#reflections from the sol | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

liliacamethyst · 11 months

Text

Web of Secrets - Miguel O'Hara

Miguel O'Hara x SpiderSun Reader

words: 3.7K

warnings: secret pregnancy trope, swearing, angst, heartbreak, grumpy/sunshine, smut

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

In your universe, you are known as the Sun Spider. It all started on a school field trip to a solar energy research center, where you were accidentally exposed to a spider that had been subjected to intense solar radiation. You woke up with a white-hot surge of power, and your life changed forever. You donned a suit of pure white, taking the name that reflected both your newfound abilities and the brightness you brought into the world: Spider-Sun.

Your ability to harness solar energy and transform it into powerful blasts or create protective shields made you a formidable superhero in your home city, Nea Yorkey. Your ability to bring light to even the darkest corners of your city earned you the love of its citizens.

However, everything changed when you were suddenly pulled into the Spider-Verse.

Upon arriving, you were greeted by the gruff leader of this interdimensional team of Spider-People, Miguel O'Hara. His reputation preceded him - the genius intellect, the imposing figure, the gruff demeanor. Everyone respected him, and some even feared him. You, on the other hand, were drawn to him. There was something about that guarded demeanor that called to your own sunny nature.

You became an integral part of the team, fighting off anomalies and working hard to maintain the balance in the Spider-Verse. And despite Miguel's stern exterior, you felt yourself falling for him.

One mission was particularly rough, and you found yourself alone with Miguel in a safe house, nursing your wounds. His usually stern face softened as he tended to your injuries. The distance that he usually maintained was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank you, Miguel," you whispered.

He looked at you, his usually hard eyes soft. "You fought well, mi sol."

There was a moment of silence, a strange tension hanging in the air. Then, Miguel leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was filled with unexpected passion.

In that moment, you were not the Sun Spider, and he was not the Spider-Man 2099. You were just two people, seeking solace in each other.

Afterwards, as you laid side by side, Miguel turned to you, a serious look on his face. "This...this can't be more than what it is. Just...you know, stress relief," he muttered, his voice just above a whisper.

His words wounded you. Naturally, they did. He had reduced your relationship to mere stress relief, as if you were some object devoid of feelings. Yet, in spite of it all, you fell for him. Perhaps you were naive, even foolish, but you didn't care. You yearned for him and were ready to accept any fraction of affection he was willing to offer, no matter how small.

During the day, as you fought alongside him against the anomalies threatening the Spider-Verse, his attention toward you was sparse. He mostly shared only necessary information, barely making eye contact. Sometimes he didn't speak at all, and you and the rest of the team would receive mission orders and briefings from Lyla, his AI assistant.

But at night, when the two of you were alone, he became a different person. He'd whisper praises into your ear, telling you how exceptionally you fought, how much he desired you. He showed you his hidden vulnerability under the cover of darkness, the sheets their only witness. He'd gently stroke your hair and peppered your jaw and temple with kisses until you fell asleep, only for you to wake up the next morning to an empty, cold spot where he once lay.

This cycle - his coldness by day, and the fervor by night - repeated itself relentlessly for months.

And so, this is how you find yourself: disoriented, frenzied, and on the verge of tears, seated on the couch of your best friend, Peter B. Parker, in Earth-616. Cradled in your arms is his sweet daughter, Mayday, who, with her innocent touch, tries to console you. Yet her wide eyes dart anxiously to her father, reflecting her own alarm at your distress.

Peter rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe we should wait until MJ gets home?" he suggests, then, with a furrowed brow, he asks, “Have you tried talking to Jess about this?”

You shake your head vigorously. "No, I haven't told anyone. I have no idea what to do," you confess, your voice breaking.

Peter, ever the caring friend, gently takes Mayday from your arms and sets her down. He turns back to face you with a sympathetic gaze. “Do you..eh.. know who the father is?” he inquires softly.

You shake your head again, even though deep down, you know the truth. “The father is out of the picture. He doesn’t know, and he never will because he doesn’t want kids,” you whisper, fighting back tears.

As you and Peter sit down on the couch in his cozy living room, you find a sense of comfort being around him. His experience as both a superhero and a parent seems like it could be a beacon in this storm you're facing. The room is quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock on the wall.

“You know, Peter,” you begin, your voice almost a whisper. “I’m terrified. What if the baby has powers? How am I going to protect them, especially if...if I can’t stop fighting anomalies?”

Peter looks thoughtful. “That’s a valid concern. First, you should know that you don’t have to do this alone. There’s a whole community of us, and we stick together. If the child does have powers, she or he will be badass like Mayday, right?”

You nod slowly but then anxieties pile on top of each other in your mind. “But... how can I hide this? Nobody and I mean nobody is supposed to know that I’m pregnant. Especially not...” You trail off, not finishing the sentence.

Peter rubs his chin, deep in thought. “We could look into modifying your suit, maybe talk to some tech geniuses in the Spider-Verse about creating something that can shield or conceal the pregnancy.”

You roll your eyes. “That kinda defies the ‘nobody is allowed to know ‘ordeal, Peter. You have to promise me that this stays between us.”

“I promise,” Peter says sincerely.

Silence fills the room again, and then you voice another fear. “Peter, what if...what if I’m not a good mother? What if I mess this up?”

Peter smiles warmly. “You know, I had those same fears when Mayday was born. I think it’s normal for any parent. But, take it from me, the fact that you’re worried about being a good parent means you’re already on the right track. You’ve got a good heart. Trust it.”

You look down at your hands, fingers interlaced. “Thank you, Peter. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” he says with a reassuring smile. “We’re family, in this weird, Spider-Verse kind of way. But maybe… and I am sayig this as a father myself… reconsider telling the father. I can’t imagine any guy wanting to give up this.” He says, pointing to his precious daughter playing with a napkin she found on the floor.

"Maybe you should reconsider telling the father," Peter's words are echoing in your mind like a haunting melody. A part of you yearns for that possibility. Perhaps you're not alone in this. Maybe, just maybe, Miguel wants this as much as you do.With newfound resolve, you set off for the Spider-Verse headquarters, expecting to find Miguel tucked away in his office, immersed in maintaining the spider verse or as he calls it "arachno- something-multiverse-thingy” or something similar to that.

Upon reaching his office door, you pound on it sharply. No response. Frowning, you knock again, a little harder this time. When silence continues to greet you, you slowly turn the doorknob and peek inside. There he is, hunched over his desk, lost in a world of numbers and codes.

"Miguel, I-" you start, but his sharp voice cuts you off.

"No," he interrupts, his tone cold. "Did I say you can come in? Dios mio, why are you always so damn clingy?"

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You stare at him, taken aback by his blatant disregard for your feelings. You can feel the beginnings of tears prick at the corner of your eyes, but you will them away.

He doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it like that. This mantra plays over and over in your head, like a broken record. You take a deep breath, forcing down the hurt his words cause.

"Look, Miguel," you begin, struggling to keep your voice steady. "There’s something we need to talk about, and I think it's important for you to listen to me."

“Fucking hell, woman! What exactly don’t you understand. I’m busy. I don’t care about your little problems, right now.” he barks, not even looking up.

“Miguel,” you speak up, forcing the words out through clenched teeth, “ I’ve never asked anything from you. Not once have did I ask you to stay, to feel the same I feel, to fucking talk to me when people are around. Please all I am asking you is to just ... listen to me, fpr once.” Your voice grows stronger as you speak, a determined fire igniting within you.

Miguel finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he seems taken aback by the resolve he saw there.

He rubs his temples. “Can we do this later?”

“No!” you shout. “It’s always later with you. You’re like...like a ghost. Just a figure in the hallway. I don’t need a figure, I need a person! I need someone who listens when...”

He glares at you, his eyes narrowing. “Okay, okay I will listen just not now. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“No, it can’t,” you retort, your voice shaking a bit. “Why is it that every time I try to talk to you, you just brush me off? Am I that insignificant to you?”

He stands up abruptly, the chair skidding behind him. “This? This is what you want to talk about?” he says with a tone of annoyance. “Look, I have a million things to deal with and-”

“And what? And I’m not one of them? Just five minutes, Miguel! That’s all I ask!”

The room is tense. Your heart is racing. His eyes are fiery. It's a standoff.

“And what is so important that you have to disrupt everything right now?” he challenges.

Your breath catches in your throat. This is it. You're about to say it.

“I...” you stammer. “I need to tell you that...”

Suddenly, the door to the office swings open and Jess storms in.

“Miguel, we have a major issue in Sector 12! The anomalies...” she starts, then catches sight of your tear-streaked face. “Oh, am I interrupting something?”

Miguel seems to shake off the tension and slips back into commander mode. “No nothing important. What’s happening in Sector 12?”

You can't believe it. Just like that, he turns away. It feels like your heart is being squeezed.

Jess starts rattling off data and scenarios. The two of them are talking, but you don’t hear it anymore. All you can think of is how you almost told him. How you just wanted five minutes.

Your hands shake and you quietly step out of the room. The door closes behind you, and it feels like a chapter that you can’t read has been sealed away.

The next day you are on Earth-8311, an anthropomorphic animal-dominated universe. It's the home of Peter Porker, the Spectacular Spider-Ham, and you can't help but find it amusing.

The mission: to transport an anomaly, which resembles an enormous floating jellyfish, back to its home universe. It's been pure chaos here, and you are determined to set things right.

The team: Gwen, Hobie, and Peter B. Parker. You're all in your suits, eyes sharp, and webs at the ready.

"Alright, Spiders. Let's round this jelly up and send it home," Peter B. Parker takes charge, shooting a web towards a nearby building.

You swing alongside him, your thoughts a whirlwind. The world around you blurs - the animal citizens, the bustling cityscape, the strange yet familiar surroundings.

The anomaly appears before you, thrashing and pulsating as it floats through the sky. It releases blasts of energy that ripple through the air.

"Watch out, Sunny!" Gwen calls out as she dodges a blast.

You, however, are a split second too late. Your reflexes are off, your movements sluggish. The blast sends you spiraling towards the ground.

Hobie swings in and catches you mid-air, his guitar strapped on his back. “Get it together, Sun!” he shouts over the noise, his punk-styled hair waving wildly.

You shake off your daze and look up to see Peter B. Parker shooting webs to pull the anomaly back down, while Gwen is deploying a device to open a portal back to its home universe.

Your heart races as you focus on the task at hand. You need to get this right, not just for yourself, but for the life you’re now carrying. Your suit seems to glow even brighter in the chaos.

With a final combined effort, you manage to lasso the anomaly and push it through the portal. The anomaly disappears, and the portal closes behind it.

The team regroups on a rooftop. Gwen is catching her breath, Hobie is tuning his guitar, and Peter B. Parker gives you a concerned look.

“Are you okay?” Gwen asks, her voice laced with worry. “You weren’t yourself up there.”

The weight of the secret you’re carrying feels unbearable. But you're not ready to share it.

“Promise me you won’t tell Miguel about this,” you say, your voice barely audible.

Gwen raises an eyebrow, while Hobie crosses his arms. Peter B. Parker simply nods.

“Nah, Bossman doesn’t need to know about this,” Hobie says, and there’s a firmness in his voice that is strangely comforting.

Back in the HQ, your head spins, and your stomach feels like it's doing somersaults. You mumble a quick excuse about feeling nauseous and practically sprint to the nearest restroom.

Meanwhile, Gwen, Hobie, and Peter B. Parker head to the cafeteria to grab something to eat.

As they sit down at a table with their trays, Gwen breaks the silence. “Is it okay if I say that this mission was kind of easy? Like, I’ve seen Sunny take down Doc Ock from Earth-818, and she did that without any problem. So what was that today?” Gwen’s concern is apparent.

Hobie, munching on a sandwich, nods in agreement. "Yeah, it's like her spidey senses were jammed or somethin'. Never seen her like that before."

Peter B. Parker looks thoughtfully at his sandwich, then glances up at Gwen and Hobie. He’s torn, having promised you to keep your secret but also wanting your friends to understand why you were off your game.

"You guys remember when she fought Morlun on Earth-001? She was a totally smashin’ it, and today, she nearly got turned into spider-paste by a floating jellyfish. That ain’t right," Hobie adds.

Gwen’s eyes suddenly widen. "Oh my God! Do you think she’s in trouble? Like, something from her universe? Or maybe she's having an identity crisis! Should we stage an intervention?"

Peter B. Parker clears his throat. “Maybe she’s just having an off day.”

Gwen’s eyes narrow as she scrutinizes Peter. “You know something, don’t you?”

Peter scratches the back of his head, obviously uncomfortable. “Nope, no idea.”

Hobie puts down his sandwich and leans in. "Oi, mate. Spill your guts. There's something dodgy going on. She's always been our burst of sunshine, lifting the mood. But now she's... dimmed. What's going on with our Sunny, Parker?"

Before Peter B. Parker could answer Gwen’s barrage of questions, Jess - Spider-Woman - appears, her belly showing. She takes a seat at the table and, oblivious to the serious conversation that was taking place, asks them about their latest mission.

"So, how did your mission go?" Jessica asks, while munching on her Burger.

"Nothing to report, Jess," Gwen answers, a little too quickly, her face all sunshine and false smiles. Peter simply nod in agreement.

“Yah, all good!” Hobie chimes in, flashing a grin that seems a little too bright.

“How about you? How are you holding up?” Peter asks Jess, trying to steer the conversation away from the mission.

Jessica shrugs, not overly concerned, and bites into her burger. "'M good. You know, I'm so glad I can finally eat a burger again. At the beginning of my pregnancy, practically every food made me nauseous, especially after swinging around on missions.”

Suddenly, there's a moment of collective realization among Gwen, Hobie. It’s as if their spider senses are tingling in unison. They exchange knowing looks, all of them silently putting the pieces together.

Gwen’s eyes are wide, Hobie’s eyebrows are raised, and they both turn to look at Peter, who simply nods.

Jess, noticing the silent exchange, squints at them. “What is up with you guys? You’re acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.”

“Uh, nothin’!” Hobie says, a little too quickly.

“Yeah, just tired from the mission,” Gwen adds, trying to play it cool.

Jess rolls her eyes and stands up. “Alright, weirdos. I’m gonna go find some normal people to talk to,” she says jokingly and walks away.

After she leaves, the trio leans in.

“Sunny’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Gwen whispers.

Hobie's eyes are as wide as saucers. “That would explain everything!”

Peter B. Parker nods. “We need to be there for her, but remember, it’s her news to share when she’s ready.”

They make a pact to support you without pushing you to reveal anything before you're ready.

As you walk back into the cafeteria, you find your friends huddled together. They break apart when they see you and welcome you back with smiles and light conversation, but something in their demeanor is different but you can’t put your finger on it. They are being more attentive, considerate, and frankly, a little too curious about your well-being.

"Are you sure you're okay, Sunny?" Gwen asks for the third time since you sat down. Her concern is genuine, but her intensity is slightly off-putting.

"Yeah, do you need anything?" Hobie offers, his eyes gleaming with unspoken curiosity. "Food, drink, or maybe... pickles?" Pickles? Thats oddly specific.

There's a burst of laughter from Gwen, and even Peter is suppressing a chuckle.

"What's up with the pickles?" You ask, looking at them suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing!" Gwen says, a little too quickly, trying to hold back her laughter.

"Hmm, pickles and ice cream, a weird combo, innit?" Hobie wonders aloud, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

Again, there's suppressed laughter, and you look at each of them, a realization slowly dawning on you. You turn to Peter, your gaze steady and serious. "You told them, didn't you?" Peter looks shocked, but quickly composes himself. "I didn't exactly tell them, per se," he confesses, "I might've confirmed their suspicions when they asked, but they figured it out on their own. Spider senses and all that jazz.”

