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zer0pm · 1 year

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Imagine the reason why you failed to meet up with Leon and Ashley was because Luis kept leading you both into trouble.

You should have left this man in the sack.

You knew the moment he opened his mouth that you should have slapped the tape back on and turned around. Because he looked like trouble, more trouble than he was worth. And so far for however long you’ve been stuck with him, he hasn’t proven you wrong. Luis Serra is unequivocally the most insufferable man you have ever met.

“Remind me again how we got ourselves in this situation,” you huffed, the weight of your back pressed firmly against the door. The Spaniard is beside you, also using his weight to help keep the door closed. More accurately, to keep the monsters outside from forcing their way in and tearing you two to pieces. You can practically feel the wood splintering under each aggressive push and you both were struggling to keep hold.

The man’s face contorts to a slight wince, grey eyes cast down to the ground in mild guilt. “You know, my friend, everything happened so quickly. To recall every causal detail would be-”

“It was a rhetorical question!” you snap at him with an exasperated glare, your patience completely run thin. A violent jolt of the door nearly splits the wood off its hinges, raising the tension. “We can’t stay here forever, we got to do something.”

“De acuerdo.” Luis nods, quickly scanning the room for an exit. The dimly lit space was enclosed with no other obvious doors leading to another area but his eyes fall upon a tall wardrobe that looked hardly big enough for two people. He makes eye contact with you with a telling glint in his gaze and you immediately catch onto his plan. An unenthusiastic groan reverberates from your throat before you throw him a committed nod.

He adjusts his stance and waits for you to follow suit while you both were still supporting the door on its weakening frame. “On my count… ¡Uno-!”

Your whole body surges forward as you’re suddenly ripped away from the door by a strong hand around your wrist and practically dragged to the wardrobe. Luis pulls you into a tight embrace before hurriedly backing you both inside the enclosed space, using his free hand to seal the opening behind you shut.

You were about to yell at him asking what the hell happened to “two” and “three” but thought better of it at the terrifying sound of wood thunderously breaking from outside.

Booming footsteps stomp by your hiding spot and ominous mutterings in Luis’ native tongue fills the room. Judging by the varying noises, you deduce that there were at least a handful of plaga hunting you. To take them on in such tight quarters would be suicide so the best that either of you can hope for is that they eventually leave with the impression that you and Luis miraculously disappeared into another part of this godforsaken castle.

As you wait anxiously for your pursuers to give up their search here, you finally realize your close proximity to Luis. The space within the wardrobe was so tight, every inch of the front of your body pressed his. His spicy musk fills your nostrils, making you go dizzy. His breath fans against your lips and you subconsciously breathe it in, tasting his air upon your tongue. His body heat wraps around you with a warmth so inviting that you felt yourself tempted to lean into him. Being so close to this man was dangerous, he is standing still and yet already he’s overwhelming your senses effortlessly, ensnaring you in a mesmeric daze.

Luis feels you shudder and instinctively snakes the hand that was on your back to your shoulder, squeezing gently in a considerate attempt to ease your tensions. The comforting gesture makes you relax and you unwittingly fall into his hold. In the darkness, your noses bump. You immediately feel the muscles of his body stiffen, realization also clicking in his mind of your shared closeness.

For what felt like an eternity, neither of you moved. The sudden stillness causes your heart to pound in your chest harder than the looming dangers just a few feet away, survival becoming a mere afterthought and discarded in the back of your mind. Then finally, as if you are in a trance, you make the first move.

Your hands on his shoulders glide to his thick neck, thumbs curiously caress along the quickening pulse throbbing beneath the skin. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobs heavily under your soft touch. His warm breathing falls shallow, mingling with yours and turning the air between you two hot, thick, and heavy. You wished then that you can see his eyes, know what he was thinking. But the darkness obscured your vision and it was imperative that you two remained quiet while enemies lingered nearby, so every mood and intent that you can possibly think of can only be speculated by physical cues. But there were none. Aside from the hand on your shoulder, Luis remains completely stagnant.

Another expectant moment and still he does nothing. Disappointment slowly creeps into your heart and you began to remove your hands from his neck. The sound of rough scratching along the floorboard makes you twist your head in attention.

