!

You’re snapped out of your thoughts as you pick up your phone and see who texted you.

You put your phone down, and wondered. ‘Am I even craving onigiri? … There’s another Atsumu?’ You visibly cringed.

15:59.

As you were walking to the employee room to clock out, you quickly texted Atsumu to tell him you’re on your way.

After swiping your badge, you headed outside and got in your car, letting out a really big sigh of relief. Today wasn’t the best day, but there’s always worse. 

After a few moments of silence, you picked your phone up, and quickly went on Atsumu’s Instagram to see what his brother looked like. 

Curiosity began to kill the cat. 

You slid through some of his posts, containing MSBY pics, sponsorships, and finally, a picture of him and his brother from 8 months ago.

As you inspected that specific picture, you began to feel kind of… weird.

The picture was clearly taken after an MSBY game, with sweaty Atsumu on the left, and his brother, wearing a matching jersey, on the right. They were both smiling, while giving each other a side hug.

They looked extremely similar, but different at the same time. You just couldn’t put your finger on it. 

You avert your eyes to your carplay screen.

16:05.

“Woops.” you muttered to yourself as you began typing in the directions to Onigiri Miya.

16:18.

You pull into the plaza where Onigiri Miya is located, and since the lunch rush was over, it wasn’t terribly crowded inside the shop. As you get closer to the store, you can see Atsumu and Hinata sitting at a table by the window, with the ginger wearing a white beanie, and the blondie wearing a brown snapback, backwards.

You park in a spot almost directly in front of the store, catching the attention of your friends. They begin to wave to you, and you can see Atsumu turn his head towards the kitchen, probably yelling something to someone.

As you exit your car and lock it, you immediately feel a sense of nervousness. Why were you feeling this? Was it due to being in a new place? Was it because you were about to meet Atsumu’s brother?

You quickly composed yourself and walked inside the door.

“Waddup, shawty?” Atsumu smiled as he got up from his chair, along with Hinata, and dapped you up.

“Hey, [L/N], how are you feeling?” Hinata gave you a side hug.

You let out a small giggle. “I told you earlier that I was fine, right? That basically means I’m also doing fine now.”

“Yeah, I know, but I felt b–” “‘SAMU! COME HERE AND MEET MY FRIEND!” Atsumu interrupted, turning his head to the kitchen once more. The small number of customers that were inside turned to your group, with weird looks.

As Atsumu grabbed both of your shoulders and dragged you to the counter, you gave Hinata an apologetic look, while he quickly dismissed it with a small wave.

“That was rude.” You pointed out to Atsumu, as he put an arm around your shoulder. He responded with a shrug. “‘SA–” 

“‘Tsumu, stop. You’re gonna scare my customers away.”

You turn your head to see a tall, broad man walking towards the both of you. He was wearing a black compression shirt with a small onigiri symbol in the corner, black joggers, a gold waist apron, and a black baseball cap.

You took one look at this man, and immediately thought: ‘Oh. My. God.’ On the outside, you looked completely normal, just watching as Osamu walked towards you. On the inside, you’re lowkey kinda not really but in a way freaking the fuck out.

“Took ya long enough, damn it.” Atsumu grumbled to his twin as you were snapped out of your thoughts.

“Did ya forget I have a business ta’ run?” Osamu counters. After a small scoff was released, he averted his eyes to meet yours.

That’s when all of Osamu���s thoughts instantly shut down. This had never happened to him before. Of course he thinks some girls are very good looking, but he thought you were one of the prettiest girls he’s ever seen in his life. 

His face somewhat softens as the both of you stare at each other with that same look in your eyes.

“Man, I don’t care!” Atsumu groans. “This is one of my friends–”

“I can introduce myself, Atsumu.” You say calmly as you remove his arm from your shoulder. You can still feel the gaze of the other Miya on you.

“I’m [Y/N] [L/N], nice to meet you.” You say as you bow politely. As you look up from the bow, you see him bowing to you, while his lips curve into a very small smile.

“Miya Osamu, nice to meet ya as well.”

As you both stand up straight, you catch a glimpse of Atsumu giving you a look. He knows how you act when you meet a really cute boy — relaxed, and (in your own words) as ‘cool as a cucumber.’

You avert your eyes to the menu, as both brothers continue to keep their eyes on you. “So uh…” You nudge Atsumu with a small mischievous grin growing, “You’re still paying for me, right?”

“Yep, whatcha’ gonna get?” he says, not catching on with what you’re about to do.

‘Umeboshi, Takana, Salmon… ah-ha.’

You look back at Osamu. “Ten tuna mayo onigiri, please.”

While Osamu raises his eyebrow in curiosity, Atsumu gives you one of the most disgusted looks ever. “What the HELL are ya gonna do with ten onigiri?!” He yells.

As you look back to Atsumu, you let out a sigh. “You’re right, my bad.” When you look over at Osamu again, you give him your updated order. “Fifteen tuna mayo onigiri, please.”

“FIFTEEN–” Atsumu stops himself from speaking as he begins to walk away from the register, with hands over his mouth and wide eyes. As you begin to laugh, you can hear Osamu let out a few small chuckles.

Damn, even his laugh was attractive.

authors notes !

𐙚 osamu is so sexy like literalllyyyy imagine him wearing a compression shirt , like wow . mind blown .

𐙚 reblogs are always appreciated 🫶🏼

𐙚 hope you enjoyed the chapter , reader-chan !

[angel-of-the-moons]

Doppelgänger

Miguel x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Angst, self-image issues, mentions of childhood trauma, addiction, our mans has had it rough as fuck™

A/N: Brought on by this post from @tarjapearce and the comments i made (I'm sorry i am a ho for some angst sometimes) I'm merging ATSV stuff with comic stuffs because NO WAY IS HIS MOVIE DESIGN LIKE THAT ON PURPOSE WITHOUT IT POSSIBLY COMING UP IN FUTURE MOVIES ASDFGHJKL

Taglist: @tojishugetiddies

🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

You came home and it was quiet. Quiet and dark; and already you knew something was up. You left Miguel sleeping so you could attend to some meetings and paperwork at your office, and pick up a few groceries.

Miguel had been acting strange the past few days. You'd asked him if it had something to do with work and he simply shrugged the question aside, like it was a small chip on one of his broad shoulders.

You'd asked him what was bothering him again, and he simply stared at the carpet, muttering something you didn't quite catch, and he went straight to bed.

You were so worried you'd even texted Gabriel on your walk home:

Hey, Gabe...

Heyyyy! If it ain't my favorite brother's girlfriend!

You couldn't help but roll your eyes with a soft snort. You only have one brother, Gabe.

No no, chica, I meant that you're my favorite of any girlfriends he's ever had. 😂

Gabe that sounds a little... Bad. 😬

Does it? Woops! Anyways, what's up? My big dumb, brick-house brother do something to make you mad?

No, Gabe... He's acting weird. Has been for the past few days, and he won't open up to me. I'm worried.

You could see the chat bubble pop up over and over again with '...' signifying that he was in the process of texting. With how many times it popped up and went away you were expecting a bible scripture's length of a text wall.