Before you could respond, Gwen and Hobie jump in, both talking over each other in an attempt to apologize.

"We're sorry, Sunny," Gwen says sincerely. "We didn't mean to invade your privacy, it's just that... we're worried about you. Please don’t be mad."

Hobie nods, adding, "And we're right behind ya, whatever comes our way. We've got your back, no doubt about it."

You are happy, while the situation isn't ideal, but at least you're not alone. You have friends who care about you and, despite their unconventional way of showing it, they are there for you. You smile, comforted by their concern, and grateful for their support.

"Yeah," you finally say, "I guess we’re gonna need a lot more pickles and ice cream around here, huh?"

“Sooo...who’s the dad? Is he hot?” Gwen, leaning on the table with her elbows, asks shyly after a while.

You let out a long sigh, “He’s very hot... but also a colossal jerk.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You took my advice and talked to him then?”

You shake your head, your eyes starting to well up. “No, I tried. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He was busy, and I guess I wasn’t important enough. So, the baby won’t be either,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hobie's eyes narrow, and his face is flushed with anger. "Who's this bloke, eh? I swear on me nan's grave, I'll give him a right proper earful! No one treats our Sunny like a tosser and gets away with it!"

Gwen jumps in, her eyes wide with speculation, “Wait, is he a Spider? Is it Peter? Or the other Peter? Or—”

“Guys, guys!” you cut them off, your voice cracking. “Please, it doesn’t matter. He made it clear where I stand, and it’s not with him.”

There’s a silence that settles over the table as your friends look at each other and then back to you. Their faces are a mix of concern, sadness, and frustration.

Peter B. is the first to break the silence. “You don’t have to go through this alone. You’ve got us. If the dad doesn’t want to step up, then he’s missing out on something amazing.”

Gwen nods, her eyes firm with resolve. “Yeah, we’re family. We’ve got your back, no matter what.”

Hobie, still fuming, finally calms down enough to say, "All you gotta do is whistle, love, and we'll be there in a blink. Even if it means thumping some manners into this mystery idiot."

You can't help but crack a small smile, despite the tears. You’re overwhelmed by the love and support your friends are giving you.

“Thanks, guys. You don't know how much this means to me.”

They all reach out and there’s a group hug right in the middle of the cafeteria. You didn’t know how much you needed this until it happened.

Part 2 “Webs of Fate”

a/n: Thank you guys for all your love on this fic so far.I really appreciate each like, comment, reblog <3. I still can’t reply to your comments so please if you want to tagged (and are not already) comment on part 2 and I’ll do my best and add you.Also I am open to requests, critic and wishes. Have a wonderful day. xx

15K notes · View notes

gothcowboyz · 1 year

Text

Celestial AU - by me and my friends @sol-illo , @ajexax and @chuyouout! "Sun and moon in their own galaxy of love Teaching us truth of life from high above

Love is timeless, everlasting and eternal An essence of existence that is universal"

Sun and moon fell in love with eachother, the sun who keeps the moon warm and radiant and the moon who keeps the sun cool and reflects his light for all beings to admire.

If they were to be without the other, a catastrophe could happen.

#komahina #hajime hinata #nagito komaeda #celestial au #sun and moon #so basically theyre sun and moon gods who live in a celestial plane along with other beings #theyre married<3 #my art #hinakoma

1K notes · View notes

bratphilia · 5 months

Text

— burn (w. afton)

note ✧.*‎ part two of the self indulgent william fics!! think of this as a double feature. anyways this is my first time writing william and the reader as a married couple even though its barely glossed over, and not some taboo/scandalous relationship!! so enjoy :3

pairing ✧.*‎‎ steve raglan / william afton x reader

cw ✧.*‎‎ oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, bondage, squirting

taglist ✧.*‎‎ @dilfity, @iikyutee, @kissingrhi, @jen-parker, @kathxstuff, @papyrus-the-poet, @lowballbread, @cecelovesbooks, @bluebearieally, @cybunii, @van-van, @iamunabletothinkofablogname, @1ncidentdropout, @ice-echo26@, officially-a-simp13, @all4kura, @el-sol-sale-de-nuevo, @littlexstarlightx, @samlow23

synopsis ✧.*‎ you convince your husband not to shave quite yet.

"ah, shit," comes william's voice from the bathroom in your shared room. you perk your head up and peer over to see him standing in front of the mirror with a small amount of shaving cream spilled on the counter.

you slide off the bed and walk his direction, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your head on the side of his torso. he remains unmoving, stoic as the humming of an electric razor comes to life. "maintenance time?"

"absolutely," he sighs, checking his beard out in the mirror. he let it grow too far, in his opinion, but you on the other hand craved it. was it weird? possibly, to someone outside of your relationship, but who cares. every time he kissed you lately, his beard scratched your cheek and chin, making you grow so weak in the knees you could only stand with his support holding you up.

"well, i like it. maybe you should keep it a little while longer," you suggest hopefully.

william simply gives a short laugh. "i know that you like it. you have that cute little look in your eyes again."

you self-consciously look in the mirror, searching for whatever "cute look" he was implying you had, only to find your reflection staring back at you, most noticeably your pupils dilated in desire. fuck, you needed him. you decide to make it a game. "you won't do anything, though, so it doesn't matter. go on, shave," you say with a dismissive wave of your hand and turn your heel to walk away.

"oh, i won't do anything?" he challenges. you give a noncommittal "mm-mm" in response as you climb back on the bed.

a beat passes. "get back over here and give me your wrists."

that immediately grabs your attention. you try not to jump and spring forward, but nonchalantly approach him with a blank face, wrists held out for him. the shaving cream and now turned off razor is left abandoned somewhere on the counter. he undoes his belt and wraps it around your wrists, securing the clasp tightly. he pulls you closely so he can practically growl in your ear, "i'm going to go lay down on the bed then you're going to come over and sit on my face, got that?"

you inhale deeply, suddenly finding yourself short of air. "yes."

william situates himself on the bed, casually rest his hands behind his head. he turns his head towards you; your move. you pad over and climb on the bed, straddling him and shimmying your way forward on your knees. he decides to help you out and quicken the process by grasping your hips and practically lifting you onto his face.

you try to reach forward onto the bedframe, only for your hands to meet a defeating tug against his belt. you were completely at his disposal. he dives in, smothering his face in between your thighs. he doesn't even use his mouth at first, just teasing you with his facial hair alone. it leaves a burning sensation in its wake and you moan desperately, fingers flexing against the leather bounding you.

"fuck!" you cry once his tongue enters your weeping hole. he pulls it out and relentlessly laps up and down your slit. his finger tips dig into your hips in a death grip, almost totally halting any bucking motions you could try to make. he just holds you against his face, expecting you to take what he gives you.

william groans against you in unison with your sinfully loud moans. the vibrations only add to the stimulation he gives you. he sucks your clit into his mouth and you swear you see stars. he pulls it with his lips so that your hood drags out ever so slightly and you're almost close.

before you can react, he pulls you off his face. you groan, disappointed in the loss of stimulation. "don't be so sad, baby," he says. "lay on the bed, yeah? can you do that for me, sweet thing?"

"mhm," you mumble, shakily resting on the spot next to him and he repositions himself on his knees on the bed. your own knees are tilted upwards expectantly.

he instantly takes matters into his own hands and lifts your legs up to your stomach. "keep them there," he tells you in a commanding tone.

you feel your core pulse at his words and throw your head back when his mouth returns. without warning, he sucked your clit without remorse. unrelentlessly flicking your pearl with the tip of his tongue with a method only he understands.

you cry out helplessly once more once his impossibly long tongue slips inside of you once more. he thrusts it in and out, fucking you with it while you shake in his grasp. your curses and begging comes out as incoherent babbles as his mouth works its magic on you, effectively rendering you weak.

he releases your legs from his hold and tries to spread your lips apart to give him more, but stops when you try to close your legs. "do i need to bind your legs together too?" you shake your head no and incessantly apologize, wanting nothing more but for his mouth back on you. "keep being good for me and you'll get to come."

"okay," you whisper.

you wish he would talk to you more in that gruff voice of his, but this treatment is more than enough. plus, his mouth is a bit too preoccupied right now so you'll take what you can get.

"feel that honey?" he emphasizes by shaking his head, knowing damn well you can barely speak. "thighs all red from my beard. poor baby."

when he sucks his clit into his mouth again, suctioning it earnestly is when you're tipped over the edge before you can realize it. william, who usually makes you ask to come before doing so, isn't complaining, though. your orgasm has his face dripping. he looks up at you, eyebrow quirked.

"'m sorry, daddy," you say in a small voice. "couldn't help it." he simply leans up to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself on his face.

#fnaf #fnaf x reader #five nights at freddy's #william afton #fnaf smut #steve raglan #william afton x reader #william afton smut

326 notes · View notes

solradguy · 3 months

Note

The indescribable emotional gut punch of the fact that Sol's Master Ghost, aka the literal manifestation of his soul and selfhood given tangible form, is a human figure being held down and restrained by literal gears and put on display. Hiii whoever designed the ghosts where are you I just wanna talk (like I know Sol's self-loathing has been a regular undercurrent for the whole series but man just putting it front and center like that c'mon...)

Sol's Masterghost is so fucked up why did they do that to him. There's creator commentary in the GG2O Material Collection book from Daisuke and Junya C. Motomura on this thing. I'll translate them.

Daisuke Ishiwatari:

Essentially, a Master Ghost reflects the personality and background of its Master in some way. In Sol's case, the challenge was to create a strong design that would reflect his signature fire motif and the heavy burden of the fate he carries with him. As is a common concept throughout Sol's Tribe, we avoided incorporating animals and people in order to express his cold and blunt personality. This was also done to avoid making Sol's commands to his units seem heartless or callous.

Junya C. Motomura:

This is the first Master Ghost that I was tasked with designing. To be honest, I had a hard time grasping what a "Master Ghost" should look like, and I got lost. I drew many concept sketches and did rough modeling in 3D, tweaking the balance and composition, and placed familiar parts from Sol's designs here and there to tie it back to him, with a focus on the "gear" metaphor, which was the main keyword of the entire design. The black figure in the center of the human barbecue is not Sol, but Frederick; Sol before he became a Gear. The idea is that he is someone who got tangled in a gear and is now trapped. I laughed a lot when people called it "grilled grovelling"^1 on the internet right after the game released.

1: 焼き土下座 (yaki-dogeza) - "Dogeza" is that deep bowing where one's face is all but pressed against the ground. 焼き (yaki) (grilled/roasted/baked), as in "yakisoba," "dorayaki," "yaki-imo," etc.

#asks #sol badguy #my translations #guilty gear translations

254 notes · View notes

blueberryblogger · 26 days

Text

the fact that Cassandra was a priestess promised to Apollo (sun god) and he gave her the gift of prophecy to get her to marry him & she still denied him...

applying this to Cassandra & Ankarna or Cassandra & Sol... do u think Sol made advances, got rejected, officiated her wedding to a different solar goddess as a show of good faith & them coordinated with Galicaea to destroy them both?

do you think Sol's followers found out that Cassandra rejected their Almighty Sol for some other solar diety and decided that Ankarna had to go?

do you think, around the same time, Gallicaea's elven followers who believe in being still and unchanging became uncomfortable with the waves Cassandra was making, and decided that she also had to go?

Do you think Sol & Galicaea used their followers as an excuse to commit heinous acts, the way that their followers use them to do the same?

Do you think the gods are forever trapped on the other side of the mirror from the followers, both never knowing if the way the reflection is warping is coming from their side or the other?

#d20 fhjy #dimension 20 fhjy #fhjy #fantasy high junior year #fhjy spoilers #cassandra d20 #ankarna d20 #helio d20 #galicaea #sol d20

94 notes · View notes

thefirstknife · 4 months

Text

Riven's Lair has new lines! The two I am most attached to are Crow and Osiris discussing Osiris' whereabouts during the Great Hunt and Crow and Osiris discussing some peculiar stuff about Oracles.

First, didn't grab a screenshot of the starting line but it's just Crow asking Osiris what he did during the Great Hunt, Osiris replies:

Crow:

Osiris:

Crow:

Osiris:

First, great information about Osiris' timeline. Osiris scholars everywhere rejoicing. He was Vanguard Commander during the Hunt! There were always some questions about how long he's been Commander and which events fell under his tenure as Commander, this is a great little detail.

Crying also about him mentioning Ikora, given the stuff in WQ CE where Ikora talked about her experience in the Hunt and also her making a wish "for a teacher greater than me" and "I once wished to know more about Ahamkara. Wish granted."

The next one, Osiris:

Crow:

Osiris:

This is some wild shit, what the hell is going on with the Vex. There were Oracles in the seasonal story mission and Osiris was very confused about them being outside of the Vault of Glass. Some lines from Crow and Osiris from the story mission:

Crow: I remember the Sol Divisive doing all sorts of weird things in the Black Garden. In the deepest parts, they were experimenting with paracausal forces... Adjustiing their code to more closely reflect the way they perceived the Darkness. Osiris: But to no avail, to my recollection. Perhaps this is the end of those experiments. Perhaps it is something new.

And after that:

Osiris: Oracles... outside the Vault of Glass. I did not think it possible. Crow: Are you seeing those readings too? Osiris: Resonance. If they are tapping into the Darkness's memory, it may enhance their predictive capabilities. Crow: Looks like the Witness might've taught the Sol Divisive some new tricks. Osiris: Or the Sol Divisive sought to align their collective more closely with that which they worship. Crow: Either way, I guess now we know how they got ahead of us.

What is happening with the Vex. I'm losing my mind. This is some incredible stuff going on which I don't think we'll be fully solving this season even because it's not really about the Vex, but these feel like some setup and hints for stuff going forward 100%. Like, the Vex are going to finally get paracausality, aren't they?

#destiny 2 #destiny 2 spoilers #season of the wish #season of the wish spoilers #osiris #crow #vex #long post #also oracles.... outside of the black garden... being used by the sol divisive.... what is going on

155 notes · View notes

rainbowtransform · 13 days

Text

The thing nobody tells you about dying, Buddy thinks, is the pain of it. Someone slit his throat, but all he can see is Kristen Applebee’s horrified face, her eyes wide and mouth gaped open as she shouts something he can’t hear.

His heart thumps.

His fingers twitch.

His blood spreads.

Buddy closes his eyes.

He reopens them in front of huge gates, big and yawning. Sunlight drifts off the edges of them and shines through the bars, but when Buddy places a hand on them instead of feeling warm, like how he used to snuggle into his grandfather’s arms when he spoke about Helio and Faith and the love, it’s cold.

Like how cold it felt when he came into Helio’s church after they’d lost his Chosen. Cold and uninviting.

“Buddy Dawn,” comes a voice and Buddy turns his head to see Helio, hair long and flowing and his satchel at his side. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Lord Helio,” Buddy says, dropping to one knee and bowing as Helio laughs. Light. Airy. Warm.

“Stand up,” Helio commands, one warm hand on Buddy’s shoulder. “Come on, Buddy, you don’t have to kneel like this.”

“Lord Helio,” Buddy says, awed and inspired. “I’m sorry this Chosen could not do what you wanted. I tried my hardest, my very best and I’m so so sorry that I was not what the Church needed.”

Helio helps him to his feet, both hands on his shoulder and smiles at him again. “You were what you needed to be,” he said. “Your father prayed everyday for you to find your way to me, and you did.”