And that is when you felt it. The unmistakable softness of lips pressed upon the lobe of your ear. If you didn’t turn your head to the side-

Shivers tingle down your spine, sparks set off across your entire body. A sharp intake of breath escapes you and you thought for certain that you have forsaken you both. However, the steps and voices outside the wardrobe have receded, followed by the familiar scratching on the ground. Then all fell into silence.

Is it safe?

“Hueles bien,” his husky voice whispers absentmindedly, but you didn’t catch it over the sound of your blood pumping.

You whisper back, “What?”

Luis stutters, “I-I said that I think we’re good now.”

You’re fairly certain he wasn’t being truthful but didn’t press the matter. As carefully as you could, you place your hand behind you against the wardrobe opening, pushing slightly to peak outside, grateful that it did not creak. You don’t see anything in your immediate field of vision and no suspicious shuffling can be heard. Deciding to press your luck, you open the door further and was met with relief to find that the plaga are completely gone from the room. You leave the tight space first and newfound anxiety washes over you when you turn to meet Luis who also steps out of the wardrobe and is now meeting your eyes.

A lit torch that hung on the stone wall beside you illuminated his handsome face, giving his skin a nice warm glow. But his expression was neither warm or cold. In fact, it was unreadable, just like his eyes right now which are focused solely on you. The memory of his lips on your skin comes back burning to the forefront of your mind and you couldn’t help but reach up to touch the spot with your fingertips. His grey eyes follow your movements, lingering on the spot, and they seemed to glint anew under the flame’s light. The cracks in his stony expression giving way to emotions that you recognized immediately. They were familiar to you, because you wore them as well.

Anticipation and desire.

They still ran through you now and pumped your burning hearts with deep want. But again, you both do nothing. Simply locked in a perpetual state of longing.

Luis clears his throat, effectively breaking the spell. “I should, uh-”

“-check if the coast is clear.” you finish for him.

He nods, “Sí, sí.” And with that, he steps away from you, almost regretfully so, striding over to the shattered doorframe and ducking his head out in search of any further potential dangers. As soon as his back was turned, you sigh out all of the tension that you were holding inside your lungs.

A million thoughts ran in your head and they are all about Luis. Yes, the Spaniard had a way of getting on your nerves. The man was practically an expert in raising your blood pressure. But at the same time, there was no denying that you are helplessly charmed by him. And from how Luis was acting just now, it seems you affect him the same way as if you both are drawn to each other like magnets. This growing attraction makes things very complicated. And now is not the time for complications. You have to reunite with Leon Kennedy and Ashley Graham.

Mentally, you slap yourself back to focus on the task at hand. While Luis was still keeping a lookout, you took the time to observe your surroundings and notice scratches along the floor. Your eyes follow the marks all the way to the stone wall across from you. Driven by curiosity, you approach the wall and feel alongside the cracks, catching a distinctive line that runs around, making a large shape. In the middle of the shape is the torch that serves as the only source of light in the room, burning brightly in its sconce. The holder hangs awkwardly on the stone, angled in a way as if it has been disturbed. Your eyes flash wide in understanding. So this is where your infected hunters disappeared to. Ingenius. You wondered if they were still on the other side searching for you and Luis but decided not to even entertain the idea by touching the torch. Luis’ voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

“Okay, no plaga around. We’re good to go,” he says assuringly, returning to your side. “It’s dark out there, though. So we’re going to need a light.”

His grey eyes follow your gaze and perk up at the sight of the torch. “Esto. This will do nicely,” his hand reaches for it.

Alarms go off in your head. “No, wait-!”

But it was too late. The moment he grabbed the sconce with one hand in order to pull the torch out of it with the other, the support shifts under his weight and somewhere within the wall, foreboding clicks of a mechanism triggering fills the air.

Oh no.

The wall gives way. You and the dark-haired man quickly jump away from it and behind the space it once occupied, more torches came into view, illuminating the darkness- all held by a pack of familiar infected cultists. All who now had eyes dead set on you both. For the umpteenth time in this room, palpable tensions run high. And once again, your companion tries to breaks it.

“Uh, hehe. Hola, mis amigos,” Luis greets nervously, donning a charming yet shaky grin before pretending to look around in bewildered embarrassment. “¡Esto no es el baño!”

You didn’t even have time to reproach him, flight instinct immediately kicking in. “Run!” you yell and the two of you sprint out of the room through the broken exit, murderous growls and vehement shouts trailing close behind.