But what you got instead made your heart sink.

He saw our mom. She... She brought up Tyler.

Oh, god. You knew that Miguel and Conchata had a rocky relationship. Miguel had told you why. It was so bad, even just recalling everything, that you felt Miguel's pain like it was your own.

You also knew that Miguel's biological father, Tyler Stone, was the one that manipulated him, that used him, got him addicted to Rapture and almost killed him...

But it wasn't even the real dose of Rapture. It was simulated. Just another manipulation tactic. It was overhearing that conversation that Miguel found out the truth of his heritage, and you could tell that nugget of knowledge permanently chipped his sense of identity.

Even moreso when he confessed to you about Gabriela--

Your phone pinged.

They fought. It was... It was ugly. I... I didn't know about Tyler. God, chica, I didn't know. Dad was...

You felt your heart flop, knowing poor Gabriel was shielded by Miguel for so long so he didn't have to suffer like he did at the hands of their gaslighting and manipulative mother, his sadistic sperm donor... Miguel wanted nothing more than to protect Gabriel from that pain.

Your fingers flew fast on the little keyboard, a few spelling errors here and there;

God, Gabri im sory you had to fidn out that way

I know. It figures Miguel would have told you, before me, tho. He loves you.

He loves you too, Gabri. God, more than you know. He loves you.

I know. He was trying to keep me safe and out of Mom's drama.

No offense, Gabri, but if I ever see that woman I'm rearranging her face with a shovel.

OMG. I mean... After the things she said to Miggy, I... Kind of want her to at least feel consequences of her actions, y'know?

Oh, she will. Don't worry. Thanks for telling me this, Gabri.

Go cuddle my big brother and tell him I love him, k? Let me know how he's doing.

OMW home now, I'll text you when he's feeling better.

KK, see ya.

🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

Yeah. You knew for sure Miguel was still heartbroken when you came home after that.

You put the groceries away, a somber expression on your face as a million thoughts went through your head.

God, of course Conchata had to come see Gabriel at the same time Miguel was there. You wouldn't be surprised if either she could have tabs kept on him, just to... to try and lord her power over him somehow, like he was still that scared little boy, holding onto his baby brother, being his shield and buffer from their parents' fights.

That bitch had to have had a hand in Tyler using him the way that he did, that she had to have known about--

Your mind was knocked away from those dark thoughts when you heard glass shatter.

You dropped the bag of apples onto the ground, the fruits tumbling out and rolling across the floor as you made a mad dash to your bedroom.

Noting Miguel wasn't in there, you turned to the adjoining bathroom door, seeing faint light come down from below, small wafts of steam rolling out.

"Miguel?" You frantically called out, knocking on the door and leaning your ear against the smooth metal.

You could hear shuffling and the tinkling of glass shards, as well as the shower running; but no verbal reply.

You knocked on the door again, hurried and a little too hard, your fingers hovering over the control panel.

Before you could push a button, the door slid open.

Miguel was in nothing but a pair of boxers, leaning over your bathroom sink, his hands gripping the marble countertops, threatening to crack the material. Beads of water rolled down his muscular, tanned skin; droplets of water dripped from the ends of his thick, wavy chocolate locks, the natural curls more apparent thanks to the water.

That's when you noticed it. Your bathroom mirror, shattered into a hundred pieces, scattering the counter, floor, and in the sink.

Bright, scarlet droplets were on the floor, steadily building into small puddle from his right hand, his knuckles split, shards of the reflective material sticking out of it.

"I'll pay for it." His voice croaked out, unable to lift his eyes to meet your horrified gaze. "I just--"

"Oh, god! Miggy!" You breathed, reaching out, taking a step towards him, only to wince and hiss when the pieces of broken mirror stabbed the soft, delicate soles of your feet.

You gritted your teeth as the glass crunched, but you grabbed Miguel.

Instantly it was like a switch flipped inside of him, Miguel's head snapped up and he looked down at you, seeing the bloody footprints you now left on your tile.

He looked terrified at what he was seeing. How you just ignored the shards in your body in favor of frantically digging around one of the cabinets for your first aid kit.

"Bebita... I..." Miguel choked out.

When you found it, you killed the shower and stepped into the glass once again, pulling him into your room, and onto your bed, your feet leaving bloody prints as you walked, like macabre rose petals being left in your wake. Miguel had a large enough stride that he was careful to avoid getting any in his feet, but the smell of your blood permeated the air, it made him sick to his stomach. Not with disgust.

With guilt.

Of course, you checked him over first, plucking out the shards of glass from his knuckles and cleaning the cuts out with wound wash, ignoring the blood welling up onto the tile floor of your bedroom from.

You carefully roll his hand as you try to wrap the gauze around his knuckles. "Miggy, can you hold your--"

"I'm sorry." He interrupts.

You looked up at him, and only then do you see his face. Framed in his wet curls, his face was shadowed and haunted, his eyes dark and as tumultuous in a maelstrom of anxiety and fear.

You bring your hand to his cheek, caressing one of his sharp cheekbones with your thumb. "Baby, it's okay. It's just a mirror, I can--"

He shook his head, as if your touch to his face burned him like a hot iron.

He leaned over, grabbing your legs and pulling your feet into his lap so he can assess the damage, and return the favor of cleaning and dressing them.

"You're hurt because of me." He whispered sadly, dabbing the blood away.

"I'm hurt because of the glass, honey." You tell him gently, letting him apply the "honey" to the cuts in your feet, sealing them.

His massive hands encapsulated your ankles, his thumbs rubbing small circles as the rough pads caressed your skin. Like you were made of the delicate gossamer of a butterfly's wing.

He sits like that, not meeting your eyes. And god, did that hurt you so badly. You knew how important eye contact was with Miguel, he almost always went out of his way to keep eye contact when he was conversing with someone. Having him avoid your eyes... hurt.

Because you knew he was hurting.

"Miggy." You breathed. "Talk to me."

You move your feet from his lap and scoot closer to him, moving your face until he locked eyes with you again, and you could see the pain and the tears fill his own as he looked at you; his full, pouty lips trembling in an effort to hold his emotions at bay.

His shoulders dropped low, and Miguel leans forward until he was practically bent in half, clinging to you, burying his face in your chest as he fisted your shirt in his hands.

You rubbed his shoulder with one hand, biting your lip as he softly cried into your blouse, your other hand combing through his messy wet hair.

You stayed like that, for what felt like hours. You weren't sure how long it was exactly, with the blackout curtains drawn and the lights off. The only light that dimly illuminated the room was from your bathroom, and the open door.

He finally calmed enough to speak, to explain why he shattered the mirror.

"...I look like him." Miguel said, his heart in his voice, his soul stripped down and naked with raw pain.

"Mig--"

"God, I look like him. That... that cabrón." He hissed, tugging your shirt in his fists.

"I look like that bastard that... that made me into this." The self-contempt in his voice broke your heart.

You kiss the top of his head, murmuring against him. "No, you don't, baby."