Buddy swallows. “My father?” He questions, one hand going to his chest. “My father is here?”

“Yes,” Helio says. “Your father has been waiting for you, and your mother for many years now. But before that, come. My father and aunt would like to meet with you.”

“Your Lord Father?” Buddy whispers. “Sol?”

Helio wraps Buddy into a hug. It feels like his father’s, it feels like his mother’s, it feels like the Church’s picnics.

It feels like when he was crying over a split knee after his father’s funeral and a red-haired girl healed him with warm eyes, and a grin that showed off her two missing front teeth.

“He’s not too bad,” Helio says. “Don’t worry. Come on. He won’t hurt you.”

Buddy follows Helio to two chair, as large as the sun and one just as bright; the other one glimmering in the sun’s reflection. There is nobody sititng in their chairs, but Buddy knows that Sol and Galicaea are there. Waiting.

Buddy kneels again. He puts his head down and says, “My Lord Sol, and His Sister, Galicaea. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Stand,” Galicaea says. Her voice is cold, frosty despite the sun’s warmth and Buddy trembles. Helio goes to stand on His Father’s right side, where He must stay.

“You heard my Sister,” Sol says, just as cold. Buddy scrambles to his feet, eyes wide. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, but he must have because why are they angry at him?

“Buddy Dawn,” Sol says. His voice is rumbling and despite the sun’s heat, Buddy still feels the coldness in it. “You have quite some explaining to do. My Sister’s Wife has been roused from Her slumber by Kristen Applebees.”

“Lord Sol,” Buddy begins, before—

“Not to mention, when I tried to kill that infernal thing, I was thwarted.” Galicaea says. Her voice is colder than the dark side of the moon and Buddy swallows.

“My Lord,” he says. “With all due respect, I don’t know what I could’ve done. I focused on the Church of Helio, and keeping the Faith alive through the Chosen One’s Leaving.”

“The Chosen One does not leave.” Helio says, still all smiles. “Regardless of what she’s done, she’s always been mine. When she dies, Kristen Applebee’s soul will come here. To our Heaven.”

Buddy blinks at him. “But Kristen hasn’t been practicing.” He says.

“She’ll go to Hell for a couple of millennial,” Helio says. “Somewhere quiet and away from where her friends can’t find her. Just until she realizes the mistake of her actions and then I’ll come in and save her.”

“Lord Helio,” Buddy frowns and Helio quirks an eyebrow before Buddy falls silent. He chews on his bottom lip, sweaty hands wiped off on his pants.

“Enough,” Sol says. “What do you say in the case of your neglect of the My Son’s Chosen One’s actions?”

“I was fixing the Church,” Buddy says, feeling so small in front of these immortals. “I… I can’t be always with her. I’m not part of her adventuring party. Kristen Applebees doesn’t even like me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Galicaea says, leaning forward to tower over Buddy. “It does not matter what she likes or does not. It was your job to keep Helio informed of what she does, so we could stop her. She doesn’t even have a God anymore, and yet she’s been messing with something that she has no right being in. Her and that Hellspawn Tiefling. It’s bad enough that that idiot werewolf is trying to change Me in my own Home, and then that Goddess’ name was uttered from a marriage that meant nothing.”

“Galicaea,” Sol says sharply. The goddess slumps back in her seat and Buddy realizes he’s fallen to his knees sometime she was talking. He’s trembling, he realizes.

He looks over to his Lord Helio, who is looking down at His nails, and when He realizes that Buddy is looking at Him, gives him a thumbs up.

Sol sighs. “There is nothing to be done now.” He says, still sounding angry.

“Then why did you call me here?” Buddy asks in a whisper.

Helio blinks at him, confused. “To tell you what you’ve done wrong, Buddy,” he says. “And to let you know that we’re going to keep you here, despite all your wrongdoing. Because we’re gracious. And kind.”

Buddy has done right all his life. He has followed the word of Helio, fixed the church that fell apart in the night and their chosen one’s departure, prayed daily and nightly for Helio to save the immoral souls of those who do not Follow him or his Father; took an empty cleric’s position in a team of people who were stars, burning themselves too bright and too hot to compete with a galaxy.

Buddy has healed the sick, and helped the homeless, and eased the minds of believers and nonbelievers alike. He has done right all his life.

And his afterlife is stained red because he wasn’t shadowing Kristen Applebees every step of her way. Because he wasn’t keeping up with her news and telling Helio.

(“She’ll be in Hell for a while,” Helio said. “Just until I come in to save her.”)

Buddy snaps out of it as Helio’s hand lands on his shoulder again, smiling and leading him away from His father and Aunt.

“Did you mean that Kristen is still yours?” Buddy asks.

Helio nods. “Cassandra layed a claim on her when She was revived and it would’ve been a battle if Kristen died, but now that she’s dead…” Helio shrugs.

“I can’t just let her walk in, though. She needs to be punished for leaving.” And then Helio smiles again, and points behind Buddy’s shoulder at the small house.

Buddy turns around, and sees a shock of brown hair, a mouth stretched in a permeant smile, and eyes that have always had love in them, despite being milky and never actually seeing his own son. Buddy’s mother always used to ruffle his own hair and ask how Buddy didn’t get anything of his father’s except his smile.

“There’s your dad.” Helio whispers. “He’s been waiting an awful long time.”

Helio hugs him again.

And, like at his father’s funeral, like his first year of waking up to an empty kitchen, and like when the red-haired girl’s mother called her away, despite the warmth of Helio’s hugs and his father’s cloudy, love-filled eyes staring at him, Buddy feels cold.

#buddy dawn #helio d20 #dimension 20 #d20 #galicaea #sol d20 #fantasy high junior year spoilers #fhjy spoilers #fantasy high junior year #rain’s writing #🤷‍♀️#felt like writing #it might not make sense but hey #I’m working through my feelings

76 notes · View notes

riftdancing · 2 months

Text

Several of you probably remember this sundrop bombshell from years back. In fact, many of you have asked if I'd ever bring her back. Well, going into Dawntrail finally feels like the right time to breathe some new life into this character, so consider this her official return.

If you don't know her, I'd like to introduce you to my lynx inspired surf brat, X'issi ( shee • ee • see ) Sunde ( soon • dae ). Part of the coastal Lynx Tribe of La Noscea, she's lived almost her entire life in and around the isle. With an affinity for water and water related magics this woman is sure to win you over with her sunny charms and can-do attitude.

I have a lot of lore for this character, including tribal lore that I'll have to figure out how to organize into spaced out doses for you all to consume. Because when I say its a lot, I mean it is a LOT of lore. I used to write this girl like crazy back in Heavensward days.

But for now, here's some important bullet points for her character...

Owns her own Surf Shack where you can buy boards she's made and her own board wax. Naturally she also does board repairs.

Up before dawn to relay the morning surf report for Costa del Sol.

Surf and swim instructor - Side hustle - mostly for tourists.

Sight Seer and Expedition guide - another side hustle - also mostly for tourists.

Water Dancer, but not like the XIV job. Dance is intrinsic to her tribe lore which is very Polynesian islander influenced.

Part of a tribe who prays to both Llymlaen and Oschon. Tribe is somewhat nomadic. Lives on the shores in the warmer months, and moves inland in the cooler months. (also reflects their dieties)

Has a way with water magic... kinda like a waterbender? I'll take more time to explore this with you guys later. But I will admit its strongly waterbending influenced.

Has a baby raptor companion named Thunk who is an absolute MENACE. ...But we love him.

She absolutely loves fishing.

94 notes · View notes

bihansthot · 7 months

Note

Hi Sol! I love your work, it’s all amazing! Can you write what a wedding with Bi Han be like? Like would it have flowers made of ice? Would it be a very private/intimate wedding? Are we going to wear Lin Kuei colors or wear traditional Chinese clothes? Thank you. 💙

Thank you so much lovely! I tried my best to imagine what an ideal wedding with Bi-Han would be like and this is what I came up with! Apologies to my Chinese friends if anything is inaccurate I tried to research as best as I could 🥹

A wedding with Bi-Han would be a very small, intimate affair. It would consist of only his inner circle so his brothers (we refuse to acknowledge what happened in the game for these headcanons), Sektor, and Cyrax and that’s about it.

The temple’s garden would glitter and sparkle with hundreds of your favorite flowers all made out of ice, all painstakingly crafted by your soon-to-be husband.

Interspersed between all the flowers would be lots of candles of various heights and widths in beautiful glass jars. The flickering and glowing candlelight reflects off the ice decor like twinkling stars.

Bi-Han expects a traditional wedding and would ask you to wear an exquisite qipao with an elaborate fur cloak to help protect you from the cold environment. He’s not a big stickler for the traditional red color but if you want to wear red that’s fine.

Bi-Han will be of course wearing blues, blacks, and silvers, his hair half up, half down with a metal guan holding it in place looking like he stepped out of a Chinese period drama. He looks incredible.

The ceremony will be very traditional and starts the night before with the hair combing ceremony, where the two of you comb each other’s hair to symbolize their new stage of adulthood. It will have to be altered slightly since Bi-Han’s parents are no longer alive but the sentiment is still there.

He will expect you to test his worth to earn his right to marry you by having your bridesmaids hide you from him until he proves his worth by telling them things he knows about you, eating bitter and spicy things to symbolize he can handle the ups and downs of marriage and finally giving them red envelopes of money showing he can take care of you properly.

What with Bi-Han not having parents the two of you agree to skip the tea ceremony but if your parents are present he will still offer your parents tea as a sign of respect for allowing him to marry their child.

Finally, the time comes for the ceremony and it is a hybrid of a Western and Chinese wedding with you walking down the aisle and being given away by your chosen person. The two of you exchange vows in the intimate setting of the beautiful garden with his fellow Lin Kuei and your small group of friends and family. Emphasis on small, Bi-Han is very wary about letting outsiders visit the Lin Kuei Temple, but he makes an exception for your wedding.

Afterwards is a lavish banquet catered by Madam Bo, there’s dancing and feasting, drinking, and fireworks to celebrate. You dance until dawn surprised by how carefree and happy your usually grumpy, uptight now husband is.

You’re both exhausted after the day’s festivities but that doesn’t stop Bi-Han from consummating the marriage the second he gets you alone.

#mortal kombat #bi han #sub zero #bi han x you #bi han x reader #sub zero x reader #sub zero x you #mk headcanons #headcanon #wedding #wedding headcanons #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat x you #bi han imagine

253 notes · View notes

mastersvetlana · 1 month

Text

Thinking about how the moon just reflects the sun’s light. Can Galicaea ever truly be separate from Sol? Are they doomed to always be reflections of one another?

#galicaea #dimension 20 #d20 #fantasy high junior year #fantasy high #fhjy #fhjy spoilers #kristen applebees

122 notes · View notes

liliacamethyst · 10 months

Text

Playtime with Miguel O'Hara

Miguel O'Hara x SpiderSun Reader

summary: Miguel begging you to cum. That's it. That's the plot.

warnings: dom/sub, edging, blowjob, smut, 18+ content

a/n: Hey everyone, apologies for my recent absence, I've been buried in exam prep. But don't worry, the 4th part of the web series is on its way soon! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this little story I've had tucked away in my drafts. Remember to look after yourselves and I'll be back before you know it with even more requests and Miguel fics. Love you all and don't forget to stay hydrated!

“Care to play a game?” you ask, as you take steps closer to him. You can see his pride wrestling with his intrigue. “What’s the game?” he asks. You smile wide at him and without warning, you shoot a string of web that wraps around him.

“Simple,” you say, “You have to stay still while I…” you lean in and plant a soft kiss on his cheek, then his jawline down to his throat. His eyes widen.

Miguel tries to hide his delight. “Is that all?” he feigns nonchalance.

“Oh no,” you tease, “there’s more.” You lean in again and brush your lips against his, only to pull away at the last second. The tension between you both is electric.

You wrap more webbing around him, leaving him barely able to move. “Aren’t you going to ask nicely to be set free?” you ask with a smirk.

His pride is legendary, but so is his wit. “No. Yo no ruego." (I don't beg.)"he retorts. He squirms lightly but his face is stoic as ever.

You lean in, your lips a breath away from his, and whisper, “We'll see about that.”

With a flicker in your eyes, you suddenly whip out a sharp nail file and make a quick, precise cut on the crotch of Miguel's suit, freeing his big member. The blue fabric splits apart, revealing his already hard cock.

You gently glide your finger down the exposed area, and then look up at him with an innocent smile. Despite the unexpected action, Miguel remains unfazed, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. “ You just had to ask, mi amor" he quips, his voice laced with humor.

A chuckle escapes your lips. "I'm just checking for hidden weapons, Spider. You never know with you." You kneel down, looking up at him with a mischievous smile.

You delicately trail your tongue up and down his length, punctuating your actions with playful, kittenish licks on his leaking tip. When you decide that you've teased him enough, you take his entire manhood into your mouth, your cheeks hollowing.

You can sense his intense, half-lidded gaze on you, accompanied by a soft growl escaping his lips.

He looks down at you, his chest heaving, sweat dripping off his brow.

With every head bob, he grunts louder, his teeth gritted and sweat dripping down his face.

“Mierda, mi sol. I’m close.” You could tell, his balls are tightening in your hand and his moans are growing louder, that was always his tell. But then without a warning and with one final plop you release him from your mouth.

His eyes shoot open, the intense concentration breaking momentarily for a glare. “What the hell. What do you think you’re doing, Sunny?” his voice is strained, he thrusts his hips forward to get even a tiny bit of friction. Meanwhile, you are already gracefully risen to your feet and slowly lean closer, your breath grazing his ear. "Beg for it," you whisper. Miguel appears perplexed for a fleeting moment, stuttering, “I... I...”

Then, gathering himself, his voice becomes firm as he declares, “I do not beg.”

You grab his balls gently with one hand, while with the other, you tenderly and painfully slowly trace your fingers down his length. In response, a deep, primal growl escapes his throat.

With a raised eyebrow and a faint, teasing smirk, you inquire, "Huh? What was that?"

He seems to be in an internal struggle, trying desperately to retain control. His voice comes out as a soft whisper, “Please, let me cum.”

But your playful side is not quite satisfied. You continue your feathery caresses near his overstimulated tip, replying, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

He makes an attempt to jerk his hips forward, but you assertively tighten your hold. A resigned look crosses his face before he finally capitulates. “Alright, you fucking win. Please, mi sol, please make me cum?”

At this, you offer a wink of approval and once again take your place kneeling in front of him. “Now was that so hard, Spider-boy?”

2K notes · View notes

ladybugsimblr · 4 months

Text

We’re back! On the looong flight from Mt Komorebi to Del Sol Valley, Jayce reflected on the swaggiest experience of his life. Stay tuned to see how the rest of his summer abroad went. Flashbacks loading...

Globetrotter Challenge summary - chrono

Lot and Deco Sims by @xldkx

#you know jayce asked bailey to send the pj #she chuckled and hung up on him #hi kairi 🥰#jayce's journey #bklegacy #jayce #kairi #globetrotter tings

105 notes · View notes

seasonsbloom · 2 years

Text

baby, let's play house. rooster (part 1)

part 2

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; marriage of convenience. you got yourself in trouble. bradley has a bit of a savior complex. together, you come up with what could potentially be the worst idea in the longstanding and illustrious history of bad ideas.

wc ; 12.5k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; angst; explicit language; explicit sexual content in later parts; pregnancy; mentions of infidelity; mentions of vomit; mentions of Tom Cruise; unhealthy family dynamics; one mention of suic*de but it's not a plot point; age gap

note: uhm... i blacked out. idk either. part 2 should be out eventually, which of course means that i haven't even started writing it yet. there will probably be several mistakes in here regarding the navy, etc. so i'm sorry about that i'm just dumb :-(

sol. sunderlust. crab. bestie... i love you forever, what would i ever do without you?

