#star unasks

[actuallyitsstar]

headcanon asks for Bradley: 1 and 19?

✨ send me a number + a character for headcanons! ✨

1: holiday headcanon

christmas was always one of bradley's favorite holidays, all throughout his childhood. every adult in young bradley's life, all with varying backgrounds and types of childhoods of their own, could come together to agree on one thing: bradley's christmases should be magical. carole, trying to keep the magic of those first three christmases with everyone all together alive; mav, trying to give bradley the kind of happy memories he never had; ice and slider, woven into the family by carole's steady hand, determined to give this little makeshift family what it needs. bradley remembers holiday baking with mom, learning about the traditions of ice's family, so different from theirs; neatly-wrapped gifts from santa, much lumpier gifts that were also "from santa", supposedly, but he knew those ones were from uncle mav- it would be fair to say bradley was a little spoiled when it came to the holiday season.

after carole is gone, and it's just he and mav, those years are empty and feel meaningless, but they try. they try for carole's memory, for each other, and for ice and the others. bradley's eventual disillusionment with the holiday doesn't start there- no, it starts after.

once he and mav have their falling out, it's like someone has flipped the light switch. the last few chrismases were quiet ones, lonely without mom, sure- but he and mav got thru them together. after losing mav, too, though, it's radio silence. bradley goes from loving and enjoying the christmas season to hating it, overnight. the first christmas after is bleak. a long december and a somehow even longer december 25th. the only accompaniment that he has for the next four years of college are the cards and the letters he doesn't open. he spends it in the dorms alone while everyone else goes back to their families.

once he meets phoenix in flight school, things start to look up, just a little. she has a lively, bustling family full of extended relatives and family friends, and they're happy to fold in one more. it still doesn't feel right. it doesn't make him feel at home. for all their effort and kindness, phoenix's mom is nothing like carole and phoenix's dad is is nothing like goose- and as much as he hates himself for thinking it, more importantly, is nothing like mav- and the traditions and energy are all so different that it just feels unfamiliar. though it tugs painfully on his emotional aches and pains, he is grateful to have somewhere to go and happy to be included, even if it only exemplifies to him how alone he really is, and how he really doesn't seem to belong anywhere.

post-mission, post-reconciliation, bradley isn't sure what to expect. he imagines that mav would have built a life without him in it by now and is dismayed to learn this is not the case. he isn't sure if mav will want him around for the holidays after everything he's done and said. phoenix pushes him, telling him that of course he's welcome at the trace family table again this year, but you really ought to stick around and sort this shit out. through much hesitation, bradley does.

the post-reconciliation christmas is not lively or bright or boisterous like the christmases of old. it'll never be the same, without mom, without uncle ice, when the other flyboys have families of their own to worry about now. but mav welcomes him, wants him to be there, and it's more at home than bradley has felt in fifteen long years. it's not about the food or the gifts or the decorations. it's about the people- person, actually. it's about being invited into mav's life and heart even when he knows he can never deserve to be in those places again. at the end of the day, the old christmases were always about family and love and connection, and even though they're quite different on the surface, the new christmas is about all those things, too.

19. favorite photograph headcanon

photos were and are such an important part of the bradshaw-mitchell family. bradley knows it- and it's a part of why, when he leaves, he doesn't take the photos of himself and mav. he knows that to mav, that will say something, loud and clear, and he wants to be hurtful- he wants his emotions to be heard and understood. instead, he takes with him only the photos of his mom and dad, and a couple with the flyboys that mav took, and subsequently was not in; but bradley tells himself that he doesn't need the pieces of a relationship that there's no point in trying to salvage, so he leaves all of those pieces behind.

except for one.

it's a somewhat dilapidated polaroid, taken with his dad's old camera, snapped by carole as she'd stood on the back porch of the little bungalow house that bradley grew up in. in it, a six-year-old bradley sits in mav's arms, held up at eye-level in one strong arm as mav points up with the other. bradley has one hand fisted into mav's shirt, and his gaze and rapt attention are locked overhead. mav always used to tell little bradley to look up at the stars if he missed him, because it's the same stars- they always have that between them, at least. in the photo, mav points out the constellations they share even when apart, and bradley listens intently, trying to commit the names to memory. when he became old enough to have one, bradley used to keep it in his wallet.

eventually, when it's all fallen apart and those connections between them have been severed, bradley gives a new photo the place of honor in his wallet, a photo of he and mom- but he can't just throw out the old picture, no matter how angry he feels when he looks at it, no matter how badly he wants to. it goes into the box with everything else, with letters and cards and artifacts that mav sends him or that he can't bring himself to throw away. sometimes on a quiet, lonely night aboard a carrier or on leave, floating adrift in the world with no anchors to speak of, he thinks about it. he looks at the stars and he sees that image in his mind's eye and he remembers being six years old and thinking mav would always be there, and he wonders sometimes in the most empty moments if the old man still remembers all that shit about the stars. if he ever still looks at them, still thinks of it, of bradley, if he ever wonders anything about bradley the way bradley wonders about him. deep down inside, he knows that he mustn't. deep down inside, he tells himself that there's no chance in hell mav does. because, if he does, it means bradley threw away something that was still alive. it's a fate he cannot bring himself to accept.

when they've reconciled, bradley will find that old beat-up picture in the box. he'll show it to mav. i never forgot, he'll quietly admit. i always thought about it. i- i guess i thought that you probably didn't even care to look at them anymore. i just- i thought it was over. mav will take the photo, tattered and much-handled, from bradley's outstretched hand, studying it with a reverence that bowls bradley right over. i looked at 'em every night, baby goose, he'll admit. always hoped you might be looking, too.

tysm for this ask !!! and for your infinite patience in my disastrous ability to reply 😭😭but i loved answering this ask sm !!! and i definitely did not answer it in longhand at my job and i also definitely did not accidentally write so much about the christmas thing that i had to chop it way down for this ask because it accidentally kind of became a chapter of something lol. i am a disaster. but thank u so much and i hope u enjoy and are well!! <3<3<3

[a-ko-ge]

Gepard if hyv made him physical type

[thesconesyard]

Another day, another five Scone otp questions answered

16. Who cooks most?

McCoy, though Scotty has a few dishes he’s master of.

17. Morning rituals?

Scotty wakes first, and he’s very careful and quiet because McCoy has doctor on call reflexes and can wake up instantly. When they aren’t on for work Scotty is likely to gently press kisses to McCoy to wake him slowly. Some cuddles, maybe some love, then up. Probably a shower together, then Scotty cooks up some eggs while McCoy brews up a good, rich coffee and makes toast. Scotty likes marmelade on his and McCoy will have his with just a thin spread of butter unless they’ve been to Earth recently and he’s stocked up on some homemade peach jam.

18. Evening rituals?

First task is to get each other to stop working. Next is brushing teeth, deciding on pajamas, and getting snuggled in together under the covers. Scotty sets the alarm for the morning and McCoy grumbles about it. Some quiet whispering about their days, love yous, and they fall asleep tangled together.

19. How are they at parties or gatherings?

Scotty is having a ball. He’s laughing and chatting and having a great time. McCoy is more relaxed than normal (did people see him actually smiling and laughing?!) He’s at Scotty’s side and neither lacks for a drink in their hand.

20. Most cuddly? 

Scotty. McCoy loves a good snuggle and Scotty is perfect for it.

[elen-aranel]

I wish we could express our love for one series or generation of Star Trek without having to dunk on others.

Trek has been produced over a span of almost seventy years. Trek has been produced in multiple different formats. This means that every show has a different story to tell, and for me that means there’s a lot I really love, and a lot that really isn’t for me.

I’m not saying that any show is above criticism, because it isn’t and I have criticised trek on here lots of times in the past. But if you’re recommending your favourites, maybe just focus on them and not the others?

[wolveria]

Is the ask game still on? If so what about 9,10,13?

Ask games are always on! I'm going to go with the SW fandom because of your icon :))

9. worst part of canon

Not enough clones. Need more angst. No one talks about Fives. Need more post-Order 66 Jedi stories. Someone talk about Fives.

Ahsoka killing off hot Inquisitors after they've only been on screen 2.5 seconds. Please, Ahsoka, we need to be fed.

10. worst part of fanon

The fandom lol or 90% of it. It's an incredibly hostile, intolerant, sanitized, purity-driven garbage fire. You have to find the few kind folks that exist, and ignore the rest.

13. worst blorboficiation

You are not going easy on me LOL I've already talked about Fox and how folks see him as a Palpatine-killing, good-boy hero. I want to see him as a cold, ruthless, boot-licking Imperialist soldier. Maybe he eventually realizes the truth about the Empire, and it breaks him. That's a much more interesting story to me. I like that Fox.

Aside from that, the worst blorboficiation I've seen was almost canon. After learning more about the unfinished Boba bounty hunter arc, I'm actually glad they never completed it. Boba is a furious, vengeful child, who was being trained by his father to be a hired killer. After watching his father die, he would be even worse. We saw that when he literally tried to blow up Windu.

But in the unfinished arc, they tried to turn him into the people's hero because Bane was mean to a few randos? Weak. Foolish. Him changing and growing as an older man after suffering in the Sarlacc pit and being taken in by the Tuskens, that makes sense. Kid Boba suddenly changing his tune, does not.

Ask Game

[ossidae-passeridae]

8!!!

Hi Anon this was actually the first question I got asked today but I wanted to think about it Extensively so I saved it for last, thank you for waiting <3 I've been noodling with it for the last uhhhhhh few hours!

Question from here

8. There should be more of this type of fic/art…

Well, in the footsteps of @tideswept, if you wanted a preview of my WIPs you just needed to ask :3

A Hagiography (demanded by the Senate) of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Objections that this is against the Jedi religion have been overruled, as per the Chancellor's Office.

CNC obikin, in which Anakin is a brat, and Obi-Wan is kind of an asshole, but Anakin is really into that.

TMA crossover part 2: Electric Qui-Gon

Mandos-are-vampires AU part 2, this time with more worldbuilding ft kabuki, even more ways to use blood in cookery, and a Tense Conversation In A Public Place

Body horror WIP focused around Fox, for once not caused by Sidious in any way!

Two more obikin fics, one of which is the lobotomy fic I've been talking about for approximately forever, and the other is a secret :3c

On the whole though, I'd love to see from others: more niche kinks lovingly rendered, more playing with canon in fun and interesting ways, deconstruction of tropes (I'm a sucker for that specific flavour of worldbuilding), body horror (P L E A S E I'm starving to death over here), and vampires. Dude I love vampires, I love the intimacy and the sensuality and the pain and the pleasure and the horror and just *clenches fist*. I read Dracula as a child and Bram Stoker rewrote my brain chemistry from beyond the grave.

(All opinions expressed above are solely those of pass e. ridae and do not express the views or opinions of any affiliates or associates, passerine or otherwise)

[i-dont-know-how-but-i-got-here]

Listing to one (1) hozier song on repeat rn.

[badjohnspeakeasy]

"I know you're gay, and I don't care. Just stay away from that no-good four-eyed nutcase Psykos."

-Tatsumaki

"...Uuuuuuuuuuuh so funny story about that..."