"Yes, I do!" He snapped, pulling himself away from you and throwing himself to his feet. He paced like an angry tiger in a cage, waiting to swat at whatever keeper dared enter his enclosure. He didn't notice that he was stepping into the sticky, dried blood trails you left.

"I have his--his face. His fucking face--" He said, gripping his hair in his hands, tugging as he started to hyperventilate. "My fucking nose, my fucking cheeks, my fucking lips--they're all him! I'm not allowed to be me, every time I look in the mirror I see him! I can't ever get away from him! He's a part of me, he always will be! I fucking look like him!"

You get to your feet, ignoring the throbbing in your soles as you dared to reach out, to touch the pacing tiger.

Your hands smooth up his back, gently, softly; then back down until they wrapped around his mid-section.

You feel him, how tense he is, how his muscles flex at your touch almost like he's bracing himself for some kind of blow that simply will never come from you.

You rest your cheek against his back, feeling how hot his skin was burning.

"Baby. You don't look like him. You aren't him, and you never will be." You whisper.

You plant kisses wherever you could reach, not letting him go, feeling his body shake with each shuddering breath as your soft lips made contact.

"More importantly, Tyler will never be you."

"I--"

You cut him off. "Listen to me... Did Tyler figure out multi-dimensional travel, build a strike force of super-powered people from across the multiverse? Does Tyler, almost every day, work to keep dozens--no, hundreds--of universes safe from monsters?"

He didn't answer.

"And did Tyler Stone protect your baby brother from your mother all these years?"

No answer.

"You are Miguel-goddamn-O'Hara." You tell him. "I love you, with trauma, quirks and all. I love your little scritch-scratches you make, the way your bottom lip pokes out when you pout, your crooked teeth when you smile. I love your ridiculously large body, I love how you hug me. I love the little snores you make when you fall asleep at your desk, how you crinkle your nose when you're about to sneeze.."

You feel his hands slowly rise to touch your arms where they're almost-locked around his larger frame.

"I love how sweet and gentle you are. I love hearing you curse to yourself when you shock yourself with your soldering gun... I love listening to you bicker with Lyla, or complain about one of the other Spiders bugging you." You place more kisses after each sentence; hoping each one plants a seed of love beneath his skin, to bloom into a garden that he can admire and love, not hate for the very skin he was born with out of illegitimacy and infidelity.

"Tyler Stone is not you. He never will be. He will never be as good as you." You sigh against his skin, feeling the goosebumps form in the cold of your room, now that the adrenaline of his anxiety was beginning to fade, and his body became aware of the water that was slowly drying and cooling his skin.

"I love you, Miguel O'Hara. You and no-one else. Don't ever think for a second that you don't have your own identity because of your genes."

He slowly turns in your grasp, looking down at you with raw, unclothed emotion as his hand touches your cheek.

"You're more than that. You're you, and I wouldn't have you any other way." You say, your tone set and jaw tight; every word you spoke carrying a hefty weight of seriousness and honesty.

He smiles, almost sadly as you feel the rough pads of his thumb against your cheek, the little talon there poking you but not breaking the skin.

"...I..." He said, his voice stiff as he swallows the lump in his throat.

"I really will pay for your mirror, you know."

You grin up at him and turn your face so you can kiss the palm of his hand.

"I know you will, Miggy."

"But I am curious... I felt like you were going to keep going with the affirmations." He said, raising an eyebrow slowly.

"Well, the last one..."

"The last one?" Miguel tilted his head down at you quizzically.

You grin at him again, your teeth showing and eyes creasing as you barely manage to reach around him, swatting his ass playfully.

"I also love the fact you have the nicest ass I've ever seen on a man."

He couldn't contain the snort that came out of him, and he reached up to cover his whole face with his other hand.

"Mierda..."

You giggle as you step around him, giving a playful swat to his ass once again as you walk by.

"C'mon, Miguel O'Hara. You got a broken mirror to clean up."

His shoulders lifted as he watched you, his eyes softer than you've ever seen as he smiled.

Yeah. You were right.

He was Miguel O'Hara.

And he was certainly going to pay you back for the smacks to his ass.

[cyren-myadd]

A3 will "Deepen" Spider and Quaritch's Relationship "For Better or For Worse"

Read the article HERE!

yall I decided to take a break from social media for a week while I visited my family, and I figured nothing was gonna happen while I was gone since the Avatar fandom's been so dry lately. Imagine my surprise when this is literally the first thing I see when I open instagram after getting back from my trip!!

I have too many thoughts I'm just gonna blurb them all here

first off, this scene either means Spider got captured by Quaritch AGAIN! OR it means Spider willingly went with Quaritch for some reason and obviously isn't thrilled about it, and yikes, I don't know which option is worse! I'd hate to see him captured AGAIN after being a prisoner for so long, but I also don't want to think about what circumstances would lead to him willingly going with Q...

The very second thing I noticed was Quaritch's awesome hoodie, its got the recom logo on it, idk why its so funny to see him in casual clothing lmao. I want one of those. Q looks like he's trying to be a cool dad for his teen who's not buying it lol

anyways, getting more serious, Q just looks all happy and proud of himself, and his body language looks like he's trying to cajole spider into cheering up or doing something for him. At first glance, it looks like a nice scene, but when you stop and think about the context, it feels a little more sinister

What did quaritch do to get spider here? why's he trapped in bridgehead again? The room looks like yet another holding cell, so he's clearly reduced back to his weird POW/mascot status. What's Q trying to get spider to do now? Why does poor spider look so upset? Sir, can you not try to kidnap your child for 5 seconds 😭

Awhile ago I made a post speculating that Quaritch might respect Spider's decision to stay with the sullies and let him be as long as he's safe, but this image makes me think thats not happening!

But ANYWAY, onto Spider!

The metkayina tatt!! The seashells in his hair! The new loincloth! baby boy is getting accepted we love to see it

but uhhh somebody on reddit pointed out that if you look carefully at his wrists you can see the skin is red/bruised like he was handcuffed or tied down, poor boyyy😭😭😭

And I know this is just a still, but he looks so beaten down and tired of Quaritch's shit, he needs a break

Here's what Stephen Lang had to say in the interview:

“They reconnect out of necessity, their connection is not a solo connection. There are times when everybody comes together on some level. But, when enemies cooperate, you can be sure betrayal is just around the corner.”

So it's not just Spider and Quaritch who will reconnect, and I'm betting he's alluding to the leaked scene of Jake and Quaritch being forced to team up. But from the sound of it, that alliance is not going to last very long, which isn't surprising at all knowing Quaritch. Oh well, it'll be cool to see while it lasts

“Spider confuses Quaritch, but Quaritch wants clarity. There is something about Spider that Quaritch really loves — not a word we associate with him. I think respect and admiration really develop in spades, as well as animosity and manipulation. The relationship will deepen — for better or worse.”