When you’re fourteen, sitting on a floral couch in one of the nondescript, army-commissioned houses you’ve been moving to every few months since you were old enough to remember, your mother turns on Cocktail with Tom Cruise, and you decide that, once you’re grown up, you’re going to be a bartender. You’re going to do just what Tom does - get a job in some dive, work your way up, learn the bottle slinging and the shot pouring and the flirting, and then you’re going to franchise the whole thing and take it national. It’s going to be just like TGI Fridays, except your drinks will actually be good instead of whatever watered-down punch they serve.

Of course, you’re fourteen, and you don’t even know what alcohol tastes like yet. Years later, you’re going to take a shot of Tequila at a bar, you’re going to splutter and cough and think you might choke, and it’ll leave you wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake. But for now, you’ve got a dream, and you’ve got a plan, and not a smidge of doubt that you’ll make it all come true.

You’re going to do just as Tom Cruise does - minus the best friend’s suicide from the movie and the real-life Scientology thing and all that. But you’re going to be successful. You know it.

So this, then. This is not part of your plan at all.

Behind you, there’s a bang, and then the back door is ripped open. The buttery light of the bar spills in a rectangle across the beaten path, but it doesn’t reach your little corner. You hear the muffled thud of footsteps, a curse, followed by a shout of your name.

“Yeah?” you call back, hope you don’t sound like you’re balancing on the edge of a mental breakdown. Hope you don’t sound like you feel.

“Your shift’s about to start. I really need you in there cutting up some limes, please,” Jerry, your co-worker, says. Thank God he doesn’t walk over to investigate just what you’re doing huddled in the sand behind the bar.

“Okay,” you answer, voice a little wobbly, “I’ll be in in a sec.”

You wait until you hear the door shut behind Jerry, then you unfold yourself, get your shaky legs underneath your weight. You feel like somebody hit you over the head with one of those huge hammers they use to knock down walls. The nausea is back, too, something queasy and watery that shifts through your stomach.

Inside the bar, everything is like it always is. The chatter of the customers, the drawl of the music, the smell of beer, and the Ocean Breeze scented cleaner you use to wipe the floors. Far below it, the scent of the real ocean breeze drifting in through the opened windows. It seems wrong for the Hard Deck to be unchanged, unaltered, untouched when your own life has gone so completely off the rails.

You sneak in a quick, discreet bathroom break to swipe at the mascara smudged beneath your eyes, to dab at it with some damp toilet paper, to hope nobody will notice the obvious signs of tears still clinging to you. To stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment, try not to think about that stupid test you buried at the bottom of the trashcan. You can taste your heartbeat in your mouth.

You don’t look any different - same nose, same hair, same eyes - but something has irrevocably shifted inside of you.

Behind the counter, you cut up the limes you promised Jerry. The scent clings to your fingers, the juice settles in the calluses. The steady sound as the knife meets the cutting board and the familiar motion of your hands help to ground you a little.

“Could we get a refill?”

You lift your head and then immediately lower it again, shoulders going up, turning to the side in an attempt to hide your face. If there are two people you don’t want to see tonight, then…

“Oh my god.” Natasha’s face pushes into your line of vision, her eyebrows crinkled, her mouth pursed. “Have you been crying?”

Waving her words of concern away with one hand, you grab for their empty glasses with the other.

“Allergies,” you lie. “I’ve got two on tap here, which one did you guys have? The German or the…”

“You don’t have allergies,” Bradley points out. You’d made it a point not to look at him, but now your gaze snaps in his direction. He stands with his eyes narrowed, with his hands on the polished wood of the bar top. Concern flutters across his face.

There’s something about Bradley Bradshaw. You like to think of it as a gravitational pull. Something with force, something that makes people look at him. Something that grounds them, too, though, gives them a tether.

Ever since he first walked into this bar a little over a year ago, it’s like he’s become a fixture in your life, even if you only see him once or twice a week, even if it’s just a quick exchange of words over a countertop. Bradley Bradshaw makes for a good North Star.

He shrugs, and there’s something almost sheepish to it. “It was part of your list of reasons why you’re better than Hangman last month.”

You pause, still holding the glasses, and stare at him. He looks right back.

“That’s beside the point,” Natasha pipes up. She’s balancing both her elbows on the bartop, pulling herself closer. “Why were you crying?”

That sort of shifts reality back into focus. What are you supposed to say? I let a guy who isn’t even really my boyfriend but also not really not my boyfriend knock me up, and now I have no idea what the fuck to do? To two people who are little more than glorified acquaintances?

You shrug and decide they look like they’d enjoy the new craft beer Penny got on tap. It has notes of vanilla and apple, and you’re not much of a beer person, but even you like it. Or at least you used to.

“It’s nothing,” you say, drawing the first glass. It ends up perfect - amber liquid topped with just the right amount of foam, the little bobbles popping as you push it across the counter toward Natasha. Your life might be a mess, but at least you still know how to draw a damn good glass of beer from the tap. “Don’t worry about it.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, but then she lets it go. “You know I’ll beat a guy up for you, right?”

You don’t doubt it. If there’s anybody in this bar you wouldn’t want to cross, it’s Natasha, and not just because of whatever training the Navy put her through. You’re convinced she came into the world knowing how to take a guy out.

“Yeah,” you agree and are surprised to find you mean it. Realistically, you’re not particularly close to any of the pilots. You chit-chat sometimes, have had a few drunken conversations after everybody else has filtered out of the Hard Deck while wiping down tables or collecting shot glasses, but that’s not really enough to support a true friendship. Still. If you asked, you have no doubt Natasha would go to bat for you. “It’s okay, though. I’m fine. I’ll put this on your tab, yeah?”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but then decides to let it go. Sighs, “Okay.”

As Natasha pushes off the bar to rejoin her group of friends toward the back of the bar, Bradley takes a step closer instead. You make it a point not to look at him, but the yellow and white of his Hawaiian shirt flashes in your periphery despite your best efforts.

He places a large hand on the countertop, palm down, and you should be looking busy, but all you can do is stare as his fingers starfish across the wood.

“You can talk to me, yeah?” he asks, and his voice is soft enough that it almost disappears in the din of this Saturday night. “Whatever it is.”

You do look up then. Bradley has brown eyes, round and big and deep. There’s something about them that makes you want to trust him, trust his words, trust the sincerity. It almost makes you start crying again.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Then somebody’s shouting an order at you, and you’re pushing a coaster under a sweating Cuba Libre, you’re pouring a Tequila shot, you’re looking for the maraschino cherries, you’re passing out salt shakers, and you don’t notice as he disappears and you don’t think about anything for a short, blissful, beautiful time.

Two months ago, you met Luke halfway through the door of a bar you’d seen on Instagram, something with low lights and neon signs and booths cushioned in lush, ruby velvet. They had this signature cocktail there, something with rum and gold foil and a lot of smoke that drifted up in sweet-smelling plumes.

Luke was charming and laughed a lot, and when he put his hand on your waist, when he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat or two. And still, the first thing you told Penny about at work the next day was the cocktail and not the guy.

You’re almost entirely sure you’re not in love with him, but you’re excited about the idea that maybe someday you could be. Luke is a nice guy. He works in finance somewhere in San Diego, takes you to expensive seafront restaurants, and once or twice, he even bought you expensive lingerie. Luke likes the same movies as you do, likes putting on Jazz music when you go down on him in his car, and that always manages to make you feel strangely sophisticated even with a dick in your mouth. He’s older, and he has a real, grown-up job, completely unlike you with your singles soaked in beer.

He’s a stead-fast, reliable guy. If you have to be in this situation with anyone, you figure it’s better to be in it with him than some twenty-something surfer dude who couldn’t even find the word responsible in a dictionary.

The anxiety has been gnawing at you since last night, has been chipping away your composure and your calm. Has reduced you into a jittery, terrified, chafing shell of your former self. All day you were fumbling - burning your hand on the heated water kettle in the morning, almost running a red light, cutting your finger deep enough it didn’t stop bleeding for a whole five minutes.

Earlier today, you took a last, desperate stand. Propelled by the sort of hope that exists against all better judgment, you went on a CVS run and returned with three more pregnancy tests. You left them back at your tiny apartment, right on the counter where you put them out in the first place, those three tiny, horrible, life-altering plus signs laughing right in your face.

And that was it then. Your fate decided. Your luck run out.

Since you were fourteen, sitting on that floral couch, the course of your life had seemed so clear to you. You’d been so sure of where you wanted to go, so sure of how to get there. And yeah, okay, maybe you used to think you’d get there sooner, but that’s never deterred you before. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s what you used to think.

Now, ten years later, everything is muddled. You can’t see an inch ahead in the fog of all this.

To add insult to injury, those tests were fucking expensive. The next time you check your bank account, you might start crying.

So you spent a good fifteen minutes curled up on your bathroom tiles, staring at your shower curtain, blinking away tears you never shed. You spent a good fifteen minutes trying to figure it out, trying to untangle it, trying to make sense of how you could fuck up so completely.

And then you finally picked yourself up, massaged the grid pattern of the tiles off your cheek, and shot Luke a text asking if he was free tonight.

He drops by at the end of your shift.

“Hi, babe.” Luke grins as he slides into one of the bar stools. “You good?”

You nod, then pause. “Not really?”

You’re wiping down the bartop, dumping an ashtray you collected from the smoking zone outside into the trash. The Hard Deck is empty now, even the last stragglers filed out. Bob selected a song on the jukebox before he left, something slow and decidedly country. Your hands shake when you go to wet the rag again.

Luke frowns and leans across the bar to look at you closely. “What happened?”

“I have to tell you something,” you say and run the tap. The water hits the chrome of the sink with a splatter.

Luke raises an eyebrow, grins. “Illicit confession?”

Under any other circumstances, you would have laughed. But your stomach is coiled up in knots so tight you wonder if they’ll ever untangle again. Like the earphones you fish from the bottom of a purse.

You just so manage a half-hearted chuckle, a sad, pathetic little sound that has Luke’s eyebrow climbing even higher.

He pushes a brown paper bag across the counter. “I brought your favorite take-out… Would that cheer you up?”

Almost immediately, your stomach growls in answer. You’ve been so hungry the past few days that you can’t even manage to be embarrassed. “Mexican?” you ask, something like excitement in your voice for the first time in over 24 hours.

“Ah...” Luke bites his lower lip. “No, uhm… I got something from that one place we went to. The fusion kitchen?”

“Oh…” The excitement dampens immediately, and you force a smile. “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”

“Sorry… you did say you liked it when we went.”

He’s right. You did say that.

Luke likes experimental food, things like that cocktail with the gold foil. Things that look much better than they end up tasting. He takes pictures of them and posts them on his Instagram, and he always makes sure not to get your hand in, your purse, your foot. He doesn’t even follow you back, and you want to not care about trivial things like social media so very badly that you never ask him about it.

He looks genuinely apologetic, though, so you resolve to forgive him. You smile and say, “I did! This is great. Thanks, Luke.”

His satisfied smile puts you at ease.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

It’s a bit like a bucket of ice water. The ease slips away as quickly as it came. You start wiping almost furiously at a stain on the bartop, then give up. Stare at your fingers gone wrinkly with the sudsy water.

You open your mouth, and then you say, “I’m pregnant.”

It’s not what you meant to say. You meant to ease into this, make it sound… less final, somehow. As if that’s at all possible. As if that isn’t exactly what it is. Final.

You’re never going back from this, you realize suddenly. No matter what happens from here on out, there’s never going to be another moment where this hasn’t happened. Where you weren’t pregnant, where you didn’t mess it all up. The plan, the dream, the life.

Tears aren’t enough anymore. You’re going to run headfirst into the ocean and scream until the saltwater fills your lungs.

Luke laughs. You stare at him.

It takes a moment, but slowly he realizes that you’re not joking. That this is serious. The smile slides sideways off his face.

“Oh,” he says, and you can’t look at him anymore. So you let your eyes wander, down towards the lapels of his white dress shirt. He’s still wearing his suit and tie, and the realization that he’s come straight from the office touches you more than it should. At the same time, guilt settles in your stomach. You’re doing this to him, you’re altering his life, you…

The rational part of yourself scoffs, takes over the reins. It takes two to tango, you remind yourself. This is as much his fault as it is yours.

But that doesn’t get rid of the bitter taste in your mouth.

“Why…” Luke pauses. “Why are you telling me this?”

When you look up at his face again, his expression is carefully blank.

“Uh…”

“Shouldn’t you be telling the father?”

You blink. The cogs of your mind turn slowly like somebody slapped gum between them. “I am,” you say, wondering what the hell he’s on about.

“I’m not the father,” Luke says, very matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to lie about it.”

“I’m not lying.” You’re too stunned to even be insulted by the insinuation.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs his shoulders, his expensive suit in the tacky, glossy fabric catching the light. “It’s not like we’re exclusive. I don’t mind if you slept with somebody else.”

“Not exclusive,” you repeat lamely. Maybe that part shouldn’t catch you as off guard as it does. You’ve never discussed it with him in as many words, never sat down to have the whole boyfriend/girlfriend talk, but you’ve been seeing each other semi-regularly for two months now, and you’d just sort of assumed…

“Sure.” Luke nods. “Don’t blame this one on me, then.”

Oh. Your heart clenches, and suddenly it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I didn’t sleep with anybody else,” you say, but your voice sounds far away.

Luke shrugs. “Well, it can’t be mine.”

You don’t even know what to say to this. You’re in desperate, burning need of a shot, and the realization that you can’t have one zaps through you like a pain.

“We always used a condom,” Luke is saying, and his words drift to you through a fog, through a mist, through a thicket of fear and anxiety and ice-cold panic. “I made damn sure of that.”

“It’s not….” You clear your throat. “They’re only like… 98 percent safe. Condoms, I mean.”

“What, so you’re saying we’re those two percent?”

He looks like he’s about to start laughing again, and suddenly you barely recognize him. You’ve always known that Luke wasn’t the love of your life, but that was fine. Love hadn’t been part of the plan anyway, that was for later, much later, after you’d gone international and gotten rich off Mojitos and Pina Coladas and the occasional Old Fashioned. But Luke had been… well, he’d been nice. Always. He’d been someone to laugh with, had been long walks on the beach, and quick tumbles in his backseat. He’d been fun and nice and…

And you’d been stupid enough to hope. Hope for more, hope for better, hope for something.

“I can’t have a baby with you,” he says. His voice rings with finality.

What are you supposed to say to that? With those three positive pregnancy tests back home on your bathroom counter. With the knowledge that you haven’t slept with anyone else.

“Well,” you whisper, and the words come out softer than you want them to, “you are.”

Luke is very quiet for a moment. He’s looking right at you, the blue eyes you used to think were open, inviting, now slitted and probing. Like a snake.

“Jesus,” he says finally, draws back to run his fingers through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. His voice has lost some of its calm. “What do you want from me?”

You wonder if you look as dazed as you feel. “I don’t… I don’t want anything from you.”

That’s not true. You’d like him to hug you. You’d like him to tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that might be a lie. You’d like him to be nice to you.

Instead, Luke, who looks increasingly distressed, jerks his head and says, “If it’s a family you’re after… I can’t give you that.”