Running frantically through a series of corridors, dodging hatchets and crossbow bolts, the both of you shove through a set of double doors and found yourselves in what looks to be the remains of a grand ballroom. Luis throws the torch down one of the large holes on the floor and ducks inside an inconspicuous pile of rubble with an evidently spacious interior, dragging you down along with him. Sweat poured down your faces as you sat in the small space in fearful anticipation. Your relentless hunters enter the ballroom, running past the both of you and lingering around in pursuit. There were small openings in the rubble that allowed you to observe their movements with bated breaths. Thankfully after a few minutes, they were all far away.

You whisper to Luis, “We’re going to need some help.”

Wholeheartedly agreeing with your statement, the man grabs the communication device from his person and presses a series of buttons. He muffles the rings from the comm in his hands and after a few seconds, the other line picks up.

“Luis, where are you two?” It was Leon’s voice that came through the static, his face lit up on the small screen. He did not seem happy. Makes sense as you were supposed to meet him and Ashley with their suppressants ages ago.

“Sorry,” Luis frowns. “We, uh, we screwed up-”

“We?!” you hiss under your breath.

“Come to our rescue, Prince Charming.”

“Give me that!” you snap at him through gritted teeth, ripping the comm from the Spaniard’s hand. “Leon, we’re trapped in the ballroom past the courtyard. Place is crawling with monsters.”

Upon seeing the genuine distress on your face, Leon’s expression changed to that of determination, “Standby. We’re heading your way now.”

“Don’t be late to the dance.” Luis chimes in, leaning over your shoulder to look at the blonde in the comm.

You narrowly catch the annoyed glare in Leon’s eyes before the man pressed to your side ends the call with a push of a button. Too exhausted to express your frustration for his behavior, you opted to make yourself comfortable in the new hiding spot. It was hardly better than the wardrobe as you were forced to be seated, but at least you weren’t packed against each other like sardines, touching only by the shoulders this time around. And you were able to move your arms and legs freely too.

Still, you found yourself missing Luis’ enveloping warmth, missing his protective arm around your body, missing his soft lips upon your skin. You felt the temperature in your cheeks rise again.

“This one is on me,” you hear him say lowly, his tone apologetic.

You shake your head, willing your desire in check in favor of attempting to alleviate his guilt, “At least this spot is a little more spacious.”

The man hums thoughtfully. “Sí. Pero… I’ll be honest, my friend,” he muses aloud, “I preferred the wardrobe.”

You turn your head towards him when he said this. He didn’t meet your curious gaze, seemingly intent on keeping watch for the plaga through the openings of your shared hiding place. It gave you a moment to look him over, attentive eyes wandering from the thick locks of his dark hair, to the butterfly lashes of his eyes, to the attractive shape of his nose and cheekbones until they stopped at his thick neck and broad jawline. The sight brings you back to when you touched him, your hands itching to reach up to him again but your seated position didn’t allow you to do so. Instead, you brush the back of your hand against his. He reflexively twitches upon your subtle caress. Luis still isn’t looking at you, but you can hear his breath hitch. These are the signs you were looking for.

“Well, as long as we’re both being honest,” you sigh, putting your head on his shoulder, secretly relishing in your closeness to him. “Me too.”

For a moment, you thought he would say and do nothing again. But then his hand lifts to intertwine his fingers with yours, clasping your palms together. A new kind of warmth washes over you as the pad of his thumb softly strokes across your skin. Another hand grasps your chin gently, guiding you to look up at him.

You expected anticipation and desire to return to his eyes, but something much deeper, much fiercer, and much more intimate burns within those magnetic grey irises. His head dips down towards you, your noses bumping into one another again, and his mouth lingers over yours. This time, you won’t turn away.

“¿Es cierto?” His low voice is barely above a whisper, dripping huskily with tender yearning.

Luis Serra is trouble. He makes things complicated. But right now as you two close the distance between your wanting lips- complications be damned.

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lolottes · 6 months

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the soul of the person you are trying to resurrect is not currently available?, please try your ritual again, later?

Superman was dead, the Justice League took advantage of a lull in their shitty situation to try to revive him. But instead of their Superman, someone else was in his body, making their eyes shine lazarus green, or Kryptonite green, depending on who you ask.