Woop, there it is, basically lines up with what I was anticipating. Quaritch is confused, but deep down he really loves, respects, and admires Spider, and I think he'll be more willing to admit it after he called him son at the end of A2. However, there will also be animosity and manipulation, presumably meaning that even though Q genuinely loves Spider, he's still going to try to manipulate him into aligning with his goals, which won't end well for poor Spider. Aaaaaghhhh I love and hate these kinds of character dynamics: the love is there, the love is real, but it's not going to save their relationship because Quaritch can't let go of his villainous side. It's gonna be so tragic! I can't wait to see how it all pans out!

[raines-here-lol]

YAP SESSION! YAP SESSION! WOOP WOOP WOOP!!! In other words, Raine talks about Gooseberry who she is heavily obsessed about to the point it's a problem YAY

This post is centered around what sort of past she had and things around it… There will be mention of sexual abuse, overdose and the things that happen in Outlast (also it's extremely long, words? And I don't think it's good but whatever)

Alrighty, her parents. Let's start with the mom. Her mom was a prostitute that ended up pregnant and abandoned her. The only proof I have of this thing is Futterman saying chased by a whore in the morning and I refuse to believe this man ever got married. Continuing with this man, just gonna drop it quickly, he's an Ashkenazi Jew. The surname, schmaltz (integral part of the cuisine), tokhes and his pronunciation of certain words make it obvious, but she probably wasn't seen as fully jewish due to the fact that her mom probably wasn't. Alright, let's continue, I think he wanted to put Phyllis for adoption but he probably couldn't in the end (someone could've noticed the baby and questioned him about it resulting in him keeping her). We all know he was verbally abusive to her. I believe she even used to be a chubby kid and ended up losing some weight around her show airing and stuff, hence the cow and big girl comments.

The thing is, the abuse didn't end just there. We have Gooseberry begging him to stop, Futterman's comments about the sex toys being suitable for kids aswell, the fact that there's a kid drawn on the sex toy box, Gooseberry's questionable comment, just Pervert the Futterman trial in general, crude comments about her being a slut and whore and her voicelines where she called the Reagents perverts with her dad calling them chomos (slang for child molester). We also have the whole gin and benzedrine thing… Listen, is it a reach? Maybe. But it's just weird you know.

The worst part is that she couldn't even get away from him. She didn't have any friends, most likely due to her hobby of taxidermy; being his assistant since her teen years (pulled the age out my ass but it kind of makes sense) and was definitely not allowed to speak to other adults/they probably didn't care. This made Futterman the only person who she was the closest to and found comfort in him, mostly around the small moments where he showed himself to be caring. She romanticized him during those moments, proving to herself that even if he is sometimes abusive and touchy, he still cares a lot about her. And the parts where he excused his actions only fueled this made up version that she made of him. I even have a headcanon that the duck puppet that she used to make the children calmer was a gift from him, hence why he usually is depicted as a duck and why she even goes with his abuse. It's always darkest before the dawn, you know.

I think she still lived with him as an adult. Making herself listen to his annoyance about still not being a wife or a mother to anyone, and this only getting worse once she got her own show. It was probably called Futterland, because I don't think she had an actual fun park. Everything was finally going right in her life, even if she was addicted to coke to wake herself up in the morning, only for everything to come crashing down due to her father's death. They still haven't found his body, so we can't really be sure how he died but my best guess is drinking and overdosing himself on the meds. Gooseberry came home, found him and had a complete breakdown to the point of hysteria and disassociation, as the document puts it. This was her dad, her comfort person, the only person that in her eyes actually cared about her and he was now gone. The reason his body is still not found is because she made sure it wasn't, not because of cruelty but due to the fear that they might do something to him. Even after doing that, her brain just couldn't comprehend his passing so it ended up forming him as a personality and attaching it to the duck puppet in her show that was definitely named Dr. Futterman. Even with her romanticization of him, her brain still remembered the damage he did and it caused him to act the same but probably bit less cruel.

However, this sort of memories od abuse could've twisted her view on all adults/parents. Viewing them as horrible people who didn't actually care about their kids (this possibly also coming from the parents around her not caring about what was happening to her). This could explain the whole putting narcotics in the Dental Drops and hooking kids on violence, theft and drug use. The violence escalating to the kids possibly killing their parents, due to her telling them to do so, because Mother Gooseberry's words were sacred to the children who were in a cult-like mindset. In her mind, however, this whole thing could've been seen as a way of protecting the children from evil (the adults) and her being the good person to be doing so. Not defending her actions, mostly giving her, what seemed to be, the reason for them.

In 1955, the police would raid the studio due to the charges of Conspiracy to Commit Murder, Kidnapping, and Racketeering, but possibly for also other reasons aswell. The kidnapping is the most interesting to me because who the hell did she even kidnap? Was it a man that reminded her of her father or was it a kid that she decided needed the most protection from the killjoys? Whoever it was doesn't really matter but it still makes me wonder. What makes the raid kind of funny to me is the fact that she used a drill to kill two and injure five other police officers, something that is now her weapon. Gooseberry would be sentenced to life in Holmesburg Prison, where even in real life the prisoners would be tested on. There, she had the two carnal (sexual) relationship with atleast two guards, which I think only happened due to her wanting to have fun (or pleasure since her character is kind of driven on that) and also to get some crafts to make the puppet for her dad. During Clyde's visit that is visible in the comic, it seems that she was skinnier than now (possibly from the coke) and suprisingly lucid.

Finally we are getting to the Murkoff thing. The face mask was definitely her choice to make herself appear slightly more on how she looked liked before the chemical burns (you can see that there's a mole on her left side of face under her nose in the comic, where the face mask has it drawn on). Although her missing her right hand was Murkoff's choice, probably due to an infection on it or to make Dr. Futterman's puppet more useful, since he acts like a prosthetic for her. Their relationship is still relatively the same, which might make her feel more comfortable around the place. But even then she does something that I haven't mentioned yet and that is age regressing. She regresses to her 14 year old self and you can hear it in some of her voicelines, my favorite where (I think) she regresses is this one. Mostly because it sounds like a teen girl trying to go out with a boy and her dad's reply makes it funnier ngl. There's slight difference between Gooseberry (adult) and Phyllis (teen) in their tone and how they talk if you listen carefully. I think it's even Phyllis talking about the scientists, making her more lucid than her adult self. Other than her dad, her relationship with the other PAs is funny to me. With Coyle it sounds that she finds him interesting but also absolutely hates him due to him being a cop and just in general, like her comment about being called beef and laughed at. With Franco it seems more... Intimate but she still sounds quite upset about things. Futterman is the one to voice his hatred towards the two though, but it's still obvious that Gooseberry's feelings for the two are terribly mixed.

The last thing I wanted to talk about her was the video Gooseberry Gets A Glimpse. She still follows the rules that Murkoff put in place even if she made her own. Her reaction to Amelia going through the monster door makes her more interesting because it kind of reveals the fact that she doesn't like things to change. Her face shows that she's worried about it and the fact that she uses the phrase "and doctor daddy help us all if someday the rules changed", makes it even possible that she has that fear. I don't think we got any document mentioning this after it happened so it makes me curious if we will get any more info about this or not.