-Fubuki

Fubuki from One Punch Man

[mamawasatesttube]

i started thinking about what my dream comic run would be and now im just daydreaming about the pre flashpoint timkon that could've been again …. sighs wistfully. hear me out.

my dream comic run = a pren52 superboy/red robin teamup book, ft. tim moving to metropolis for university and becoming roommates with kon (not instantly, though), and both of them winding up investigating two different ends of an interconnected intergang scheme involving the smuggling of apokoliptian weapons (as a sorta callback to moxie mannheim's stuff in early postcrisis superman).

side plots would include retconning the lex retcon and also flipping the bird to john byrne at the same time, i.e. confirming kon as a clone of superman, kon coming out as gay in a very emotional superfam issue, krypto's constant destruction of every single vacuum cleaner tim buys, etc. the first arc has tim living in the dorms at metropolis university and struggling with secret identity shenanigans at the same time as maintaining classes, and also wanting to clobber the guitar guy in the common room with his own guitar.

there would also be a constant and a rotating cast of guest star teamups (connorkyle! supergirl! steel!) because the superfam love kon and tim is The Teamup Guy. nightwing drops by at some point to give tim entirely unasked-for pointers on his case (intentionally being annoying until tim snaps and starts swinging at him, at which point he backflips out the window and cackles the whole way down). wonder girl comes by to bemoan her love life to kon and ends up fighting an alien mech with him, then turns to him and immediately goes right back into her lesbian agonies. there's a running gag across issues that impulse keeps showing up just to eat the leftovers out of their fridge.

at least one issue would include kon taking tim to visit ma on the weekend and teaching him to milk a cow (in a callback to superman 155). tim would be bad at it and so mad that he's bad at it. kon would be glowing in the morning sunlight, unfairly beautiful, and giggling at his expense. tim gets even more frustrated because not only is he bad at milking a cow, but also kon is ethereal in a pair of old patched overalls and the bisexual crisis he's trying to outrun is catching up Real Fast.

and it would play very intentionally with genre conventions!!! the tim-led parts would have a real noir/detective vibe, and the kon-led parts would be a scifi story and then surprise! they actually are the same story and meet in the middle. you think it's two mostly unrelated stories bc tim is tracking a mysterious smuggling operation (he doesn't know what the weapons are that they're smuggling) (it's apokoliptian and other alien weapons) and kon's trying to figure out what happened to a group of aliens gone missing on earth (they are the very illegal merchants selling these weapons to intergang and related buyers). and then when tim and kon come together and realize they've both been investigating the same grand scheme, it becomes the marriage of both themes, some kind of scifi noir story.

the climax of this arc would include kon taking a [really big] hit for tim (bc it 1000% would've obliterated tim down to the atomic level), and tim freaking the fuck out bc kon goes down and doesn't immediately get up. tim has to process his "kon getting hurt and possibly killed" anxiety disorder, kon has to process "oh shit i think getting killed might actually have traumatized me," and then they end up having a very emotional first kiss about it.

also it's a run that leads into them eventually rebranding as a couple and debuting as supernova and rook (or cardinal or blackbird or what have you for tim), which would be their new teamup book name, replacing superboy/red robin. <3

[itsabouttimex2]

Eclipse Kings

Part Five: Constellations

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: Wild Dawn) (Part Four: Sweet Little Star) (Part Five: You Are Here.)

(Ask box has been wiped, and requests are open again! Also, my fandom list has also been updated! And, uh , the yandere requirement has been removed! You can just ask for anything now!)

…there are three empty bowls stacked together in front of you, scraped bone-dry and set aside.

The room quiets as the clatter of your empty bowls echoes softly against the pristine walls. MK, still warily munching on only his first bowl of porridge, barely halfway through.

…he’s never seen you desperate before. You had made sure of it. And here you were before him, blatantly broken and weak.

Your breath hitches, hands trembling slightly as you adjust the sleeves of the borrowed hanfu. A flavor of rich sweetness lingers in your mouth, but so does the bitter taste of shame.

You are so well-worn with the veil of sacrifice that having has become foreign, leaving bitter want to settle beneath your tattered skin.

…you want to cry. Or scream. Or gag out an apology to ensure that you are truly in the good graces of these kings.

But the silence stretching on is greater than any word your tongue could manifest, so all stays quiet, uncomfortable and pervasive.

You’ve spent so long carrying unasked and unexpected burdens, wrapping yourself in the notion of necessity as though it were armor to the worst thoughts in your head, yelling at you to abandon or betray or run.

And now, here you are, stripped bare and vulnerable, finally tended to and… safe.

Bathed, patched, clothed, fed.

All in just a day.

Just a sparse day ago you’d be lucky to pick two a week.

Macaque watches you, golden eyes unblinking, his tail swishing, slow and deliberate. Sun Wukong leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. There’s no teasing grin, no sly remark—just the weight of his gaze, heavy and set. The two of them aren’t looking at you with judgment. It isn’t pity either. It’s something raw, something you don’t have the experience to name.

Neither of them- nobody, in fact- dares to speak.

The dread silence turns your stomach, causing the contents to churn and bubble in discontent, thickening the bloat of your skin as the room grows steadily more and more uncomfortable.

The breakneck speed of the day had prevented any true pooling of discomfort, always evaporated by the next urgent thing coming around to keep you occupied, to keep the worst of your thoughts at bay, never able to break for only the fact that every time your mind and body tipped one way, another event came hurtling in to smack you back on beat.

There is no such safety line here.

You are simply tired.

Have you ever been this tired?

Even once? Have you ever been so marked by fatigue that you would sincerely consider resting in front of strangers- demons at that! without covering your throat?

Your fingers curl slightly against the fabric of the borrowed hanfu strung around you, the sensation unfamiliar- not rough or threadbare but soft, clean, smooth. It feels too delicate for hands like yours, hands that have spent too long gripping at survival with bloody knuckles and busted nails.

When have you ever had the chance to rest on a full belly?

There was never a chance for both. You were always hungry and scrounging for the minimum, or somewhat fed and looking for more to take. Even on the rare case that satiation found it's way to you, you simply had one more task to perform, one more resource to scavenge, one more “another” dangling over your head, threatening to overwhelm you, as a sandcastle is swept up and crumbled by the rising tides.

It was not a metaphor that most would've used, casting your efforts as something childish, fleeting and ephemeral. But you were nothing if not your harshest critic, and you had zoned in on a budding "weakness".

The desire to be secure.

And here, in these windingly long and dazzling halls, there was at least some slivers of sanctity to be found, a surplus of supplies to be plundered with, you hoped, relative ease.

"Plundered".

What a strange word.

Had you not made a humble (though distinctly criminal) living for yourself and your brother through plundering? Had it not been through the low brooks of Flower Fruit Mountain's rivers that you had gone, carrying with you what meager portions of bread and rice you could pilfer from the stable? Did you not go scurrying through the thorny bushes wound round the houses of the rich, with their glass-bottled fruit jam and spice-cured jerky? Was it not by this method that you had endured and found your stomach sated?

And was your brother not home, always, an ever-glittering beacon drawing your steps back to the woods, back to that crumbling hut?

Now there was a horde of treasures before your hands, strung just as magnificently through the fur of the stellar kings as it was veined through the marble under your feet.

And you hadn't the stomach to take even a bit of it, for the greatest treasure in the world was sitting before you, lid-eyed with sleepy delight as he worked to sloppily spoon porridge into his mouth.

There had been a changing of the guard, it seemed.

No longer were you to stand tall as the sole guardian of what innocence and softness the darling boy of gold eyes possessed, no longer was his satiation and safety solely held in your hardworking hands.

Now he was a prince, heralded between ecliptic kings.

It was not as severance of family, for there could be no force grand enough to split from you your love of the sweet child.

If he was a thorn in your heart, then you were content to never unweave from him the snag of your fibers.

The thought of losing him to these kings was... unspeakably agonizing. Even though you were tired, full to the point of sickness, verging on tears, -and, frankly a little tired of this awfully gaudy castle!- you were certain that he could not be sundered from your arms.

If preserving the sweet sanctity of his being meant both killing and dying, then you would let bleed and be bled.

With this thought your muscles coil, an instinctual urge to gather MK close, to spirit him away from the opulent and alien warmth, pulses beneath your skin.

You draw deeply in your lungs to steady your breath, but the motion doesn’t come easily. It shudders through your throat, a raw, splintered thing like the fracture of bone. Your grip on the fine silk beneath your finger tightens as you glance again at this boy -your boy- and watch as he softens enough to grin, blissfully unaware of the gnawing dread tunneling holes through your gut.

"I'm done," he says, grinning from ear to ear, proudly presenting his empty bowl.

Your heart clenches, a sharp, involuntary squeeze that sends a jolt of cold comfort trickling down your spine. I’m done, he says, so simple and carefree. Like it’s just another meal, just another day. Like everything about this moment isn’t so earth-shatteringly foreign that you can hardly breathe around it.

MK sets his spoon down with a soft clink, licking stray flecks of porridge from his lips, completely oblivious to the war raging behind your eyes. His shoulders are loose, his golden gaze bright, his tail flicking lazily as he leans back against his seat.

Sated. Happy.

You should feel relief.

You don’t.

Because there’s a weight pressing against your ribs, wrapping around your lungs like a dreadful creeping ivy. The weight of knowing that you have nothing left to do. No next step, no urgent task, no next meal to hunt down, no fire to keep from dying out. Just- this. Sitting in a grand, gleaming room that isn’t yours, swathed in silks that aren’t yours, resting on a full stomach that, if past has say to the future, won’t be yours for long.

Your dread goes unnoticed, or otherwise ignored. Macaque smiles, soft in spite of his extended canines, and leans in close to his son, his baby. Softly he presses a kiss to MK’s scalp, only for the boy to pull away the moment he feels cold lips and colder fangs upon his brow.

Macaque schools his expression almost immediately, but you manage to catch the first glint of a heartrending fracture in the aureate field of the king's eyes, like he's living through the loss of his darling son all over again in just a single second.

Sun Wukong notices too. His tail stills, rounded ears twitching ever so slightly. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but his gaze lingers on Macaque, reading him the way you read the sky before a storm.

The moment stretches long, a dangerously delicate thing poised on the edge of breaking, right until the sage reaches over to wrap a hand around his mate's.

"We'll get there, Bud," he comforts, sounding for all the mountain like a farmer in the garb of a king. So simple, so soft, so sincere. For a moment he is dethroned and uncrowned, and in the place of that regal man is now only a monkey, gazing upon his dearest mate.

Macaque twitches, just barely, expression unreadable even as his tail tightens around Wukong’s. His free hand remains where it is- limp against the table, unmoving. It's a wonder if the man even realizes he’s holding his breath.

"Maybe it's about time we turned in for the night, Mac. You're tired, I feel like I've been hit by a wagon, the kid needs his sleep... and we have a guest that needs to be shown their room, yeah?

Macaque looks up slow, biting back the wobble of his bottom lip. "Let's-," he starts, voice rough, "-let's lay down. I need- I need to go. Please, Wukong."

The king does not hesitate. He stands, keeping his tail wound around Macaque’s as he offers a steadying hand. Macaque takes it and allows himself to be pulled up. His ears flick back, throat working around words he can't bring himself to say.

You, however, are stuck in your seat, unsure if you even have the right to move.

Remaining still, you watch as the kings stand shoulder-to-shoulder, their hands laced together in a quiet show of unity. The sight should be reassuring. It should ease the tension gnawing at your spine. Instead, it only makes your stomach twist harder.

They belong here.

MK belongs to them, and he's already established enough of a rapport to casually jump up from his over-cushioned chair and kick both feet into his new shoes, reaching out to grip the sleek black of Macaque's robe. Affection on his terms only, not unlike a cat.

