#that shit should have been the blueprint | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Kazakhstan’s Minister of Communications and Informatics has blocked the Tumblr site because it contained 60 sites of terrorism, extremism, and pornography in 2015.

#that shit should have been the blueprint

irisintheafterglow · 27 days

Text

but who wants to live forever, babe?

summary: you're too sweet for dabi.

wc: 1.45k

cw/tags: gn!reader but dabi calls them pretty, swearing, brief reference to blood and injury, pet names (doll, baby, pretty), dialogue driven, emotionally constipated touya todoroki

note: this is very shamelessly written because of hozier lol. hope you like it :)

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated <3

You were irritating, excessively irritating.

You woke up too early to watch the sunrise and stayed out too late to see constellations. You lingered in flower shops to touch the prettiest blooms and gave the last of your coins to street musicians. You were the first to suggest the tastiest food around and always volunteered to pay for everyone’s meals, no matter how large the group. You were thoughtful, selfless, and frustratingly kind. He wouldn’t have as much of a problem with it if you weren’t the deadliest killer-for-hire in Musutafu’s criminal underground.

“You’re too nice,” Dabi says one night after a period of calm silence following the chaos of him crashing through your window and bleeding all over your floor. You glance at him from your spot on the windowsill, peering carefully over the construction blueprints for the following day’s assignment. He sits up with a groan, his hand grabbing the the spot on his abdomen you’d stitched up a few hours prior. “It’s infuriating.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice, you know,” you deadpan and he scoffs, wincing when pain shoots across his side. “Had it been anyone else who broke into my apartment, I’d have to deal with a fully dead body instead of a semi-dead one.”

“That’s exactly my point,” he argues, straining his arm to grab the cup of water on the side table. Before he can get a good grip on it, you stand and snatch it from his fingers, holding it enticingly with a hand propped on your hip. “C’mon, doll. Now, you’re just being mean.”

“I’m being nicer than you are,” you counter with an iron grip around the cup. “Calling me infuriating after I just saved your barbecued ass from dying. Didn’t your mom ever teach you manners?”

“My mom didn’t teach me jack shit,” he reminds you, making another futile swipe for the water that you easily pull away. “What do you want me to do, take it back?” You shake your head with a tired sigh, finally handing him the cup. “I’m not taking it back,” he mumbles as you sit on the edge of the bed. Against his better judgment, he doesn’t immediately flinch away when you reach out to check his bandages, your fingers brushing delicately across his skin.

“I know you aren’t,” you murmur absentmindedly.

“Aren’t you gonna ask why?”

“Why should I? It’s not like you’re going to tell me why you hate me,” you concede and a muscle in his jaw tenses.

“Stop being a brat and just ask.” You resist the urge to jab your pointer finger straight into his stab wound but settle for pulling back your hand from his body, leaving him craving your touch no matter how his logic told him to resist. He has half the mind to reach out and grab your hand, part of him ready to beg you to just stay with him. But, when his palm covers the top of your hand, it sits there awkwardly until he clenches it into a fist and pulls away. He tries another tactic. “Look, all I’m saying is you shouldn’t open your window for every stranger that crawls up your fire escape.”

“But you’re not a stranger, as much as I wish you were one.” You return to your papers at the windowsill and he’s alone in the bed again.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “Tell me you’re lying.” His voice is almost too quiet for you to hear it break. Almost.

“No,” you admit. “Of course, I don’t mean it.” You were looking at him too softly, too tenderly. Taking him in, stitching him up, and letting him rest while you kept watch was infintely more than what he deserved, especially after banging on your window and immediately passing out when you opened it. “Tell me you don’t mean what you said.”

“I do, though.” You nod and he watches your walls go up in real-time, closing yourself up so his words, good or bad, can’t get through. A million thoughts of panic race through every nerve in his body and only one command makes its way through: Fix it.

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” Your blank expression becomes a frown and you look ready to kick him out onto the streets, or at least reopen his wound. “Let me explain first before you beat the shit out of me.”

“You have thirty seconds.”

“I think you’re too good for me,” he declares simply. He can’t see his truth make your heart stutter. “I think you’re too good for this life in general, and I think you should get out of it.” You scoff humorlessly, rolling your eyes to the side.

“Because you hate me?”

“Because I don’t,” he corrects. You dare to meet his eye and feel your breath catch in your throat. His eyes are shining bluer than you’d ever seen them before, the scarce moonlight leaking through your window catching in his eyes just right. They’re scorching, hotter and more intense than anything his Quirk could create. “I should, but by some cruel twist of Fate, there are no words for how desperate I feel when I’m not with you, however much I despise that feeling.” In any other circumstance, you wouldn’t be able to waterboard this information out of him; yet here he was, bitterly lovesick and scowling as he told you that he’d rather burn alive than hate you. You fail to stifle a laugh and his scowl deepens. “You laughing at me?”

“A little bit, yeah,” you confess, standing to check his temperature with a hand on his forehead. It’s scathing hot and you suddenly notice the shivers he was trying to conceal. “You must be delirious if you’re admitting this all out loud, and you’re probably going to start burning up if you continue talking.”

“I’m not delirious,” he grumbles. “And it’s normal for me to get like this when I… overdo it on missions.” Your mouth opens in understanding and he lets you touch his forehead once more to confirm the fever. “I figured you’d know this by now after all the times you’ve had to fix me.”

“Forgive me for thinking that you were becoming ill because you were forced to say one nice thing about me,” you say with a smirk, grabbing a small towel and heading to the bathroom. His voice calls after you while you turn on the cold water.

“There you go again with your stupid sweet-talking sarcasm. You can at least acknowledge what I just confessed to you.” You chuckle again and re-approach him at the bed, draping the wet towel over his forehead and gently pushing him back onto the pillow. “You’re doing it again.” You make a split-second decision to mess with him, just for the hell of it.

“Doing what, baby?” The petname disarms him and he blinks at you once, then twice before regaining consciousness.

“Being too sweet for me,” he manages to force out and you let yourself smile at his obvious blush. You flip over the cloth to the cooler side and he sighs, closing his eyes in contentment. “You don’t do this with everyone, do you?”

“No, Touya,” you answer patiently and something in his chest tightens at the use of his true name. He’d forgotten he told you his true identity, most likely a result of a circumstance similar to the one you were in where he was too tired and weak to think clearly. “You are the only one I will take care of and allow to barge through my window at three in the morning. Not because I’m ‘too sweet,’ like you say, but because I care about you. Got it?”

“Mmm. Yeah,” he rasps. “Thanks, doll. You mind getting in here with me? I’ll sleep better if–”

“You don’t even need to ask,” you finish, slipping under the covers and settling against his chest. “Just stop being an asshole for a second.”

“Hey, careful on the–”

“I’m aware of your wound, stupid,” you interject. “I’m the one who fixed it, remember?”

“Right. Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, his lips brushing the top of your forehead. The tension in his body gradually dissipates the longer your skin is against his. “Can we sleep now?”

“If you shut up for long enough, yeah,” you joke and he lightly pinches your side.

“I finally get in bed with you and you’re not so sweet anymore.” You snort against his chest. “What happened?”

“I think we both have a lot to learn about each other. For now, please shut up and sleep.”

“As you wish, pretty.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#dabi x you #dabi x reader #dabi x y/n #touya x you #touya x reader #touya x y/n #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x y/n #touya todoroki x reader #mha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n

384 notes · View notes

returnsandreturns · 7 months

Text

“You’re reading an awful lot,” Muriel observes, sitting on the stairs and watching Crowley sprawled out in an armchair with a paperback in one hand, held in a way that would infuriate Aziraphale. It’s a small joy, breaking in a spine, dog-earing a page, thinking about leaving notes in margins but wondering if it’s too far. He can’t wreak that much havoc with the possibility of having the glorious Archangel Aziraphale within close smiting range.

“I’m trying to figure something out,” Crowley murmurs.

“What’s that?”

“. . .stories,” he says, vaguely, after a long moment of staring at the ceiling trying to reign his thoughts in. “Beginnings, middles, endings. You know.”

“I do know!” Muriel says, happily. “Do you know how many books I’ve read?”

“Five hundred and thirty two,” Crowley says, dutifully. “It’s impressive. Gold star.”

“Thank you,” they say, getting up to go over and perch on the arm of his chair, reading over his shoulder. “What do you want to find out?”

“How somebody who reads so many goddamn books,” Crowley says, clenching his fingers a little too intensely considering the book is still in them, “could pick such an objectively bad ending.”

Muriel looks at him with wide eyes for a second before they say, sighing, “Oh, this is about Aziraphale again.”

“. . .no,” Crowley says, scowling at them.

They pat him gently on the back before getting up and walking over to a shelf to immediately grab a book. Muriel has been reorganizing the whole shelf based on their own system which is, frankly, ineffable. Aziraphale will love it.

“Read this one,” they say. “Trust me. Actually, wait--"

They return the book carefully to its place and come back with a paperback instead.

"That was a first edition," they says. "Based on how you're treating that book, I think maybe we should stick with replaceable things."

He's accidentally set a few books on fire but has immediately either fixed them or taken the ashes an hour out of town to dispose of them, just in case. Can't be too sure.

"Oh, god, Jane Austen," he groans, sliding so low in his chair that he's almost on the floor.

"Pride and Prejudice," Muriel says, brightly. "I know I'm not the most astute with emotions and the more human stuff that the two of you were up to but I think it's actually rather silly you didn't start with this one. It was the blueprint, wasn't it?"

"For what?"

"For you," they say. "The story it should have been. With the ball? And the dancing? And your grumpiness comes into play. It all adds up, really."

Crowley flips open the book then freezes.

"Holy shit," he says, softly.

"What?" Muriel asks.

"He wrote in it," Crowley says.

#good omens #my fic #aziracrow #ineffable husbands

868 notes · View notes

ronearoundblindly · 24 days

Note

Ari- Baby is sick for the first time

Ari Levinson x best friend!reader (now fiancé)

New Parent Panic, a Bedrock and Blueprints tale

Warnings for protective!Ari, Ari not communicating, you doing the same, and then everyone gets their shit together and it's fluff. WC 2k *Off in the distance an ol' timey man pops up: "An argument, you say? You wrote an argument?? How different from your usual!!" Ha-ha. Yeah. We get it. Ro's the same hoe as last year... **I am not a mother. I know what would reasonably be categorized as zilch about babies. I have, however, seen this overwhelmed and guilty behavior from several of my peeps as they raise their youngins, so that's good enough for me. You're doing fine. I promise.

Sure, there was the rather severe diaper rash incident, and the time when nursing her turned your nipples into raw portals for a newly-discovered circle of hell, but nothing could have prepared you for this day.

Rachel was...meh this morning when Ari left for work. A little whiny, not sleeping well, but she's an infant; that's not new. Overall, she's actually been a very straight-forward baby.

And then you don't know what happened.

You napped very hard until noon (after only a moderately successful feeding) and by then Rach had a fever.

You called the nurses' hotline. You gave her the dose of baby meds. You're trying to keep her hydrated, at least, if she can't be happy right now. You just have to stay vigilant and wait it out.

But that's not easy.

She's crying and won't sleep, she'll barely eat, and you don't have a separate car. You only want to call Ari if it's to say "we need to take her to a doctor." You're not there yet.

So you do the shittiest feeling thing you can think of, the most painful thing, and you wait.

You don't sleep. You barely eat. You take Rachel's temperature like you are monitoring the possible meltdown of a nuclear reactor. One wiggle of a degree in the wrong direction, and that Bat Signal is going on.

I can do this, you tell yourself. I've wanted to be a mom for a long time, so I can do this.

Except you don't sleep and barely eat.

Ari arrives home precisely when he said he would, the exact number of minutes (after work shuts down for the day) that it takes to drive to the house, predictable, dependable, and utterly useless when he opens the door and asks "why is she crying?"

"Because she hates me," you blubber, holding her to your chest, arms cramped from cradling her for so many hours at this point.

"She need meds?"

Of course, I gave her the fucking meds.

"Hungry?"

No, asshole, I purposefully starved your fucking child for my own amusement.

"Calm down," Ari snips back. "I'm just trying to help."

Well then fucking help me!

By now, you likely look as if you're in a war zone: disheveled, manic, and possibly--definitely--hostile.

"Okay, okay, let me just take a piss and then I'll hold her."

"Yeah, of course. Whatever you want. Whatever you need." You turn your back to him before grumbling, "not like I haven't had to hold it all afternoon..."

Ari's still-booted feet land heavily beside you again. "Then I'll take her now," he grits through clenched teeth, "and you can use the bathroom."

"No. I already have her."

"Fine. I'll be right back."

"Take your time."

The way you lace the words with a sickly sweet melody has Ari spinning on a heel and staring at you through his long eyelashes, a tick in his jaw stopping him from saying something he might regret.

"Kid," he finally sighs, "just tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it."

He runs a hand over his beard while he waits for your answer. A few seconds later, his hip juts out, arms akimbo, and he bites his bottom lip expectantly.

You just walk off toward your phone on the kitchen counter and call the nurse hotline back.

"I swear, woman," he mutters as you leave, but you're glad he can't hear you sniffle back a sob.

It should be reassuring that the nurse has no new advice for what to do. You're doing everything correctly. You're doing all you can. Don't worry. Keep checking her temp and giving her whatever fluids she'll take. That's all for now.

It doesn't feel like enough. It doesn't feel like all a mother can do.