The "intruder" look at the members of the Justice League with some confusion for a moment, rubbing their necks. and said with embarrassment:

The soul of the person you are trying to resurrect is not currently available?, please try your ritual again, later?

or Superman's soul (not yet a ghost because still not "wake up") is held captive by the GiW and is therefore unavailable for resurrection. Danny, as prince, was the replacement soul chosen by the kingdoms... even though he had to put paused his attack plan against the GiW due to the rush to protect his city from the ongoing apocalipse.

The GiW took advantage of the semi-public ceremony after Superman's death to set a trap for a possible alien ghost, which against all odds worked (having a catatonic target helps). Tucker learned about superan after having searched their servers because the phantom team had noticed that the GiW had been less urgent and on their feedback seemed particularly satisfied with themselves. Since the Phantom team organized an attack to free him

Slightly different version tomorrow

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kinnbig · 1 year

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❤️‍🔥 the new minor family ❤️‍🔥

#finally! i made some gifs of the tour that don't look like they were filmed on a potato!#or maybe they still do but i'm so desensitised from all the other tour gifs i've made #¯\_(ツ)_/¯#kinnporsche #kinnporsche cast #tong thanayut #us nititorn #kinnporsche tour #kpwt #kpwt wtf #kp tour #kp cast #darcey.gif #darcey.txt #kpcast.gif #flashing lights cw #flashing gif cw

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chayannesegg · 2 months

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honestly I think it’s kinda interesting how phil’s relationships with wilbur, tallulah, chayanne & tubbo are all reflecting back into his view of sunny tbh. like he has such complex delicate interwoven dynamics with all of them and it all gets thrown onto sunny, this poor kid who he loves in theory, but in practice is a stranger to him.

like wilbur left tallulah in phil’s care and didn’t come back. even now way after he was initially supposed to, wilbur hasn’t returned (that one day aside). and phil, who had already taken on a big commitment watching tallulah, has been left permanently with two eggs in his sole care. and even though he loves tallulah and wil, and won’t want them out of his life, this is a stress for him. it’s a big undertaking for anyone, to care for two kids alone, but especially since tallulah required a lot of changes in his life.

for better or worse, in many ways phil sees chayanne as an extension of himself. they’re similar in a lot of ways, and often on the same page, and it means phil often struggles to catch up when chayanne’s emotions aren’t on the same page as him. we’ve seen this week, phil having such a hard time understanding the depth and breadth of chayanne’s grief. when he catches on, he usually does a good job empathising and talking it through, but when he doesn’t, he really doesn’t and it can be hard to watch.

the same is NOT true for tallulah. he has, through hard work and practice, learnt how to identify her emotions. he had to. she needed it. she would have been miserable otherwise. she desperately needed asked for the emotional care and birthdays and consideration that chayanne would never ask for. and he’s good at it—tracking her moods, knowing what upsets her & what she cares about in a way that doesn’t come as naturally with chayanne (or sunny or tubbo or anyone else really expect maybe wilbur). but that took A LOT of time and effort, months of work, and I do think he’s a bit wary of the idea of having to do that again, even when it comes to people he loves like chayanne (or god forbid tubbo).

now tubbo is not wil. tubbo is not phil's son. but he’s still not dissimilar to wil in phil’s mind. whatever the backstory is, phil introduces tubbo to tallulah as an old friend of him and wil’s. he makes tubbo his kids’ godfather. he calls tubbo his boy. he looks out for him. but past those first few weeks, their relationship doesn’t progress. they mean a lot to each other bc of their pasts, but they don’t put any work into upkeeping their relationship and phil in particular doesn’t reflect at all on what how that changes their dynamic. and it does change it—this is clear in purgatory, with phil having zero trust in tubbo to protect chayanne and tallulah, and after, with tubbo endlessly poking at phil’s sore spots trying to illicit a reaction he’ll never receive.

it's also clear in the way phil has no understanding of what’s going on with tubbo. if he’s struggling to grasp chay’s emotions, he’s not even touching what’s going on in tubbo’s head. tubbo’s death makes no sense to him. it’s sudden. it’s random. it’s illogical. it’s stupid. he wasn’t joking about having two lives? he still took a death bet with richas? he’s not come back? he can’t come back? he’s left phil with distraught kids for no reason with no warning. he doesn’t see the erratic suicidal behaviour, the unending depression, the desperation to be loved. he doesn’t want to see it. he doesn’t want something to be wrong with tubbo, but he also doesn’t even know how to see what’s wrong. he’s annoyed he’s having to deal with it and he desperately desperately wants to believe this is all happening for no reason.