In time he would surely grow accustomed to forehead kisses and cheek nuzzles, and assimilate back into the loved little prince that was named for all the little streaks of light strung together through heaven, Qi Xiaotian, the Golden Star of Flower Fruit Mountain.

But for now he is only MK, sweet "monkey kid", little brother to the mountain's littlest thief, and his hand beckons for you, each tiny finger wiggling like a hooked worm. He's gleeful now, bouncing on the heels of his feet as your own hand awkwardly extends, shifting into the itty-bitty palm before you. With his frail grip as reassurance, you rise from the ornate chair and steady your gait.

It dawns now that the four of you are somehow connected, you to the squeeze of MK's thin fingers, MK to the sleek curtain of Macaque's robe, Macaque to the muscle of Wukong's hand.

A chain by which you are lead, last in line, down to the door of the mess hall and taken down another massive way of black and gold.

You are pulled along carefully, MK sure to never break his grip from you or his father as they trek through these halls, only pausing once when a door- the only door on that side of the hall, in fact- has cast under the inch-tall gap a silvery ray of light that catches your eyes. A treasury, perhaps, or at least the holding chamber for something very important.

Perhaps important enough to be worth a visit, then. It wouldn't hurt to have a little "nest egg" stashed away in your little sash, should events turn for the worse and fleeing became a very necessary course of action.

A scrap or two of gold, of silver, or even a little jewel... it couldn't be so hard to find something small enough to hide in the palm of your hand, could it? Something just small enough to go unnoticed...

You weren't going to be able to sleep, after all. Not with too full of a stomach, too heavy of a heart.

A steady ease settles over you as some measure of peace comes to your heart at the familiar feeling- the weight of a goal, immediately in sight.

They would leave, eventually, return to their own chambers to rest, and you'd be alone for the night, wouldn't you?

Well, how hard could it be to sneak into one unguarded room?

[actuallyitsstar]

headcanon asks for Maverick: 4, 9, 13, and 20 + Goose?

✨ send me a blorbo + a number for a headcanon! ✨

⇢ 4. driving headcanon

i remember reading a fic once quite some time ago (for the life of me i cannot find it or remember what it was called or who it was by) where post-reconciliation mav and bradley need to go somewhere in kind of an emergency and mav gets into the drivers' seat of the bronco. and bradley is like woah. hold on. i thought mom always said you couldn't drive??? and mav is like, no, she said i shouldn't drive, which is Different (tm). and then proceeds to give bradley the most harrowing ten minutes of his life. and boy if that doesnt summarize my thoughts on mav's ability to drive, then tbh, what does 😅

no but seriously. he does probably drive kind of terrible. not like, unsafely, or in a way that is like. Actively Harming people or something, but if you are a passenger in a car maverick is driving then you are aware of the 'oh shit' handles and you are using them. he's always liked to go fast and he's always felt Pretty Confident in his own reaction times and ability to maneuver and he is not going to prioritize a few minor traffic laws over Doing What He Wants.

also, he taught himself how to drive when he was a teenager because no one else was doing it, probably in a vehicle owned by a foster parent whose car he was not authorized to be driving and he definitely got into trouble for this and paid for it later. due to this, he didn't actually get his license until much later than that- after meeting goose, in fact. my personal favorite take is that goose had to help mav with actually getting his license (stuff like when to signal and when to check your mirrors for merging and what types of turns/parking/etc the instructor was going to ask him to perform during the driver's test), though mav new how to drive physically just from getting into a car and figuring that shit out. i like to headcanon that mav had a permit for his motorcycle before this, though i'm not sure that it makes much sense realistically, because i know that most states these days require you to have a driver's license before you can even consider having a motorcycle permit (let ALONE a motorcycle license), but hey, i don't really know how to find out about the motorcycle permit laws in the late 70's in california or wherever they were at the time, so. i have taken creative liberty, lol

⇢ 9. general physical contact headcanon

hands down, in my opinion, mav is a physical person. he spent the majority of his childhood without it, and he gained somewhat of an aversion to it when he was young. outside of the context of the occasional romantic escapade, he did not experience any physical contact after his mother passed that wasn't negative, except for a few nice foster families that he didn't have the blessing of staying with, and even then, those are bittersweet memories, because they were brief and padded by worse things, and it's a little melancholy to think of what ~could have been~. so, admittedly, he's relatively opposed to the idea of physical affection of any sort by the time he meets goose. in fact, he's pretty much opposed to all affection by the time he meets goose. it's what defines their initial meeting and their first few flights together. mav is determined to shake goose off of his tail, to fly so fast that he loses him somehow, even though they're strapped into the same aircraft. he's cynical and certain that the entire world is out to get him, and goose is just the opposite.

goose is a sling-an-arm-around-your-shoulder, sit-on-the-couch-leg-to-leg-close with your friends, ruffle your hair in a slightly-annoying-but-also-endearing way as a greeting, hug-you-tight-before-you-say-goodbye-even-if-we're-both-men-and-it's-the-80s kind of guy. it's just another thing that initially makes mav raise his hackles and lash out. it's not because mav is diametrically opposed to this kind of affection. in fact, arguably, he craves it, and he's never had it, and physical touch is one of his primary love languages (platonically and otherwise). but goose is persistent and kind and fierce, and he's the kind of guy to find a lost kitten on the side of the road and decide right then that he's keeping that cat forever, no matter how much work it is, without even considering what it's like to raise a cat- only in the context of goose's life, the cat is Maverick and the rest is history. goose breaks down maverick's trust issues and fear and loneliness slowly and determinedly by just being himself and treating mav how he would want to be treated because that is his nature, and because he doesn't give up. mav learns to be a good friend and a dedicated member of a ~family~ from goose, and it's because mav already is a good person who has love to give, and goose is the first person to encourage and not punish him for it.

in the context of life, even after everything- after goose dies, through bradley's childhood and teenage years, through his developing friendship with the flyboys and being woven continuously into the family by carole and later the others as well, even after losing bradley, after meeting hondo- mav remains a tactile person. it's one of his primary ways of showing affection. you can see this in the movies- how often he and goose sling an arm around each other, grab each other's shoulders or arms, the way he sits with his arm around carole in the diner, the hug to ice at the end. and in tgm, too; in the hug for sarah and for ice, the hand on ice's leg and the laying with penny and talking and the (of course!!) multiple hugs to bradley at the end. it goes both ways, too; it's one of the more important things that the others can do for mav, that he'll process and understand.

plus, mav can find a way to misinterpret or talk himself out of even the most direct affection/compliment/etc, but he will understand a hug, or a hand on his shoulder. it's the primary thing that used to calm him down in the midst of a panic attack or after a nightmare, the first thing he'd reach for in greeting getting home off a deployment, the primary language that he speaks in relationships. in a way, he passed this along to bradley, too, by participating in making the bradshaw-and-company family so tactile, though perhaps it's a little less natural for bradley due to his own years of self isolation. but he was always sure to make certain bradley knew he was loved, in words and in actions. he never wanted bradley to grow up unsure of such affection, like he himself did.

there's a long span of time when mav is alone, for the most part. after bradley leaves, before the mission. he has the flyboys, but they are all scattered and confined to just letters and phone calls most of the time. more consistently, he has ice, but there is the distance and the lack of postings nearby and the increasing business of his wingman's life as he is moving upward through the ranks and meeting and marrying sarah and having kids. there is hondo, with whom he becomes very close, but hondo is not the most physically affectionate person, and mav knows how to respect others' boundaries in that regard. it's not until post-mission and post-reconciliation that he is fully able to unpack his ways of thinking and loving, to begin living a life where he gets to love and be loved consistently again.

with bradley, with the daggers, in his rekindled friendship/brotherhood with the other flyboys, many of whom are retired or moved on to other careers but who are happy to catch back up with the little found family they'd built over the years. maverick is a hang-off-your-shoulder-why-he-tells-you-a-story, hugs-in-greeting-and-goodbyes, rest-a-hand-on-your-arm-or-at-your-back, squeeze-your-hand kind of person, because he always has been, and also because it's the love language that makes sense to him, that he's always known how to speak and understand, that he learned from the other half of the single most influential relationship of any context (other than being a parental figure to bradley but that is Different) he's ever experienced, the one that still defines so much of his adult life even three plus decades later. it works out very well for bradley, who is desperately touch starved after fifteen years of self-isolation, and who is still reveling in the concept that it turns out mav loved him the entire time and the whole mess was of his own creation, and lives in disbelief of that love and affection all the time. he can overthink and twist-into-anxiety anything that mav says, just about, but there's only one way to interpret a hug. he and mav have that in common- as it turns out, much to his chagrin and also his comfort, they have a lot of these things in common, after all.

⇢ 13. nickname headcanon

mav is not necessarily the type to give new nicknames to people he knows, but he is absolutely the type to use people's nicknames. always ice, never iceman and almost never tom, usually sli instead of slider and never ron, care instead of carole. he's full of even more nicknames for bradley, though, and that came from goose, actually- goose was absolutely the originator of all the nicknames and terms of endearment. it was honey and hotshot and kaz (a nickname for ice that ice "hates" but does in fact allow with minimal glaring). goose is the creator of half the names that bradley gets- baby goose and brads and gosling. mav just keeps using them, and more of them, of his own creation, eventually sneak into his vocabulary, because he learned how to love and be loved via goose, initially, at one of the lowest points in his life, during the time that he was still formatively figuring out how to transition from a child to an adult, and their friendship shaped him forever. inadvertently, it means goose helped to shape bradley, too- since mav was there, and goose didn't get to be.

as far being called nicknames, he's alright with that. as long as he knows that it doesn't come from a place of making fun of him, or of distaste. if he senses that its in good fun or as an expression of friendship/good faith/etc, he'll lean into it. slider has long since bullied him with things like shortstack and trouble, for example, and he's allowed it. if it were a stranger and the tone were just a little different, well, he's started fights over much less. besides, mav is a nicknames sort of person, when it comes to his identity. he's never felt much like peter. "pete" was a scared, skinny kid with no designs on his own future, shuffled around with little to no positive experiences, defined by negative experiences and being duke mitchell's kid, the one who got thrown out of the academy and beat up in school and locked in the closet at the boys' home and chased out the front door of a foster home or two. he never did like pete very much.

maverick, though it started as an insult-turned-callsign-that-stuck, is dangerous and confident and sure of himself, capable and strong and cool. maverick is something that he became on purpose, that gave him agency. he pushed himself to become maverick and make the insult something of his own, to finally take control of his own narrative, because he couldn't control what people said but he could control what it meant- and that's been the name he prefers for a very long time now. very few people in the movies- even of the people who are civilians and not fellow officers- refer to him as pete. he is almost exclusively maverick or mav, and that is 100% by his preference.