Everything has happened so quickly - the toppling of your plans, the chaos of your life. You haven’t really had time to think about how you want him to react. Not like this, though.

“Why not?” you ask and regret the question the moment it’s out of your mouth. You sound like a child - lost, confused.

Luke sighs. He rakes a palm over his face and shakes his head. When he finally looks at you again, there’s something almost guilty on his face. You can’t tear your eyes away, can’t help but feel your stomach plummeting down down down toward the ground. It’s like standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, feeling what the fall might be like even with both feet firmly planted.

“I can’t give you that,” he says, “because I already have a family.”

Beneath you, the ground seems to quiver.

“What?”

Luke pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then reaches into his pocket and produces a shiny, golden wedding band. When he slips it back onto its original place on his finger, you watch the patch of pale skin, several shades lighter than the rest, disappear.

Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your chest.

“You’re… married?”

“Going on five years,” he says, and you think he sounds sad, but maybe that’s just your hope getting the better of you again.

You don’t know what to say. For a moment, you just stand there with the rag still in your hand, listening to the sad, sad voice of some wanna-be cowboy drawling from the speakers. Hear the phantom thud of the cues hitting pool balls. Turn your head to where the pilots were having fun earlier, back when things weren’t all jumbled up.

The whole world moves far, far away from you. Like something you watch on TV screens, something intangible, something fake. It’s not something that happens to people like you. It’s not something that happens to real people.

“It’s… you didn’t tell me that,” you say, and it’s like your voice echoes through a long, long tunnel, bounces off the walls like a tennis ball. “I didn’t know.”

And then you think back on it. Think of whispered phone calls in the dead of night, think of erratic work schedules, think of his insistence to come here instead of going to San Diego. Think of how little you know of his life, how firmly he kept you locked out of it.

Suddenly you’re not so sure if you didn’t know or if you just didn’t want to know. If you closed your eyes to what was right in front of you.

Guilt and anger and confusion flash through you in rapid succession. You feel sick to your stomach.

“I’ll give you money,” Luke says. It’s a peculiar thing - you see his mouth move before the words ever reach your ears, like a movie that’s gone out of sync with the audio.

“Money,” you repeat, very slowly. Or maybe not slowly at all. You just feel like you got stuck in molasses, like the whole world has been dipped in something sticky.

“Well. You’re getting rid of it.”

It’s not a question. He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something that’s already been decided. Like it’s something you don’t get a say in.

You stiffen, fingers sinking into the wet rag. Soapy water drips over the lacquered wood of the bartop.

“No,” you say. “No, I’m not.”

About five minutes ago, you hadn’t even made your mind up about it yet. Hadn’t decided whether to keep it or not. Had still been weighing the pros and cons in your mind, turning them over like a Rosetta Stone that might help you decipher the encrypted, tangled mess of your thoughts.

And now that he’s said it, now that the option is right there in the open, suddenly you know that’s not the way you want it to happen.

“What,” Luke says, “you wanna have it?”

“Yes,” you answer, and you know it’s the truth.

Maybe it’s stupid. You’re twenty-four. You’re broke. You pick up shifts at a bar to pour tequila shots for other people. You live off the guys you flirt with long enough they decide you’re worth a tip. All those plans of grandeur, of franchises and cocktails and Park Avenue apartments, are dead-ends. You’ve been walking a cul-de-sac your whole life.

And still… something about it feels right to you.

You’ve been thinking about the whole thing in theory - the theoretical truth of that test, the theoretical reaction of Luke, the theoretical existence of that baby, the theoretical impact on your life. But it’s not a theory. It’s real.

There’s a baby growing in you.

It’s the most terrifying thought of your life. You’ve never experienced something so wonderful. Even as the fear eats away at you, even as your stomach churns and your head spins, some part of you feels illuminated with light.

Luke laughs. “Babe… no offense, but that’s a horrible idea.”

You clench your teeth and grit out, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re gonna get it. You really think you could raise a kid?”

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully, and wonder where all this calm is coming from. “But I want to try.”

Luke stares at you as if you’re growing a spare set of ears right in front of him. Then he laughs again, shakes his head. You can’t see what’s so funny about any of this.

“Babe,” he says, “this isn’t some new Cocktail recipe. This is an actual child you’re talking about.”

If you weren’t so goddamn tired, it would make you angry. Set fire to you like a fuse. But you’re drained, empty, hollow. You want to go home, want to curl up in bed, want to cry. You want to go back two weeks in time, back when you were still just a failing waitress with a big dream. Back before the responsibility of it all hunched you over.

“I’m doing it,” you say, and hope he understands the decision is final. Hope your voice is firm.

Luke exhales. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth, as he turns half away from you.

Finally, after an eternity, he says, “I can’t be involved in this.”

For your part, you understand that decision is final too.

You nod, grab onto the bartop to keep yourself from toppling over. The ground beneath you is a gaping, beckoning abyss. It’s going to swallow you whole.

“Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll do it alone then.”

For a moment, Luke looks almost surprised. As if he was sure you’d fold eventually, see reason. Listen to him.

You wonder if that’s how it’s been before - him pushing and you giving in. Rearranging your life to fit his schedule, his plans, his wants. Shrinking yourself to make room for him. And you didn’t even notice.

You straighten your spine.

“For what it’s worth,” Luke says as he slides off his chair, “I’m sorry.”

And then he does what men do best: He leaves. Walks away from you and the baby growing inside of you. Walks away from the mess he made, the dream he shattered, without a care or a thought. Without looking back.

You watch his retreating form, watch the set of his shoulders, the spring in his step, watch as he bounds down the steps onto the gravel of the parking lot, watch as the shadows eventually blot out the sight of him.

Good riddance, you want to say, but you can’t even form words.

With your heart torn to shreds, with your fear clawing a bloody path up your throat, you sink down onto the floor, press a hand to your mouth, and you sob.

Twenty minutes later, Bradley Bradshaw finds you in the exact same position.

You know it’s been twenty minutes because you’re staring at the digital clock of the dishwasher, counting down the wash cycle. The neon red of the numbers blurs through the veil of your tears.

It’s like somebody’s cut your chest open. Scooped you clean like taking a spoon to a tub of ice cream. Behind your ribcage, you feel hollow in a way that aches down to your bones. That spiderwebs through your veins.

Bradley pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by the outdoor lighting you still haven’t turned off. Like this, with your vision blurred, he looks like a drawing of the Virgin Mary on one of those cheap, tacky candles. Descending on a flurry of clouds and light and doves. Only this Virgin Mary wears Hawaiian shirts, apparently. It almost makes you laugh.

He casts his eyes over the room, a slight furrow dipping between his brows. It takes you a moment to understand he hasn’t seen you yet, not with how you’re crouching by the crates of Corona.

Part of you wants to hide, wants to crawl under the jutting canopy of the bar. Wants to pretend you’re not here, fold yourself into a tiny pocket square of a person until he leaves again.

“Hello?” Bradley asks, genuine confusion laced with the word, and you know you can’t do that.

“Hi,” you call back, and your voice sounds tiny. Miserable. You push up on your knees to preserve a bit of your dignity. The room goes spinning in a whirlwind, and you catch yourself with both hands on the wood, lifting up to peek at him over the edge of the bar. “I’m down here.”

For a moment, Bradley just stares at you. He takes in the scene, the smeared mascara, the swollen eyes, the fresh tears leaving tracks down your cheeks like you’re drawing rivers on a map.

Then he snaps into action. He’s crossing the room before you can even really come to terms with the fact that he’s here in the first place, pushing through the hip-high swinging door that separates the oval space hugged by the bar from the rest of the room and falling to his knees by your side.

“What happened?” Bradley asks, something hard to his voice. But when he goes to touch the side of your face, carefully as if you’re injured, as if you’re made of porcelain that’ll break at the slightest jostle, his brown eyes show nothing but genuine concern.

It makes you cry harder.

“Nothing,” you say, which is a ridiculous lie, all things considered. You’re crouching on the floor of your workplace, over an hour after your shift has ended, crying your eyes out. Clearly, there’s something wrong. “I’m fine.”

Bradley sits cross-legged on the hardwood floors, his knee close enough to graze against yours. He looks decidedly out of his depth, almost uncomfortable. Helpless. His mustache quivers as he opens his mouth, then closes it again.

But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to get you to explain it, doesn’t ask again. He just sits there with you, elbows on his thighs, and lets you cry.

It’s nice not to be alone. To have somebody with you, even if he doesn’t know you. Even if he has no idea what it is that has you on the brink of a complete crisis.

You do your best not to think about it. Not about the baby, not about the guy who just dumped you. Not about gold foil and Instagram posts and wedding bands. Not about how he’s made you a homewrecker, and you didn’t even know.

Maybe this is karma. The universe punishing you for your sins. Something like that.

Maybe it’s just really, really bad luck.

“What are you doing here?” you ask when you’ve finally calmed yourself enough the sobbing has subsided to sniffles.

Bradley jerks his head noncommittally. “I forgot my wallet.”

“Oh.” You try to get up, but your legs won’t cooperate. “I’ll help you look.”

He shakes his head, pulls you back onto the floor by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll look for it later. What happened?”

There’s something about his tone that tells you this time he won’t let you get away with a half-assed lie. Which doesn’t stop you from trying.

“Just… rough day.”

Bradley looks at you, then pulls his knees up, lets his arms dangle between them. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and his voice is very gentle. “But if you want to… I can listen.”

This is the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. He has the kind of face that makes you want to tell him things. Makes you want to spill your secrets to him, pour them into his space. He’s steady, reliable, calm. It would be so easy to trust him.

That’s dangerous.

But you’re so tired, and you’re so broken, and you’re so terribly, horribly lonely. With Luke gone, with your parents out of the picture, with nobody to help and no one to hold you, the loneliness is like an ache, like a stain, like something that festers and spreads and unfurls inside of you.

You just want to pretend you don’t have to do it alone. Just for a moment.

So you say, “I think I did something stupid.”

Bradley’s eyes are very brown. A soft shade of brown, like milk chocolate. When you look at him, you feel warm all over.

“Alright,” he says, and there isn’t an ounce of judgment in it. It’s just a gentle, careful nudge for you to continue.

“I…” You exhale shakily, look down to the floor, twist the bracelet around your wrist. It’s so much harder to form the words the second time around. “I’m pregnant.”

Saying it to Bradley, who is practically a stranger, saying it to someone outside of whatever little bubble, whatever vacuum two people playing at love built around themselves, makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

You’re pregnant. In a few months, your belly is going to grow to the size of a watermelon. You’re going to get ultrasounds and wear maternity clothes and buy a crib. You’re going to hold a baby in your arms, a baby that will become a toddler, will become a child, will become a teenager, will become an adult. They’re never going to leave again.

I’m pregnant.

One moment - and in it the rest of your life.

It’s a skyscraper, it’s a monument, it’s a mountain. It dwarves you. How can you ever be enough for the path that lies ahead?

The panic jumps you. It rattles you. Suddenly you’re panting, you’re shaking, you can’t think, your head spinning circles around the enormity of it all.

“Oh,” Bradley says. He sounds like he expected you to say just about anything except that. “Congratulations.”

You stare at him, and he backtracks.

“Unless you don’t want me to congratulate you? Sorry, I shouldn’t just….”

“No,” you stop him, your voice a tiny, trembling thing. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

You wonder what it might be like if you were older, if you were married, if you weren’t such a fuck-up. Would people beam at you, hug you, shake your hand? Would they share the joy they must assume you feel?

Neither one of you says anything for a while. Through the opened windows, the sound of the ocean drifts in, of the waves crashing against the shore. The chrome of the fridge you’re leaning against is cold even through the layers of your shirt. You count the wooden tiles on the floor.

After half an eternity, Bradley says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

It’s like a knife to the heart, it slices right through you, stabs you between the ribs. And you’re not even angry, don’t even feel betrayed… it just hurts. The kind of pain that stays with you. The kind of pain that leaves phantom traces even after the wounds have healed.

“I don’t,” you say finally.

Beside you, Bradley shifts his weight. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really putting my foot in it today, aren’t I?”

It’s almost enough to make you laugh. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it isn’t. This whole thing isn’t okay. “I’ll be fine.”

Without hesitating, Bradley says, “I know you will be.”

There’s such conviction in his voice that it baffles you. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“He’s… have you told him, though? Or are you guys not in contact?”

Still trying to recover, you shrug. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing your shoulders almost all the way up to your ears, “I told him.”

You can tell he wants to ask more, but he gives you a second before his next question. “And you… you guys are gonna try co-parenting? Or is he… are you going to get married?”

That makes you frown. You say, “What is this, the 1950s?”

“I just think….” Bradley clears his throat. “I just think if you get a girl pregnant, you should step up. Take responsibility.”

Of course he’d think that. You’re not even surprised.

There’s always been something traditional about Bradley Bradshaw, like he’s one of those men written by women people rave about all over TikTok. If he takes a girl out on a date, he probably holds open car doors and pulls out chairs for her, hands her his jacket if she gets cold.

Distantly, you wonder what that would be like.

“I don’t want somebody to marry me out of responsibility,” you say. “I can take care of myself.”

Bradley scrambles. “I know that!” he says quickly, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift his weight forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “Of course, I know that. I just thought… I just thought you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it almost bowls you over. You turn your head to the side, press your face into your shirt sleeve and dig your fingernails deep into the skin of your shins.

Bradley watches you, eyes intent, and then he probes carefully, “Are you… are you going to keep it?”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, blink against the sudden dampness. Keep your face turned away from him. The shame of it all, of the situation you’re in, of him seeing you like this, overwhelms you. Your vision blurs.

“I think…” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I always used to think if I ever got in this situation, I’d just get an abortion but now… I don’t… I just don’t think it’s the right thing for me.”

Slowly, he nods. “You want to have the baby,” he says, and it’s not really a question, but you answer anyway.

“Yes. I mean… I don’t know, it’s just… I want this. I don’t know why or how, but I… it feels like I have to do this.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, completely sincere. “Your body, your choice.”

Now you do snort. “What, are we at a rally?”

“I follow a few Instagram accounts,” he admits. His voice has gone almost sheepish. “Abortion rights should be everybody’s concern. Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.”

It’s endearing in a strange way because there’s nothing performative about it. It’s just bumbling and awkward and peculiarly genuine.

“You sound like you spend too much time on Twitter,” you say softly, and it makes him laugh. Bradley’s got a nice laugh, one that starts in his belly and seems to end at the back of his throat, punches out into the air from back there.

After things have gone quiet again, the anxiety sets back in. Or maybe it’s been there all along, chomping at the bit, and you just didn’t notice.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you say finally, a self-deprecating chuckle loosening from your throat.

But when you glance up at him from beneath lowered lashes, stomach tight with anticipation, Bradley doesn’t look judgmental at all. Instead, his face is wide open, his eyes clear, the corners of his lips still curled upward with the remnants of his smile.

Luke laughed at you, but Bradley is looking at you with something like admiration, and it takes your breath away.

“No,” he says. “I think you’re really, really brave.”

And then you’re crying again.

You’re surprised there are any tears left in you after your earlier session, but they burst forth now, in a sudden eruption of all the fear and all the pain. And Bradley is so nice. So goddamn kind even though he doesn’t know you, not really, even though this isn’t even his problem. Sits there on the floor of the Hard Deck with you at half past one am on a Sunday night, and doesn’t complain, doesn’t sigh. He just listens.