Ari? Ari waltzes up to the fridge and cracks himself open a beer.

You don't even have words, only flaming hot vibes that will melt his face like a Spielberg movie--you have got to stop watching movie marathons during late-night breast-feeding--if you stare hard enough at his casual blue gaze.

"So," he begins, "you figure out what I gotta do?"

What had been steady whimpering from Rachel has amplified into wails that bring tears to both hers and your eyes.

They just fall down your cheeks, and you wipe them from your chin before they can fall onto your screaming child.

Ari's judging frown makes your stomach turn while he steps closer, bends at the knees, and takes his little girl in hand.

Less than a minute later, Rachel stops, and you just cannot fucking handle it. The only quiet moment you've had in six and a half hours he gets to enjoy moments after coming home.

That's not fair. Cure fucking cancer already, Levinson, and save us the goddamn grief!

The tears and the tired are choking you.

Ari tells you to go freshen up in the bathroom, but that is the most horribly wrong way to say anything to you, ever, in a moment like this.

You stomp out the front door, rip open the sliding back door of the SUV, and crawl onto the cab floor. Once the latch clicks behind you, face buried in the blanket kept on Rachel's car seat, you scream.

You whimper and you cry and you get your fucking time to be angry at all your feelings today because it's bullshit.

You didn't take your own temperature. You didn't get rest and drink plenty of fluids. You didn't take any medicine. All you keep going over in your mind is whether or not you were sick first. Did you have something you gave to your daughter? Is this your fault?

So the tears and the choking continue for...as long as they take.

You don't know how much time has passed before the car door is yanked open again. Thank the stars you are facing away. You can't look at Ari right now.

"Is she okay?" you ask with a watery voice.

His big, warm hand rubs across your back, making you sink further into the upholstery.

"Took a few ounces of a bottle and went down in her bunk."

Ari likes to call Rachel a part of his 'squad,' so he talks to your infant daughter like they're going on 'missions' to the store or getting a bottle from the 'mess.' Your bedroom has thus become the 'barracks.'

Sometimes, he holds her sitting up against his chest and uses her feet to 'march' the pair of them across the house.

Left. Left. Left right left.

And almost always, there's a giggle, too.

"Up you go, kid," Ari huffs, maneuvering you into his arms.

"No," you whine, so tired you can't tell what it is you don't want.

He just keeps saying, "I know. I know," until he's carried you inside.

Instead of taking you to the couch or the bed, Ari sits you both down in the front hall, balancing you on his lap while he loosens his boot laces and finally kicks the sturdy shoes off, placing them on the mat a couple feet away.

He presses his lips to your temple, rough beard gently scrubbing over your eyelid and cheek.

"How many times I gotta tell ya to call me?" he whispers. He doesn't expect to have this same argument again, not like this, but his point still stands. "You know, you're warm, too."

If it's another question, you don't answer that either. You change the subject.

"Did you take her temp?"

He nods, and the number he tells you is the same as it was thirty minutes ago, or rather, thirty minutes before he came home.

Ari squeezes you tighter. "You want to get into bed, and I'll bring your some juice and meds, huh? Meet you in there?"

"I'm a bad mom," you breathe.

"What?" He pulls away, smacking his head on the wall behind him. "What are you talking about?"

How are there more tears left in your body? You should be nothing but a shriveled husk at this rate.

"Bullshit," he practically seethes. "Don't you ever say that again."

"I shouldn't have--"

"Stop."

"--you were--"

"Stop it," he blurts, firm and serious.

"But I'm the one who wanted this, Ari!" Your most powerful voice only comes out as high whisper. "Me. I wanted kids. This whole time. I bitched about how Joanna's done, and I thought I could just--" you swing an arm out dramatically "--and I suck at it. Rach even likes you better!"

"No, kid. She was exhausted. I only got here at the right time."

"It's 'cause your comfy and you smell good--"

"--not sure about that--"

"--and she loves you," you bemoan.

Ari snorts out a laugh.

"She loves you, too. You're her mom." He tucks you in closer, soothing you with petting hands wherever he can reach. "I love you. So much. So, so much."

He finds your hand and the sapphire ring he put on it, spinning it gently on your finger. He hasn't gotten to make good on his promise. Planning a wedding, even a small one, with a newborn is almost impossible, but that seems to be part of the problem.

Anything to do with you or you two feels selfish when there's three. Guilt grips you when you stop to daydream about your big day because it's not about Rachel. She's the most important thing. She will trump you forever as the single most--

"Can I tell you a secret?" Ari's timbre rattles close to your ear. "You're my favorite."

You slump into his chest until your forehead braces his throat.

"Almost not fair, really," he drawls. "You've got a decade of brownie points, and she's managed to make me buy more pads for her than I've had to for y--"

You pinch at his side harshly, biting back a smile, the salt from dried tears on your lips flooding your mouth.

"Oh! And you can control your bladder for a whole day, which is downright impressive wh--hey now--" Ari scuttles on the floor to evade your attack on his ribs. "I'm just...being...honest," he chuckles.

"You're a jerk is what you are, old man."

He easily grabs both your arms and pins them together in front of him.

"Yeah, but I'm your jerk. Your old man, kid. I'm yours, okay? You are not alone here. You don't have to know how to do everything by yourself." He lowers his voice as well as his face to yours. "And you mean just as much to me as that little girl in there. You hear me?"

There's a different lump of emotion lodged deep in your chest. You only nod because you can't speak.

He makes your foreheads meet.

"Please be okay. I could never do this without you. Any of it..."

That's when you realize what bothers you so much: Ari should need you to raise Rachel, but you never truly acknowledged you might need him to raise her, too.

This enormous weight of clutching every thread of life in your own two hands isn't real. You can share. You are meant to share your life with Ari. Ari is meant to share his life with you. Rachel shares life with you both, as she is meant to share with everyone around her. It's a lesson she has the opportunity to learn a lot younger than you, apparently.

He gets you to drink a whole bottle of water. He brings you some food and medicine while he handles some laundry and cleans out the day's bottles. He leads you with both hands to the bathroom, finally, and then gets you settled in bed.

As you fall asleep, you watch Ari take Rach's temperature again.

He lets out a silent cheer and holds his hand over her.

"High five?" he whispers. "No? It's fine. We'll work on that."

The last thing you see is Ari playfully lifting her from the basinet, sneaking out to the living room to enjoy a movie marathon, just for a little bit, snuggling together while he winds down for the night.

All that matters is she's safe and happy.

That, and of course, waking up in Ari's arms, listening to his slow breathing and Rachel's faster, baby huffs. You can handle anything because you made it through today and you have them.

[Ari's POV for this day]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @rogersbarber @yenzys-lucky-charm

#bedrock and blueprints #ro answers #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson angst #ari levinson fluff

130 notes · View notes

starilian2 · 8 months

Text

Astro observation!!😆

It's been a very long time🥺 and that's why I have so many observations today!!😆

Disclaimer: these are my own observations and I'm not a professional astrologer either so only take what resonates not everything is meant for everybody and also, everyone has their own blueprint, it's just I seen these traits in people who share this and It doesn't mean that you have same traits as well, sometimes you won't, and that's perfectly fine!

Okay so let's get started!!👽

🌕 I seen people with Aries suns that are always ready for being in the spotlight, taking the lead, they never miss an opportunity to get people's attention or just be a leader! They like that everyone has eye on them, and like they're telling everyone what to do, sun is exalted in Aries afterall, but I just meant that the description people use for Leo fits more for Aries sometimes, if you got? Even the shy Aries, even the introvert Aries, will stand up if they got an opportunity to shine, they never hesitate.

🌕 it's possible that if you have moon in 12th house or intercepted, you have so many psychic abilities passed on by your mom, or like so many qualities of her is in you, maybe it's just manifest in other way, not in the way like in your mom's life it was manifested.

🌕 Pisces are the ones who talks a lot, more then Gemini believe me! No matter if it's sun, moon, rising or dominant, they just talk a lot! Idk this should fit in Virgo more because it's ruled by mercury, but I seen Virgos talking in more calculative way, (maybe it's an earth sign that's why?) But Pisces, undeveloped one's will talk shit definitely 😂😂

🌕 dyk that one person who used to start gossips/drama in your high school days? They're prolly leo/Libra/ Aries sun, moon, rising. (Thank me later!!😂)

🌕 if you have so many Saturn energy in your chart, mixed with other aspect, like ik you don't get it, I should give you an eg. So like if you have 7th house stellium in Capricorn/Aquarius it's possible that you'll get mature in relationships rather easily then other peoples, because first of all, relationships will be the major part of your life, then being saturnian there will give you lessons, resulting in being way more mature then your peers in that area, and Saturn is that who gives you lesson in a hard way, so you may probably even be a good relationship adviser if you want to ofc!...

🌕 IMO pisceans looks exactly like this character 👆

🌕 Idk why? Please sorry, if someone feel sad, or something for this, but I seen that sag moon peoples are always in some kind of relationship problems?? There career, studies, and another stuff always goes well, but Idk why they tend to suffer in relationships? Especially men? Idk they have Jupiter ruled moon!! But still? Idk what's the logic behind it?( Someone explain me please!) But I seen that sag moons don't have that great romantic relationships honestly.

I seen 2 men have that being in so many relationships but still didn't find "their one" or like, Ik someone who has sag moon this year in their sr, and they don't have that great relationship with their spouse either idk? What the heck is going on? Is that only me who's seeing it everywhere? Or like?😅😅

Oh oh! I understand! They have lack of patience IMO 😅😂😂 I just get it in my mind! Oh LoL 🤪

🌕I seen so many Scorpio sun/moon/risings who tend to underestimate themselves, like if someone compliment them, they deep-deep down like it, but on their conscious level, they're like "no no, I'm not like that" and like add several reasons that so why your compliment doesn't fit for them 😅🤪😂😂 don't do this, compliments are genuine, especially when it's given by anyone who's close to you, ik it means a lot for you, but try to accept it on a conscious level, it will boost ur confidence as well, and it's nothing wrong in it yk:)

Okay so this much is for today guys! I hope you like it!! 🥰 I really appreciate your time here! Please let me know what you want next!

Thank you very much for being here!!✨

290 notes · View notes

gremlin-bot · 1 year

Text

Sleep Deprivation Should Not Be The Reason Here

This is a prompt fill for this prompt from @stealingyourbones!!

Ao3 link: Here

Tim is fighting his body. The cursed thing needs sleep and he simply doesn't have the time for it. He just needs another day of being awake, he'll have the case closed by then and all the reports wrapped up. Wait, he has that investor meeting scheduled in what would be his recovery time. He can't push that back again.

Tim blinks hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. He has been up for… three, no four days now. He entirely blames the death cult that had entered Gotham. If those bitches had just waited like a week to start shit he would have been fine, but no! Zatanna is off-world and Constantine has a curse on him that won't let him leave the house of mysteries, much less enter Gotham. Luckily, he can still call to get advice from both.

He can feel himself slipping into sleep like he can't fucking do. He snaps his eyes open and grabs for his 9th cup of coffee, only to find it empty.

…

Fuck it! If this is how he has to live right now, he's gonna fucking change it! He can dabble with eldritch beings beyond comprehension too—and do it even better!

The cult wasn't even up to date on what they were trying to summon. Unlike Tim, who just so happens to have gotten his hands on the instructions for the right summoning ritual for the Ghost King and was about to fucking use it.

He gets up from the Batcomputer and heads up to the kitchen to grab the supplies he needs. He was lucky Alfred was out grabbing groceries, otherwise he would have never been able to get anywhere near the older man's kitchen. He takes the leftover Alfredo from the fridge and puts it into a small pot to warm on the stove. All he needs now is to grab silver and gold sharpies, a small candle, and one of the giant rolls of paper he used to draft blueprints. If he was at his apartment he would just draw it on the floor, but he's not risking any more of Alfred's disappointment and wrath today.

He checks on the pasta, seeing that it's warm enough, then he prepares two bowls. If he was making a meal for an occult being he sure as hell was getting some himself.

He puts the food aside and works on drawing the array in silver and gold. After he finished the center of the array he couldn't help but feel that it looked strangely familiar. Not that he has seen this exact array before this whole mess, but by the fact it looks like some type of writing he's seen… Holy fuck it's Gallifreyan. What kind of nerd is the ghost king if they are using Gallifreyan as their summoning array?

He shakes his head. He needs to focus and finish adding the symbols on the outside of the Gallifreyan. He looks back at the instructions to make sure he was copying it correctly when he spots it. The last bit of this array is the First Ones language from She-ra. Tim has decided this is fine, and he just won't think about it.

He was thinking about it.

Why was this summoning like this? No wonder the death cult doesn't have the right fucking summoning. Who in their right mind would think an extradimensional death deity would have their array be made out of fake fucking languages from different TV shows. He has so many questions that he doesn't have time for.

Tim takes a deep breath, clearing his mind the best he can. He just needs to get through this, ignore the fact that whoever set up the summoning ritual is a giant fucking nerd. He reads the next set of instructions. . .

He is going insane, he is fucking sure of it.

The fucking instructions say that the array is in several different languages and that to finish the summoning he needs to translate. He then needs to say it out loud, starting from the outside going in. Looks like he'll need to break out the First One’s translator he has saved on his phone. Luckily, he has Gallifreyan memorized (for the most part).

Tim sets the offering in the middle of the array, placing his own bowl on the floor next to him. He takes a deep breath. The translations weigh heavy on the tip of his tongue, despite how ridiculous all of this is. Now he just has to hold back his giggles.