⇢ 20. relationship with/thoughts on: goose

goose is and always will be mav's brother.

i read a post recently about how we as readers/writers/etc can do a disservice to the different kinds of platonic love and relationships that exist by trying to shoehorn all platonic relationships into a "they're siblings!!" archetype when there are so many other options out there, and i 100% agree with that- so i want to make it clear that when i say mav and goose were brothers, i mean that intentionally. mav and ice were best friends, ride-or-die, dedicated and as close to each other as anything, but goose was mav's brother in all but blood, maybe even moreso than if they had shared dna. goose was genuinely the first person in the context of mav's adult life (and by that i mean after he finally got into the navy, which to him is the defining line between his ~childhood~ and adulthood) to treat him with respect and love and kindness. mav learned much of what he knew about life and relationships and how to express and understand himself through goose, his older brother, the one who swooped in to protect him and teach him and stick by him, and he didn't even have the privilege of knowing goose that long- as we know. they met and they fell into their relationship fast. it took a while for mav to warm up to goose, of course- but setting even that aside.

and, well, we all know how mav feels about goose, these days. i know someone, in real life, who did lose a sibling when they were both young, and it really is much the same thing. goose still defines a lot of the things about mav, and the memories of him and their time together are still some of maverick's favorite. he still looks at something and thinks "goose would love that", he still has an experience and wishes he could tell nick about it, he still lives his life with the concept of goose right there by his side, even though the man has been gone for thirty some odd years. of course everyone handles grief and loss differently, but it makes me think of the experiences and people i have seen and encountered/read about who have lost siblings, too- the permanence of brotherhood, even in the wake of the impermanence of life.

[djarinova]

[07:23 am] — rafayel x reader

a soft morning with Rafayel - inspired by the "before sunrise" 5 star memory - wc; 387

The faint call of your name stirs you from your slumber, a warm hand inches along the side of your body and settles on your jaw as your eyes flutter open and attempt to focus on the blurry figure in front of you. You instinctively nuzzle your face against the palm that cradles you, a small hum leaving your lips as you do so.

“Hi, baby.” You whisper, your voice still thick with sleep—similar to how the clouds on the horizon continue to cling to the sea just beyond your bedroom window. “Did you just get into bed? I thought you said you'd only be an hour or two?”

Your attempt to chastise Rafayel's actions pairs poorly with how utterly adorable he thinks you look right now, with sleep still etched into your eyes and the absentminded way you're pressing yourself against his hand there isn't much you could say or do that would wipe the lovesick look from his face.

“Don't worry about it, angel.” He leans closer to you, his hand dropping from your face to your waist, and he plants a delicate kiss onto your forehead before speaking quietly. “I didn't mean to wake you, I'm sorry.”

You hum, your eyes are already droopy, and Rafayel knows that in a few minutes you'll be fast asleep again. Only this time he'll be by your side.

“M’kay.” You sigh dreamily, “as long as you're coming to bed now…”

He answers your unasked question by lying his head down next to yours and slipping one arm beneath your neck—he places the other firmly across your upper back, enveloping your sleepy frame completely. When he pulls you flush against his body the smell of paint and cologne washes over you and the last remaining wakefulness drains from your features as you breathe in his scent.

“I'll show you everything I was working on later, all right cutie?” Rafayel whispers against your head, before pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. “Sweet dreams, you.”

Rafayel's eyes flutter closed as your head nuzzles further against his neck. He feels your lips leave a gentle kiss just below his ear, and the tips of his ears redden surprisingly quickly. The sound of waves crashing against the shore fills the room, the perfect white noise to lull the artist to sleep.

divider by @/saradika

[tangibletechnomancy]

Doing It Wrong On Purpose: Episode 1 - The Un-Ship

Today's experiment: What happens if I prompt for something, and then negative prompt all the main keywords, plus various synonyms and related words?

The answer: Some gloriously weird stuff.

For example, let's look at a negative cat:

Positive prompt: A cat on a windowsill during a storm

Negative prompt: Cat, feline, felidae, kitty, kitten, animal, pet, windowsill, window, glass, pane, house, storm, rain, water, lightning, thunder, clouds, torrent, downpour, snow, blizzard, wind, windy

Interesting! Let's get a little more fantasy with it and try for an anti-deer:

Positive prompt: A deer in a peaceful flowery meadow, crystals, midnight, fantasy, colorful

Negative prompt: Deer, cervidae, animal, elk, moose, stag, doe, fawn, reindeer, antelope, cervid, antlers, flowers, night, dark, trees, foliage, bloom, stars, night, tranquil, fantastic, vibrant, cool, magic, blue, moon, sky, crystal, stone, statue, topiary, floral, blossom

Between these two experiments, including a few dozen other generations that remain unposted, one thing I can say for sure is that for living subjects, it's a great way to get the kind of anatomical wonk that older models are (in)famous for - and it makes sense why, the model is trying to make something that looks like a certain subject...but once it starts to look too much like it, well, shit, we told it NOT to do that! Break something up! Given that I love that kind of wonk, I think I've found a useful tool for myself.

One more living subject, and let's get even more abstract with our direction here:

Positive prompt: mind horse

Negative prompt: horse, equine, colt, filly, mare, stallion, bronco, pony, mind, brain, thought, essence, psyche, intelligence, consciousness, imagination, dream, soul, visualization, intellect, wit, cognizance

Now let's try something that isn't alive. One thing I love AI for is surreal settings and landscapes - lets try one now!

Positive prompt: A magic palace garden made of crystal and gold

Negative prompt: Palace, magic, crystal, gold, fantasy, castle, estate, stronghold, temple, garden, flowers, plants, blossoms, bloom, blooms, trees, grass, stems, foliage, leaves, greenery, branches, bush, bushes, hedge, hedges, metal, luxury, stone, glass, brass, rose, polished, jewel, prism, courtyard

I then tried to see if, learning from the animal subjects, I could make it more likely to return one of my favorite "mistakes" - making it impossible to discern the point where a water area ends and a sky area begins. I wasn't immediately successful, but I came up with some results I found pleasing regardless-

Positive prompt: Secret hideout in a cave behind a waterfall in the foggy forest on a floating sky island in fluffy clouds

Negative prompt: hideout, camp, campsite, home, abode, house, dwelling, rest, shelter, waterfall, water, cave, grotto, forest, woods, woodland, trees, fountain, cascade, pond, stream, lake, river, brook, puddle, creek, pool, beach, ocean, sea, cloud, clouds, sky, cumulus, cirrus, nimbus, fog, storm, rain, sunshower, falls

It seems that with landscapes it's got a much clearer and more specific "idea" of what a [SUBJECT] without [SUBJECT] looks like; it's more inclined to invent very specific, very consistent unasked for related elements. With the animals, I was tweaking the weight on the positive prompt to avoid getting straightforwardly just what I had positive (and negative) prompted, but with landscapes, I just get... almost something else entirely.

So how about inanimate objects? Let's try a ship, perhaps?

Positive prompt: A huge sailing ship with brilliant prismatic crystal sails on a stormy, turbulent sea of sunset clouds

Negative prompt: ship, boat, sailboat, sailing ship, pirate ship, galleon, ketch, schooner, sloop, cutter, sail, sea, ocean, storm, wind, rain, water, waves, cloudy, clouds, fog, sunset, dusk, dawn, sunrise, twilight, evening

...okay, I'm in love with the un-ship. It truly does manage to consistently give me results that look like, yet entirely unlike, a ship. It is everything I love about AI as a medium. More than that, it is my friend.

At lower positive prompt weights, they only get even more beautifully chaotic.

I want to live on one of these (in an alternate universe where they're geometrically possible and structurally sound, that is).

Failing that, I will be featuring them a lot from now on.

All images generated using Simple Stable, under the Code of Ethics of Are We Art Yet?

[etherealily]

ꜱɪʀᴇɴ // ꜰʀɪᴇᴅʀɪᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ

Friedrich Harding + fem!reader.

For @wintrsoul, based on this ask <3

I hope this is what you meant. If it sucks, or is not what you expected, tell me.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You torment his sleep.

(Friends-to-lovers on this blog will always be associated with pebble-throwing.)

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At times, Friedrich would birdwatch.

And, at other times, he would stargaze.

Both during test-sails with his father on a new ship, and both, of course, during different times of day.

Sometimes, the journey would last as long as three days, perhaps even four, just to ensure the ship could hold out against strong currents, and the lights were strong enough for the unforgiving night sea.

And Friedrich could name nearly every sea-bird. And could possibly find his way home with the North Star, if ever.

The best part of all this new knowledge was that he was able to give it to you. He would write you letters, deposit them at every port, and grin, because he knew it was killing you, not being able to write back and give him proper comebacks to whatever tiny insults he'd peppered in as compliments, just to pull your leg.

So, no, to answer the unasked question, he was never surprised when you jumped into his arms and nearly toppled him over on his return, before hitting at his chest for all the things he'd implied about you.

"How dare you call me an owl?"

"They're wise, you know?"

"You spoke of my eyes!"

"The ink must have bled. I'm sure I said 'wise'." A smirk.

"What about calling me—"

"Must we regale the tales of your illiteracy? I know what I wrote, and perhaps you read what you think is true. Come. We could rematch."

He was always better at skipping stones than you were, having had practice since as far as he could remember. But would he tell you? No.

"Did you come across pirates?" You always asked this, and he always answered in the negative.

"If I came across pirates, I would not live to tell the tale.", he scoffs, flicking at your temple. "Use that brain of yours to ask me genuinely valid questions about my time out there in the world."

"Did you see mermaids?"

He chortles. For all your newfound womanly qualities after introduction to society, you're still the same. "Mermaids? They do not exist, never will."

"Oh, please. You're a man of science."

"Precisely my reasoning for choosing not to believe in aquatic women with fish tails that lurk waters and lure men to their deaths with their singing."

"Those are sirens. You are confusing them."

"I apologise for my insubordination. I'm confusing two fish-like female species of underwater monsters.", he scoffs. "Flog me now."

"For the longest time, the world was thought to be flat, by men of science. Flat, can you imagine such a thing! And if you are a man of science, you might not be so quick to dismiss the possibility of forces that we do not understand.", you declare, launching another pebble, that galloped prettily across the lake.

He glares (gazes) at you for a while, before exhaling in contempt. "Adolescence does not agree with you. You've suddenly developed audacity enough to back-talk. With mildly valid points, though, I will admit. And not to mention, your eyes."

"Adolescence does, too, agree with m— what do you mean my eyes?"

Friedrich narrows his own at that moment, before bending down to pretend to meticulously analyse yours. "They've gone all..." A vague gesturing around them. "Wonky."

"Wonky?"

He nods.

"They're prettier, sure, but also wonkier."

If you'd known that would be the last time you'd be seeing him in two years, you'd have focused more on the 'prettier' comment.

"I have news."

"Yes?"

"I am travelling once more, I'm afraid."

"Ooh, will you stay gone for good, this time?", you ask, in faux-hopefulness.

"You are not as hilarious as you think you are. I know you miss me when I am away.", he mutters for only your ears, as he bites his lip in concentration before launching another stone out.

"Do I, now?"

"Oh, yes, you're always yearning so loudly inside that it reverberates across continents, across oceans, and disrupts my otherwise peaceful sleep in my little cabin on my big ships.", he huffs, as though this was anything but hyperbole, as though this is a complaint he's had for years, but has been too afraid to bring up to you.

"So what you say is, I torment your sleep?"

"Like nothing I've ever known before."

A mutual grin.

"How long?" He cannot tell you "two years" without you worrying, he's sure.

"Negligible. The real big news is that I will be renting out."

"No."

"Yes. Mother thinks one can never have too much money, and you know, I quite agree. I'm adding another source of income.", he whispers. A pause. "Do, um, excuse me." He clears his throat for a moment, looking down into the sherry he'd brought outside. "Do... do you approve?"

Another pause.

"How does it matter if I approve?"

"Well, it doesn't, of course, but had you said 'no', it would have fuelled me to go along with it. You know how you are wrong about every single thing in the universe, yes?", he titters.

"Right, of course. And another stream of income will increase your chance of procuring a good marriage, yes? Blind, though she may be, status is what matters.", you declare, snorting at his annoyed nudge.