bc at the forefront of phil’s mind is still his love for tubbo. of course, phil would drop everything to help tubbo (if he could recognize something was wrong). of course, he would care for sunny as his own. of course, he would make the same sacrifices he’s made for wil. and he assumes he’ll have to. he thought that sunny would now be under his care. that he’d have to figure out the logistics of a third egg to care for. with wilbur, phil was the only person who could ever have taken care of tallulah. the only person he trusted, the only person who knew tallulah enough. now this isn’t true for tubbo. it’s a genuinely illogical assumption for phil to make: three eggs would be a genuine burden on him; they've never spoken about it; there’s a long list of people who would tubbo expects for sunny before; and he doesn’t even know sunny well enough to name these people for her as comfort.

but still in the moment, alone with tubbo’s eggs and dealing with everything he left behind, phil can only think that the exact same thing that happened before will happen: he alone will be left to care for another scared hurt kid of someone he loves.

and here we come to sunny. a kid whose dad he loves. a kid whose dad he doesn’t understand. a kid whose dad is suddenly gone like his son is gone. a kid who would need him like his daughter needs him. a kid who his son needs to protect. a kid he cares for. a kid he can’t afford to care for, a kid he wasn’t expecting to care for, a kid he doesn’t know how to care for, a kid he would care for if he needed to, a kid he doesn’t know why he’s been left to care for. a kid who is somehow a reflection of all these people he loves but not someone he knows at all.

idk i think this tension comes out in the a lot of the comments phil makes of and to sunny. he doesn't know them well enough to distinguish them from his relationships with other people. and as long as no one challenges him on that, we'll continue to hear these misplaced comments from him, that come across so insensitively, even as he tries his best to genuinely help them and their dad.

#qsmp #qsmp philza #qsmp sunny #suicide #philza neg #qphil neg #i guess i'll tag out of an abundance of caution even if i don't intend this analysis meanly #that said he is absolutely being unfair to sunny and hurting her bc of this and he doesn't even realize #and won't realize unless someone else talks to him about it #lest sunny just snap at him some day which i do think is what we're currently headed to #fun fact: i intended to do more analysis of his actual comments but it got too long so instead you just get this :)#even tho i think this covers too much in too little time and could reference more canon events lmao #but it's already a behemoth #oh well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#also nothing is ever going to justify the 'maybe i won't look for your dad as hard' comment fuck him fr for that #cw wilbur soot #won't delete this but warning he's mentioned here

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the-ace-with-spades · 1 year

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Bradley is eleven, will turn twelve in five months, his mom has been dead for over a year, and his dad for over nine.

His homeroom teacher gives him a permission slip for a school trip to some dumb museum Bradley’s probably already been to and says, “Your dad needs to sign it before next Monday.”

It’s Mav picking him up from school today — it’s Ice, usually, but he is supervising night-time flight maneuvers tonight — so Bradley gets in the car and they go over the normal, how was school today, any new grades, any homework to do, do you need to bring anything for class tomorrow.

They’ve stopped at a light and Bradley takes out the permission slip and says, “Mrs. Sanchez said my dad needs to sign it before Monday or I won’t go.”

Mav—Mav freezes. His hand grips the shift gear and he clenches his jaw, not looking at Bradley. The car behind them has to honk for him to snap out of it.

“I’m—I’m not your dad, Bradley,” he finally says.

“It’s just what Mrs. Sanchez said,” he points out. He doesn’t think it’s such a big deal — Mav’s been doing everything a dad would for years now, for Bradley, and Ice has been helping him the last couple of years. It’s a conclusion that many come to and it seems logical. Bradley is sure half of his teachers thought that even back when his mom was alive, Mav had certainly been to enough PTA meetings with her that it’d be an easy mistake.

“You can correct her, buddy, no one is going to be mad if you correct her, okay?”

They arrive at the house and Mav still hasn’t added anything. Bradley shrugs it off — Mav has these moments, sometimes, when he gets all quiet and unresponsive. Ice usually tells him to leave him alone or wait a couple of hours and try to cuddle with him. Bradley is kind of too big for that now, but it seems to help sometimes.

So Bradley asks if Mav needs help with dinner and after hearing no, goes back to his room.

Out of all that mess, he forgets about the permission slip.