“Pluto is a planet. Get fucked, losers.'' As the words enter the air the summoning circle grows a lazarus green. After a couple curious moments there's a popping noise, as if someone opened a wine bottle, and there is a figure sitting across from him.

The figure is a humanoid male with short, shaggy white hair that blows in a nonexistent wind. Their long legs are crossed as they hover a few inches from the floor. The clothes weren't too strange, just a black tight fitting jumpsuit with gray accents. It showed off their lean muscles, which Tim shouldn’t be focusing on. He has a deal to make!!

Their burring green eyes gaze around the room before landing on the offered food. Their face lights up with a fanged grin. The other’s excitement was almost contagious as they start eating. Tim follows the other’s lead and dings in himself. God, Alfred’s cooking is so good.

“Oh, fuck yeah!! I was craving alfredo!” They say around a mouth full of food.

“I’m glad it was something you like. I was worried that you’d hate it and this whole thing wouldn’t work,” Tim’s voice seemed to snap the being to full attention.

“Shit. Sorry about getting distracted there. You summoned me?”

“Yeah, I want to make a deal to-”

“Okay wait,” the white haired being interrupted. “Before we get into this I have to place some ground rules.”

“Of course.” Tim expected this, Nothing came without compilation after all.

“Good, first I am allowed to deny any request and or offering. Second, all deals are final once fulfilled. Finally, anything relating to the manipulation of time is off limits. I’m still cleaning up from the last time I did one, and I’d just rather not deal with that,” the other said while gesturing with his hands almost spilling his bowl.

“Is that all?” Tim asked skeptically.

“Yep! You can make your request now.”

“I want to not have to sleep ever again. I need to make myself clear with you on this, I still want to have the ability to sleep but for it to not be something that I need to do to live healthy,” Tim stares the (presumed) ghost in the eyes, waiting for their response.

“Oh, that’ll be no problem, but what will you offer in return?” They stare back at him, burning green into his soul.

Something in Tim knows that the king wouldn’t accept his soul as an offering. After all, they didn’t even ask for any blood in their summoning, why would they want something like that now. He has to think of something different and quick, Alfred should be home soon. He should have moved this out of the kitchen… Wait.

He has an idea.

“How about in return, I take you out to get food? It can be from anywhere you want in the whole world, just give me time to set up reservations.” Tim offers, hoping that’ll work.

“And you’ll be paying,” the other asks with a raised eyebrow and soft grin.

“Of course!”

“Deal!! It’s a date,” Tim blinks a couple times before the meaning of the other’s statement fully hits him

“Oh! Yeah it is. I’m Tim.” He offers out his hand.

“You can call me Danny. To most I'm High King Phantom—but you know that.” Danny banters, taking Tim’s hand.

Their hands are bathed in green flames that warm Tim’s hands pleasantly. The deal has been struck, and Tim can’t help but notice the nervous excitement coming off the other man.

Tim likes him more already.

#dpxdc #danny fenton #tim drake #prompt fill #tim drake x danny fenton #Brain Dead (ship)#ghost king danny #summoning fic #meet cute #Writing on the walls

516 notes · View notes

audhd-author · 9 months

Note

I definitely have an idea! Lab colleagues obviously in love with each finally confessing their love and making love for the first time

Hey Anon!

Thanks so much for your request, I hope you like it. It was my first time writing for Brucey so I really hope I did him justice.

- Audhd Author

--------------------------------------------

Lab Partner

You can't deny, you've had an attraction to Dr Bruce Banner since the day you first met. What you didn't expect was for him to feel the same way.

------------

2,767 words

NSFW (18+)

Soft sex, marking kink, nail scratching, hickeys, fluffy smut, mentions of disordered eating, creampies, nipple play

--------------------------------------------

Pen in your hand, you look blankly down at the hastily jotted notes from the meeting this morning with Tony, Fury, Agent Coulson, and Bruce. No matter how hard you try, you just can't find the motivation to keep your head focused. Your mind couldn’t be further from work at the moment as you glance up at Bruce, who’s resting his chin in his hand as he scrolls through blueprints on the latest tech Tony’s introduced to the lab. Letting out a groan, he removes his glasses, rubbing his face in his hands as he stares mindlessly at the screen, your breathing deepening at the sight. Quickly averting your gaze back to the notes, you sigh, randomly colouring in the corner of the paper as you let your thoughts take you anywhere else.

Unfortunately, that anywhere else happened to be on a random beach at sunset with none other than Bruce. His hand reaches up to cup your face as he leans closer to you, lightly brushing his lips against yours. His other hand wraps around your lower back, pulling you closer to him as your hand entangles itself in the back of his hair. Gently pulling your lower lip between his teeth, he extracts a breathless moan from you. “Y/N.” He breathes, breaking the kiss as you gasp for air.

“Y/N.” He repeats, the sunset quickly returning to the lab as you struggle to figure out where reality is. Looking up, a crimson heat spreads across your cheeks as you see Bruce, standing in front of your desk. “Ah, shit sorry, what?” You apologise, struggling to look at him without your heart beating through your chest. “Are you ok? I said your name like 3 times before you even noticed.” Your eyes widen as you try to avoid his gaze, the blush appearing more prominently over your features. “Yeah, sorry. I was lost in thought. What’s up?” You reply as he grins.

“Don’t blame you, these new designs of Tony’s are a lot. Are you hungry? I was thinking of heading out to get something to eat if you wanted to come- my shout.” He asks, as you gratefully nod, realising you actually can’t remember when you last ate. “Yeah, sounds good.” You respond, grabbing your phone from the desk as you stand up for the first time in hours. The moment your weight transfers onto your legs, you have to grasp at the desk for stability as your body sways dangerously, dizziness crowding your head as a hot flush runs through your veins. Bruce’s hand reaches for the small of your back, keeping you stable as his features convey his concern. “Jesus christ, Y/N. When was the last time you ate?” He asks, worry evident in his eyes as he looks at you. You shake your head as you take a deep breath before standing up straighter. “I honestly don’t remember. I can’t eat too early in the morning and I forgot to eat last night.”

“Fucking hell.” He curses under his breath, his hand not leaving your back as he guides you through the lab. The mere touch of his fingers has your body melting as you walk beside him. “As a scientist, you of all people should know the importance of regular nutrition.” He says as the two of you walk down to the underground carpark. "I do. I just don't realise how long it's been since I've eaten sometimes." You admit, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck as Bruce unlocks his 2012 Acura. Opening the door for you, his hand doesn't leave your back until the last second before he shuts the door, walking around to the driver's side of the car.

"Do you feel like anything or did we just want to drive until we see something?" He asks, turning the key in the ignition as he does. "I honestly don't mind." You hurriedly say, if there was one thing you hated it was making decisions like where to go and what to eat. Simple questions like that when another person is involved, absolutely not. You'd much rather have them choose than choose the outcome yourself. "Alright, well, what do you feel like?"

Damn it, Banner- you. "I'm happy with whatever." You can feel the red hot flush of embarrassment appear over your cheeks as you say this. "Y/N." Bruce says, letting off a singular chuckle. "Bruce." You respond, a slight grin pulling at your lips as you look over at him. "Do we need to add decisions to the list of things you avoid?" He asks and you can't help the chuckle escaping you as he responds. "Only when it involves another person. I'm happy to go along with whatever."

Exhaling deeply, Banner grins as he shakes his head in defeat. "You are a piece of work, Y/N." You find yourself laughing at his words. "Oh always, but you love me for it anyways." You respond, only realising what you said after you said it, a familiar hot blush spreading on your face. "Oh definitely." He grins before dropping his tone out of earshot from you. "How can I not?"

Turning into a small parking lot, a lonesome diner stands at the end. "I come here a lot on my breaks. It's small but the food is delicious." Bruce says, pulling into a parking space near the door. Putting the car in park, he pulls the handbrake as he turns to you. "Right so are you able to get out of the car or do you need help with that?" He laughs, a grin on his face as you send him a feigned look of offence before laughing. "I think I can figure it out." You chuckle, opening the door and stepping out, ready for the light-headed feeling overcoming your head as you shut the door behind you.

Walking inside the quaint little diner, Bruce follows you to a corner booth, sitting opposite you as he passes you the menu from the centrepiece. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the Chicken Bacon burger combo, your stomach rumbling at the sight as your hunger finally begins to catch up to you. A young waiter comes to the table, a friendly smile on his face as he does. "Hey Bruce, what can I get for you today?" Bruce gives him a small smile before responding. "Just the usual thanks Alex." He says before looking over at you. "And a Chicken Bacon Burger combo with coke, thanks." You say, hoping the order isn't too expensive. "Sweet, two chicken bacon burger combos. It'll be ready shortly." Alex says before disappearing into the kitchen.

A silent sigh of relief escapes you upon hearing Bruce got the same as he chuckles at the coincidence. "So what inspired you to get into the sciences?" He asks, trying to spark up conversation. A reminiscent smile pulls at your lips as you respond. "My father. He was an esteemed scientist, like you, he got exposed to gamma radiation, except he didn't survive it. He had pre-existing health issues and the direct contact with the radiation killed him. I was always with him in the lab working with him and the one time I wasn't, he died. I just always sort of blamed myself for it and decided to keep his legacy going." Bruce's face falls further with each sentence, unsure as to how to respond.

"Y/N… I'm so sorry." He says, gently reaching over to squeeze your hand comfortingly. Shaking your head, you give a reassuring smile. "Don't be, he died doing what he loved. Besides, if that accident didn't happen, I probably wouldn't be working as an Avenger, which honestly? The thought of not, is terrifying." Bruce laughs after hearing your response. "Understandable, you're around something so often that it's terrible to imagine not having them- it in your life." He says, a blush appearing over both of your cheeks as the both of you catch his slip-up. "Couldn't have said it better myself." You respond as a chuckle escapes the both of you.

_______

The rest of the day absolutely flew by. Both you and Bruce were in high-spirits for the rest of the day, engaging in playful banter as you worked on the logistics of Tony's new blueprints. Turning the shower off, you pull on a loose V neck T-shirt and a comfy pair of jeans before walking into the lounge, slumping onto the couch in the living room of your quarters in the Avengers facility. Flicking the TV on, you aimlessly scroll through the shared Netflix account, finally deciding on The Hitman's Bodyguard. A knock on the door stops you from relaxing, a soft groan escaping you as you slowly stand up from the couch. Unlocking the door, Bruce stands outside, a sheepish smile on his face. "I hope you don't mind but I brought you some dinner, just to make sure you have something to eat. I can't have my favourite lab partner losing out on nutrition."

A grin pulls at your face, as you pull the door open more, letting Bruce walk in. "You didn't have to." He chuckles at your response. "I know, I wanted to." He replies, as you walk into the kitchen, grabbing a set of utensils each as he pulls out two ramen bowls. "Make yourself at home, did you want a drink or anything?" You call from the other room, as Bruce takes a seat on the couch. "No, I'm ok thanks." He replies as you walk back into the room, taking a seat next to him, folding your knees up as you hand him a fork.

"Thank you. I hadn't even thought about dinner, to be honest I was planning on just watching movies until I pass out from exhaustion like usual." You sheepishly admit as Bruce sends you a look of disapproval. "And a messed up sleep schedule, it's a wonder you even manage to function." He says as you chuckle. "Hey, I can guarantee Tony isn't much better." You grin, pointlessly defending yourself.

"Tony has Pepper. I care about you, I want to make sure that you're ok." Bruce states before taking a bite of his ramen. A familiar heat spreads over your cheeks as you hear his words, choosing to have a mouthful of food before responding. "Is this from a lab partner point of view?" You boldly ask as Bruce pauses, avoiding your gaze. "Decidedly not." He starts, taking a moment before exhaling a shaky breath. "I genuinely care about you, but lately, it seems to be more than just being your lab partner. I like you, in a more than friends way. I understand if you don't and I hope it doesn't ruin our relationship but I can't lie to-." You lean forward, brushing your lips tenderly against his, stopping his panicked rant. Startled, he pauses before leaning towards you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek before breaking the kiss.

A smile pulls at both of your faces as you breathe for air. "I like you too, Bruce." You confirm before he leans forward, pressing his lips more confidently against yours. Tender and sweet, it was everything you imagined it to be. Your heart beats intensely in your chest as his hand comes up to lightly trail over your hip, fingers dancing over your clothed skin. A breathy moan escapes you as he gently nibbles at your lower lip, a groan falling off his lips as he hears you. Ramen abandoned on the coffee table, he pushes you gently backwards, hovering over your body. His hands get more explorational. His fingers lightly dance over the curves of your side, his mouth trailing from your earlobe, down to your collarbone, peppering gentle kisses as he does. Your breathing intensifies, a hot desire burning in your core as he gently bites down on the skin on your shoulder, running his tongue over the teeth indents. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this." He groans, licking up the sensitive skin of your neck as you shiver in pleasure.

"Shall we take this to the bedroom?" He suggests as you nod. Letting you get up, Bruce takes your hand as you lead him into the next room. Turning back to him, you wrap your arms around his neck as his hands grab your hips, pulling your body tight to his as your lips reconnect. Bruce guides you backwards as you feel the edge of the bed behind your legs. He gently pushes you back, crawling over you as you hit the bed. His lips find solace on the skin of your neck, sucking it between his teeth as hues of purple and red blossom behind. His fingers grasp at the hem of your shirt, lifting it up over your head as a groan emits from his throat upon seeing your lack of bra.