Either way, I think I rambled enough and about everything I wanted. Congrats, you read through the whole thing and sorry if anything sounded bad (or was misspelled, I double checked enough)... You get a sticker for your troubles

[draculasintern]

Letters to a Councilman

Okay chat, let's get this straight, I'LL BE ON BREAK STARTING NEXT WEDNESDAY WOOP WOOP!!! I'll be posting more often too. SO expect the victor fic to get done, I want it to only have like 20 parts maybe less, I'm bad at writing really long slow burns. And Im slowly getting bored of this.. so if you guys do want more, tell me.. or give me ideas for the next part. Anyways!

Chapter 4: Paperweight

The letter arrived in the rain. Not just during the rain but with it. Folded tight, corners damp, the ink smudged just slightly like it had been caught mid-thought and dragged through a storm.

Jayce found it stuck against the threshold of his office door, held in place by nothing but wind and timing. The hallway had been quiet when he opened it. Quiet in that unnatural way buildings get when they’ve forgotten how to be alive. And for a moment, he almost didn’t notice the envelope at all. He almost stepped on it.

But there it was. Still.

He didn’t reach for it right away. Just stood. Water beading on the window in the far left corner of the room, thunder shaking something loose inside his ribs. He looked at the letter like it was a mirror. A threat. A question he already knew the answer to.

It was heavier than it should’ve been, once he picked it up. Not in weight. In intention. Like the paper had been steeped in something thicker than rain. Ink, maybe. Or memory.

He didn’t open it until hours later.

Not because he was busy. Not really. The work that day was all faceless—petitions, signatures, staged smiles. His pen moved, his voice answered, but his mind stayed elsewhere. Every document he read blurred with the edge of the envelope burning cold in his coat pocket. Every signature felt forged. Fake.

It wasn’t until night bled in through the tower windows that he sat at his desk, alone again, and tore it open with steady hands. There was no greeting. No apology. Just this:

You didn’t write back. You answered. A difference. I ask you a question that sinks its teeth in and you write back like you're afraid it’ll draw blood. You’re scared of being a disappointment. I get it. You don’t want to become them. But guess what? Not wanting to be them doesn’t make you not them. You built the wall, Jayce. You stood in front of it and told Zaun to wait. Told us it was for the greater good. I watched it happen. I watched you do it with hands that once held the things you used to believe in. So here’s what I wonder: When did protecting the city start meaning protecting the parts that only look like you? When did silence become a safer currency than action? And if you’re really not like the rest of them, why do you sit there every day, wear the same suits, speak the same hollow words, and pretend that this—this cold council mask—is who you were always meant to be? You want me to believe you haven’t shut the door. Fine. Then open it. Let us in. Make room. Or don’t bother writing back. —No One Important (And you don’t get to forget me this time.)

Jayce’s eyes didn’t lift from the paper for a long time. Not even when the wind picked up outside, screaming through the tower like it was trying to rip the city in half. He read the letter again. Then again.

And each time, it pressed harder. Like a hand against his chest. Like a scar reopening.

It wasn’t just anger. That’s what struck him. It would’ve been easier if it was. But no, underneath it, there was something worse. Something aching. Not a stranger throwing rocks, but someone who once thought he was a shelter. Someone still angry enough to write. Still hurt enough to expect more from him.

It made him nauseous.

Because he remembered what it felt like to build things that mattered. He remembered the spring-loaded joy in the joints of his first hextech gauntlets. The kind of wonder that made your hands shake.

And now?

Now he wore gloves to shake hands with people who wanted votes, not change. Now he drafted policy that looked good on paper and failed in practice. Now he measured his words before he said them, because the wrong sentence could cost him leverage.

And that wasn’t who he wanted to be. But maybe, maybe it was who he’d become.

The paper trembled slightly in his hand. From the wind, maybe. From his grip. He didn’t know. The silence crept in again. A deeper one, now. The kind that doesn’t just surround you—it settles in.

He didn’t reach for a pen.

Not yet.

He just sat there, with the storm outside and the storm inside, and let the weight of the letter pin him in place. And for the first time in a very long time, Jayce Talis wasn’t sure which side of the wall he was standing on anymore

This might feel rushed, cause it is. I'm crunching time rn. Wish I had more but classes are eating me alive rn. If you want more, comment to tell you do. Cause if not, I'm not going to keep doing this fic, I'll do another character or fandom.

[monkeymindscream]

King being "the Titan-Titan's" son makes no sense, it makes no sense, why has it been several years and I've never seen anyone else comment on this, why am I being made to do it just to exorcise myself of the thought, have others talked about it and I just haven't seen their posts, is there anyone alive out there-?!

To start, how the actual flying fuck does it make sense from a biological standpoint that creatures who can grow to be the size of literal states have offspring that can be held in the arms of humans/human-sized individuals? Just really stop for a second and think about the scope of that. The Boiling Isles titan is supposed to be the size of VERMONT. Imagine 9,217.9 square miles of creature trying to take care of a human baby. That's what we're being asked to accept here. How were full-grown titans supposed to raise and care for their young when it's extremely unlikely that they would've even been able to touch them without crushing them? And it's not like the show even leaves us with the option to go "eh, they probably just had kids and then fucked off, some species do that," because - if King's dad is anything to go by - they do form emotional attachments to their offspring. Considering him and King are the only titan-and-child examples the show gives us, we're forced to assume that's the standard. Which - not even just biologically, straight-up logically - doesn't make a single lick of sense. Because how could they possibly be emotionally attached to something that is smaller than an insect compared to themselves?

Next, how fucking long are we supposed to infer King was incubating? Because his alleged dad was dead for at least several centuries, since Philip was very active on their corpse. And that's the bare-minimum we're talking here - that's not even getting into the implications that come with there being a "hecktaceous period" (the Boiling Isles' equivalent to the cretaceous period, which took place several MILLION years ago).

Then, there's fucking Bill. Bill, as far as we're told - which means is what we're supposed to take as canon, remember! - was ALIVE to see "the last living titan," who was implied to be King's dad. So, again, bare-minimum, this puts Bill at several hundred years old. Which, I guess to be fair, isn't completely impossible in this universe, but considering out only other example of a person living that long has... a lot going on, magically speaking (yo Philly can I get a woop-woop?), them not making any kind of reference to how/why Bill might be that long-lived is confusing at best, downright sloppy at worst. Granted, "sloppy" really does embody this show's writing, but anyway.