You don’t feel brave. You feel terrified, you feel overwhelmed, you feel… you feel… you feel like the whole world has toppled over. You feel like Atlas crashing down, buried beneath the weight of his burden. You feel tiny. Inadequate. You feel scared, scared, scared.

“I don’t know what to do,” you confess, choke it out between sobs. Wonder why you’re telling him this. When you don’t know him.

Funny how it is so much easier at times to be honest with strangers than it is to be honest with the people we love the most.

“I’m so… I’m so scared, Bradley.”

He moves as if to touch you, then seems to think better of it and slumps back into himself. The expression on his face is unreadable, his eyebrows furrowed, his jaw clenched.

“He’s not gonna… the father isn’t going to help you out?”

It makes you realize you never really answered his earlier question. And you don’t know why, can’t explain it rationally, but for some reason, this, too, makes embarrassment well up at the back of your throat.

What is Bradley going to think? The poor, little, stupid girl who got herself knocked up by a guy who won’t even stay? Is that what everybody’s going to think now? Is that all you’ll be?

It’s a life sentence, this whole thing.

You shrug, pause. Shake your head. “No,” you say finally. “He’s not going to be involved.”

You know it’s true. Luke won’t come back, not now, not in ten years, not in twenty. There was something final about that exchange, something permanent. Something that can’t be undone.

Suddenly, you think of that tiny, unborn child inside of you. Abandoned before it ever came into the world.

It’s just you and me now, baby, you think to yourself, and it goes through you like a current, sweeps you under like a wave. We’re all alone. All we have is each other.

“What about your parents? Your dad’s in the Navy, too, right?”

If you could, you’d run away. Fold yourself to invisibility. Slip into the pockets between moments and become something other, something that exists out of sight.

You think of your parents. Floral couches and polished hardwood floors. Tom Cruise on the television as your mother scrubbed every part of the house like she was getting rid of an illness, wiping away a disease, perpetually finding another stain or another cobweb or another wrinkle to smooth over. Think of your father, rigid and strict and absent. Always on some mission, always thinking of a greater good that definitely didn’t involve you, always looking through you even as he looked at you. You don’t know if you have a single memory of him smiling.

You haven’t spoken to them once since you gave up a perfectly fine full-ride scholarship to college.

“My parents,” you say, and as the words spill from you, you realize they’re the truth, “would probably kill me if they found out I got pregnant out of wedlock. Maybe if I were married, they’d give me back my trust fund or something, but… No, I don’t think they’d help me out.”

A muscle in Bradley’s jaw jumps, then he’s looking away. Turning to the side so you’re knee to knee again. You stare at his profile, at the curl of his ears, the cut of his jaw. The jagged edges of his scars blur through the fog of your tears.

“So, how are you… do you have a plan?”

You had one. You had Mojitos and Daiquiris and Cosmopolitans. You had a slew of business classes at a community college. You had a dream and a set of tools to achieve it, and when you close your eyes, you can almost see it right there in front of you.

But now it’s been swept up in a hurricane. Swallowed by a tsunami.

“No,” you admit, and your voice trembles. “I have no idea what to do.”

Bradley’s jaw moves as he chews on his lower lip. He swallows, and his throat unudlates with it, and then he’s shifting, shuffling forward a bit.

“I…” He clears his throat. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks nervous. “I may have an idea.”

“An idea?” you repeat slowly.

You think he’s going to tell you about some friend who’s looking to hire someone, looking to rent out a very cheap apartment, works at a doctor’s office and is going to treat you for free. Something like that, maybe.

Instead, Bradley takes a deep breath and says, “Marry me.”

It takes a while for the words to register. At first, you think you’ve misheard, then you wonder if maybe the romantic parts of your mind cooked that up. If he even said it at all.

But Bradley is looking at you expectantly, the only indicator of nerves the slightest glimmer in his brown eyes.

And you can’t help yourself. You laugh, even through your tears. It’s a sound that rips from you unconsciously, unstoppably, because surely he’s joking. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Good one,” you say, and wonder just how big of a mess you look like. You wipe at your cheeks, your nose with your sleeves and sniffle once, twice.

Bradley’s lips twitch into the pathetic half of a smile, then he’s serious again, avoiding your eyes.

And that, finally, is when you realize that he isn’t joking at all.

“I…” You pause, mind whirring, head spinning. “What?”

“It’s just….” Bradley shrugs, then explains, “It’s only a suggestion. But you said your family might consider supporting you again if you were married. It might be an option.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’re in a low-budget Hallmark movie.

Bradley pushes on, “It wouldn’t be permanent. We could get a divorce quickie in a year or two, just stay together long enough for you to get settled with the baby and everything. Plus, you’d get free healthcare.” He glances at you, and the blank expression on your face must light a panic in him. Now his words come faster. “I wouldn’t expect anything from you, of course I wouldn’t. It would just be… keeping up appearances. Just for a while….”

Finally, he trails off. The silence stretches between you like a palpable thing, thick and dense like summer heat.

When you were twelve, sitting in the back of the car as your parents argued up front, the woods of Washington flying past in rapid ribbons of black and blue and green, the moon a disk of silver in the sky, a deer ran out into the road. You remember the screeching of the tires as your dad did what you’re not supposed to and brought the car to a sudden, abrupt stillstand. You remember the wide eyes of the animal, the muscles locked in its state of catatonic horror. You remember the flanks rising and falling quickly beneath the matted fur.

For a second, you feel like that deer. Frozen. Caught completely off guard. Vulnerable.

Then you think you might be a little overdramatic.

You say, “What the fuck, Bradley?”

Part of you expects him to backtrack immediately, laugh, and tell you that he was joking after all. But Bradley stands his ground, even as he still won’t look right at you.

“I probably wouldn’t even be home much anyway. I leave for work all the time,” he says, brows drawn into a straight line above his eyes as he stares intently at his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of his arm. “But I could babysit, and then you could go back to work. I really wouldn’t mind. I’m good with kids, you know?”

You’re not entertaining the whole thing, not really, but you can’t help yourself. Your curiosity takes the upper hand.

“Why would you… why would you ever offer this? You barely know me.”

Bradley seems to think about it for a long moment, his face unreadbale. Then finally, he says, “There’d be something in it for me, too, you know? I’ve been meaning to get assigned to North Island permanently, do a relocation. But those spots tend to go to the guys with family, so…” He shrugs, but the gesture seems forced. “I could help you out, you could help me out. Win-win.”

“That’s all?” you ask, and you don’t know why there’s something like disappointment in your voice.

Bradley looks like he wants to say something else, and for a moment his face is vulnerable. But then it shutters again, and he nods. “That’s all.”

For a second, just a second, you let yourself imagine it: Imagine saying yes to this mad, insane, incredible proposal. Imagine marrying Bradley, someone soft and warm and responsible, someone completely opposite to Luke. Imagine him in a tux and you in a white dress, imagine his mustache tickling against your cheek as he leans in to kiss you. You imagine one of the quaint little houses you grew up in, but one that would belong to you, at least for a while. You imagine a toddler running through it, imagine Bradley bending down to scoop them into his arms. You imagine a life without this aching, shifting loneliness. You imagine a life with Bradley.

When you finally shake your head, when you let go of that ghost, it feels like it takes a piece of you with it.

“No,” you say softly, and it breaks you open in ways you can’t describe. “I can’t let you do that, Bradley.”

It’s just too insane. Too far out there. It wouldn’t be fair to him, when you’d be getting so much more out of that arrangement.

And besides. I don’t want someone to marry me out of responsibility. That’s what you told Bradley earlier, and you meant it.

When you do marry, when you walk down that aisle, you want it to be for love. And people can call you delusional, naive, whatever. You don’t care. You just know you want the big thing, the real thing, True Love, capital t, capital l. You want the hurricane of romance, the monsoon of love. You want to fly into it.

Bradley’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Okay. But if you… change your mind, yeah? I’ll be here.”

And he means it. Bradley carries his heart on his sleeve, you’ve learned this much. He tries to hide it, but he’s no good at it. Eventually, his emotions always get the better of him, burst forth like fountains. It’s part of his charm.

“What,” you say, “right here on the Hard Deck’s floors?”

It’s a sad attempt at a joke, but Bradley is nice enough to laugh anyway. “Sure thing. You guys have the cleanest floors in all of North Island, did you know that?”

You hum. “Sure. I’m the one who cleans them.”

Finally, you get up off the floor, unfold yourself from the bundle of misery you’ve crumbled into. Your legs ache, your back hurts, your chest still feels hollow. All the crying has left a dull pain pulsating behind your left brow.

The two of you look for Bradley’s wallet together, finally find it over by the pool table. You pretend like you’re not still reeling from his proposal, like it’s not suddenly become impossible to do so much as look at him without your heart flopping around like a fish finding its sad end on dry land.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Bradley asks as he watches you lock up. The Hard Deck has an old lock that gets jammed whenever the slightest bit of dampness creeps into the air. You have to hang onto the doorknob with all your weight while simultaneously turning the key to get it to lock.

“I drove here,” you say, casting your eyes about for the tiny tin can you call your car. You can’t even remember where you parked earlier.

“You okay to drive?” Bradley asks.

You glance at him. With the lights off, the parking lot is almost covered in a thick blanket of darkness. The headlights of a few passing cars winding their path along the coastal highway illuminate patches of gravel now and then. Moonlight spills silver and dim across his shoulders, like fingers caressing him. He looks concerned, examining the state of you.

The truth is that you’re tired. Bone tired. Dead tired. So tired you could probably go to sleep where you stand if you put your mind to it. But you don’t want to bother Bradley anymore, have already stolen enough of his time.

So you’re about to decline, but it seems you hesitated too long.

“I’ll take you home,” Bradley says decidedly, “and you can come get your car tomorrow, okay? I don’t think you should be driving like this.”

“You don’t have to do that, you….”

“I know,” he interrupts you, a smile spreading on his face. “But I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe.”

That makes your insides clench in a way they shouldn’t. Your chest feels tight, and you look away just in case you start crying again.

Is it too soon in your pregnancy to start blaming raging hormones?

Wordlessly, you let Bradley lead you across the parking lot toward his monstrosity of a car. His hand hovers at the small of your back, incredibly close yet never touching. He’s big behind you, bulking, and you try not to think about it. When he opens the door for you and waits until you’re buckled in to close it, you feel like your head’s going to explode.

The ride home is quiet, as is the town around you on this Sunday night. An old Killers song plays on the radio, and you think of deer stepping out into streets, then press your eyes closed and will the thought away.

In Bradley’s car, with the windows rolled down, with the Californian night breeze whipping your hair into your eyes and clearing the fog from your head, for a short, blissful while, nothing seems real. It’s one of those liminal moments, a not-time, when reality feels like a dream and even the sharpest knives don’t cut deep enough to hurt.

It ends quicker than expected because time always goes the fastest when you want it to go slow. Then you’re thanking him, saying goodbye, both of you pretending he didn’t just propose some strange, fake marriage to you behind a bar counter not even thirty minutes ago.

Bradley waits until you’re inside the building before he starts the engine again. You hear the roar of it as you climb the stairs up to the second floor.

In your bedroom, you don’t even bother getting undressed. You just slip under the covers, pull them up over your head, bury in the sticky, stale air beneath them, close your eyes, and fall asleep within seconds.

The first time you told your parents about your bartending dreams, your father yelled at you for forty-five minutes. He hurled words at you that hurt, that left scars, that made you wonder and kept you second-guessing yourself for years, that stayed with you. Your mother didn’t say anything.

Somehow, that was worse.

You call her on the landline at five pm on a Tuesday, just before your dad gets back home, and she answers after the third ring. You’re so sure she’s going to acknowledge the four-year gap in contact, the crumbling of the relationship, the fall-out of screaming and crying, and your dad kicking you out of the house.

What you get, instead, is a ten-minute spiel about who brought what to last week’s church potluck and which laundry detergent your father’s contact allergies don’t act up with.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, your digital alarm clock counting down the time in radioactive green. Outside, you hear the sounds of jets roaring through the sky. In your tiny kitchen unit, the faucet is leaking.

Finally, five minutes into a lecture on the advantages of pre-chopped garlic, you interrupt, “Mom?”

You wonder if she hears the shift in your voice, the slight tremble of it. Something makes her go very quiet on the other end of the line, no sound but her breath.

Drip-drip-drip goes your faucet.

When she doesn’t acknowledge you, you push on, your heart beating a staccato rhythm against your ribcage, “I might… I think I might need some help.”

She doesn’t answer for so long you think you might have lost connection. Then you hear shuffling, imagine her walking through her empty house the way she sometimes does - like a phantom, like a specter.

“With what?” she asks after an eternity.

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating. Years of pain and fear clog up your chest, settle like goosebumps on your skin. You close your eyes and let your head drop back against your pillow.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

And then you can feel it through the phone, like something physical. What you’ve always known deep down. The disapproval and the disappointment, and the complete lack of understanding.

You’ve never been who your parents wanted you to be, and they’ve always punished you for it like it was a crime.

When your mother says your name, it’s so plain. That she can’t understand what you’re doing, with your cocktails and your late nights. That she doesn’t see why you’d ever choose something like that over a real education and a real job. That she cannot fathom how it could come to this now - you, broke, young, alone, pregnant.

It’s like being five again, trying to get somebody to look at the picture you drew. It’s like being ten again and being overlooked. It’s like being fifteen again, still vying for the attention you’ll never really get.

Your mother is a stubborn woman, set in her ways. She knows what she wants from people, more specifically, what she wants for them. And you’re no exception. Nobody’s ever asked her a question whose answer she couldn’t find in the bible.

More than wanting you to go to college, wanting you to work in an office, your mother has always wanted you to get married. To fit yourself into the picture-perfect stencil of white picket fence and smiling husband she cut herself. For you to let some guy put a ring on you, put a kid in you, buy you a house and a porch swing and a family van.

It’s pathetic, but it doesn’t matter how much time passes. How much older you get. At the end of the day, you still want her approval, just once, even if you have to lie to get it.

So, like a child, like you’re five again, like you’re ten again, like you’re fifteen again, you say, “I’m getting married.”

“Oh?” your mother asks, and there’s so much hope in the one word it hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Yeah,” you confirm, and then the lies just burst out of you, and you hate yourself, hate yourself so much it’s like bile on your tongue, “yeah, we’ve been engaged for a while, and now with the baby and all… It’s been long overdue.”

Your mother almost sounds excited. Sure, she’d probably prefer for you to have been married before getting knocked up, but all of this must still seem better than the last plan you presented to her four years ago. “What’s his name? What’s he do?”

You squeeze your eyes closed. If your mother knew you at all, if you hadn’t spent the past few years not speaking, you’d like to think she would have heard the shame in your voice when you say, “Bradley. He’s a Naval aviator.”

It might be the worst thing you’ve done in your life: Dragging poor, kind Bradley Bradshaw into the mess you’ve made of your life. Nevermind that he offered. It doesn’t matter.

Your mother starts babbling, the way she only does when she’s actually pleased about something. She’s talking about how happy your dad will be that you’re getting married to a fellow army guy, but you barely hear it. Now that you’ve gotten the approval, it doesn’t feel at all like you thought it would.

It just hurts.

For a while, you just let her keep talking as you blink away the tears, as you stare at your bedroom wall, as your mind spins and spins and spins in circles. Then you promise to send her an invite, say your goodbyes, and hang up.

It’s like you’re numb all over. You stay on your bed for another five minutes, and then another, and you feel just as empty as you did after your last conversation with Luke.

What has your life become? How could it crumble as quickly as it did, going from okay to horrible in less than a week?