His mouth attaches to your nipple, gently sucking it as your back arches towards him. The flattened tip of his tongue gently flicks over the now hardened bud, extracting soft moans from your lips. His knee moves between your legs, pressing against your core. Your heat throbs with desire as he turns his attention to your other nipple, continuing with the same ministrations. His name escapes you in a breathless moan, pleasure throbbing in your core. Hearing his name on your lips extracts a low growl from him as his knee begins grinding over your heat. "Absolutely gorgeous." He murmurs against your skin, the vibrations travelling straight to your core as you feel arousal begin to drip down your thighs.

"Bruce, please I need you." You breathe as he pauses, looking up your body before lunging forward to press his lips firmly against yours. Your hands reach up to undo the white button down he's wearing as he runs his tongue over your lower lip, asking for access which you gladly give him. Shrugging the shirt off his shoulders, his hand reaches down to undo your jeans. Your tongues fight for dominance, working together to extract breathy moans from the both of you. Pulling both your jeans and panties down in one precise movement, a soft groan escapes him upon seeing your body fully exposed to him. Quickly undoing his pants, he positions himself in between your legs as his arms slide under your shoulders. Peppering kisses over your skin, his tip presses at your soaking entrance as your body shivers in pleasure.

Bliss fills your veins as he pushes inside you, a groan falling off his lips as your walls stretch around him. His thrusts are not fast nor slow, his hips setting a perfect pace that sends stars floating through your vision. You can't help the curses falling off your lips in a breathless moan, each buck of his hips makes him rub precisely over your sweet spot, ecstasy flooding your body. Your arms wrap around his back, nails digging into his shoulder as a soft whimper escapes you. "So fucking perfect." He groans against your skin, sucking it between his teeth as his tongue runs over the indents.

You can feel the coil in your stomach tighten with each movement of his hips, Bruce reading your body like his favourite book. Every ministration of his mouth, hands, and hips pushes you closer to the edge, pure bliss filling your veins as your body begins to shake beneath him. His hand reaches down to where your two bodies meet, his fingers expertly dancing over your clit as you fall over the edge. His name escapes you in a pleasured gasp, your back arching closer to him as ecstasy crashes over your body. Stars flood your vision as breathless moans fall off your lips, a hot flush burning through your veins. Bruce shudders above you, his hips stalling before you feel hot ropes of his secretion coating your walls, a low groan escaping him as the two of you gasp for air. He continues to thrust into you, slowly drawing out your highs as your body begins to regain its senses.

Gently brushing his lips over yours, he pulls his softening member from you, his hand coming up to brush strands of fallen hair away from your eyes. "You are better than I ever could've imagined." He murmurs, as the kiss breaks, his forehead resting against yours before you pull him down next to you. His arms instinctively wrap around you as you place another tender kiss to his lips, basking in the warmth of his bare skin against yours.

--------------------------------------------

A/N:

Definitely not sitting in my car at uni posting this 🤭

Will add Brucey to my masterlist on my break because I don't have time right now 🤣😅

#audhdauthor #bruce banner x reader #bruce banner #bruce banner smut #marvel smut #marvel fanfiction #marvel

235 notes · View notes

you-opened-my-case · 1 year

Text

A Spider on the Wall

A/N: Shit, I meant to post this yesterday.

Mommy waits impatiently for you to return to the Game Station. She had been hoping to play with you a little before she sent you to Wack-a-Wuggy, but you and Poppy had never come back.

It wasn’t like you could find another way to Statues or Wack-a-Wuggy, as none of the games were connected by any tunnels. And even if they were, Mommy kept the rest of the code with her, so it wasn’t like you could skip the games and take it.

But now that Mommy thinks about it...it's not impossible for you to have hurt yourself trying to get back. Mommy hasn’t been through the passageways in years, so she has no idea how derelict they are. Maybe she should go after you.

Well...better to be safe than sorry.

With the greatest of ease, Mommy leaps halfway across the Game Station and into the entrance to Musical Memory. From there, it’s a simple matter of finding the vent you went through to leave.

What isn’t easy is getting through the vent. Mommy may be able to stretch and squash her limbs, but her head, torso, and abdomen are a tight fit. Ugh, she hopes she doesn’t get stuck again.

“Poppy!” Your distant voice calls out. “Look at this one!”

Thank the stars, you’re okay!

Mommy reaches the edge of the vent. You and Poppy are goofing around in a room of rejected ideas. Or as Poppy and some of the employees called it, ‘The Island of Misfit Toys.’ Since neither of you seem to be in any danger, Mommy decides to simply watch you.

“Kick Me Paul?” Poppy says as she turns to you.

“Yeah! He’s like a big dumb potato!” You hug Paul and laugh.

“You know he’s not called ‘Hug Me Paul,’ right? You’re supposed to kick him.”

“Never in a million years!”

Poppy snorts and moves on. “What about this guy? Do you really want a Sir Poops a Lot toy?”

“Ew!” You stick out your tongue and laugh. “Who thought that was a good idea for a toy?”

“No clue, but would you want one?”

“To complete the collection, yeah. Too bad I don’t have anything to carry them in.” You shrug your shoulders and leave Paul where you found him. “Oh well, I’ll just come back after I get you guys out of here.”

Mommy sighs quietly. You’re really set on getting everyone out, aren’t you?

A torn set of blueprints catches your eye. “Aww, are these old designs for Mommy? I can’t believe these scared kids. They’re adorable!”

While Mommy doesn’t disagree, she is a little glad those designs weren’t used. They didn’t quite look like mommies, did they?

“Hey,” Poppy says quietly, “about what you said. About helping us all leave?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know if it’s possible to get everyone out. Some of the others might not be...around anymore.”

“What do you mean? Did they get out already?”

“No, no. They might be...” she trails off, and you suddenly get what she means.

“How?” You ask quietly.

“There’s something else in the factory. Something I probably should have told you about earlier.”

It suddenly clicks for Mommy. Poppy’s going to tell you about him. And if she does, you’ll leave for sure. And Mommy can’t let that happen, can she?

“There you are!” Mommy cries as she crawls out of the vent. “Mommy was ever so worried about you two!”

She wraps and arm around you and another around Poppy.

“We still have two more games to play! And you wouldn’t want to keep the other toys waiting, would you?”

You slowly shake your head. “I guess not.”

Mommy wraps her leg around the large Bron toy on the elevator and moves it out of the way. You’re too busy marveling at how strong she is to notice her and Poppy whispering to each other.

“What are you doing?” Mommy hisses.

“Making sure they survive! You know just as well as I do that if he finds out about them, they’ll die.”

Deep down, Mommy knows that Poppy is right, and she hates it. Mommy wants nothing more than to keep you here forever, but she can’t always protect you from him.

“Do you really think they’ll be able to get us out?” Mommy asks. “We’re all fated to die here someday.”

Poppy is silent for a moment. “It’s a big risk. One that I think they’ll take regardless of what we say. I think...I think the best thing I can do is make sure they at least get out, with or without us. And I know Huggy will help, too"

The trip back to the station is quiet after that. Mommy doesn’t have much faith that you’ll get everyone out, but she promises that she’ll at least help get you out.

#poppy playtime #mommy long legs #poppy the doll #poppy playtime x reader #platonic poppy playtime x reader

629 notes · View notes

heartsofminds · 1 year

Text

‘cause no one breaks my heart like you

“Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore.” or Bradley Bradshaw is terrified of commitment and he decides to stop being selfish (even though it’s hard to see).

A/N: Okay so EXTREMELY long time, no see! I’ve been working on this little project since the end of September and have been driving myself crazy in trying to sculpt the words the way that I wanted and how to make this seem as realistic as possible. I appreciate every single person who has been so patient with me and my inconsistent posting and hope you enjoy 19k words of our favorite guy in the sky.

(Year 3)

He loves me. He loves me not.

He loves me.

The strange thing about crying is never knowing when the tears will fall. There’s this burning sensation that comes with it; clearly juxtaposed to the watery mess your eyes want to produce. Your nose burns, your face is hot, and the all-consuming, mind-numbing squeeze of rubberband-like pressure around your temples makes you dizzy.

Whether the dizziness is because of the crossed wires in your psyche (the hurt feelings and the busted-up ego that comes along with it) or the metaphysical spiral that sent you into a breakdown in the first place is up to your discretion.

The thought pattern sometimes breaks you out of feeling so non-descriptively shitty.

Because the thing about being a twenty-something that you’ve come to uncover is that life is shitty. Paying rent is shitty. Paying an arm and leg for a pilates workout is shitty. Office jobs are shitty. Office jobs that house cruel know-it-all men are even shittier.

Shit, shit, and shit.

You used to pride yourself on having a more extensive vocabulary than one filled to the brim with the swear word, but as of late, you can’t be damned to care. It’s not like anything you said at the office held any value to anyone anyway.

You’re just a “kid” - “You and my sister are the same age!” And you’re also a woman; one of the fifteen employed by the grounds and building company you’re a consult for, and one of three on the fifth floor working on engineering consults and software materials for digital blueprinting.

And the preparation for working in an environment like this - one where mumbled insults at the findings of a mistake on your colleague's draft or small comments about your body being made in passing (never enough to be called harassment, but certainly enough to make you question why it was even being brought up) - wasn’t new.

The patent leather diploma propped up on the desk in your home office gave proof of it. Years spent with dreaded calculus exams and awkward office hours spent with even more awkward professors and snooty boys with poor attitudes served as the price you paid for the merit.

So who can even be put to blame for thinking that you could handle it?

The answer is definitely “you”, but accepting blame for these kinds of things - accepting the fact that in a way, you’re only reaping the consequences of your own actions - is never an easy thing to do.

And your lips are chewed raw from all the intrusive thoughts plaguing your brain and sometimes you wish that you didn’t have this overarching tendency to view things from “outside of your body.” Sometimes being so critical inwardly kicked your conscience into a God’s eye perspective.

The worry of if your work pants actually did make you look frumpy or if the makeup around your nose was caking like how it usually does if you blend it in before you let it get tacky. You worry if your hair sits the right way or if the secretary downstairs thinks you have a Dunkin’ Donuts addiction. And then that makes you worry if she notices the breakout forming on the left side of your face.

The worry then transpires from material to emotional and manifests in the form of the two things you’re most deathly terrified of; being a failure and being a failure who finds herself alone.

Because what if you fucked around and lost the information to the three billion dollar hospital that you’ve spent the better part of fifteen weeks working on? What if you got fired because your bosses realized how inaccurate your math was sometimes? What if everyone was constantly laughing at you and that’s why you struggle to find a commonality with your coworkers?

And what if, through this whole slue of hypotheticals that hadn’t happened yet but had the potential to happen, you found yourself in a position to be alone? What if your boyfriend - your darling, kind, and sweet boyfriend - finally saw you how you saw yourself? And what if what he sees makes him want to walk away?

Bradley would never, you try and rationalize, but the more your brain tries to force the pieces of the jumbled insecurities to fit, you aren’t too sure.

The fact that the same work colleagues who spark the flame of your self-doubt are the same age as he; thirty-somethings with wives and maybe a toddler or two. Your bosses who scare the shit out of you are in the same age range as the men Bradley knows and loves; his Uncle Maverick and Uncle Ice, and the commonalities are far-fetched but multiply the more you think.

The more you torture yourself, really.

And the excruciating rug-burn-like feeling slides its way from the depths of your stomach up your throat. When you were little, you used to imagine that it was slimy and plasmodia-esque. The Mucinex guy, you used to call it, and the feeling is so sickening and ugly and horrific, that the ugly little cartoon ploy almost seemed cute in comparison.

You’re not really sure how your emotions caught up with you today. From how you run from them and shove them down and turn them off, you forget that you have feelings sometimes.

But then you wake up freezing because Bradley took all the covers in the middle of the night and Dunkin fucked up your coffee and you spilled said fucked up coffee on your new work shirt that you know the stain is gonna be a bitch to get out.

On top of that, your hair seems frizzier than what you remembered when you left the house and your lips are chapped with not a damned chapstick in sight in the abomination that happens to be your purse.

David across the hall from your office says something about how you’re late and it’s probably because “You changed your outfit about six times. Know how you women are. My wife is the same way.” And that’s not the reason why you’re running behind at all, but you’re sure indulging in the fact that your boyfriend hopped in the shower with you uninvited and then proceeded to invite himself to bruise your cervix this morning isn’t exactly “safe for work” content.

And your vagina hurts like a bitch because Bradley went too rough and the report you had filed was sitting on your desk with an intimidating note about how the numbers were inaccurate (“Fuck you, Michael and Rick from downstairs,” you think).

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re so tired and that the cogwheels in your brain are doing that fucked up thing again where it sends you into overdrive and your entire body feels numb. Maybe it’s the fact that you know you can’t cry; that you can’t actually process what you’re feeling until after five when you leave the office today.

But the burning sensation doesn’t go away no matter how much ice water you drink or how many times you excuse yourself to the bathroom to splash your face with cold water.

It’s all one big, nasty, slimy feeling that clouds your conscience until you’re met with the front door of your safe haven; Bradley Bradshaw’s home. The sniffles scratch at your chest like a stray dog begging to be let in. The whimper you let out is pathetic and you would’ve laughed at yourself if you hadn’t been so concerned with getting inside.

Fuck. Was unlocking Bradley’s front door always this difficult?