[aibouart]

admittedly, i am afraid to talk about this, but have wanted to for a long while. i don't see a lot of people discuss this kind of thing, but i decided to do so for the me who was struggling and didn't know. also i have no idea where i am going with this and it's very late for me rn so here's a whole ass ramble on vent art. and also a bit more on how it's impacting how i view my art, now. i am terribly sorry if it's not very cohesive, my thoughts on it aren't yet cohesive either WOOPS

i wanted to talk a bit about how vent art really impacted my mental health, and how the idea that art needs some kind of meaning to have meaning really has been weighing on me lately (i know this is a concept i am assigning to my work and is not actually the norm/standard expectation of others consuming art. but it IS a sentiment i have seen enough that does impact me).

i want to specify, obviously i am not saying vent art is bad.

nor that doing vent pieces, or vent blogs, will ultimately result in what i went through for a number of years. rather, that this did happen to me, and there is a near impossible chance i am a unique case in any experience i will ever have. if you do vent art and it helps you, that's good! im not judging anyone for anything here. if your experience does not match my own, that's what it's like to be human~. i am not invalidating anyone on purpose by sharing my own experience. sorry for the insane disclaimer but it will eat me alive if i go to sleep thinking "what if they think x cuz i didn't say y and think im a terrible person"

---

i used to do vent art frequently (you won't find much on here as it was uploaded to a personal at the time). anytime i felt down or had a line of dialogue in my head making me feel bad in a way, i would draw for it. but the way i had interacted with it was really unhealthy. it became a terrible feedback loop where i'd feel bad, draw how i felt bad, look at the art, and ruminate even more on how i felt bad, until it spiralled so out of control i would lose touch with reality and get lost entirely in feeling like garbage.

i would just get so lost in the cycle with vent art that it would make my mental space worse and worse, and i would use the vent art as a negative confirmation bias. the words that hurt me i wrote down and anytime i looked again, they would hurt me again. but i would keep looking, and i would keep drawing.

i have always used art as an outlet, but for some reason the way vent art impacted me was unhealthy. it wasn't a good outlet. and it took me years to cut ties with it. i relied on vent art for a long time, but it took a lot of introspection and thinking to realise it wasn't the release i thought it was. and it was hard to let go, too.

i haven't touched the blog in a few months, now. i haven't done much vent art at all since then and genuinely, i've been doing SOOO much better. i no longer ruminate nearly as much as i had done so, i no longer get caught in a feedback loop that lasts for days to weeks. i still feel like garbage like people tend to do, but i don't put myself in a cycle over it anymore. i have gone back to it a few times in moments of desperation, but what used to be every week/every few weeks is now once a month maybe. and not to the extent at all (i would oftentimes post ~20 images in one night, before).

but i keep thinking about how, while the way i had done vent art was bad for my mental health, i keep feeling that just because i do sparkly cute and happy drawings, now, or drawings with no real meaning, that my art has nothing beyond face value... i do like a lot of my vent art. i think their compositions, or hidden messages and meanings, or colour use, was interesting.

but it wasn't worth the price for me.

so i am a bit caught in an in-between, here. my favourite form of art is the expression of love-you liked something so much, you dedicated time to draw it. and yet i cannot ascribe that to my own work very often. i think that man i wish i could make art with some kind of deeper meaning, that speaks to people, that's more than just pretty colours or shiny shading or a character everyone likes, or a character i like. but i just... don't know if it's for me.

ultimately, i could develop a healthy relationship with expressing and exploring negative emotions or experiences through art, but... do i want to? do i have to? do i need to? is it not enough to just draw something because... i like it..?

of course, the answer is yes, draw what you want, draw how you want, it's your art. but i am still trying to come to terms with that idea. i dont want to be seen as some shallow artist who just draws what's cute and pretty because they can and it's all they can think of, but like what if that's just what i like to draw??

in the end, that alone is good enough, drawing because you like to, because it's fun, because you like the thing you're dedicating time to creating for. it's just hard to grapple with after discarding a type of art that i felt was the only way i drew "for real".

anyways i am sorry this is soooo fucking long, and for all the clarifications (IM STILL NOT SAYING VENT ART BAD AND EVERYONE WILL DO WHAT I DID!! Dx) and the fact i had no real point here (probably)

anyways i will continue to draw what i want because i like to, as i have always been.

[askquantumjeremyrebooted]

Jeremy: I think I've... almost... got it...

Jeremy: HOLY SHIT MICHAEL I DID IT!!!!!

Jeremy: ..........kind of.

Michael: No way!!! Hell yeah dude, I knew you could do it!

Michael: Wait what do you mean "kind of"?

Jeremy: Still can't get the stupid picture to work...

Michael: Ehh, fuck picture. We can just talk for now!

Jeremy: ...True! Speaking of--

Jeremy: *ahem* Hey everyone! Uhh, I'm Jeremy Heere. To make a long story short: I took an experimental supercomputer pill to improve my life--

Michael: But it sucked ASS!

Jeremy: Y-Yeah, but shit kinda hit the fan when we tried deactivating it and... *sigh* there's no way to explain this in a way that's simple...

Michael: He got turned half-robot.

Jeremy: No, that's not an accurate way to describe it--

Michael: Oh yeah! And he became an even bigger nerd than before.

Jeremy: Michael--!

Michael: Woops, sorry. An even bigger GEEK than before. My bad.

Jeremy: ...Fine.

Jeremy: Anyway this happened, like, two to three years ago. We were both in high school at the time.

Michael: Senior year!

Jeremy: And yet, finding a way to reverse this and get back into my REAL body is still not feasible... At least, so far.

Michael: He's gotten very good at doing a lot of other stuff, though!

Jeremy: Heh... Thanks...

Jeremy: O-Oh, uh, anyway! Um... Feel free to ask us anything! A-About all of this, or our lives, or anything else you feel like...

Michael: Just don't say anything gross, weirdos, I'm watching you.

Jeremy: Uh, yeah, I second that. Anyway! Ask away! :)

...

Michael: Hell yeah dude, you fucking RULE!

Jeremy: Aww, whatever man! It wasn't too tricky...

Michael: So uh... what about all of that rambling we did in the beginning?

Jeremy: Oh yeah, don't worry, I'll delete that before I post this.

[sevi007]

Tales of the abyss playthrough, part 5

Well, damn it. We are busted . Not that our disguises were any good but that’s a wooping 30 minutes of gameplay before they caught us

Interestingly enough, Jade does not seem particularly hostile towards us. It seems more like genuine intrigue to me

Yes thank you Luke. I'm honestly getting dizzy with all the exposition over here. There are so many factions within the same organisation and I still have not yet fully grasped all those score and fonon things.

So from what I gathered, the score is like a written history of everything that was, and will be. Talking to some NPCs, it also seems to server as a kind of horoscope (that's why I say it tells the future). So it's like a religion's bible in a way that they follow it's teaching, but it's also more, because it can make predicitons (or already made them).

There are two kingdoms we know of yet - Malkuth and Luke's home which's name I always forget - and they are on the brink of a war. Over what, I have not really understood yet. But despite the fact that Jade and Anise are part of Malkuth's military, they do not want any war and are on the way to help Ion (who is a neutral party not undre any kingdoms' rule) to the king for a peace treaty. Did I get most of it right? Sure hope so!

Jade, I do realize you're making fun of Luke. Bastard man XD (I'm kidding, it's funny)

Oh? See what I mean about fast-paced?! XD I was still mulling all this new info over, gimme a breather please

Yea does not look like I'm getting a breather.

Oh? Can we summon zombies now?

Is anybody on the Team already a zombie? Jade is pale like one... okay I will stop XD

Ah I see. That will explain how they nerf Jade so he can be part of the party.