Even when you weren’t speaking to your parents, you never felt this distant from them, this far removed. A chasm you’ll never be able to breach. An ocean you’re never going to bridge. The only way you’ve ever gotten your mother to be happy with a decision you’ve made is when you lied to her.

The loneliness is everywhere, then. In your chest, in your bed, in your veins. Crawling like a shadow that swallows you whole.

And then the panic sets in, ice cold in your veins, and with it comes the guilt. Your stomach rolls with it.

What have I done? you wonder. What have I done to myself, to Bradley? How will I ever get out of this?

You scramble. Blindly reach for a dress to slip into, for a pair of flip-flops, for your car keys. It’s a miracle you don’t crash on your way to the Hard Deck. Your heart works itself up into a frenzy, and the guilt gnaws at you, slashes at you, paws at you. All these emotions are tearing you apart.

In the back, Bradley and Bob are playing Pacman on one of the retro machines. They’re pretty loud, too, and from what you gather in your mad dash through your workplace, Bradley seems to be disproportionally competitive about the whole thing.

Figures. Nobody gets into Top Gun without a cutthroat streak and a mean penchant for ambition.

“Bradley,” you say, and when he looks up, his eyes sparkling, the smile slides right off his face. “Can I talk to you?”

He seems stunned for a second, then nods and deposits his beer on a nearby table. “Sure thing.”

You lead him out the back. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spot the exact corner you huddled in a few days back, agonizing over the positive pregnancy test, the decline of your life, the decay of your dreams. Don’t look, you tell yourself, and then do it anyway.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but twilight is descending on the world rapidly. Everything is washed into soft pastels, the sand and the last surfers shaking salt water from their hair. Bradley’s shirt and the honey gold of his skin.

You can’t look at him. It’s a shame that grows in the pit of your stomach, that settles there, heavy like a stone. How can you do this to him?

You’ve never felt worse about yourself, and still… The fear is too big.

Since you decided to give up on the scholarship, since you walked out of your parents house four years ago, you’ve been on your own. You’ve been footing your own bills and renting your own apartment and paying for insurance on your car. You were alone the time you got a cold so bad you couldn’t get out of bed for two days. You were alone when your tire popped on the highway and you almost hit another car. You were alone when you got rejection after rejection from the big San Diego bars, the ones that end up featured on TV and in magazines.

And that was fine. You’re strong, you know you are. Any issue that came your way, you managed to figure out eventually. You’ve been doing fine without any help.

But this, here, now. This… You just can’t do it on your own. Not when it’s about a baby. Your baby.

So you take a deep breath and ask, “Is the offer still on the table?”

Bradley exhales. You watch as he takes a step closer to you, as his shoes move in the field of your vision, grains of sand crunching beneath the soles. When he speaks, a cadence of insecurity has snuck into his voice, “The marriage?”

You nod because you can’t say it. Your mouth just won’t form the words.

“If…” Bradley clears his throat. “If you want it… yeah.”

When you look up at him, there’s something strange on his face. Something that looks less like surprise and more like awe.

His eyes are so brown, and your heart beats so fast, and you’re dizzy like you just got off a rollercoaster.

“I…” You pause to collect your thoughts, and then you rush it all out at once, scared that if you don’t say it now, you never will. “If I were to say yes, like, hypothetically… I’d need to know that you’re not just doing it for me. That there’s something in it for you, too, so….”

He’s nodding before you’ve finished. “I told you. I wanna stay here. I’m sick of getting sent around the country all the time, so… It’s good. It’s an opportunity.”

An opportunity. That sounds like business, sounds like a transaction, sounds rational and level-headed and reasonable, and you latch onto the idea. Maybe if you try to take the emotion out of the equation, it’ll be easier.

Bradley seems relaxed about the whole thing, much more relaxed than he should be given the absurdity of the situation, but you feel like you need to make things clear anyway, if only to put yourself at ease. That’s what people do before singing contracts, right? Put all the cards out on the table?

So you go on, “And I wouldn’t, like… Like you’d still get to do anything you want. I wouldn’t expect you to help with the baby or anything. And you could keep dating, of course, you could, I won’t mind. I promise. It’d just be for show, right?”

Bradley hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something. But then he just shrugs, nods, says, “That’s fine. Yeah. Whatever you want.”

For a moment, you both just look at each other.

“This is insane,” you say because it is, and you don’t know what else to say.

And Bradley just chuckles and agrees smoothly, “Yeah, it’s nuts, isn’t it?”

As you look at him, here in this pastel lighting, here on the verge of something monumental, there’s something so reassuring about him. Something so steady and reliable and constant. Something that makes you think, with him, maybe it could be okay, no matter how insane the whole idea is. An opportunity. An investment that just might pay off.

North star, you remind yourself. Bradley Bradshaw is the North Star.

At the very least, you won’t be alone.

“So is that….” Bradley shifts, scratches the back of his neck. “You saying yes, then?”

There’s a lump in your throat like you’ve swallowed a pebble. It almost chokes you.

“Yeah,” you agree finally, and can’t believe you’re saying this, doing this, can’t believe you’re this mad and this selfish and this desperate. “I guess I am.”

It’s awkward after that. You both just stand there, you with your arms around your own ribcage, Bradley with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Space and silence stretches far and gaping and glaring between you.

Then he says, “Can I hug you?”

That’s sort of the last thing you expected him to say.

You blink at him. “Uhm… sure?”

When Bradley pulls you into his arms, when he holds you against his chest loosely, carefully, giving you room to pull away at any moment, the whole thing almost bowls you over. It’s the first time anybody’s hugged you since you found out you’re pregnant, since your entire world came crashing down, and you can’t help yourself. It’s a visceral reaction. You cling to him, wrap your arms around his neck, press your face into his shoulder and your chest against his and squeeze your eyes shut, and stay there for longer than you planned to, longer than you should. Let him hold you tight enough that for a moment, for a while, it almost feels like you’re whole again. Like you’re not alone.

For the first time in a week, for the first time since that positive test, things feel real. You feel real. Only with his hands on you. The thoughts that have been echoing through your head constantly, loud enough to drown out everything else, quiet.

You could get addicted to it, could get greedy and selfish and never-satisfied. Could eat it raw.

Bradley smells like sunscreen and sandalwood. You try to commit that scent to memory, try to ingrain it into your brain and your body. Something to remember the next time the loneliness sets in.

Finally, he pulls away, and his smile is gentle. You feel every inch of separation like an ache in your bones, like an echo, like a reverberation.

You can’t cry again. You’ve been doing it so much recently that you just won’t allow it again. If you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be a mother and a wife, in whatever capacity, you’ll have to be strong. No matter how hard that will be.

“I don’t even have a ring for you,” Bradley says, a frown etching itself into his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” You’re shaking your head quickly, vehemently. “No, Bradley, that’s fine, you don’t need to….”

“I think you should have something, though. I want to give you something,” he interrupts you. “I just don’t know….”

And then he seems to think of something. The epiphany is practically written all over his face, and for a moment, he looks so much younger. Rosy cheeks and all.

Bradley reaches into his wifebeater and pulls his dog tags from beneath the fabric. Before you know what’s happening, he’s tugging the thin silver chain down over your head, moving your hair out of the way carefully. It settles against the skin of your neck, warmed by his body heat.

You stare down at the metal dangling over your dress, the letters of his name etched into it. Bradley Bradshaw.

Your heart seizes.

When you were younger, much younger, you used to dream of this. You used to imagine what being proposed to would feel like, what it would be like. A fancy restaurant, an expensive glass of champagne, and a diamond ring at the bottom of the flute. Something flashy, something extravagant, something beautiful. The man in your fantasy was faceless at first, and then he looked like Robert Pattinson, and then he looked like your first crush, and then he went back to being faceless again.

He never had a mustache. He was never a stranger. Your dreams were never this: Rushed and fake and no ring at all. You, pregnant with somebody else’s baby, and Bradley, marrying you to get assigned to a base of his choosing. None of it real. No True Love, no capital t, no capital l. Not even lowercase. Nothing but madness and guilt and business between you.

And still you want it, want it so bad it swells inside you, pushes against your ribcage with enough pressure to crack bones - you want to be wanted.

You wonder what Bradley dreamed of. Not you, probably. So much younger than him, so naive, so gullible, falling for married men and getting yourself into situations you can’t climb out of yourself. Making him do this when he deserves better, more, deserves something true and real.

It makes you sick to your stomach. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to ask Bradley to hug you again, so you can forget, just for another second, just for another moment.

Instead, you say, voice barely a whisper, “Thank you.”

Bradley shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, and he sounds so genuine you have to avert your eyes. “We’re friends, right?”

Friends. This man you barely know. This man who is doing something unfathomable for you.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Friends.”

And then later, in the bar, as Bradley’s friends discuss some new Star Wars show you haven’t seen, as they order round after round of beer you can’t drink, as the sky goes from pastels to blues to blacks, you’ll pretend you don’t see Natasha staring at the dog tags around your neck, pretend you don’t wish you could hold Bradley’s hand, pretend you don’t feel like you’re falling apart, like you’re capsizing where you sit, like you're kicking water miles and miles and miles below the surface.

Beneath the table, you put a hand on your stomach, fingers spreading out, close your eyes, and let the current drag you under.

part 2

#rooster #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun imagine #mine #f:blph

2K notes · View notes

schoenht · 1 year

Note

Omg sol I just used my braincell hear me out

I'm thinking of Riddle, Azul, and Vil in a royalty au... Do with that information what you will (I am begging on my knees for hcs or anything plsplspls)

characters: vil schoenheit, azul ashengrotto, riddle rosehearts.

genre: royal au, enemies to lovers/belief of unrequited love (vil), childhood friends to lovers/arranged marriage (riddle), masquerade (azul)

a/n: CRACKS KNUCKLES LOUDLY YOU CAME TO THE RIGHT PERSON i say as i desperately hide the tons of royal aus in my drafts in every blog ever (do not mind how long these are, they're like. actual fics almost.) different format bc each one will have its own name and title

warning: fem!reader (main use of "princess", "bride" and she/her for azul's part), banter for vil (its enemies to lovers ofc there's banter)

♡ ━ 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄

In every fairytale, there was always a magical ball where everyone's dreams came true and everyone lived happily ever after, with their true love. But as you stared at the waltzing figures before you, you could only mutter curses under your breath.

As the princess in line for the throne, you had a multitude of royal duties to attend to, none of which should have included you attending the Winter Ball. The duchess was supposed to take your place, yet she decided to mess around and was unable to make it. You stepped in--because you had no other choice. The king had told you that it was either the Ball or going through a few hundred files on the exports of wheat.

At the sight of him, you mentally punched yourself for not choosing the files. He was beautiful, like sunlight reflecting on freshly fallen snow. He was elegant, carrying himself with a grace unmatched by anyone. The air around him seemed to freeze, causing him to glow. It was said that a single teardrop from his eye could make even the most wilted flowers bloom to life. There were myths about how if you looked into his eyes, you would melt from his amethyst-colored eyes, more radiant than the sun itself.

More like be paralyzed, Medusa could never, you told yourself as you stared at Vil Schoenheit, next in line to be king. He had been your enemy since you were toddlers. He had pushed you out of the way so he could ride a tricycle before you and you kicked sand at him. Granted, you were the one that got in major trouble for that but the moment of satisfaction was worth it. But that wasn't the last time you two crashed heads.

It became worse over the years. You thought he was pretentious, he thought you were overconfident. You always hated how he would constantly look down on you and he loathed how you would act like the complete opposite of a princess. In classes, you were always the one that defeated him in tons of tests, until it came to hands-on projects. Whether your professors loved to see the two of you fight, you'd never know. But they always put you two together for projects and the class had always been on edge, waiting for something to explode, maybe even one of you. Luckily, that never happened but you were close to dropping a potion on his hair and he was close to purposefully throwing his grade if it meant you'd fall too.

It had been years since that era. You were too busy completing all the duties necessary for a princess. Your hatred for him was simmering back up, a trained instinct. With your arms crossed, you watched as he walked through the room, graciously dodging the massive fanclub he got. His head lifted and his eyes locked with yours. That was the first time you had ever seen him genuinely off guard. You waited for a glare or something to let you know he hated you.

Nothing.

That was worse. You stood there, dumbfounded. You shook it off, thinking that it was better like that. He would leave you alone and you'd leave him alone. That was exactly how you liked it. Or so you thought. However, when you looked back at all those years without him, you always felt a pang in your chest, inexplicable. It didn't matter. You were nothing compared to him, and he made that clear. You didn't care.

Meanwhile, Vil was being escorted to the opposite side of the ballroom. He was curious to find out why you were here but then he remembered that his feelings towards you were not altogether positive. His eyes narrowed faintly before he gracefully accepted the dance invitations from several of his fans. He waltzed through the room with them and it seemed as though they were floating through the crowd from how smoothly they went. Vil was an expert at ballroom dancing, your complete opposite. Last time he remembered seeing you try to ballroom dance, you stepped on your partner's feet. He could recall going home and bursting out into manic laughter. The look on your face had been...quite endearing. He shook his head again, pushing away those thoughts. Why did they exist in the first place? He shouldn't have been thinking about you at all.

You took a glass of apple cider from one of the waiters passing by, sipping it. The taste was sweet but just enough to be pleasant. You tried to appear bored, but your eyes followed Vil as he danced with everyone who pleaded to have the honor of his presence bestowed on them. With a scoff coming out of you, you sat down, toying with the shiny utensils.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Perhaps I'll do you a favor and keep you company, maybe my radiance can help you go from...a disaster to something slightly decent."

You groaned at hearing his voice. He was too flawless as you stared up at him. He matured from the last time you saw him. His blond hair was longer, purple tips at the end. His eyelids were intricately painted and his clothes were nothing less than expensive. He looked the part of the prince, especially how he held himself. In comparison to you, you knew that he had practiced beforehand, aware of the event. You snorted, rolling your eyes at him. "I think that the pigs' company is much better than yours. At least they are self aware."

"Are they? I'm quite sure they do not care, as long as they get scraps."

"What do you want, Vil?"

Vil wasn't sure. He stared down at you, believing that he came over just to tease you. However the sight of you was a comfort to him, so much so that he could not help but be drawn to you. You were his sole constant, the one to bring him to reality. Everyone else wanted desperately to be seen with him, yet you did everything in your power to not be seen with him. He should have hated that fact, he should have.

Then why did his heart pound whenever you glared at him? Why did the anger in your eyes make him weak at the knees? Why in the world did he find himself dizzy at the sight of you?

He shook his head. He was acting like an idiot. "Come. Let us dance."

"Hell no."

"Oh? Then perhaps I'll just claim that I'm the victor of the ballroom--" He was cut off by you taking his hand unceremoniously and leading him to the center of the ballroom. His hand was on your hip delicately, the other one holding yours. It was such a small detail, but you noticed that his nails were painted the exact shade as yours. That idea was preposterous since the nail polish was extraordinarily rare to find and a hassle to obtain.

Vil was looking at you with an expression you couldn't place. You gritted your teeth, hating the way he looked at you and mostly, hating the way your heart was racing. You knew everyone was watching, you knew that his fanclub was seething since they all knew how much you loathed the man. Making eye contact was your worst mistake. You could feel your breath stop short. Then, with agony, you realized that you didn't harbor hatred for him. No, quite the opposite really. You had had feelings for him for the longest time. You didn't know how it happened, but you knew when it did.

There was no way you'd tell him.

You let go of him, your eyes wide, matching his in shock. "I...I need to go."