Bradley can sense you before he has any indication that you’re home. He joked how he could feel you oceans away when he was on deployment and while you thought that he wasn’t serious (Bradley was a sap and had a tendency to be so tooth-achingly sweet) you know that there’s some truth to it.

It was odd how he was always so attuned to your needs; how he could always tell how you were feeling before you were even aware that you were feeling it. It was something that you had raved to your friends about in the earlier stages of your relationship. It was also certainly something that they had witnessed on nights out at the club when visiting you in San Diego.

Something inside Bradley loves you so deeply, but he also can’t deny the fact that he loves the praise; the reassurance that he’s a good guy who is always doing the right thing. He’s not doing it for brownie points, “per say”, but the praise does feel nice, and after having to fight tooth and nail to stand out - to be someone and mean something to someone other than his family - the good deeds and the compliments that arose because of them were satiating enough.

But if he’s being honest with himself, he had always been that way. Despite his innate desire to recreate his parents’ epic love story, being empathetic and filled with space to make homes of other people’s sorrow was just something he was born with.

Nothing new, and nothing special.

You force the door open and try and breathe; the cold air of Bradley’s living room hitting your face and the dry heat of Southern California constricting your lungs even more than they had been. You just need a moment, you think. You just need to breathe and you’ll be okay.

In, out. In, out. In, out.

Suddenly you’re too aware of your heart beating inside your chest; the anger and sadness and frustration demanding to be let out. You can feel your trachea eroding away with your sobs. Your eyes feel like salt had been poured into them. Your body is heavy with the weariness of your soul, and something about today’s events and your life, really, has made your legs feel like they weigh a billion pounds. Moving them would only land you flat on your face.

And then you’re made aware of your breathing and your heartbeat is out of sync. The feeling claws your insides and makes every fiber of your being sting.

Fuck.

In. In. In. In. In!

Bradley rounds the corner where your hallway extends into your living room. He has a basket of laundry in his arms. His chest is admonished with a shirt with a comically stretched “UVA” logo. Under different circumstances (one where you could breathe, for starters) you would have laughed at him and his expression reads that he’s prepared for it; the slight smile line near his mouth is quirked up on one side being his tell.

“Hey, baby!” he says before coming into full view of you.

You can see the light in his eyes leave and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he drinks in your appearance.

Your own eyes widen as you damn near suffocate in the doorway of Bradley’s home. Your sweet, sweet Bradley who you’re sure you’ve traumatized in the span of three seconds.

You’ve had episodes like this before, but never in the presence of another person.

They don’t happen frequently, and from various self-help Refinery29 articles and Google searches, you were certain that what you were experiencing - the sudden shortness of breath and the tunnel vision and the pent-up, white-hot frustration making your head woozy - was not normal in the slightest.

And if it was anyone else you would tell them to get help. You would tell them that what they were experiencing didn’t make them any less of who they were before and that it would be absurd to define someone by such a small fragment of their experiences. But what you say to others is different than what you feel about yourself, because admitting there is an issue that you can’t solve by yourself is equivalent to weakness in your mind.

Weakness isn’t something you’re allowed to show very often; not with Mikes and Bills breathing down your neck looking for something to boot your sorry ass out of the front doors of their company.

Bradley recognizes the look you have on your face. It resembles that of new recruits during hypoxia training and even those unfortunate ones that experience g-lock while up in the sky. He’s had his fair share of freakouts and anxieties and he knows that the feeling is awful. Something inside the shelf of him breaks when he sees the same glimmer of fear in your eyes and a call for help on your face.

He drops the laundry basket to the ground and rushes toward you. His feet move faster than his mind and if people on the base could see him now, it would be the last time they called him slow to react.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers, softly grabbing your forearms and rubbing his thumbs over your wrists, “You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe.”

His grip on your forearms drops to your waist as he subtly moves you into the entryway of his home. You can feel the vacuum of air behind you as he reaches around your back to shut the door and lock it.

Bradley’s pupils search your face for answers your mouth can’t give him. He sees the slight bloodshot hue in the whites of your eyes. He sees the slight flush to your cheeks and knows that the dewiness of the shade isn’t because of the heat outside or the blush he had watched you apply this morning. He sees the forced movement of your chest; your lungs overworking themselves to keep you standing.

Your eyes are staring right back at him but your brain can’t seem to register that you’re safe. You’re home. You’re with Bradley.

The longer he rubs his thumbs in the crease where your elbow meets your bicep, the more feeling you regain. Your heart rate has slowed a good deal and the air you’ve so desperately been engulfing has allowed itself to make itself useful to you.

He shushes you and steps closer, engulfing you in a wrap that could envy that of a boa constrictor with its prey. He peppers the top of your head with small kisses and he makes sure your ear is pushed up to his chest so you can hear the thump of his heart.

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until he moves your conjoined bodies so that his back is facing the door and you’re being held close to his front. Bradley slides down the navy blue painted oak so swiftly and carefully with you in his arms that you can’t even be sure when your view changed from his face to being at eye level with his coffee table.

His hold is comforting and the dam that you’ve worked so hard to maintain all day has finally hit its peak of pressure and broken completely.

“You’re safe, baby. I’m here.”

The sob that leaves your mouth is one that you don’t even recognize as yours. The last time you can remember hearing something remotely similar resonates in the memory of your niece throwing the biggest hissy fit ever known to man at her second birthday party last summer.

Man, if only she knew that her competition was you instead of her new baby brother.

“My sweet girl,” Bradley whispers into your hair, holding you as your body shakes so violently it jostles his large frame behind you. “You’re okay. It’s okay. Get it all out.”

And you don’t know when the crying stops and turns into shallow sniffles or when the sky changed from its yellowed hue to the dark navy that usually blankets your late-night talks with the man behind you, but all you know is that Bradley Bradshaw is a saint.

Your sweet, sweet Bradley who would stop the world from turning if that’s what you asked of him.

Because it’s what you would do if he had been the one to ask instead. That’s how love works.

He loves me. He loves me not.

He loves me.

(Year 4)

He loves me not. He loves me.��

He loves me not.

Looking for blame was never your strong suit.

But as you look outside the passenger window of an inherited Bronco on a chilly November night, the fingers you always seem hesitant to point uncurl themselves from your fist without resistance. You have half the mind to not actually point at the culprit of your anger who manifests in the form of the six-foot-one man seething beside you.

The radio is clicked off and the joyous laughter and cacophony of faux karaoke is absent in the midnight blue starlight. The windows are down despite the air surrounding the coast bringing the atmosphere to a standing fifty-five outside, and the wind from how fast your lover is driving taking the temperature down to at least fifty degrees even.

Your eyes refuse to drink in his appearance for more than five seconds at a time because you know that you’re an angry crier who gets set off very easily. Exchanging looks with the fuel that set fire to the burning in your belly would not do you any good at this moment.

When you had pulled on the pretty little cocktail dress and left Bradley to his own devices in the living room of your apartment, the thought of the anger brewing between you like a hurricane didn’t cross your mind at all.

And how could it?

In the four years of being together, there were a fair share of disagreements but nothing that wasn’t just a product of stress or small tidbits of jealousy and hurt feelings that brewed into something bigger than it was ever intended to be. They were usually resolved with a mature conversation on the floor of whoever’s living room followed by cuddles and on a few occasions, fervent makeup sex on the floor.

It always gave you rug burn but you never complained. Having Bradley was something you craved so deeply that no consequence could ever outweigh the desire; even damn near purple knees and a sore ass from how domineering he could be.

Love has a way of making the world stop turning. Nothing truly matters besides the feel of a warm body holding you in bed and the promise of sweet nothings weighing you down lovingly. That always is (at least in your case) until too much pressure is applied and you begin to freak out - the ugly truth of how much love can hurt with each pained exhale that mimics simultaneous cries of pleasure and calls for help.

“Does he really love me?” “Am I too much?” “Am I not enough?”

Insecurities upon insecurities and you really have no true basis for why you think this way or why you feel like you will never amount to what Bradley deserves. If you’re being honest, it’s all a jumble of things and it reminds you of the ABC spaghetti-o’s you used to beg your mom to buy.

Superficial and never really making sense, much like the word scramble of letters in your soup.

But despite you trying to tell yourself that you were being ridiculous - that the pit in your stomach that refused to move was nothing more than an overreaction - the ABC spaghetti-o mixture started to make sense of your anger and what may have caused it.

And the insecurity you had felt that you tried to push down inside of you; tried to deny the existence that it was there and was, in fact, so excruciatingly real made way at Rueben’s wedding shower.

It’s not like you hate being around Bradley’s friends - not like they’re strangers that you try and force small talk with so that the three-hour minimum interactions required for a get-together go by faster. Most of these gatherings have an imaginary itinerary that you’ve come up with and if you play the game right, you never come home with too bad of a hangover.

The first thirty minutes will be spent giving side hugs and enthusiastic “Hey! How are you?”’s being tossed around. You’re always grateful that the years of sorority recruitment have prepared you for holding “safe” conversations; ones that don’t deter any deeper than being happy to see each other and the San Diego weather that never seems to change.

Every now and again, one of the guys will hold up your left hand and inspect for an engagement ring before pushing Bradley’s shoulder slightly. A “You better lock her down before I do, Bradshaw,” nipping the air and making your cheeks turn slightly pink.

Hour one will entail being tucked beneath Bradley’s arm as he sips a Budweiser and joins the circle of regulars that you often go to the bar with or host for dinner parties at his place. Mickey and Rueben will give you friendly exchanges and ask about your work and siblings. Javy and Jake will give you a curt nod and then start to babble away with your boyfriend about whatever hazing-like endeavor they’ll pull on the new pupils in their class. And sweet ole Bob will stand to the side with his hands in his pockets before offering to show you the newest picture of his two-year-old niece, which you graciously partake in viewing because she’s a cutie.

You’ll slosh around the heavily poured margarita you’ve had in your hand for the past hour before Mickey will laugh and ask if you plan on drinking it at all, and you’ll give a faux introspective hum before shaking your head “no” and offering your drink to Bradley. And Bradley will ask what’s wrong with it and you’ll say it’s too strong and he’ll graciously take the glass and drop a sweet kiss on your temple.

And when he downs the drink with no grimace at the shit ton of tequila and triple sec poured into it, you’ll make note of how the margaritas you make at home are probably more of a mocktail than anything to him. You’ll then marvel at his ability to handle his alcohol, and recall asking him one time at the start of your relationship if a high alcohol tolerance was required to join the armed forces.

Hour one and a half would be spent with Natasha kidnapping you from the group of aviators Bradley has concerned himself with. “Sorry not sorry, Bradshaw. We got stuff to talk about,” she’ll say and then drag you across the room to another corner of aviators (thank God they’re all women this time). And then you get another round of “Hi! You look so good!”’s thrown at you and a mojito to replace the margarita on account of Cali. The funny stories of hookups and boyfriends paired with all the constant belly laughing are reminiscent of college roommates after a night out at the bars.

Hour two will include drunken karaoke (even if there isn’t a karaoke machine in sight) and some kind of serenade from Bradley. He always goes to the piano willingly (though it’s always anticipated that dear old Rooster is bound to end up there if the instrument is available) and he’ll pretend like he doesn’t enjoy it, but you know that his ego is inflated by everyone singing along and the praises sung to his playing.

Hour two and a half will bleed into hour three and usually ends with people starting to head out and “See you tomorrow!” being tossed around. Nat always gives you a tight squeeze and holds your shoulders before making you promise her to get lunch sometime soon. You’ll agree even though you know that your schedules will never align and it more than likely won’t happen, but the drunken stupor you’re both in creates a bubble of extroversion that neither of you can seem to put a cap on.

Bradley then takes you back to the car and turns on the radio. He’ll look over at you lovingly before kissing your forehead and rolling all the windows down. He knows that the sea breeze has made the air chillier than the number displayed on the weather app in your phone. You’ll groan as he gives you a, “C’mon, baby. You know I run hot!” with that cute laugh and head-shaking smile, and then you’re off down the interstate back to Bradley’s home, where you’ll stay the night and leave out back to yours around the same time he gets up for training.

That’s how the itinerary usually goes, and the comfortability of it all keeps you sane and acts as a warm blanket that keeps you distracted from the sheer differences between your boyfriend and his world.

But tonight was different, and the minute you step into the lavishly decorated venue, you know that your unofficial itinerary has no room to unravel despite the massive square footage of the party taking place around you.

You recognized Natasha alongside the other female aviators that you were friendly with but certainly not close to. Because of the occasion at hand, a few girlfriends and spouses were also huddled around them including Rueben’s fiance, Izzy.

And somewhere between the three glasses of champagne you had and Izzy’s stories about how she and Rueben were secretly “trying” but didn’t want anyone to know (you’re not sure how it’s a secret anymore because she blurted it out to her soon-to-be husband’s coworkers, but truly to each their own) planted a cherry pit of insecurity in your stomach. When you finished your glass of champagne and took note of how dizzy you were, the insecurity started to grow into the slimy monster that you were familiar with.

Then came the picking yourself apart.

Your eyes found the glimmer of engagement rings, baby bumps, and phones with family pictures as the home screen. Wearing your undergraduate alma mater’s class ring on your finger seemed infantile, and you made the conscience effort to slip it into the clutch you had been carrying with you the entire night.