He sits down and fills out all the empty lines so Mav just has to sign it — in capital letters, his handwriting isn’t that readable yet — and leaves just that last line with the date and signature empty.

He thinks, once again, about what Mrs. Sanchez said.

He doesn’t feel the need to correct her, still. He barely remembers his dad — he knows he loved them and he’ll never forget all the stories he heard from everyone but they’re, well, just stories. Mav is the one who taught him how to ride a bike and helped him make stupid macaroni projects for art classes, taught him how to count to a hundred, and how to tie his shoelaces and who would notice when Bradley was outgrowing his clothes or needed a new shoe size. Mav is there, every memory he has. Mav loves him like his mom and dad did.

Mav is his dad.

If Bradley’d really think about it, Ice is getting really close to being his dad, too. He’s making Bradley’s school lunches and helping him with his English homework from time to time, and he comes to Bradley’s matches and, even if Mav will never admit it, he’s the one who choses Bradley’s Christmas and birthday presents. He makes him hot chocolate when he has nightmares and stays with him for hours in the living room, reading plane manuals out loud, in the same tone his mom used to use to read his bedtime stories.

Bradley calling Mav his dad is as logical as people assuming he is his dad. And maybe it can be the same with Ice, in the near future, or maybe even now, if he agrees.

Bradley wants to call Mav dad.

So he grabs the permission slip and goes to the kitchen to tell him that.

“I don’t know, Ice, I just don’t know.”

He doesn’t notice Bradley there, standing with the piece of paper in his hand in the doorway. The phone’s cord is stretched across the kitchen, almost completely straight, as he talks with the handle between his ear and shoulder, slicing an onion at the same time.

“I’ve always wanted to have kids, as unrealistic as it seemed, but not like this,” he continues. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I’m not his dad, he’s not my son, it’s just wrong to think that, I’m not—He can’t think that.”

Bradley blinks. Once, twice, a third time. Takes a quiet step back behind the doorframe, flattens his back on the cold wall. Holds his breath.

“I mean, you’ve always said you don’t want kids,” Mav says, the knife clanking on the cutting board as he changes the hand holding the phone. “We made do with the situation, obviously, but we’re not his parents—”

Bradley doesn’t want to hear more.

Bradley was right — he’s already been to the Castle Air Museum. More than once, with his mom, with Mav and Ice, and with Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah.

His dad didn’t sign the permission slip but Mav did.

It’s sunny so they’re left to wander around the outside display. The tour was boring — their tour guide couldn’t even answer the questions about engines and wingspans and takeoff capacity and it was so disappointing to know more than the adult that was supposed to teach them, again.

The rest of his class went with the tour guide, to see the open cockpit of the Mentor but Bradley just turned around to the F-4 that was on the edge of the display, old and partially reconstructed with cheap metal and plastic. He sits down on the grass in front of it and lets the sun shine at the modern paint that should not belong on the fuselage of a Phantom.

Mrs. Sanchez comes over, standing above him, looking at the Phantom with an appreciation that is clearly less understanding and more awe at the sight. She hums before asking Bradley, “You don’t want to see the cockpit with everyone? Maybe they’ll let you sit in the pilot seat, today. Our group is small.”

The open cockpit belongs to T-34, a piston-driven one they stopped using in the fifties. “I flew one of those, but it was a T-34C, powered by a turboprop.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at him, tilting her head a bit, not really understanding what Bradley said, like most people don’t when he talks about planes. ”I suppose it’s not that impressive of a place when your dad is a naval aviator, is it?”

Mav told him to correct her so he does, “He’s not my dad.”

He brings his knees closer, wishing she’d go away. Instead, she sits down next to him, her white pants smudged green by the grass in seconds.

“Is something wrong at home, Bradley? Is your—Is everything okay with Pete?”

“Yeah,” he says because he doesn't want to be whiney. He’s already been enough trouble. “His dad flew one of those.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at the plague in front of them to remind herself of the plane’s name. “A Phantom?”

“Yeah, during Vietnam War.”

“He must be really proud of Pete then.”

Bradley supposes he’d be. “He didn’t come back.”

Mav lost his dad, too, and then his mom. He met Bradley’s mom in the foster system and she became like a sister to him. Bradley probably wouldn’t even know Mav if Duke Mitchell was alive.