"She will not be blind, you know. She will see me for the handsome, smart man I am, and... well, let's just say the money will only be an additional incentive for her." A waggle to his brows.

"One day, Friedrich. I shall have the self-confidence you so unjustly possess."

"And one day, you shall beat me at skipping stones.", he whispers, flicking at your temple.

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TWO YEARS LATER.

He's not sure what it was he expected, in all honesty. Perhaps he thought the entire manor would be refurbished and every trace of him would have been swept away with the wind, or perhaps he'd imagined coming home to a haunted house, a desolate shell of what his childhood had been nurtured by. But no. It's the exact same, even brighter than he remembered it.

Thankfully, he has not been forgotten and it shows. The maids greet him the same, the doors open with the same vigour for him. And so, he sits on the couch, before a hurried shuffle is heard, and he's being greeted by a young man, younger than him — your age, he'd wager — with a firm handshake. "Herr Harding, sir, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine, Sebastian Schneider, yes, if I am not mistaken?"

"Quite right, sir. I must thank you for opening up your home to us."

"It is all my family's doing, I'm afraid. They had to ensure the home was in good hands, and I can safely say it is.", he replies, sitting down and pointing around the foyer.

He throws his hands up. "Small talk be damned, sir. You are in the ship business, correct?"

"Yes. And you?"

"Cutlery."

The first thought Friedrich has is that you'd burst out laughing if you'd heard that. 'Pots and pans?!', you'd giggle. Note to self : he has to go calling 'round for you, or he'll lose his mind.

"How long will you be in town, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Six months. Should be plenty time to catch up with my loved ones."

"Oh, that is a relief. I... I am getting married, and I should like to invite you, it is five months from now."

Eurgh. Friedrich hates going to these things. "That is too kind."

"Of course, you may bring anyone you want, and... I suppose it's nearly decided that we require your blessing."

He hates sycophants, but he's only twenty, this Sebastian. A child.

"My friend, Frieda, she lives on the other side of town. Tonight, there is a soirée. You must come, with your intended.", he offers, politely. It's as kind as he can be. If he invites him here, maybe he doesn't need to come to this child's bloody wedding. Besides, he knows you'll love this character, and Frieda would invite you.

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course, of course! She loves art, as do I."

Friedrich fights a scoff. A young couple desperate to fit into high society? Of course they "love art".

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Your eyes follow the pianist's fingers, deftly prancing along the keys, like a deer, or a bunny, or— god, is this what you'd come to? Peak boredom, this was, looking for woodland creatures to use to describe how a musician plays the most overplayed piece in history at a soirée with people you've seen far too much within one year.

There's only one saving grace, and he hasn't arrived yet. Friedrich.

You could never write back, of course. Which port could you send it to? He never stayed in one place for long.

Which is why he is not up-to-date on... the recent developments.

But he'd finally given a definitive date, and that is today.

While Friedrich is not a violent man, his emotions are big. Sadness, when his father passed? Ginormous. Almost swept you away, the wave. And now, his anger may burn you. You're not sure.

He knows that there's only so much mind-numbing mundanity that you can take before you turn to alcohol, so this lack of punctuality is simply the adult equivalent to Friedrich tugging at your hair back when you were six. For laughs. For kicks.

Which is why, no matter how alert you think you are, he can always sneak up on you, use his pinky to move your earring (and the strand of hair covering your ear at the same time) to whisper something absolutely ludicrous to you.

Usually, it is something along the lines of :"Liesel looks particularly scandalous today, does she not? I must have a go.", or "It seems Christoph thinks hats are back in fashion. He would not be wrong, but I think he fails to understand they are for the fairer sex."

Today, it is : "Mermaids aren't real."

"Then the Earth is flat.", you retort.

He rolls his eyes. "Incorrigible. You look breathtaking, though.", he says, offhandedly, still glancing at the painting before you. Mermaids.

"You have not even seen me."

"I never have to."

And then you hug, and he spins you around with such joy, that he's glad this is a closed event, or certain judgemental members of society would have branded the two of you as "improper".

"Why have you changed so much in two years?", you hiss, and he guffaws, shaking his head.

"Me? How about you? All ruffles and patterns, it's like you've lost your... you-ness!", he exclaims.

"Well, you look dashing as well."

"You say this because you have not seen us both. I pale in comparison to you."

"You are nicer tonight.", you remark, before tilting your head to narrow your eyes at his little grin. A small gasp of realisation. "You have news. I do, as well."

A counter-gasp of mockery and amusement. "I do. But first, let's get the devil-liquid away from you, yes?"

He takes the glass of sherry as though he is doing you the greatest favour (he might, in all honesty), before downing it himself. "What was this, your fifth of the night?"

"Actually, that was my second. Though, had you arrived a second later, that would have, in fact, been my fifth.", you mutter, and he chuckles, his eyes racing around the room.

"Right, so my news—"

"Friedrich.", you sigh, shaking your head with a slow, purposely drawn-out gentle punch to his shoulder. "You look so weary. Did you come straight here from the port?"

"Yes, you impatient imbecile. I stopped by my house."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I met, uh... quite an interesting character, my tenant. Ooh, speak of the devil. You'll enjoy this.", he informs, turning you around.

"Herr Harding! Ah, I see you've met my intended!"

Friedrich feels like he could vomit all over the mermaid painting hanging on the bloody wall.

The way your shoulders tense tells him exactly what he was dreading.

"Herr Schneider, I'm glad you could make it.", he grits out, with as much politeness as he could muster while shaking this utensil-mogul's hand. "Your... intended and I have known each other since the ages of five and two. Right?"

"Five and two.", you affirm, biting at the inside of your cheek. God, has it been that long?

A sort of charged silence forms and you're sure that there's nowhere else you would be opposed to teleporting to.

"Ah. Never thought to mention this?", asks Sebastian, lowering his tone as if Friedrich wasn't right there.

"Well, you did not tell me where you had rented, Sebastian, did you?", you mutter, eyes fixed on the painting to your left.

He's quite literally about to vomit. He looks to the painting. His lunch would not look good on it, he decides.

"Beautiful painting.", he manages to spit out, coughing to mask his disgust.

Sebastian clears his throat. "Ah, yes, the mermaid. Please, you have voyaged the sea. Explain to her that they do not exist."

Friedrich is not too keen on helping this Sebastian character out.

"But they do."

Your eyes shoot up, and he's glad they're on him, fixed. "I've seen one."

Sebastian looks at him knowingly, as though they are both doing this to appease you. As though this is all some inside joke.

"A real one?"

"Looked just like you, y'know?"

"You're pulling my leg."

"On the contrary. However, I really must be going. Much to set right in terms of letters from family who have invited me to dinners and such."

You're not sure what happened to Friedrich out there at sea, if he actually did have a traumatic encounter with a mermaid, or perhaps a very devastating business deal, but you're ready for this phase to stop.

You'd like to tell yourself it's because of your engagement, but he's always been the first to keep reminding you that one day you'll be married off, and so it's ludicrous to think that has any effect.

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

He hates feeling things on this scale. This sort of wallowing has not happened since he was six, since his father passed, and thankfully it had only been you, seeing it.

Now it was you causing it.

"Regret is not a word in my vocabulary, Frieda.", he chuckles, absentmindedly playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

"It is in your heart, though."

"What is in my heart is ensuring that my business goes well. I have far too many things at stake as of now. I have some French and some Americans fighting for the same deal with me."

"You are in demand, then?"

"That I am."

"In all aspects?"

"Frieda, you have shown the splendour of your matchmaking skills with, uh... Herr Schneider. I do not require your services."

Frieda chuckles. "Friedrich, you have met Schneider. He is not a bad—"

He holds up his hand to silence her. "He is a fine man, determined, business-minded, kind. He goes along with her whimsies when she needs it and also knows when to yank her chain, he— he understands."

There is no response, and Friedrich does not even have to look up to know that Frieda has horror etched on her face.

"Friedrich, I will ask you this once, and once only."

Fuck.

"Do you want her?"

Fuck!

"Who?"

"By God, you do.", whispers Frieda, her brows raised as though he'd just blasphemed. "Friedrich!"

"What? Is it a crime to love the same person since six years old? If so, I apologise that I do not leap from woman to woman, like others my age!", he grunts, standing quite abruptly.

"Friedrich, I know you. You will wallow and wallow and take the pain inwards like liquor!", she hisses.

"So... what? You think I should tell her? You think I require closure?"

"On the contrary! I think you must forget this! Push it out of your head! She is engaged, and besides, you'd kill each other, anyway, as a married couple."

That was true. But that's a death he's willing to die.

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

It's been two months. Two months of, as predicted by Frieda, wallowing.

You've thought about writing to him many times, but he is not staying at his own home, though Schneider offered it, no, he is staying at an inn he will not tell you (or Frieda) the name of.

He needs to look out for you. You, an engaged but as of yet unwed young lady cannot be seen being familiar with an unwed, unbetrothed, eligible bachelor like himself.

Cannot. It is social suicide, and forgive him if he doesn't want you dead. Scandal will ruin you, and he doesn't want that.

Unfortunately, christenings are ceremonies that one cannot skip. What has a child done to you? Nothing. You cannot give any excuse that falls short of death. And so, he goes.

He catches your eye from across the room, and nearly turns away to avoid you, but frowns when he sees you turning away first. Wait, he knew how you'd betrayed him by hiding something this important, but what had he done to you? Oh, come on, you can't honestly be angry about the whole mermaid-thing, can you?

He follows after you, clearing his throat to gain your attention. He knows you well enough to know that you crossing your arms is indication that you acknowledge his presence.

"I apologise. I did not say congratulations, at Frieda's gathering."

"Thank you."

A pause. He sighs. He wants to see your smile. "Forks and spoons for the rest of your life?"

"Better than anchors and sails.", you retort.

"You used to love hearing about my voyages.", he huffs, still maintaining the respectable distance required for two eligible, unwed youth. It's the principle.

"I also used to love eating with forks and spoons."

Why were you the exact same, with your witty retorts, but so inexplicably different at the same time? As much as he didn't want to do this, he knows that he cannot bear not being part of your life, and he most definitely cannot bear your apathy. Frieda probably looks on with warning, but she is behind him, her glare on his back, and you are right there, so tangibly perfect in front of him.

"There is a pond outside. We must rematch."

"And what will that achieve? Why must I come down and socialise with the likes of you?", you hiss, painfully. "Go home."

His hand snakes down into his pockets, and he flashes a couple pebbles perfectly suited for throwing out at you. He'd shoved them into his pocket this very morning, with no intention of using them in any way. If someone else had found them, they'd think he were suicidal, wanting to go drown himself like one of your sirens would.

"You're just terrified you'll get beat.", he shrugs, gesturing at the stones in his hand. "Sad, sad, sad, your backbone disappeared out there at finishing school, I take it."

"I will alert the entire town that you're being a prick to a girl three years your junior."

He shrugs once more. "Has age has ruined your skipping arm? Hang on. Is that what it is? Age? That is why you're settling for Spoon Schneider? He is your age, so you think companionship-wise, he's... acceptable?", he calls, and you pretend not to hear him.

You scoff. He cannot possibly think, after all the opportunities he's had, that this will magically be a joke between the two of you, or break the ice.

He rolls the pebble between his fingers once more, and you shake your head once again. "Go home."

"If I go, I will never return again."

"I highly doubt that."

"You will lose me as a friend."

"Haven't I already?"

He does not reply.

"Friedrich."