Phoenix noticed the sudden stiffness in your spine and how your eyes had a glimmer of sadness in them; how they held sparkles of wishing that you could relate. It’s a look she remembered having during her time in flight school. And because she had taken it upon herself to act as your big sister turned good friend since you’ve been dating Bradley, she knew that you wouldn’t speak up or excuse yourself from the conversation.

Because you, much like her and so very much like Bradley, would rather suffer in silence and let the thoughts of not feeling good enough eat you alive until the joys of who you are become eroded to make room for the sorrows of who you aren’t.

It came as a surprise to feel her hand guide you away from the giggling women to the front table housing cupcakes and plastic water bottles with the cheesy Canva-designed “Hitched to Fitch” labels replacing the ones they had come with.

“Thank you,” you said, and she only nodded before handing you a bottle and grabbing one for herself off the table.

“M’gonna head to the bathroom and then go outside for a bit. Meet you there?” she asked and you agreed, your hands busied trying to twist the cap off of your water bottle.

Phoenix disappeared and your eyes started to search the room for Bradley. You’d even be satisfied to see some of the familiar faces that you’ve come to know via pool at Hard Deck or biweekly group dinners at your boyfriend’s house.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you scanned the room and realized that you didn’t see anyone you recognized for that matter. Instead of doing the smart thing and texting him about his whereabouts or trying to get some kind of idea about where he may have disappeared to, you did the opposite and headed outside to the back area where the sky swallowed any light in its darkness and the greenery around you smelled earthy.

The November breeze chilled your bones and it took everything within you to keep your teeth from chattering audibly. You internally scolded yourself for being insistent that you didn’t need to bring a jacket to wear with your cocktail dress. When the wind chill had been brought up when you were putting on your earrings, Bradley had only shaken his head and laughed before making sure to put on the baby blue suit coat of his that you loved. You both knew that you’d have it across your shoulders come nightfall when the sun had set and the late fall wind chill kicked in.

The back of your heels dug into the blisters that had formed sometime during the evening and your champagne-induced mind can’t force you to walk any farther. And your intention was never to wander off and not let anyone know. It was to find Bradley and get some air, and you fell short in finding your boyfriend, so the latter had to do for the time being.

Thoughts of the Law and Order episodes you watched leisurely slammed themselves into the forefront of your mind as the thought of a dangerous predator sent shivers up your spine. You chewed on your lips and crossed your arms over your chest; half thinking and half trying to preserve your body heat. You took a small step forward before your action was interrupted by the loud cacophonous laughter of the men that made up your boyfriend’s friend group.

You smiled fondly and decided to wait a moment longer before making your presence known. Not very often do they get to joke around like that.

“She’s letting you hit raw and you still haven’t knocked her up yet?” you heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Jesus, Fitch, are you broken?”

You can hear Bradley chuckle along with the other males making up the group as you remained standing hidden behind the archway of the garden. If you had common sense, you would hit the gopher of your curiosity on the head like some dumb carnival game and would reveal yourself; softly joining in on the conversation and maybe even getting to put a face to the voice you had just heard.

But instead, you stayed put and tried to flip through the catalog of voices that you had come to know.

Reuben was ruled out because the statement was about him. Mickey’s voice was naturally quieter and softer in nature. “Hit raw” would never come out of Bob’s mouth ever. Hangman is an actual menace to society, but would “Never use the Lord’s name in vain, sweetheart. Was raised better than that.” And Javy was on leave visiting his family in Ohio for the next three weeks, you remembered Bradley mentioning earlier.

So who could it be?

An instinct - that old know-it-all voice that was cemented into your subconscious from years of mistakes and warnings from your mother - told you that the curiosity would actually kill you this time. Part of you thought it would be best if you found the bathrooms and waited for Natasha there. Your frozen toes and embarrassingly hard nipples would certainly thank you, but yet you do the opposite of what your panicked brain is telling you (one thing that the ABC spaghetti-o’s made clear to prevent you from getting your feelings hurt).

You had decided to snoop some more and God, did you wish you could beat yourself upside the head to forget what you had heard. Maybe a concussion wouldn’t be that awful.

And by the time Natasha caught up to you, you had thanked God that the night sky concealed the sadness written on your face and that the cool air could be used as an excuse for your sniffles.

Bradley, your sweet Bradley, had betrayed you, and he wasn’t even aware of how deeply that had cut you yet.

As you and Natasha made your way to the group of men huddled outside, you could feel the energy from Bradley shift, and from one look at you, he can tell that something in you has changed. His eyes are softened from both the scotch in his system and the tenderness he held in his heart for your being. Something in you just won’t allow his hazel irises to bleed into you. You already have enough blood surrounding the metaphorical stab wound that he unknowingly caused you tonight to last you through the goddamn week.

He had reached out to bring you into him and tuck you into his front and wrap his arm around your torso. He knew that you were freezing and his suit jacket had been abandoned inside so blocking the wind with his body was the next best thing to warm you up, he had thought. His hand had grazed the goosebumps on your arms, but you pushed him away forcefully. He didn’t raise the question out loud, but when he turned to face you and saw the red tint on your cheeks and the straight line your lips were in, it confirmed what he had thought.

You were pissed off.

The thing about Bradley, though, is that he’ll never bring up someone else’s issue with him. He’s confrontational at heart but only about things that cut him deep; about things that stain his fingertips red with anguish and disappointment. And he knows that he has a lot of problems. He knows that what you had heard had to be beyond upsetting, and as you stood shivering with your arms folded over your chest and a good three feet put between you and him, he noted that the look on your face was something that he had caused.

But because he’s him and because you’re you, he decided to let you come forward and let you confront him with your problem because the absolute last thing he ever wanted to do was upset you, and he certainly fell short in avoiding that scenario tonight.

You stayed quiet and distant for the rest of the night. Your smiles and hugs and sarcastic quips were kept to a minimum and everyone noticed that something was off with you. When you had given Reuben and Izzy their parting hugs, he had whispered in your ear to “feel better soon.” Izzy had even made an effort (despite how “off her ass” drunk she was) to comfort you, and it was then that you realized that everyone had noticed you but Bradley.

Your sweet, sweet Bradley who always happily obliged to love you and make you feel known and seen no matter the cost, but clearly, that was short of a few oceans away and the contempt of what he had done took precedence of the space you held for him in your heart now.

All the realization did was piss you off more.

Bradley had tried to give you his suit coat but you had just brushed it off your shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Normally, you would profusely apologize and declare that the action was an accident, but you simply watched it fall, raised your eyebrows in a gesture of being unamused, and started making your way to his car.

He had opened the passenger side door for you, but you stared at him; a look of utter silent disbelief and frustration rampant in your eyes. He couldn’t even process all that he was seeing reflected in your face before you reached your hand out to slam the very door he opened. You slung it open again before damn near hauling your body into the leather interior of the seat.

He had half the mind to subconsciously reach out and shut the door for you until you started angrily buckling your seatbelt, to which he ultimately decided to back away and round about his vehicle with half caution and half emasculating retreat to the driver’s side.

The wheels of how you were acting and how he could even begin to tread the water of what exactly had made you so painstakingly angry. You wouldn’t look at him. You wouldn’t speak to him. You didn’t even acknowledge him, and through the years of being an only child with a mother who doted on him like no other, Bradley had to admit that he was selfish; that he always wanted attention and always had to have it. The older he had gotten, the better he had become at concealing this, of course (Well, that’s debatable, you would have said if you were speaking to him) but he doesn’t like to share. Never likes to be pushed aside to have to make room for something else if he can help it.

And his thinking is selfish…and absurd…and a “doorway for toxicity” (all things that his therapist had said before Bradley had stopped seeing him because he hates being called out), but he can’t help it, and despite keeping it at bay in his friendships, he certainly has a more than difficult time keeping it concealed in his relationships.

Bradley blames the scotch he downed before he said his goodbyes on why he felt so wounded; on why the guilt and embarrassment were eating him alive. Everyone had known something was wrong with you and it hurt his confidence that he couldn’t be the one to pinpoint what exactly had caused your sour mood. He certainly had an idea, but he’d come to learn throughout the years that assuming things would never do him any good.

The wound you had given his ego was further agitated by your show of slamming the door as soon as he turned on his heel to go to his side. Knowing eyes in the parking lot of the venue had made their presence known with hushed whispers and heeled footsteps walking faster to avoid running into him.

Your anger angered him, and instead of being open to the idea of criticism and accepting his party in making you miserable tonight, his need to deflect kicked in instead. Old habits die hard, and he just couldn’t resist.

He knew you would always forgive him; would always say sorry and mean it because you love him. He has a right to be mad too, he had thought. You let his suit coat fall to the ground on purpose. You refused his touch. You slammed the door to his Bronco not once, but twice. If anyone had a right to be angry, he knew it was you but who was to say that he wasn’t a second runner-up?

Bradley knows that he was so incredibly wrong for trying to play you; trying to play chess when you weren’t even aware that there was a game being played, but so help him God if he got into a massive blowout fight with you in the goddamn parking lot before the night was over.

And he’s pissed off but he isn’t an asshole (at least he doesn’t think he is intentionally). He settled for keeping his mouth shut because he knew it would keep your anger at a minimum with less material to be upset at.

He backed out of his parking space and put his hand behind your headrest, his fingers lightly grabbed the ends of curled pieces of hair that wrapped themselves on the wrong side of the seat. You can feel the wispy touches and you tried your best to shrug him off.

The ghost of his fingertips on your body drove you up the wall. Instead of harshly pulling your head away from him, you bend down to unbuckle the strap of your heel. You were sure you almost saw the tail end of a frown when you had come back up, but he was absolutely the last thing you wanted to look at for the time being.

You could feel his stare on your face. His eyes traced your collarbone and followed the labyrinth of shadows up to your jawline. The temptation to give him some grace, to entertain his worries for just a second rang the bell inside your heart, but you were stronger than that. You deserved better than that.

He didn’t care about you in front of his coworkers, so why should he get the privilege of caring about you now?

Bradley, obviously attuned to your every move and gesture, sensed your subtle attempt at fleeing from him. He never knew how far away someone could feel from another despite being stuck in the confined space of a front seat.

He could tell that you were digging your heels in; doing your best to avoid him and remove your brain from the peanut butter-thick tension that plagued the scene. It didn’t stop him from searching the side of your face for answers - for any indication that the metaphorical distance you’ve created between you two actually exists and isn’t just a figment of his chronic overthinking.

The radio was tuned to some 80s throwback station, a Bob Seger song that you knew the melody of but certainly not the words to, which filled the uncomfortable silence. The age gap between you and your boyfriend was further cemented as he sang the song quietly as if he had written it himself.

You’re sure you would have spiraled all the way down to the abyss located in the treacherous unknown of the Pacific Ocean if you were given the chance to. Anywhere would be better than here, you had thought.

Bradley’s hand slipped to the heat to turn it on amidst the chilly fifty-degree fall air that had you shaking in the passenger seat. Your anger was so rampant and rage-induced that your body felt like it was on fire. Your annoyance has no place to go, as he didn’t even bother to lower the windows in the car this time. He had known that the routine of you two going out was thrown off, and trying to keep a small sliver of expectancy would do you both no good.

Bradley could be so observant yet so self-absorbed at the same time, and it drove you absolutely nuts.

And you started to spiral and the heat that was being blasted in your face crafted a tornado of grievances that you weren’t even aware you were holding against him.

Bradley is a blanket stealer. He always gets the wrong kind of grapes for you at the grocery store. He can never tell the difference between Alexandra Cabot and Casey Novak no matter how many times you force him to watch Law and Order: SVU. He always gets an absurd amount of water on the bathroom floor when he showers. He never fills up the Brita filter after he uses it. He always places his shoes sideways on the rack near his front door; not quite crooked enough for you to say something about it but always slightly slanted enough for you to notice it.

Most of all, he hurt your feelings tonight and he had yet to acknowledge that he was the cause of it. Yet here he is, trying to get in your good graces because the guilt of knowing that he had done something was chewing him up and spitting him out currently.

So attuned to your needs but never to your feelings. Same old Bradley.

His hand traveled to the bare skin of your knee; his large palm cupping the bone before moving it upward so his fingertips could trace the shallow gaps where your joints were relaxed. Your breath hitched in your throat and if it would have been acceptable to scream - ie; your boyfriend not currently driving you both across a narrow two-lanes-of-traffic bridge over the ocean - you would have.

His touch burned you. Made your heart volcanic. Sent fiery tears streaming down your face. His touch had betrayed you. Made you small. Made you insignificant. Made you feel like he never cared.

If you could’ve caught a glimpse at yourself you would know that you were beet red. You could feel yourself visibly shaking with anger and you knew Bradley could feel it too. You smacked his hand away as if you were smacking a blood-sucking mosquito off your body in the suffocating heat of June.

Except this wasn’t a mosquito. This wasn’t the soft glow of a summer sunset with a pesky little bug slurping down your blood. This wasn’t a fond moment that you would laugh at later.

You’d been bruised; so deeply hurt. Made to feel so goddamn stupid for ever thinking that he loved you. That he respected you. Fuck him for making you feel the same way you do at your 9 to 5 every weekday.

Bradley reached and turned the radio off. The deep exhale and the pink flush that crawled up his neck was his tell of truly being pissed off. You had only seen it happen a handful of times. Most of the time Maverick or Hangman served as memorable faces to cause the reaction.

But this time, the time that extended your handful into two handfuls, was because of you. Part of you is prideful of that fact. Now he can feel what you’ve felt the entire night.