Checking his stats... yeah he is on our level now. Dammit. I wanted to use him for easy farming for a bit longer. XD Curse you for seeing through my genius plan, game!

Well now, that’s interesting. I cannot recall a JRPG which actually adressed the fact that we kill the (human) enemies we face. (Disregarding Vesperia and Yuri‘s kills here, because those were outside of the battles that we as players control). I admit that I in front of the screen did not consider this either. In the back of my mind, I assumed we knock them out, rather than outright killing them

Not only is this interesting for me as the player, but also for Luke‘s character development. Remember, again, that his entire (remembered) life was a sheltered one. He barely learned how to fight- Tear points out flaws like not considering the environment, not knowing how to use arts - much less how to deal with a real battle field, or killing. Now he gets thrown into a situation where it‘s kill or be killed. How he will deal with this and what he will do from here on out might be an important milestone for him.

.....

Ah. Literally like two minutes later:

Oookay I had assumed Luke will have a bit more time to mull the whole killing thing over but alright, fast paced once more XD Poor boy.

Huh. I think I saw this guy in the opening? I‘m going by ear here, but I THINK he has the same voice actor as Luke? No don‘t tell me! I don’t want to look it up either. It’s just interesting. Jotting this down as important - especially since they are careful not to show us this man‘s face. Maybe a long-list twin? Although there‘s a lot of things that speak against that theory.

So I'm cutting this short here, this post is already long enough. I'm very intrigued so far!

@magicmetslogic

[tiramisugrl]

Omg no way I’d love to ready any and all of your essays on midnights!!! Also I completely forgot the karma Ice spice remix existed until you mentioned it oops 🤭🤭 also I really liked that comparison you drew to the 1989 cuz I see a lot of ppl comparing the 2 as ppl albums but that 20 year old —> 30 year old arc? It’s soooo intriguing and I see it now esp with songs like midnight rain or question. What other songs do you think fit this arc, and would you connect any of them to songs in 1989?

for brevity, i've chosen three songs from each album to compare to each other to show, how taylor has evolved between 1989 and midnights, and how the latter carries over themes from the former. and i'm gonna put it under the cut bc it got kinda long woops

Bland Space & Anti-Hero

Blank Space was the first time she wrote a song being self-aware (technically shake it off came first, as a single, but i'd argue blank space is more specific). It's specifically about how her dating life is perceived in the public eye, and she acknowledges how it is kind of ridiculous, but also that, even though the men she dates know what they're signing up for, they still decide to date her.

Anti-Hero follows the same theme of self-awareness, though now, almost a decade later, her fame is in focus, because she's become the monster on the hill, the most famous woman in the room at any given moment, and for some, the public included, this is grating. And she knows that, and points out, that she's aware of her faults, and she's sorry, but she is who she is. There is also more angst about her legacy - "I have this dream my daughter in-law kills me for the money" - which again shows that her priorities have changed. Of course she's worried about if her lover leaves her when he gets tired of her schemes, but what if one of her children marries someone who's more interested in her money than in them and is willing to kill for it? What does that say about her as a potential mother?

Out Of The Woods & Question...?

This one is kind of obvious, but stick with me. The way I see it, after love & heartbreak, Harry Styles is her eternal muse. It's a relationship she keeps returning to throughout her discography, and I have to wonder if it's because that relationship really did a number on her, and even after all these years she keeps lying awake at night wishing it had turned out differently. I also theorize that after all these years, Styles has become less of a person in her mind than a concept. The one that got away, the great love of her early 20s. She's never writing about him as a person anymore (post 1989, including vault tracks), but merely as a symbol of eternal regret and youth wasted. With this in mind, let's get into the songs:

OOTW asks the question: are we out of the woods yet? Can we stop fretting about our relationship and how it looks to the public and just be in it? She says "We were built to fall apart, then fall back together". She knows this relationship is doomed, but she is also convinced that they will find their way back together eventually. At this point in her life, Styles is her recent ex and she's closer to the situation, so we're able to get more details of their relationship (the Polaroid, the accident, moving furniture so they could dance etc). Even though this relationship has already ended, and she's remembering back to it in the present, it's still a fresh wound. Maybe even a wound that will never heal.

Question opens with "I remember", sampling OOTW and tying it directly to that song, that period of her life, and Styles. Now in her 30s she's lying awake at night, and asking herself, and him, what the fuck actually happened back then, and why did he treat her like that. "Did you wish you put up more of a fight?" Do you regret it? Do you miss me like I miss you? "Does it feel like everything's just like second-best after that meteor strike?". By now, her relationship with Styles is a distant memory, and he himself has become a muse for her to escape to from her current, unsatisfactory relationship. The lyrics are less specific too, we only really get any details in the chorus, because Styles merely a concept at this point, an amalgamation of all her exes into one, and she's asking all of them: do you wish it had turned out differently?

New Romantics & Hits Different

This one is a little silly, but also very serious.

New Romantics is about moving to New York with a broken heart but trying to have fun with your friends regardless. It's about being young and having fun and not worrying about love or anything else, and it's about valuing the people in your life who are there for you, and not chasing someone who doesn't care about you. "The best people in life are free".

Hits Different, compared, is a kind of devolution. She's still at the club, but she can't stop thinking about her ex, and though her friends try to cheer her up, it's just not working. If New Romantics is the pre-game where you get dressed to go out and forget about your ex, Hits Different is the six hours and a bottle of vodka later, where you go to the bathroom and stare drunkenly at your reflection in the mirror - all red eyes and smudged mascara - and you break down crying because you just thought of your ex again. Escapism can't mend a broken heart. And that's what she has realized on this song. This ex, this is the one she can't get over, no matter how hard she tries. Who this ex is, however, we'll never know. My money is still on Styles.

[palesmokeisinthevoid]

So I made a few Rimworld colonies other than the Fossilcraft/Ragebait one (aka Craft Corner) so I’m going to make a post for each one

Starting with the commons (+ two random guys who showed up)

This one ended up being a…slightly altered version of the Mechanitor (aka I gave them slightly more food and, of course, people)

Originally I was going to do this particular one with the mains but…well, I found a better set up for them :)

Boxten is the Mechanitor since he’s…kind of the only one who really feels like he’d have anything to do with machines of all these guys? Idk how I want to word this. Anyway he’s got his mechs Blue and Bandana (also I drew his Mechlink from memory because I couldn’t find a good red image and I didn’t want to look at him in game for this). He and Cosmo started dating and became Fiancé’s within like, 1-2 weeks…and he’s summoned horrors beyond human comprehension and is currently keeping one in a cage for studying. Yeah stuff happens. Somehow he’s the sanest one here besides the new comers…maybe. Not sure how sane they are yet

Poppy is the hunter who has been on the constant verge (and did have, she hid in the barracks for like two days…which was horribly timed because a raid happened) of a mental break because I have no clue how to appease her preference for tight, dark spaces. Also a bear started hunting Looey and since she’s the only one with a weapon she had to fight it. Considering she’s still alive you can guess who won. Also she was the only one capable of violence until the new arrivals came. Also the shattered empire quest came up and she got the rewards for it because she was the only one capable of violence so uh…congrats on the psychic powers!