"I have tried to avoid you, and it is for a reason."

"Then keep avoiding me, because you clearly do not care for me!"

"WHAT is wrong with you?!", he yells, finally, throwing his hands up. "What is WRONG with you?!"

The entire venue hushes, and he feels like he's just slapped you. He hasn't, he could never, but with how humiliated— and angry — you appear, he might as well have.

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

He hears the plop of you tossing a stone into the water before he actually sees you. And then, there's multiple plops, and you come into view, sitting by the lake.

Friedrich's hands hold two glasses of brandy, and he proffers one to you. "I apologise if I offended you."

You do not startle, just find another pebble and throw it as far as you can. A distant plop.

"And if I offended Schneider.", he offers, downing one of the glasses.

"I don't understand! Do I suddenly bore you? Or sicken you?"

Bore him? You? With your talks of mermaids and your inability to let anything just be without getting to the bottom of how it came to be? You are the furthest thing from boring, or sickening, for that matter.

"No. No. You do not."

"Then what is it? Why are you being like this?"

"I would just... I would have thought you'd at least... ask approval, or my opinion or... my blessing, y'know?" This is stupid. You will kill him for suggesting such a thing.

"Asked for your approval?! I'm sorry, correct me if I'm wrong. Do you mean to say that you think you are entitled to making my decisions, and judging them without knowing the whole truth?"

If Friedrich were a smarter man, he'd have read between the lines of that last sentence. But his emotions... Friedrich feels things on a level not quite understood by people who do not know him, and now? He feels shame and defensiveness.

"I ask your approval before everything I do! The tenants, for instance?"

"Yes, everything except leaving for two bloody years on a voyage you didn't even need to go on!"

Oh.

"So this was revenge."

"This was a matter of time."

The sounds of the birds attempt to mitigate the silence.

You stand, and he stupidly thinks you're about to charge at him. But you just snatch the glass from him, before you throw your head back to down the contents.

He places both glasses behind him. Gazes at you. Sighs.

One arm extends gingerly, to pull your head to his chest, and the other one holds one of your hands, fiddling around with your fingers, trying his best to avoid the ring.

Unfortunately, it is unavoidable.

"Please tell me your grandmother left this for you before kicking the bucke— my condolences, by the way.", he mumbles, rambles rather, trying not to recoil at the ring that has just silently declared war against him.

"Well, no, not exactly. This is what he bought me."

"You were betrothed without a ring, then, initially? How urgent was this?" It's rhetorical. You both know your family.

"Are you angry?"

Yes. No? He's not sure. Never will be sure.

"You know me, big emotions, huge. I cannot...", he pauses, taking a shaky breath, "You have grown up.", he says, rubbing your back and falling just short of kissing the top of your head. "I suppose I did not like that I haven't been part of it for two years."

"I'm not sure I want to be betrothed at all."

He pulls away.

"What if it were me? Standing here with... with a ring, made of bloody... pirate gold, with a diamond brought from the depths of a treasure chest out there in the sea, and, and... and kissed by a mermaid? Would you be betrothed to me, then?" His thumb inconspicuously moves from your cheek to your lip.

"Friedrich—"

He knows it's coming. 'I love you like a brother', or, god forbid : "I love Sebastian."

"I'm sorry, that was... I just think that he... I just don't—"

"Approve?", you suggest.

He snorts, rubbing at your elbow. "Yes. Approve. It does not need to mean anything to you, but yes, I do not approve."

"Well, that's fantastic, because I learnt only one thing at finishing school and it is that I love you."

Friedrich's throat goes dry.

He would pinch himself, but it seems he is frozen. "No." He shakes his head. "No, that's not—"

"No?", you scoff. "If you think that is pathetic, I'll remind you that you just offered me a mermaid-kissed, pirate-Aztec-gold engagement ring with, what was it? A diamond from a treasure chest?"

"It is not pathetic."

"Then why did you say 'no'? Do you think this is a joke?"

"I think I am one, yes. All this t—"

"Don't flatter yourself, I haven't loved you for ages and tried to hide it, this is... a recent development.", you grumble, crossing your arms stubbornly. You will not give him the win of thinking you have been yearning all this time, especially when you've seen him do the same since he was, perhaps, fourteen? You weren't sure.

He grins. Adorable.

"Well, not for me. No, I have loved you ever since I was six years old. But for you, it was a long time coming, yes?"

Six? You're not sure if he's still good at reading your face, but you try your best to hide your astonishment.

"One day, Friedrich. I shall have the self-confidence you so unjustly possess."

"One day, you will be Frau Harding and regret your life choices.", he smiles, stupidly, before he kisses you. Now, you have never been kissed before, but this seems like a remarkably lovely one. His lips move soft and steady against yours, yet there was still desperation, passion, and it stirred you so much you moved back, just an inch.

"Don't you dare pull away."

And so you don't. Your elbows rest on his shoulders and your hands hang loosely against the back of his neck as he kisses you, slowly lowering his hat from his head with every movement towards your lips. It falls into the lake. He doesn't care.

"Betrothals fall through all the time. You cannot see yourself as Frau Schneider, you know this." He has not separated himself from your lips, and it does not seem like he can.

"Yes, but—", you cut yourself off with a low laugh as his moustache tickles your neck when he kisses it. "You have to shave this thing off."

"If you vow never to marry Schneider, I will.", he mumbles out against your throat. "You know this."

"I do know this."

"You have known this. Much longer than you've been letting on.", he muses, his forehead against yours as he breathes you in. His thumbs rub against the sides of your corset until you reach into his pockets, causing him to furrow his brows.

"Whoever loses has to break the news to my family.", you declare, rattling a couple of his pebbles around in your palm, nudging his elbow.

"You worry about telling your family? I think you should be more worried about telling your little... flatware financier that the betrothal's off.", he teases, revelling in the eye roll you respond with.

"I miss the days that men would get into sword-fights over us. Would make all this so much easier.", you mutter, sucking on your teeth as you launch one out onto the lake. Seven. Not bad.

"Please, he'd bring a knife, I'd bring an anchor. There can only be one winner, siren, and you know who it is."

"Siren?"

"You cannot possibly think anyone else's voice was haunting me and tormenting my sleep out there in the vast, blue nothingness."

You smile at that, and he's not sure he's ever going to recover. "Really?"

"Yes. The Earth is round, and you are a siren.", he says, kissing softly at your temple before he turns back to the water. He focusses. The last stone.

He could beat your record. No, he really could, easy. But that's the thing. He must make life easier for his future wife, even if it is telling an otherwise lovely gentleman that she will not be marrying him.

So, he makes sure he barely gets to four on his last one.

"Guess the cards just aren't in my favour, siren."

After you have adequately celebrated your win, the two of you sit out there until you have both bird-watched and stargazed.

Oh, the cards are definitely in his favour.

[aurossaga]

We Were Nothing the Wind Couldn't Catch - pt. 2

>>Part 1<<

Venti x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff, Rivals with repressed feelings

Word count: ~1.8k

Warnings: Sassy bard

Summary: You find yourself strumming a tune that's been on your mind as the day comes to a close, only to find that even as night draws near, you still have an audience.

The moonlight drapes over Mondstadt like a muted shawl. The flames of lamps and lanterns flicker on their crooked posts, their oil nearly spent as the street’s signs creak where they hang, tired banners swaying in the breeze with no one left to see them. You settle on the edge of the fountain in the market square, the cold of the stone seeping through your sturdy clothes, the familiar weight of your lyre resting in your lap. The square is empty. Even the wind whispers only in hushed tones at this hour.

You didn’t exactly plan to come back here tonight. You had a great few days, your performances vastly improved after your last encounter with Venti. Somehow, that irritated you too. You were improving at your craft, but it still felt like a loss.

Your fingers move anyway, ghosting over the strings. One note, then another, light as breath, unsure as an unasked question. You tell yourself it’s just to loosen the tension in your hands, to not let the cool wind of the night give you a chill… But you can’t fool yourself entirely.

And still, somehow, it’s his melody that comes.

Soft and slow, an elegant composition. The one he left, scratched in ink on a scrap of parchment that must have somehow slipped into your pocket a couple mornings ago.

You pause, press your thumb hard against a string, constraining the sound before you let it go. But it’s too late. The wind has already taken the notes, winding them through shuttered windows and sleeping streets. They sound different in the open air… Gentler, almost tender.

You hate that.

You hate how the lyrics lingers in your mouth. How your hands keep finding the chords.

How he’s not here, and somehow it still feels like you’re playing for him.

The last few notes trail off, barely audible beneath the soft rusting of leaves in the wind. You don’t play another chord at first. You just sit there, staring at your trembling fingers like they’ve betrayed you. Because they have.

They often do when Venti’s concerned.

You try to summon the old feeling. The irritation, the sharp edge of your voice when quarreling with the bard. The way his grin makes your blood rise, how every word from his mouth is just clever enough to be unbearable. You want to be angry. You should be angry.

But here you are. Playing his music, as an admission of defeat.

You lean back, letting your head tip toward the sky, eyes half-closed as the stars blink down at you with a cold indifference. Venti’s melody still echoes through your mind, like the echo of something you never agreed to carry. You should’ve burned that scrap of parchment before the notes burned themselves into your mind like that. Before the lyrics etched themselves into your mind and played over and over again, refusing to die down unless you were to utter them out loud.

You think of his hands. Quick, smug, impossibly sure of himself. The way he plays as if the whole world exists only to listen, muses as if the very heavens seek to be his audience. You recall the way he looked at you last time, head tilted, voice a little too quiet, like he’d caught onto something you were trying to conceal.

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. This is nothing. He’s just in your head because he put himself there. That’s what he does. That’s how it always is. How else would he rise to such popularity so quickly? It’s not like his compositions are that vastly different from the tens of other bards running around Mondstadt.

And still, his melody lingers on your lips, in the very back of your throat as you choke it back with all your might.

You’re not thinking about how his hands held yours so much more softly than you expected of him, how the light flutter of his cloak graced your thigh, how the rumble in his chest when he whispered patient instructions to you resonated within your own.

You’re not thinking about any of that.

Another gust of wind sighs through the square, cool against your cheeks. You curl your fingers tighter around the lyre’s frame and close your eyes.

You tell yourself it’s just a stupid song.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean a single thing.

You repeat it until your fingers strike upon the strings again, strumming out the melody for what you once again swear is the last time tonight. 

"You chase the sun with stubborn feet," The words are so simple, and yet not at all. You don’t know why you foolishly keep singing it. You don’t want to know why this song of his feels like it’s stuck in your throat now.

You press your thumb against another string, stilling it before strumming the next chord. "I watched you once and lost my beat." Your voice falters just a little. You can't help it. You do lose your rhythm quite often, don’t you? Lost in the moment you realize you aren’t playing just to pass the time anymore. The melody caught you, and you’ve been chasing it ever since.

A quick, almost bitter breath escapes you as you strum again, the next line slipping out without permission. "You play like joy’s a clever thief." The words are sharp, almost accusing. You want them to sting. You want to believe the song is a game, something to pick apart and break into pieces… But it’s not. It’s too beautiful. It’s too true.

You push your fingers across the strings harder than necessary, and sing the final line, the one you’ve been avoiding even in your own mind. "And I, a song you half-believe." The words linger in the air like they’re meant for someone else. You let the last note fall, resonant yet final, and the indifferent silence of the summer night that follows feels heavier than any of the chords you’ve played up until now. As the final note fades and you sit there with your hands still on the strings, you hear the faint yet unmistakable sound of steps against the cobblestone. The voice that speaks up soon after is equally distinct. Of course it had to be him again…

"Ah. So that’s where my composition went."