“What the actual fuck is your problem?” he griped at you. He shifted in his seat and his left hand gripped the steering wheel significantly harder. “Been acting like a pissed-off toddler all night.”

The desire to roll your eyes bated you with knowing it would satiate you in getting your point across. But the desire to do him one better, to see if you could irritate him more, took over. You know that nothing gets under Bradley’s skin more than someone taking the high road; someone one-upping him in his “noble and kind” act.

“I’m not starting a screaming match with you in the car,” you deadpanned. You heard him huff beside you, still avoiding his presence with your eyes.

“Would rather you fight with me than take an oath of silence.” He cracked his neck and stiffened his back against his seat. “More grown-up ways to go about telling me you’re mad, you know.”

The anger ran up your spine and reared its head in your ears. “Hmm,” you sneered pensively, “More grown up than my pussy then, huh?”

Bradley slammed on the breaks of the Bronco. His sudden change in speed caused you both to jerk forward. He thanked God that the road was dark and no one was directly behind him. His abrupt decision could have resulted in disaster. But even if someone would have rear-ended his prized possession, his biggest fear at the moment would have to be the fact that his suspicion was confirmed.

You had heard them and that’s why you were so royally pissed off.

He simply swallowed and pushed his foot on the gas pedal, the car slowly starting to move forward. He turned the radio off completely and his raised brows to signify that he was deep in thought.

How the hell was he going to get himself out of this now?

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

The scoff you let out rumbled in his ears; eardrums rubbed raw from how accusatory the pitch of your laughter sounded. “Does it fucking matter that I did?” Your voice sounded thick and the puff of air you blew out of your mouth told him that you were seconds away from angry tears.

“You’re laughing, Bradshaw but what about that youngin’ you brought tonight? She even old enough to drink yet?” his friend and old squadron partner, Yankee, had laughed.

Bradley had forgotten how loud-mouthed Yankee could be. Completely unafraid of asking the questions everyone was dying to know the answers to and unapologetically crass (even more so than Hangman, believe it or not). Call sign given to him by how goddamn opinionated he was about the MLB and how much of a ride-or-die fan of the New York Yankees he was.

Yankee was one of those people who you didn’t tell your personal business to because he was bound to have some opinion about it; whether it was if he could tell that your flight suit was slightly stained or if you were making the right choice about proposing to your long-term partner.

Come to think of it, Yankee was one of the friends Bradley had that he was sure he would never be caught dead hanging out with one-on-one. Something about the two never aligned. Bradley never found Yankee’s jokes to be funny and more often than not found his demeanor to be beyond annoying. But he can't help who his friends liked, and Yankee had never brought anything up against Bradley that made him want to beat him to a pulp, so he was found in the same hand-shaking and bar-hopping circle of friends with Yankee until the other pilot was moved to Corpus Christi.

“Hey, Rooster’s girl is at least twenty-three. Old enough for a master’s, but can’t hold her liquor for shit,” Hangman declared, sipping the Budweiser he had been holding by its neck.

You stuffed Bradley’s suit coat that was sitting over your lap on the middle console; desperate to have any part of him away from you. You hadn’t even noticed you were crying until you felt your tears fall into the dip of your collarbone.

The anger and sadness that bubbled inside you warmed your insides; turned your volcanic heart into lava. The heat from the vents of your boyfriend’s car blasted in your face and made you feel even sicker than you had previously. Your thighs stuck to the worn leather and itched due to your increased adrenaline.

You fidgeted about in the seat. Bradley adjusted his posture, leaning his head on his fist that rested on the window sill on his left side. He wanted to drop the whole thing. He wanted to return back to your good tequila-shot-induced moods before the night turned to shit.

He flipped the heat to a lower setting when he noticed your discomfort next to him. He haphazardly leaned over to close the vent on your side before he saw them; the tears streaming down your face and the pitiful pout adorning your lips. You looked so hurt. So broken. So done with him. Like maybe, just possibly, the love you had for him had finally given out.

He figured no one was to blame but him.

He tried his best to make you comfortable but the silence looming like a shadow from your side of the car sparked a wick of anxiety inside of him. His hands kept adjusting the temperature and checking your face as he turned the knob back and forth, the temperature going up and down. The air vents opened and closed as if they were playing some infantile game of peek-a-boo with you.

“Jesus - fuck -, Bradley,” you hissed, “Can you quit it?” The tears had turned from anger to sadness to annoyance and you wondered if it was possible for the primary purpose of tears to switch that quickly.

Bradley let out a soft sigh before flicking the heat off completely and rolling down both windows. “Sorry.” The meekness on his face wrote regret for all that had taken place.

“You don’t say,” Yankee joked, “Ole Rooster’s been scoping out the playground still, I see.”

The group of men laugh, none of them in the know of the impending doom of the night about to take place. It always started like this with Yankee. One second, everyone would be laughing and having a good time. The next, he would say some “balls-to-the-wall” asshole-ish comment that even made Hangman grind his teeth in their offending nature.

“I would say more ‘Babysitters Club’ and less ‘Sesame Street.’ Have to at least be in middle school now for Bradshaw,” Hangman fires back, and although the jokes being made about his taste in women and dating habits were being made fun of, nothing truly offensive had been said yet, so Bradley continued to laugh and nod his head with subtle “Fuck you”’s thrown in every now and again.

Bradley had been in the Navy since he was twenty-one years old. He knows the way that Navy men talk. He knows the way that most Navy men think. “Swear like a sailor” is the common saying and the various time he’s spent on deployments or on carrier ships provided that it was true. He certainly isn’t blind to the nature of how these men viewed women from how they talked about them when there weren’t female ears around or when they didn’t have a warm body to go home to at night.

And he’s not proud of it - knew that his mother and father would bury him alive for some of the things he’s said - but the guilt of his parents’ imminent disapproval had since been disbarred from his conscience. When it came down to it, no one gave a fuck who he had fucked the night before or what he had said about the women he was sleeping with. Not when he was miles away from home in an undisclosed location on a suicide mission with no one to go home to if he happened to make it back.

So many other people whom he had befriended felt the same way and Bradley had figured that this is why locker-room talk still exists in the military. Some of the things he heard he was sure could have been said at a random run-of-the-mill suburban high school in any part of the continental United States. All that was changed was the bass in the voices and the number of hairs on their chests.

It’s hard to be polite when preserving your life is the action item at hand.

“You know Bradshaw, I always knew you were smart,” the other pilot swishes around his scotch on the rocks in his hand, “They’re always so horny when they’re that young.”

Laughter rang around the room and he joyously partook in it. “Well, I do get laid pretty frequently if you may ask,” he added before taking a sip of the beer he had in his hand.

His gaze caught Bob’s eyes. Sweet, innocent Bob who thought the world of everyone. Sweet, innocent Bob who knew that Bradley was digging his own grave, but continued sipping his glass of red wine. The gawky metal frames that rimmed his friend’s eyes bore into his soul, almost magnifying the wrongfulness of what he was saying.

Bradley had broken their eye contact, his arm coming up to cover his mouth as he cleared his throat and a shaky hand bringing the neck of his bottle up to his lips. He had known that Bob would never say anything, that he wasn’t one for confrontation or calling people out even when they deserved it. But that was the good thing about Bob. He always let people make their own mistakes and never really offered much to say about it afterward.

“I knew it! You seemed looser than the last time I talked to you.” Bradley catches Bob’s eyes again, his friend’s eyebrows slightly raising in a scolding manner. “Now tell, she the tightest pussy you’ve ever had?”

The atmosphere thickened as the side conversations had come to a screeching halt. He would be lying if he told himself that the lump in his throat was from the lack of water he had drank that night rather than the uneasiness of knowing he was in the wrong.

And he knew he shouldn’t. He knew that he should keep his mouth shut; that he owed you the small price of privacy, that you wouldn’t like the mechanics of your sex life being discussed with men who were probably making paper mache volcanoes for their middle school science fairs when you were born. He knew that Bob wasn’t giving him a warning look for no reason and that Mickey didn’t wander back into the venue for no reason at all.

But despite his better judgment (or lack of coherent judgment at all), he opened his big, fat mouth. He had sped up the ends to his means without hesitation; without regard for your feelings.

“Tightest thing I’ve ever put my dick in.”

His friends nod their heads and laugh. Some of them chuckled to avoid the awkwardness and others in agreeance with what was being said.

Bob scooted himself closer to Bradley and shook his head with a deep sigh. “C’mon, Rooster.” A clammy hand had come to lay gently on Bradley’s shoulder.

He had pretended not to hear him. He knew the minute that he let Bob’s words register that he would drop to his knees and beg you for forgiveness. He hated peer pressure. He hated the way he was acting. He hated the way he was treating you behind your back. He hated the way his friends were laughing.

He hated himself more for doing it because you deserved so much better. But clearly, he didn’t feel bad enough to stop.

The sobs that wracked your chest shook you like an earthquake. The more you pondered on why he would say the things that he had said - why he would laugh and demean you behind your back - sent you into a frenzy.

Had he always thought of you this way? Were you always talked about so grossly? So demeaningly? Were you really anything to him other than a warm vagina to pummel his dick in when he was horny?

The questions remained unanswered as you tried to stifle your cries. You hated crying in front of people anyway, but crying in front of Bradley always made you feel awful. Tears always made him uncomfortable and your tears made him upset. Whenever the waterworks started from you, he drove himself mad trying to remedy your issue. You had used to think it was because he cared, but now you started to wonder if it was because he didn’t know how to tell you that he didn’t want to deal with it; that you were being a bother.

Your hand is bitten raw from trying to hold in your pathetic cries. The alligator tears that ran down your face at a rapid speed and the shaking of your shoulders did little to mask the fact that you were sobbing. Years of being told that your emotions would hinder your credibility at work, months of pent-up frustration, hours of disrespect, minutes of unkindness, and seconds of insecurity create an atomic bomb on the merits of the lesson you had been told throughout your entire lifetime; there will never be enough room for your emotions.

And you believed it. You took people for their word. You made narratives and internalized them from how people acted. You read between the lines and the margins of what you interpret carve doubt into your heart; carve the failure that you’re so deathly terrified of so close to your lifeline of needing to please everyone all the time.

The trait is toxic - an unfavorable condition - your therapist would say but it had become such a compulsion, you’re sure you would die without it. Something about approval is so intimately invasive and the shower thoughts you conjured up while thinking about this never seemed to uncover the answer as to why.

Why it matters. Why it doesn’t matter. Who the fuck would even care. (You, of course, but the world is so much larger than you are and your selfishness would be disappointing, you think.)

You wish your boyfriend could read your mind and see the twenty-five cent bouncy ball-like thoughts hitting every crevice of your brain right now. You wish that your hurt feelings could be seen by him with x-ray vision or some fictional superhero-like ability. Most of all, you wished that he had known that the events that had taken place throughout the entire night were tearing you up right beside him.

If he felt that way about you, felt like you were around just for your body and not for you, what did everyone else think? Was Natasha only friendly because she thought you were too immature to be left alone at gatherings? Did Rueben and Mickey actually give a shit about what you had to say when they asked about your work? Did Jake and Javy even know your name?

Did your boyfriend even like you?

The questions imploding like fireworks in your head made you cry harder, and you couldn’t help but let the sobs out now. Bradley looked over at you. His hand brushed your knee, his palm cupped it and his fingers spread out to rub soothing circles on the lower part of your thigh.

“Don’t cry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he begged, his voice quiet. Small. Unsure. All the things he had made you. “Please don’t cry.”

The rubber band inside of you finally breached the capacity of tension it was able to withstand. The fact that you needed comfort more than anything and the person who usually supplies it for you with no bounds is the one who is violating that comfort made your head spin.

“She’s got that young pussy,” Yankee continued. “Gotta fuck ‘em before they turn into moms. Not as tight anymore.”

Bradley’s ears turned red upon hearing Yankee’s declaration. Knowing that you fucked up and realizing that you fucked up are two vastly different things and the realization hit when he heard Jake Seresin (of all fucking people) tsk and shake his head.

“That’s fucked up, man. Have some respect.” Ever the Southern fucking gentleman.

The sandy-haired pilot’s mouth gaped open before closing; the words loose in his psyche but ceasing to exist in real-time. He finally thought that he had a handle on what he wanted to say. Something noble. Something dignity preserving. Something along the lines of “What the hell?” and “Shut the fuck up.”, but either or never making its way out between his lips.

Waiting for the perfect moment that never comes, he thought, and upon further internalized reflection, he realized that it posed itself as true. Jake wasn’t entirely wrong for saying that about him all that time ago.

The clicking of heels on the ground announced Phoenix and his dashing girlfriend’s presence with the group of men and snapped Bradley out of his thoughts. Something in the way she was carrying herself, something about the way that her crossed arms over her chest blocked her usually sunny aura, told Bradley that something was wrong.

He brought his lips down to her ear when he hugged her from behind and almost built up the courage to ask what was wrong. But he fell short when he was called away to do another round of shots with Rueben and Natasha. He had settled for a kiss to your temple instead before he bolted off.

“Fuck you,” you manage to spit.

Bradley raises his eyebrows. The curse word sends him into immediate fight or flight. “What did you just say to me?”

You know that you’re teetering the line of too much. Toeing the line of immaturity. Testing if your boyfriend liked you enough to put up with your explosion of emotions. “I said fuck you.” The definitive tone in your voice that you attempt scares you with how much it resembles your mother’s.