Now before I talk about Looey you may notice someone is missing…and it mentions his mom was kidnapped. So the thing is when it comes to generating these guys the only thing I cared about pre-existing relationship wise was Canon/Semi-Canon relations when two characters were related (…which only came up really in the Uncommon group with RnD, and Rodger and Toodles). Anything else I didn’t really care and just left as long as I didn’t ship the characters. So Tisha ended up being Looey’s mom because I didn’t really want to generate either of them again. She was originally the hunter of the group since she had the best stats for it (and also because she was a Mind Devourer so she could traumatize raiders…at the cost of everyone including her son fearing her)…and then a raid happened where she did not win the fight, and the only other member who could do violence, Poppy, was going through a mental break and by the time she was out of it Tisha was already gone. So yeah. That happened.

Anyway Looey hasn’t really done much but he does wear a top hat. I didn’t draw it because I forgot but that’s fun.

Cosmo’s last name was completely a coincidence I didn’t give it to him he kind of just ended up with it. He is the cleric because he’s the healer (obviously), he’s also constantly having to do everything because half these guys are just. Not that great stats wise. Woops. He nearly got attacked by the bear but he managed to get inside and the way was blocked by Bandana (who was unfortunately damaged :( but Boxten fixed it!) At the very least he hasn’t started fires yet…. Maybe he’ll start one at the wedding/j

Yuu and Kooshyon are two tribe members who showed up after their tribe was destroyed and have the potential to join. They’ve only been in the colony for a day so I haven’t much to say on them but at least there’s more hands around…also had to come up with designs for them so I kind of just went off memory of their outfits and names (Yuu is a Yew berry and Kooshyon is a Cushion). Again. Not much to say

…

Oh and there’s the Eldritch horror in the cage outside the house. I’m calling it Dusty, in honor of Tisha’s feather duster. Not sure if I’ll draw a toon version of it but I’ll probably do it when I do doodle pages for these guys

[pepsiiwho]

I've been re-listening to Brandy's Cinderella and I am, unfortunately, incredibly weak for the Cinderella story now that I'm older and done being an edgy teenager at all times. Now that I am an adult who is drinking and mildly tipsy, I can combine my favorite current thing (HADES 2) with my favorite princess trope right now (CINDERLLA)

So theres the Hypnos version and the Melione version. Honestly, I'm a bit more taken by the Mel version right now because reverse love stories just move me horribly. So that'll be the focus.

WaxWitch under the cut, no spoilers for Hades 2 other than characters who appear and possible canon interactions compared to this au. Long post WOOP WOOP...

So obviously Cinderella in this au is Icarus and The Prince, now Princess, is Melione. Icarus wouldn't really be the step child under the wicked step mother but just because I'm iffy on the actual lore of the myth and his canon relationship with his father during life in the game, I'll be taking to liberty to say it wasn't great and he very desperately wants to get out of his house and 'spread his wings', so to speak (crowd loudly cheers because I said the thing).

Anyway so similar to the plot of the film, Melione is the princess and daughter of the king and queen. This could be a simple, "Mom, Dad and Brother are back and life is good" set up or "Mel is all that's left of the royal line with her tutor/ god parent turned Adoptive mother as queen" either works, doesn't reeally make a difference. whatever,

So they meet in the main square and Melione is instantly taken by the tinkering boy who dropped his basket of apples or whatever he was doing. They get to talking and eventually one of them has to go but they promise to meet again.

So they do. Again and again and again. For years they continue meeting once a week, every week, regardless of everything else. Melione finds someone soft and kind, someone with a mind that never stops moving and expects nothing from her in terms of revenge or strength. She finds someone painfully mundane and it's refreshing, at first, to be around someone so simple. As they grow together she wishes her dearest Icarus could have more, could have everything this world has to offer. Everything he deserves and more.

Icarus is instantly in love with her. First because the pretty young princess is talking to his pitiful self, both of them the tender age of 15 with nothing to show for it but difficult personalities and a need to prove something, but his love for her just grows and grows with each passing day. He pushes himself to create more and more to amuse Melione with little bobbles and simple wooden figures, then to help Melione ease the day to day humdrum of her classes with paper weights and dynamic knife sheathes, then to aid with her trainings then to help rest her mind. He loves how she laughs and how humble she is even though she of all people need not be humble. How she insists on cleanliness and everything being in its rightful place. How she's such an ass about gardening and how specific soil must be and how seeds are placed. She has a mole on her wrist and she always blushes and groans when her aid called her 'minnow'. How she would have these moments of contemplation, of grief and mourning for a family she never knew. Everything about her entranced him and it somehow just got worse with each years they knew each other. And with that longing came the gap between them widening. Eventually her royal training lessons began, to prepare her to take the throne one day, and that only solidified the distance between them. Maybe that's why things went wrong.

Shit hit the fan during their last day together. He flew too close to the sun with one project, inviting on strengthening himself with her help. Maybe he knew, even then, that he was too weak to be hers. Maybe he was just a headstrong child. Doesn't really matter either way. She got hurt, lost and arm, and he made himself scarce. It was pretty cut and dry (ha) by that point.

A few years later and Melione is at an age to find a consort. Continue the line. No one catches her eye, no one can after the one boy who had her heart left her without even a final goodbye.

So her mother plans a ball to find her a consort. Any and all eligible youth in the kingdom are invited. It's a massive affair. Icarus wasn't going to go, how could he in his ratty ruined inventor's clothes and scorned name. Why, the guards would probably pierce him dead the moment he walked up to the steps of the palace. Rightfully so, of course, but he can't shake this feeling that he needs to go. To see her again.

That's when his fairy god mother appears, [I am not at all picky about who, I think Aphrodite because LOVE idk, but anything works] and she convinces him to go even though he thought it was impossible. He's dressed to the nines, perfectly clean and gorgeous. He barely recognizes himself without the grease one his clothes and bags under his eyes. He rides a wax carriage, and is warned that by 12 everything made for him will melt, leaving him bare, wanting and painfully himself. He sets off at once.

Somehow, Melione doesn't either. A few years and a change of clothes does a lot clearly. But the moment they lock eyes as he comes down the stairs, clad in blue and glass slippers she's entranced. They dance and dance and almost struggle to share words because they're too busy basking in each other's company. It's just so easy. Melione hasn't felt ease like this since... well.

After hours together they escape to the garden, to enraptured with the other to allow another suitor to steal a glance, let alone a dance. They begin talking about their lives and what they want from this ball, and they get close as they speak in hushed whispers between them. Eventually the moment gets too tender, too sweet and they kiss, lulled into each other. Its heavenly.

But, it's late. Too late, even. Icarus can't bare to say who he is and Melione can't bare to let him go. Time, unfortunately, cares for neither. With a final kiss Icarus leaves and Melione is left watching as he runs away, leaving nothing but a single shoe on the steps...