You almost flinch at his comment. How in the world are you supposed to explain this now…? You don’t look back. You don’t dare to just yet. Venti’s footsteps are soft against the worn stones as he approaches, slow and deliberate. He comes to a stop behind you, hiding right at the edges of your vision. You can practically hear the grin in his voice, even if you can’t see it.

"I thought it sounded familiar," he muses almost idly. "Though, I have to admit, I didn’t expect such a heartfelt recital. You flatter me."

Your jaw clenches. You hate how warm your face suddenly feels again. You tell yourself it’s the summer air, a breeze too warm. The memory of the sun on your skin. Blaming anything but your racing heart. You try to focus on the lyre’s sturdy strings instead. One is slightly out of tune. You pluck it once, twice, and ignore him.

"Really, I should thank you," Venti says, casually, like he’s merely commenting on the weather. "That song needed the right voice. Yours will do nicely."

You finally reply, low and flat. "It’s the middle of the night. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?" He hums in mock thought.

"No. Not really."

Then nothing. Just him standing there, the breeze ruffling his cloak, and the quick, steady thrum of your heart hammering in your chest. He’s waiting. You don’t know for what, and you’re not about to ask.

Venti lets the silence stretch for a beat longer before leaning back on his hands, voice as casual as ever.

"You should perform it."

You blink, stare at the ground. "What?"

"The song," he says, and you can hear the grin widen in his voice. "Our little collaboration. I think the townsfolk would love it. A tale of stolen sunlight and repressed affection… It practically begs to be heard, no?"

You finally look at him, glare sharpening. "It’s not a collaboration."

He raises a brow teasingly, smirking slightly askew. "Could’ve fooled me. You sang it like you wrote it."

You turn back to your lyre, strumming a sharp, tense chord. "I wouldn’t perform for you if the square were on fire and I had nowhere else to be."

He chuckles. "Oh, don’t be like that. It might even improve your usual material. Give it some actual feeling."

You shoot him an incredulous look. "...Excuse me?"

"I’m only saying," he continues, with the smug ease of someone very aware he’s hit a nerve, "Your last piece about the moonlight and the dying tree? It lacked a certain… How shall I put it…? Conviction. A bit hollow, as if you were writing for applause, not from the heart."

Your fingers dig into the wood of your lyre. "And yours are?"

"Mine at least have grit. And the occasional soul."

"You really think highly of yourself."

"Not at all," Venti says, smiling faintly now. "Just high enough to know when you’re running scared."

That shuts you up for a couple seconds.

You strum a single note, low, rough-edged. "It’s just a song."

"Of course," he says, far too easily. "All the best ones are."

You rise slowly, careful not to let your movements betray the knot in your chest. The lyre stays on your lap a moment longer, your fingers still curled tight around its carefully carved frame, like it might steady you. Then you set it down gently. It doesn’t deserve to face the brunt of the frustration simmering beneath your fingertips.

You dust off your clothes, focusing on the motion and the grain of the fabric beneath your palms. Maybe if you keep moving, he won’t see the heat still clinging to your face. Maybe if you leave now, you won’t have to think about the way his voice sank on that last line, like he meant it.

"Get some sleep," you say, low and tense, not quite a dismissal, but almost.

Venti doesn’t reply right away. You can almost feel his gaze on your back, weighing more than it should.

"Sweet dreams," he says finally, and there’s no teasing in it this time. Just something quiet. Something bordering on genuine. Something you refuse to give any further thought.

You pick up your lyre and walk away without another word, before your throat can betray you. The stone beneath your shoes is uneven, every step heavier than the last. You don’t look back. You insist to nobody in particular that it’s because you don’t care. But the melody lingers in your mind, soft and persistent, long after the square is behind you. No matter how many twists and turns you take through the empty streets, you just can’t seem to walk far enough to leave it behind.

[drxcorelibre]

Overcoming Distance in Love P.A.

: ̗̀➛ Freeing oneself from long-held desires x

⚠ Genre/warnings: situationship to lovers idk i just love prom and he deserves this sm, slight nsfw (heated makeout), pinning, atp cindy4life lol, this is so damnn

✎ Reading time: approx. 16min

₊˚ʚ It was as if the months apart had never happened, the chemistry between you still as strong as ever.

₊˚ʚ Prompto pushed himself away from the garage wall and began slowly making his way towards you. Each step he took was measured, his eyes never leaving yours.

₊˚ʚ Suddenly, it was as if a dam burst. All the pent-up emotions, the months of silence, the questions left unasked, came rushing out at once.

The night was quiet, and the stars above were the only witnesses to your departure. The journey to Hammerhead was cold and lonely, the silence only broken by the crunch of gravel under your shoes.

You made your way along the path, the lights of Hammerhead growing closer with each step. The thought of leaving the group behind weighed heavily on your heart, but you had made your decision.

As you finally reached the base of Hammerhead, Cindy, who was working late into the night, noticed your arrival. She looked up from her project, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of you alone.

"Well, now, ain't that a sight," she remarked in her soft drawl, taking in your state. "What're you doin' here this late and by yourself, darlin'?"

"i left the guys."

Cindy's curious expression quickly turned to surprise. "Left the boys, huh? Ain't that somethin'. What happened there, if you don't mind me askin'?"

"just- realised i never belonged."

Cindy's brow furrowed at your words, a hint of concern in her eyes. "Never belonged? What makes you say that?"

"At the end of the day, we girls can't afford to stay with the boys." you chuckled.

Cindy raised an eyebrow at your chuckle, a puzzled look on her face. "Why's that, darlin'? Nothin' wrong with a girl hangin' with the fellas."

"i caught feelings." you said, gripping onto your belongings.

Understanding dawned in Cindy's eyes as you confessed. She looked at you with empathy, seeing the pain behind your words. She took a seat on a nearby crate and patted the spot next to her, gesturing for you to sit. "Come on, sit down. Let's talk."

You hesitantly joined her, sitting on the crate and placing your belongings beside you. The night air was still and quiet, the only noise coming from the faint sounds of machinery and distant crickets.

Cindy looked at you, her voice soft in the moonlight. "So, you been likin' one of the boys, huh? Can't blame ya, they're handsome fellas. Which one was it, if ya don't mind me askin'?"

"Prompto" The thought of him sent tingles down your spine as you spoke his name out loud.

"Ah, Prompto. He's a good kid. Real peppy, always crackin' jokes. Can't really blame ya for falling for him."

She paused, her eyes studying your face, "But somethin' tells me it ain't as simple as just likin' him, is it?"

You played with your bracelets as you spoke nervously, a bit worried for Cindy's judgement of the situation you put yourself in.

"I felt like my feelings could potentially ruin the group dynamic so i left, realising I don't belong."

Cindy chuckled with empathy, "Sounds like a bit of a mess, darlin'."

"But it ain't your feelings that's ruining things. You have a right to feel the way you feel.

Cindy shifted slightly, turning to face you directly. "You ain't ruined nothin' by likin' Prompto. That's just how the heart works, can't always control who you fall for."

"it's fine! I'll get over it..."

Cindy could sense the resignation in your voice, and it tugged at her heartstrings. "It's not gonna be that easy, darlin'. Feelings like that don't just go away, especially not overnight."

You held your head up, looking at her sheepishly. "That's why I came here to ask you... If i could stay here, work, get my mind off of them?"

Cindy's face brightened at your request. "You wanna work here, huh? Well, we could always use an extra pair of hands. Plus, keepin' busy is a good way to keep your mind occupied."

She patted your back with a warm smile. "Sure, darlin'. You can stay and work. I'll teach you the ropes, and before you know it, you'll be a regular mechanic here at Hammerhead."

"thanks"

Cindy gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "No need to thank me, darlin'. We all need a fresh start sometimes, and that's what Hammerhead's all about. New beginnings."

╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. You found solace in the rhythm of the garage, the familiar hum of machines and the hum of the desert night lulling you into a sense of peace. Your days were filled with the scent of oil and the occasional banter with Cindy and Cid, the gruff yet affectionate owner of the garage.

The work was challenging at times, but you found comfort in the routine. The distance from Prompto and the guys allowed you time to process your feelings and come to terms with your new life. Despite the occasional pang of friendsickness, you found a sense of belonging in your new role at Hammerhead.

Over time, you adapted to the garage life, your hands becoming calloused and greasy, your laughter and skills familiar to the regular visitors of Hammerhead, who welcomed you as one of their own.

But every now and then, thoughts of Prompto and the group would creep into your mind, like a faint whisper in the wind. You pushed them aside, reminding yourself of the reasons you had left in the first place. Still, the ache in your chest was undeniable, the memories and what-ifs lingering like a bittersweet perfume. It was a constant struggle, balancing the tranquility of your new life with the lingering pull of the past.

As the familiar sound of the Regalia's engine echoed through the air, you looked up from your work on a nearby car, your heart skipping a beat. It was the chocobros, here for some vehicle upgrades.

Noctis led the charge, followed closely by Ignis, Gladiolus, and... Prompto. Seeing them all again, so casually together, sent a pang of nostalgia and longing through you.

Hiding your feelings behind a neutral expression, you quickly tried to push down the emotions welling up within you. You feigned distraction, continuing to tinker with the car in front of you, hoping they wouldn't notice your internal struggle.

Cindy, however, had a keen eye for reading people. She noticed the flicker of emotion in your eyes as the group approached. She sidled up beside you, a knowing look in her eyes.

"You all right, darlin'?" she whispered, her voice low and understanding. "They can't see it, but I can."

"I'll be alright." You said, wiping oil grease from your cheek, giving her a reassuring smirk.

Cindy gave you a supportive smile, patting your back gently. "You've got guts, holdin' it together like this. 'Course you'll be alright. Just remember, I'm here if you need to vent, scream, or just a shoulder to lean on."

The rest of the group had been engrossed in their conversation, oblivious to your momentary struggle. Prompto's laughter echoed in the background, causing your heart to clench slightly as you tried to focus on your work.

The urge to run towards them and hug them all while spilling so many sorry's went through your mind for a split second, but you knew that won't do.

The guys approached the garage, peeking in at your figure working on some badass vehicles.

Everyone had noticed the transformation. With your new outfit, your voice resembling Cindy's Southern drawl, and your mannerisms changing to match hers, you had become a bit of a chameleon, blending into the environment of the garage.

Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus glanced your way, their eyes widening slightly as they took in your appearance and demeanour. But it was Prompto's reaction that caught your attention.

He stood there, stunned for a moment, his eyes wide as he stared at you. The gears in his head were clearly turning as he tried to reconcile the 'new you' with the person he once knew.

He seemed to be at a loss for words, the familiar banter and jokes that usually flowed effortlessly from him were nowhere to be found.

As the group settled in and started discussing the upgrades they wanted for the Regalia, Cindy smoothly took charge. She launched into a friendly negotiation with Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus, while Prompto lingered in the background, his eyes still resting on you occasionally.

You, however, tried to keep your focus on your work, pretending not to notice his glances. The sounds of the garage faded into the background as you tried to keep your hands steady and your mind clear.

Every so often, you'd catch a glimpse of Prompto in your peripheral vision, his eyes meeting yours before quickly averting them, looking a bit flustered. The air between you both was heavy with unspoken emotions, an invisible thread of tension stretching tight.