Vil watched as you left, the sounds of your footsteps becoming fainter. He felt you physically and mentally withdrawing from him. He now knew what feeling helpless was like. He knew what it felt like to not be loved in the same way. His fist was clenched and he murmured pardons as he moved to the balcony, staring at the moon as if it would give him answers.

Instead, he was faced with a fact: the only person he had ever loved had never loved him and it would remain that way. He could never be loved.

♡ ━ 𝐒𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

A knight, descendant of a noble family and serving as the most prestigious graduated scholar of the royal academy, you were a force to be reckoned with. You had been the master strategist from a young age and the people fully looked up to you. Even when you were little, you were taught how to do several difficult subjects. But you didn't want to be a scholar. You had been taught by the general (who was your babysitter at the time) how to spar. He would constantly have you spar with him.

Little Azul could remember these moments with clarity. At the sound of murmurs of another sparring session, his little chubby legs would lead him straight to you to watch what was going to happen. He would cry out when you were tossed to the floor like a ragdoll but you sprang up, a new determination on your face. He recalled how he would carry a first aid kit around with him constantly, pressing bandaids to your knees when you scraped them.

There was one time where you were the one that took care of him instead. He had fallen off of your horse and he was holding back tears. You carefully wiped his injury and placed a bandaid over it. Then you pressed a kiss to his knee. "My mom says that can help speed up the healing process!"

Azul knew that was a lie, but he didn't say anything. He was too flustered.

The years passed by and he became smarter, more knowledgeable in several fields. You became stronger and more graceful in your fights. During the annual tournaments amongst the knights, you had risen to the top quickly. His eyes were focused on you as you skillfully wielded your sword against your opponents. At the end of your final battle, every year without fail, you would look at him and wink, a secret message between the two of you. As you grew older though, he came to anticipate it and each time, he would feel his face get red.

It was worse when his own bodyguards noticed. He was working on the exports of wheat when Floyd Leech came in, a smug smile on his face as he put down an invitation. "Boss, you've got an invitation! Well, this is a first draft but the palace is going to have a masquerade ball!"

Azul raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't have time for such ordeals, I have too much work to do." In truth, he hated those events because it meant mingling with other royals who were stuffy and stuck up. They all talked about the same things or drama going on amongst them. Granted, when he met up with you, he always heard gossip from you but it was different. It was you.

Jade Leech came up right next to his twin brother. "But, Your Highness, this is the event that everyone is invited to. Including the knights." His voice was subtly suggestive, a smile on his face.

Azul's glasses almost fell off from how flustered he was. His face was red as he looked up at the twins. "What are you insinuating?"

"Oh, nothing, unless you count how down bad horrendous you are for the captain!" Floyd was cackling. "Boss, everyone sees it. She could be walking across the gardens and your eyes are on her like a moth to light. It's so cute, awwww, you're in love!"

"H-How dare you imply such a ridiculous notion?" He stood up suddenly, his papers all flying to the floor in a scrambled mess.

Jade snickered. "It's not ridiculous, Your Highness. You have known each other since you were little. But, oh dear, there have been talks going around of other knights wanting to ask her to the ball. Dear me, what would happen if you didn't ask her beforehand?"

"Ooh, maybe I'll ask her! I can show her my fresh moves!" Floyd chimed in.

Azul sighed, his fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Your job now is to ensure no one asks her before me. It's been a while since I've seen her. Hopefully, she will say yes."

But it seemed like each time he saw you, his nerves got to him. Had you always been this beautiful? He knew the answer to that already. Just the sight of you rough-housing with the other knights made his heart flutter, knowing full well that you were the one protecting him and never vice versa. You were the one with a strong will. It was his turn. He took a deep breath and went up to you. "Y/N, may I speak with you? In private?"

The other knights nudged you and you shoved them before following Azul. "What's up?"

His face was a vibrant red. "W-Will you go to the ball with me? It's okay if you don't want to, but I trust you and there's no one else I'd want to go with and--" This was a common thing that you learned about Azul through your years of friendship: when he was nervous, he would keep rambling unless stopped.

"Of course!" You were smiling. "I'd love to. What color are you wearing?"

"Um...purple."

"Okay, I'll wear that. I'll see you then!"

Even the day of, he was still surprised that he managed to ask you and much less have you at his side. You looked simply divine. In his mind, he was only thinking of how neither the moon nor the stars could hold a candle to your beauty. He wasn't aware that he had said all of that out loud and your face was burning. He, on the other hand, was more embarrassed than anything until you told him that it was cute. He was thankful that the mask over his eyes partly covered how his eyes shifted everywhere but at you.

One of the things that Azul had not learned was ballroom dancing. He never thought that he'd need it. He was sitting at the table, watching as Floyd danced with you. Jade sat next to him, an amused expression on his face. "Your Highness, if you keep avoiding the dances, someone might steal her away. Floyd is very close to doing that."

"Jade, I can't dance. What was I thinking?!" Azul buried his face in his hands. "If I can't dance, how am I supposed to spend my time with them?"

"Just go for it. Maybe your confidence will take over. Besides, she's your best friend. She will not judge you."

Azul took a deep breath, standing up and going over to you. A slow song had come on and you were laughing at a joke Floyd had made. Azul asked, "Floyd, may I steal her from you?" It wasn't a question and Floyd knew it. He was grinning as he skipped away, allowing you to fall into Azul's arms. He cleared his throat. "My lady, may I have this dance?"

You bowed slightly. "It would be my pleasure."

His hand was on your hip and the other clasping yours gently. It should have been an incredibly romantic moment if it wasn't for the fact that he was constantly stepping on your feet and looking anywhere but at you. You raised an eyebrow at him. "Didn't you say you would have this dance? So then why am I leading?"

"Human legs are stupid and built stupid."

"Okay, why can Floyd do it?"

"Because he is abnormal."

You laughed before twirling him. "You act like a prince who is untouchable, but let's be honest, when it comes to things like this, you cannot handle it, can you? So then, why did you ask me to this dance if you can't dance?"

He took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Do you remember the times we used to dance together when we were little? Well, I thought that...now that we're older, we could have a more romantic version of that, one where I was able to twirl you around and have you fall in love with me. Maybe I could be cool and dip you, take your breath away. But it seems that you are the one that has easily taken my breath away. If you do not feel the same way--"

You kissed the corner of his lips, effectively causing his brain to malfunction as he turned to you. "For someone as smart as you, you are so stupid sometimes, Azul. I said yes because I like you too."

"So...if you return my feelings, we can come to an equal agreement."

You rolled your eyes and dipped him instead. "Stop being so logical for once, Your Highness. Enjoy the moment instead."

And he did. He knew that he was stumbling several times, but he did not care. He heard your light laughter each time and it made his heart swell. As he twirled you under his hand, he found himself falling further for you. Perhaps you were his protector, but you were the one to easily tear down his walls and make him feel vulnerable. But he trusted you. His heart was in your hands and as he tugged you in for a gentle kiss, he told himself that he would never hesitate when it came to you. As long as it meant that he could have you in his arms, he would do absolutely anything for you. He would sacrifice it all if it meant that you stayed at his side.

Perhaps you were not a princess or even a royal. You were only a knight but at the sight of you leaning against the balcony under the night sky, he could not help but think that you were more beautiful than every queen and princess in history. And now you were all his.

BONUS:

Floyd collapsed next to Jade, groaning. "Damn it, Jade, why did you give him that speech?! If you gave me five more minutes--"

"You lost the bet fair and square, my dear brother."

"I didn't think Shrimpy had it in her!"

"She's a knight and the master strategist. He is a flustered, rambling mess of a prince who turns red at the thought of her. Did you seriously think that he would be the suave one and dip her? Or even kiss her?"

Floyd grumbled as he handed the money over. "Look at them now. He's staring at her with this stupid look on his face, ew."

"That's called love, Floyd. Someday you'll find it, as long as you can tie your shoes properly."

♡ ━ 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒

Riddle's childhood memories served of only you. He eradicated all other negative thoughts of his childhood, only thinking about you. As the Crown Prince, he was trained to be the cream of the crop, only the best to impress his mother, the Queen. There was no other way to describe his past than torture. However, you served as a beacon of light and hope for him.

He could recall how often you would sneak him out. You were the Crown Princess but discarded that title in your mannerisms. He had heard from his mother that you were nothing but an "insolent buffoon who had nothing better to do than make everyone's lives miserable". At first, he believed that you were a demon, horns, tails, and all. But once he met you, the image fell apart.

You introduced him to multiple new activities that he had never tried. Outside of books, ink, and the endless pursuit of mind-numbing knowledge, he had no hobbies and much less, any friends. He was a quiet child, yet he went along with your schemes without thinking twice. Without you, he never would have discovered the magical world of sweets. His cheeks turned pink at the sugary delight, taking in all the flavors that he never got to savor before. He notably loved the strawberry tart that the baker would make for you and you would share with Riddle.

You were a reckless child, one that wasn't afraid to be roughed up. He was your complete opposite. He worried for you more often than not. After you had taken a particularly nasty fall, little Riddle started carrying around a tiny first aid kit with him. He was always prepared when you got hurt, carefully wiping away the dirt and putting on a cute pink bandaid on it.

It came as no surprise to either of you that Riddle got caught sneaking out to play with you. He was forbidden from seeing you, his mother, the queen, looking down at you in disgust. You merely frowned at her and looked at Riddle, whose head was hung in disappointment at losing his only friend. That didn't stop you. One night, you had snuck out of your own palace, your guards right behind you. You found a footing on the side of his palace, knocking at the window. When he opened his window, there was no end of shock on his face. He could not believe that you snuck in just to see him. And so, that is how you two would continue playing together, behind closed doors and hushed voices.

For years, this continued. You had found a way to interact with him, albeit having more royal duties placed on both of you. The royal birds were trained to send letters and as you grew, so did the amount of letters sent. His handwriting brought you a source of happiness that you could not retain from anything else. He constantly looked forward to your letters, the curve of every letter reminding him of your smile.

He didn't know when he started falling. Had your laugh always been this bright? Had your smile always been this kind? Had your eyes always sparkled? Most of all, why did his heart beat faster and louder in his ears? He couldn't understand and although he told you everything, this was the one thing he refused to tell you about. He did not want to know if you did not like him back, else he'd risk ruining your friendship.

But to his joy, you were the one that expressed your feelings first. You were afraid, yet he was ecstatic, accepting your feelings. From that moment on, you were almost inseparable. His thoughts would wander towards you. It did not matter what his mother had him do, his mind gave into the lovesick notions of the date you'd go on later that day. His music classes saw an increase of improvement and even his mother was astonished. He was not surprised, knowing full well that he saw your soft smile every time he played the piano.

On a night when he had snuck out to meet you under a blue moon with the sky full of stars, he realized that he was completely in love with you. He knew of many subjects, an expert in many of them. But it was at your touch that he turned into a flustered mess, not knowing what to do next. It was that very night too that you had shared your first kiss. He was taken aback, and the next thing he knew, his eyes were closed, holding you closer. The night was cold, yet he had never felt warmer that in your arms. Afterwards, he had been nervous, thinking that he was too eager at the moment. You had laughed and pressed a kiss to his head. "You keep overthinking, my pretty boy. It was nice."

"Are you sure? Or are you saying that to make me feel better? I just--I don't want to--" His face was cherry red, ready to go into a ramble out of fear that he was doing something wrong in the relationship, that he wasn't what you wanted. You merely kissed him once more and his mind slowed down to the point where he couldn't think of anyone else, only you. From that moment on, Riddle knew that you were the only one who could make his heart weak and make him ignore all the rules, if it meant having one more second with you.

The life of ecstasy came crashing down around him when a month later, his mother had revealed that he was going to be in an arranged marriage. Riddle's heart sank, knowing that his mother put him with someone he didn't love and wouldn't love like he loved you. "Who is it, Mother?"

"You shall see. The wedding will be in a week."

"A week?!"

"Do not worry, son, for this will help our queendom." His mother gently patted his cheek as she walked away. "My son will be married, this is the happiest day of my life!"

Riddle felt anything but happy. He had run out, switching the tables and snuck into your room to see you. His eyes were full of tears and you rushed to see him. You didn't even ask any questions, you were only worried about him crying. He buried his face in your shoulder, crying harder as he realized that he would not be able to feel your warmth anymore. Whoever he'd be married to, he didn't want them. He only wanted you. "I'm in an arranged marriage. I-I don't know who it is, I don't want to get married to a stranger!"

You had to swallow your own sobs. You were in his same situation, sold off to a stranger who you would never love. "Shh, Riddle...breathe...it'll be okay..."

"Run away with me." His voice was hushed. "Please. We can run away somewhere else, together."

"Riddle...I can't. I'm next in line for the throne. If I leave now, a tyrant will take over." You moved back and cupped his face, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. "I have a plan. You just have to go through with it, okay? Do you trust me?"

His eyes may have been full of sadness but there was a clear glint that stated how much he trusted you. He nodded. "I trust you. More than anyone."

With a kiss to his forehead, you told him the plan. A week later, both of you were suffering, on different sides of the venue. You still didn't know who you were getting married to and you were angry that you couldn't at least be at Riddle's wedding. Somehow your own wedding landed on his. But you had sent a warning to your future husband, stating that you would make his life a living hell the second the ring was on your finger.

Riddle was standing at the altar, his head facing his shoes. He knew you wouldn't be able to make it and he wouldn't be able to go to your wedding. How unfortunate that you would both be separated--he heard the song chosen for his future wife to walk down the aisle. When he looked up, he saw the most beautiful white dress he had ever seen in his life. But above all, even he couldn't hide how stunned he was at seeing you in the dress.

You were looking at Riddle like he was a mirage. No matter how many times you practiced your walk, you could not stop yourself from practically almost flying down the aisle. You needed answers. You were at the altar with him, both of you having matching surprised expressions. The minister put a cloth over the both of you so you would be able to share your vows in secret. Instead, Riddle asked, "You're my bride?"

"I-I guess? What is going on?"

Riddle closed his eyes, trying to stifle a giggle. "You're the only eligible princess of the most powerful empires. Since you were available..."

"Oh, that makes so much sense. Hmm, I know this might be too fast but we might as well go along with it, don't you think?" Your smile was bright and he could feel a glow inside of him.

The cloth was taken off of both of you and the minister continued, asking you if you took him as your husband. You did not hesitate in responding yes. Then he turned to Riddle. "Do you take Y/N L/N to be your wedded wife, to live together in marriage?"

Riddle turned to you, his hands holding yours tightly. "I do."

"Then I now pronounce you to be husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride--"

But you hadn't hesitated. The minister didn't finish his words before you literally dipped Riddle and kissed him. The crowd was cheering, roaring in joy. None of them could compare to the happiness that the two of you had felt. Even in the carriage, you two felt as though you were on top of the world. His head was on your shoulder and he could not stop smiling. "We are now married. I didn't think I'd get married this early."

"I think they really pushed it on us. Maybe...in the future when we decide on our own, we can do it all over again. We can get married again."

He looked up at you with an adoration that was unmatched. "Of course." The bouquet of roses in your hands caught his eye. "Are those the roses I gave you twelve years ago?"

"Mhm, I put a preservation spell on them. A rose for each year we've known each other."

He couldn't begin to say how happy he was. All he could do was hold your hand, squeezing it and hoping his declaration of love would get to you, albeit silently.

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #vil x reader #azul x reader #riddle x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #vil x mc #azul x mc #riddle x mc #vil schoenheit x mc #azul ashengrotto x mc #riddle rosehearts x mc

427 notes · View notes