Bradley was in the foster system for three weeks when his mom died, before Mav and his case worker had filed all the appropriate paperwork. He was placed in a foster family in the neighboring town — the wife, Sandie, didn’t work and would take him to school every morning, and the husband, Robert, was a corporate lawyer, bent from six to five. They would take Bradley to church every Sunday with the rest of the kids even though Sundays were the only days Mav had enough time to drive out of Fresno and visit him while the paperwork was still in progress,

They were nice, he supposes, and some of the kids called them mom and dad, so they couldn’t be too bad.

“Is there a way I could go back to the foster system?”

Mrs. Sanchez looks away from the plane, clears her throat, and asks gently, “Why would you go back there?”

“I dunno, just—Is there a way to put me back there?”

“I don’t think so, no, Bradley, not unless—” she breaks off, taking a deep breath, and says softly, “I’m sure Pete wouldn’t like that.”

Maybe he wouldn’t like that but it’d make everything easier for everyone.

It’s a few weeks later. Mrs. Sanchez hasn’t mentioned anything to Bradley even if she keeps on looking out for him during recess so he doesn’t think she’ll drill the topic.

Mav and Ice have both gone to the PTA meeting which Bradley finds odd. They’ve always been very careful about their relationship — his mom had given him a talk about how he couldn’t call Ice Mav’s boyfriend when he was six, well, Bradley had called him his husband because he didn’t really know the difference back then, and he had been instructed to keep it a secret.

He’s never mentioned it to anyone, since then, especially not to Mrs. Sanchez. He used to think it was stupid because they were both his parents and they should both be allowed to come to his plays and career days and charity fairs, but now he supposes it was convenient since Ice didn’t want a kid and probably didn’t want to be included in all those parental stuff anyway.

They pick him up from Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah’s place but they don’t say anything. Usually, they at least mention that Bradley has good grades.

Maybe he’s doing something wrong, again. He got into one fight a couple of weeks ago but Mav said it was alright as long as it didn’t happen again.

“Can you come up to the living room once you unpack?”

Bradley takes his time. He unpacks his English homework, the only one he couldn’t do but also one Uncle Slider couldn’t really help him with — Aunt Sarah probably could but she’s been sleeping the whole time because apparently being six months pregnant is making her super sleepy. Contemplates asking Ice for help with it but decides it’s probably better he doesn’t.

He needs to start doing these things alone. He can’t bother them forever.

In six years, he’s going to be in college, and he holds onto that thought.

“So, your grades are perfect and we’re really proud of how well you’re doing in school, but—But Mrs. Sanchez mentioned a couple of things about your behavior,” Mav says.

Bradley doesn’t sit down with them on the couch even though they left space for him in the middle. He also doesn’t reply anything.

They both look at Bradley for a long moment and he fidgets under their gazes.

“Mrs. Sanchez said you asked her whether we—whether we can give you back for adoption,” Mav begins. “We’re just worried about where that question came from, Bradley, we aren’t going to—”

He said we like Ice actually wants anything to do with Bradley’s guardianship.

“We love you, Bradley, we promised your mom we’d take care of you and—”

He isn’t their son. He’s a promise they’re keeping and nothing else.

“Can I go back to my room?”

“Buddy—” Mav begins again.

Bradley doesn’t want to hear whatever he has to say. He already knows everything he needs to know.

“I know you love me, I know you won’t give me back. It was just a stupid question, is all,” he says because that was the truth — they promised his mom they would love him and here they were, trying very hard to do that.

They don’t need to pretend it’s anything else.

“Okay,” Ice says, carefully. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate and we can talk some more—”

“I just want to go to sleep.”

There’s a moment of silence and they give each other a meaningful look before turning back to Bradley.

Ice notes, “It’s not even seven.”

“We painted the whole nursery with Uncle Slider, I’m just tired. Can I go?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Mav says.

“I know,” Bradley tells him even if he isn’t so sure about it. “Can I go? I still have some homework to do.”

part two/Slider POV now here

#bradley rooster bradshaw #mavdad #icemav #tgm #my fics #this was supposed to be a series but no time and too many wips #so im just posting it as it is #tho be prepared for icemav pov of this and slider pov and future post-mission hangster pov #so maybe part 2 coming?#it'll be angsty too but well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#the ace rooster fic is being written btw bc #the mini fics are in my head and banging on the walls begging to come out #op #charlie writes

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