Cindy, ever observant, noticed the silent communication between you and Prompto. She suppressed a slight grin, her eyes flickering between the two of you as she continued her negotiations with the guys.

As they finalized the details with Cindy, the conversation wrapped up, and they began to prepare to leave. Prompto lingered a moment longer, his eyes still on you, his expression a mix of longing and hesitation.

The group sauntered out of the garage, heading toward the nearby restaurant, their voices carrying on the warm evening air. Cindy watched them go, then turned to you with a knowing smile.

"You sure you don't wanna join them, darlin'?" she asked, her tone gentle but laced with encouragement.

"it's better this way."

Cindy nodded understandingly, her smile turning slightly bittersweet. "I get it, darlin'. Sometimes, what you want and what you need are two different things."

As you continued to work on the car, your thoughts were a tangle of emotions. Seeing Prompto and the guys again had stirred up feelings you had been trying to suppress, and their departure left you with a mix of relief and a strange pang of emptiness.

Your heart ached with an unspoken longing, a silent plea for just one more moment, one more look into his eyes. The familiar banter, the laughter, the bond you used to share - it all seemed like a lifetime ago.

The hum of the car under your hands was a temporary distraction, but it couldn't drown out the persistent pull in your chest, the deep-seated desire to see Prompto again, to hear his voice, to feel his presence.

The hours ticked by, the sun slowly descending towards the horizon. The guys finished their meal and emerged from the restaurant, their voices echoing through the still night air as they discussed their plans for the night.

Your eyes found Prompto amongst the group, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the sunset. His gaze roamed over the garage and, for a moment, seemed to linger on you.

Your heart skipped a beat as you saw Prompto's gaze fall on you for a moment. Reflexively, you ducked your head, using your long bangs and ponytail as a makeshift shield, hoping he hadn't noticed you watching him.

The sound of the guys' footsteps approaching sent a jolt through you, your senses hyper-alert to every sound and movement. You could hear them saying their goodbyes to Cindy.

Noctis sauntered over to you, an intrigued look in his eyes. He leaned against the hood of the car you were working on, observing you quietly for a moment before finally speaking.

"You've changed a lot, haven't you?" he noted, his voice nonchalant but his eyes studying you with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Still sharp, even in a new shell," he commented, his tone holding a hint of pride. "You're good at adapting."

You couldn't really speak up, although you felt like there was so much to say. You nodded in confirmation, getting back to work.

Noctis watched you silently for a moment, his expression a mix of confusion and a hint of frustration. It was clear he had more to say, but you had already shut him down. He gave a slight shrug, realizing that pushing further would be futile.

"Take care."

The guys climbed into the car, the Regalia's engine roaring to life as they pulled away from the garage, disappearing into the night.

The silence that settled over Hammerhead after they left felt deafening. The hum of the garage, the occasional rustle of the desert wind, and the beating of your own heart were the only sounds left in the stillness of the night.

The thought of them driving off into the night, continuing their adventures without you, stung more than you cared to admit. But you shook the thought away quickly, reminding yourself of the reasons you had left in the first place.

You turned your attention back to the car you were working on, determined to bury yourself in the familiar rhythm of the garage work. The sooner you lost yourself in the work, the sooner you could forget about the ache in your chest.

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The days were filled with the hustle and bustle of the garage, and the nights were spent catching up over the dinner table with Cindy and Cid, listening to their stories and sharing a few laughs.

Time had flown by in a blur of car repair and tire changes. The days had been long but filled with the fulfilling sense of accomplishment and routine. 11 months had passed since you had left the group, the pain of separation slowly fading into a dull ache you had learned to live with.

The nights were the hardest, when the silence of the garage seemed deafening, and the memory of Prompto's face would surface in your mind, unbidden.

The sound of the Regalia's engine roaring into the garage was a welcome yet unwelcome intrusion one day. You looked up from the car you were working on to see Noctis, Ignis, Gladiolus, and Prompto stepping out of the car, looking a bit weary but no worse for the wear.

They looked more seasoned, their faces sporting a few more scars, but their eyes were still filled with the familiar determination and bond they had shared since the beginning of their journey.

Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus greeted Cindy and Cid with some casual banter, their voices familiar and almost comforting. Prompto lingered a bit behind the rest, his eyes scanning the garage until they landed on you, as if time was repeating.

Your gazes met, and that familiar rush of emotions washed over you both. The weight of the past six months hung heavy in the air, a silent conversation passing between you both through the brief exchange of looks.

A mix of surprise, relief, and something else you couldn't quite put your finger on flickered in Prompto's eyes, but it was gone in an instant as Gladiolus said something, drawing his attention away from you.

You returned your focus to the car, pretending to be busy with tuning, but your heart was racing in your chest. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Prompto stealing furtive glances in your direction.

Every glance sent a jolt of electricity through you, reminding you of the chemistry you had shared before you left. The silence between you both felt heavy, filled with unspoken words, emotions, and a thousand questions.

You returned to your work, but the ache in your chest grew more insistent.

The evening descended upon Hammerhead, bringing a gentle coolness to the air. The stars above glittered like diamonds against the inky black canvas of the night sky.

The sound of footsteps in the garage startled you, breaking the peaceful silence of the night. You looked up to see the unmistakable silhouette of Prompto, framed by the dim light spilling in from the outside.

Prompto stood at the entrance of the garage, his lean frame casually rested against the door frame. His eyes were fixed on you, studying you intently. He didn't say anything for a moment, just watched you silently.

The air between you was thick with unspoken words, a thousand emotions swirling in the silence. Prompto's eyes were unreadable, his expression a mixture of curiosity.

You couldn't breathe, you couldn't speak.

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you met Prompto's gaze, and suddenly, you found yourself at a loss for words. Your mouth felt dry, your thoughts a tangled mess. It was as if his presence had sucked all the oxygen from the air, leaving you in a state of breathlessness.

You tried to say something, anything, but no words came out. You stared back at him, your eyes wide, your heart thudding loudly in your ears. The silence between you was deafening.

Prompto's gaze had changed. His eyes shone with a new, more masculine air, his once boyish features now sharpened and matured, giving him a more rugged and handsome look.

His blue eyes were like twin pools of shimmering water, seemingly drawing you into him. You noticed the freckles that sprinkle his tan skin like stars on a night sky. His hair was messy yet attractive, falling effortlessly in shaggy layers around his face.

You noticed this change as he looked at you. His gaze was no longer the playful and innocent gaze you had grown to know.

His gaze held a confidence that hadn’t been there before, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

Prompto seemed to sense your inner turmoil, the way your breath hitched and your eyes widened. His gaze softened slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face.

Prompto pushed away from the door frame and began slowly making his way towards you. Each step he took was measured, his eyes never leaving yours. With every step, the distance between you seemed to shrink, the tension building silently.

As he closed the gap between you, you could see the myriad of emotions playing out in his eyes. He came to a stop just a few steps away from you, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"h-hello again..."

Prompto's expression softened further, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Hey."

His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if he was trying to gauge your response to his presence. He looked at you quietly for a moment more, his eyes searching your face.

The air was filled with a mix of uncertainty and anticipation, both of you teetering on the edge of something unspoken.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stood there, watching each other. Prompto's eyes held an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that you had never seen before.

Suddenly, it was as if a dam burst. All the pent-up emotions, the months of silence, the questions left unasked, they all came rushing out at once.

Without a word, Prompto closed the remaining distance between you, his hands reaching out to grasp your arms. He pulled you towards him, his grip firm but gentle, his eyes never leaving yours.

You stumbled slightly as he tugged you closer, your body colliding against his. His breath was warm against your face, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart mirrored in your own chest.

He stood there, holding you tightly, his eyes roaming over your face, tracing the contours, studying your expression. His fingers started to rub small soothing circles on your skin, sending small frissons of electricity down your spine.

The kiss was sudden and intense, his lips claiming yours with a desperate hunger. It was as if months of pent-up frustration, longing, and unspoken words were poured into that single gesture.

Your mind went blank for a moment, surprised by the sudden contact. But then, a wave of desire washed over you, and your body responded on instinct. Your arms reached up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer, as you returned the kiss with equal fervor.

His hands moved from your arms and settled on the sides of your face, holding you as he deepened the kiss. It was as if the months apart had never happened, the chemistry between you still as strong as ever.

The sound of the boys calling out for Prompto shattered the moment, reminding you that the outside world existed.

Reluctantly, you both pulled away from each other, your breaths ragged and your eyes slightly dazed.

You looked into each other's eyes, both of you trying to regain your composure, the passion of the kiss still lingering on your lips. Prompto looked torn, his gaze reluctantly moving towards the sound of the guys' voices.

You could see the struggle on his face, the desire to stay with you and the pressure to return to the group. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go, taking a step back, putting some distance between you again.

Prompto gave you a small, almost rueful smile, his eyes locking with yours. "Yeah, I'll make sure I do more damage to the Regalia during our trips..." He said, indicating they were all here because of his little mischief.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the direction the guys' voices were coming from. "Duty calls," he said reluctantly, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

Taken by surprise, Prompto stumbled back towards you, his mouth forming a small 'o' as you pulled him in for another kiss. The unexpected gesture caught him off guard, but after a moment, he melted into the kiss, his arms encircling your waist as he held you tightly.

When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath still a bit ragged. "Wait for me?" he asked, his voice a soft whisper.

"like i always do."

Prompto's breath hitched at your words, and for a moment, he just held you tighter, his eyes searching yours. A mixture of emotions flickered across his face - surprise, hope, and a touch of disbelief.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow exhale. "Damn it," he muttered as if he was both frustrated and relieved. "I can't leave now knowing you need me, can I?"

Prompto pushed you against the garage wall, his body pressing against yours as he captured your lips in another fervent kiss. The cool night air was a contrast against the heat between you. His hands explored the curves of your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

The world around you seemed to fall away, the only thing that existed being the two of you, your bodies pressed together, your breaths mingling in the dark. His lips left kisses against your neck, tasting and teasing, igniting a fire that you thought had died months ago.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps followed by a collective gasp. You looked up to see Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus staring at you two, their mouths hanging open.

They stood there, completely taken aback by the sight of you and Prompto locked together against the garage wall. You both froze, your eyes widening in surprise and slight embarrassment at being caught.

Noctis was the first to break the silence, a shocked and almost comical expression on his face as he looked between the two of you. "What the hell?" he blurted out.

Ignis and Gladiolus were both speechless, their eyes wide as they tried to process what they were witnessing. Gladiolus whistled low, breaking the silence with a low, appreciative "damn."

Prompto pulled away from you, his hands still holding onto your waist as he turned to face the others. He looked sheepish and a bit guilty, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "Uh, Hey guys..."

Noctis pinched his nose and you pushed Prompto lightly towards them. "You gotta go."

Prompto gave you an almost pleading look, as if he didn't want to leave, but seeing your insistence, he reluctantly let go of you, a hint of disappointment in his eyes.

Noctis, still looking utterly bewildered, just shook his head slightly, mumbling something along the lines of "I can't believe this." Ignis, chuckled at the prince's comment.

Ignis and Gladiolus had similarly surprised expressions on their faces, though Gladiolus just looked amused and somewhat impressed. He clapped a hand on Prompto's shoulder as they started walking back to the Regalia, Prompto throwing one last glance back at you before disappearing into the night.

The ache in your chest was replaced by a feeling of affection as you anticipated your next encounter with Prompto, envisioning another good memory to cherish.

@drxcorelibre - do not steal, plagiarise or repost my posts on any other social media. This is my only account.