Bradley scoffs and squirms in his seat some more. His inability to sit still is his tell of guilt. “I told you it wasn’t like that.”

“What the fuck else was it supposed to be then, Bradley?” Your head snaps to look at his side profile.

The cream-colored polo shirt that you had bought him months ago was worn tonight with a different ending in a mind; one where he sped home and kissed your lips swollen and then had you withering beneath him as he fucked up into you on the wall of his foyer. Certainly not the narrative that was currently unfolding in front of him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh cruelly. “Well, what I didn’t want you to say was that I was the tightest thing you’ve ever stuck your dick in? That I’m insatiably horny? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?” You turn your body to face him completely, heart beating in your ears and chest starting to heave with the upset of Bradley’s attitude toward you. “How the hell is Jake Seresin defending me before you even thought to?”

“Leave him out of this.” His face turns red and anger starts to bubble over inside him. Rooster always sweats whenever he gets flustered; so pissed off and angry that the heat inside of him has nowhere to go. The muggy threshold of the heat being flicked on minutes before pairs vexatiously with the aggravation that sits between the both of you.

He rolls the windows in the car all the way down but remembers to roll yours down enough for the smallest gusts of wind to be let in. Even though you had made him angry and he knows that you’re completely justified in the case that’s been built against him, he still cares about you.

He knows that you never like your window being all the way down unless the heat of the summer is unbearable and you were going on a beloved sunset drive with him; your shared playlist playing through his speakers and the top of the Bronco being taken off.

The way that your hair dances in the wind remind him of when you’re carefree enough to lean your head backward outside of the car while driving down a backroad, the words of a Paramore song exiting your lungs with such clarity that he could question if Hayley Williams had written the song or you.

But it’s not the heat of mid-June’s sunburn heating up his cheeks and your screams aren’t accompanied by the laughter of him poking your sides. Summer-salted air is replaced with a frigid fall breeze and your happy moods are burdened by your own frustrations.

“Wish I could tell you the same about our sex life, but obviously too little too late.”

His hand comes up to wipe at his nose. His eyebrows are furrowed. “What the fuck do you think we talk about then? Huh?” Bradley’s pointed tone sends a slight sliver of fear down your spine at his annoyance. “Do you think we sit on those fucking carrier ships in the middle of the fucking ocean for eight months at a time and talk about what? Girl power and Title IX? How much we love AOC?”

The tears dripping down your face continue to fall.

“I’m not saying that you have to sacrifice your conversations with the “bros” about jet fuel and g-forces and whatever the fuck else you always seem to insist is so goddamn important, but my vagina is not a conversation topic to have over a fucking draft beer with your buddies.”

Bradley rolls his eyes at your mention of the word “buddies.” If only you knew how he really felt about Yankee.

“And I’m so fucking sorry that my lack of not wanting to be disrespected disrupted what you think is a party conversation starter. Would you like my apology half-assed like yours or sincere with a complimentary blowjob because that seems to be all you think I’m good for?”

“I said I was sorry and I meant it!”

“You said you were sorry because you want me to accept your apology, but what next, Bradley? Are you actually gonna fix it?”

He rolls his eyes and lets out a deep exhale. “Don’t act like I won’t do anything you fucking ask of me,” his hand comes up to rub at his temples.“ I love you more than life itself and you know that.”

“So why are you acting like you don’t then?”

He starts driving down the stretch of road that leads to his home. The yellow glow of the street lights makes you want to ask him to take you back to your place. You can’t stand to be sitting next to him in his car's front seat, let alone sleeping in the same bed with him tonight.

“Take it back,” he says dismissively.

“Show me different and maybe I’ll consider.” He pulls the car into his garage and you throw the door open before he can come to a complete stop.

“Hard to when every little thing that slightly offends you sends you into a goddamn spiral.”

Your weakness. He’s got you there.

“Fuck you, Rooster,” you say weakly, stomping away inside to his bedroom as fast as you can with the heels you have on.

“Grow up,” you hear him say behind you, hot on your tail before turning around to head to the kitchen.

You spend the next two hours separate from each other, toeing around the house petrified of seeing the other’s face. No fight you had gotten into with one another had ever been this bad in the four years you had been dating, and part of you wonders if this is how relationships begin to fade; how people start to realize that maybe their person wasn’t their person.

But you think Bradley is it for you. You’ve always felt that way since coming to know him. Be with him. Have him in the same way he has you. You don’t think you can function without him no matter how much of an ass he’s being to you right now. And sure, you’re independent to a fault and yeah, you don’t always know what’s good for you, but you know one thing definitively, and that thing is that Bradley Bradshaw checks all your boxes despite driving you slightly insane at times.

You look up at yourself in his bathroom mirror as you finally scooped yourself off of the floor of his bedroom and made the decision to scrub your makeup off (or what was left of it after your meltdown, really). The patch of stress acne near the side of your forehead from the new project you had been put on at work and the ball of anxiety over what to wear to the wedding shower tonight made itself known. You realized that you had run out of makeup remover and face wash at Bradley’s house a couple of days ago, and the regret of not bringing some or asking him to drop you off at your own apartment started to settle with the burden of your hurt feelings and the freakout your skin was bound to have come tomorrow morning.

A sigh had left your mouth and Bradley’s bathroom cabinet opened as you decided to skip washing your face in favor of only brushing your teeth. But when you go to grab the lilac-handled toothbrush from its holder, you notice the two brand-new bottles of makeup remover and face wash that you certainly didn’t bring, and then you’re reminded of how sweet your boyfriend can be. How caring he is.

The soft spot in your heart that he owns starts to warm again.

After you manage to wash your face and brush your teeth, you run into the problem of only bringing a sleep shirt. Bradley keeps his house on sixty-five no matter the weather outside. He always claims that he runs hot despite some of the wind chill San Diego experiences at night during the fall and winter months. And while you have clothes at Bradley’s, most of them fall into the business casual garb you wear to work or are borrowed (more like stolen, he likes to joke) and no matter how cold you may be, your pride has so much more precedence than it would allow you to give in.

Bradley’s Chicago Bears hoodie sits folded in your designated drawer, but you bypass putting it on. The embarrassingly large t-shirt (albeit free t-shirt) that repped a random student organization from your undergrad institution would have to do tonight.

You waltz out of Bradley’s bedroom quietly. Not only to go undetected, but to be polite in case he had already fallen asleep on his declared refuge of the couch. The soft sound of Breaking Bad playing told you that he was still awake. He can never fall asleep with the TV on; no matter how tired he is.

“Baby?” Bradley calls out from the couch.

Shit. Were you really that loud?

Your feet move faster than your brain; something about Bradley is so magnetizing. You’ll follow him to the end of the Earth if you knew that he needed you. Your puffy-eyed, pantless form moves to stand in front of him. His form still wears the clothes he had worn tonight. The only thing different was the UVA throw blanket you had gotten him last month “just because” over his lap and his printed airplane-socked feet sticking out from underneath it.

Your gaze looks towards the shoe rack near the front door and you chuckle to yourself as you see them exactly how you imagined them. Tucked away where he wouldn’t trip on them, but slightly askew.

His hand comes up to grab yours that lies limply at your side. “C’mere,” he whispers, testing the waters to see how much damage he had done.

You give his hand a small squeeze, the coldness of yours allowing you to feel every callous on his palms. “Jesus, you’re freezing.”

He opens the blanket on his lap and guides you to straddle him. He closes the blanket and immediate warmth covers you. Bradley’s hands sit on your lower back above your tailbone, soothing circles being rubbed on the bone there, and his head coming to rest on top of yours. You breathe in his scent, your face snuggled into his neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” he speaks and you exhale. You bite your lip, the tears welling up again and wetting his neck.

“It’s okay,” you weep brokenly. “I’m sorry, too.”

He presses gentle kisses on the top of your hair. The sadness that fills the room; the culmination of utter sorrow and confirmation of your insecurities makes the room heavy and eats away at you. Bradley does his best to comfort you until your sobs quiet to hiccups.

And as much as you love Bradley, as much as you want to be satisfied with his apology (or lack of a sincere one, thereof), you realize that sincerity was perhaps not one of his defining characteristics. But instead of calling him out, you so stupidly and cowardly accepted it and apologized right back.

He’s apologizing for the sake of saying sorry. For the sake of diminishing your anger. For the sake of being able to be truthful about never going to bed angry if someone asks. For the sake of doing so because if you accept, he’s still allowed to stay the same and he never has to change.

But you’re saying sorry for being a nuisance. For embarrassing him. For bruising his ego and for being accusatory that he never gave a damn about you.

And what you don’t realize is that you should really be saying sorry to yourself, because while you’re boxing yourself up to make space for him, he’s not sorry about forcing you to do it.

Boxes are heavier when they’re filled with resentment, you learn, and the weight becomes unbearable when sorrows are thrown out to sea with no lifesaver near in sight.

Love is all about sacrifice and banged-up feelings; even if that means that the love of the man you would do anything for suffocates you as you lay curled into his side with a heat made by his chest and his soft snores in your ear.

“Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind.”

And for the first time in the four years you had spent together, you truly start to wonder if Bradley really does love you. The hot coffee on the nightstand when you wake up and the discovery of his thermostat being turned up to seventy degrees confuses you when you get up to head back to your apartment in the morning when you compare his treatment of you now to he had treated you the night before.

He loves me not. He loves me.

He loves me not.

(Year 5)

He loves me. He loves me not.

His mother used to tell him that women always knew.

And she would say it over the sound of a cheaply made General Hospital episode that she had taped so they could watch it together during their evening “wind down time.” His pencil would be scratching away at a Calculus problem from the AP Calc booklet his teacher had passed out at school that day and the soft clink of his mother’s knitting needles would grace his ears.

He would nod his head as he sat by his mother’s feet on the floor of their living room and wouldn’t say a word. The cocoon that the soft yellow glow of the lamp gave off wrapped him in a moment of security; a moment of comfort that he was never allowed very often.

And he had never really thought anything of it at the time. He had figured it was just some chock-full wisdom that would blossom into a useful tool for his adult life; one where his mom wasn’t dying and he was married with maybe a few kids and a beautiful house with a backyard and a bay window.

“Women always know,” his mom said as the female lead had discovered her husband cheating on her long before she had traveled home to catch him in the act.

“Women always know,” his mom said as she would catch him trying to sneak a girl into his teenage bedroom at half past three in the morning.

“Women always know,” his mom said as she comforted him when she had declared to an eighteen-year-old Bradley that she no longer wanted to continue with chemotherapy. She died not even two days later.

“Women always know,” he can hear his mom’s voice in the back of his head as he watches you tiptoe around him when you come home from work.

The door closes with a soft click and your keys are grasped tightly in your hand to prevent them from jingling. The bags underneath your eyes beg the question of when the last time you had gotten a full eight hours of sleep was, but you both would rather not inquire out loud.

The answer would shock both of your consciences.

The tossing and turning you had done the night before was cruel. The anxieties of your day had breached unknown territory; the pit of your stomach hollow and your chest tight. Your mind was so frazzled with fear you couldn’t bear to stay still because the lack of movement gave way for your thoughts to be caught; for your fear and anxiousness to swallow you whole.

Bradley would normally stir in his sleep the minute your eyes had popped open in the middle of the night, but instead, he had elected to turn over and cuddle his face more into his own pillow. The action tacked itself onto the mile-long list of things you were upset about - things that you found unfathomable that your brain scrambled together.

And when you had finally gotten to sleep, your alarm clock blared beside you. Your heart had started to race and the monster of nerves you had successfully defeated for an hour and a half resurrected itself.

When you had turned to face Bradley, you found him still fast asleep and that’s when you knew.

You’re not stupid. You’re not oblivious. In fact, you’re always so painfully aware that it kills you sometimes. You notice how he’s been pulling away. You notice how he’s seemed more reserved and despondent than usual. You notice how he doesn’t kiss your forehead anymore or ask to join you in the shower when you’re both spending your mornings at home together on the weekends.

Conversations at the dinner table are neither here nor there as most nights he can’t be damned to make it home to eat with you. For the first time in five years, you had run out of face wash and had to write a note to yourself on your phone to pick some more up from the store the next time you went shopping. Bradley had watched you type it out and his sagging shoulders wore disappointment on them.

You knew.

You knew he was both feet out of the door with your relationship; his hand still on the doorknob to close it but not having the guts to lock the door while he’s at it.

You know.

You know that you’re going to break up. You know that Bradley is the one who will be taking the initiative and doing it. You know that he’s been thinking about it for a while. The absent gasps whenever you do happen to catch dinner with him say so, and all you can think about is his mouth opening and closing like a goddamn goldfish as he searches for the words to bring it up. The thought makes the actions of the inevitable seem more bearable.

But yet you cling to what little time you know you have left with him.

How you know that you’ll never get to sleep beside him again. How you know that you’ll never get to snuggle into his UVA blanket. How you know that you’ll never visit the Hard Deck or the base or any spaces where Rooster Bradshaw exists freely.

How you know that things will never be the same and that your sweet, sweet Bradley will soon become a sweet, sweet stranger.

So you try to prolong it.

You never linger in the same space as him for too long for fear of the dreadful topic being brought up. You bite your tongue a lot more than you usually do. You keep your stuff neat and tidy; praying for some miracle that he didn’t see your hairbrush on his bathroom counter and that it would buy you another day with him.

You know it can’t last forever but the stupid, naive part of you thinks you can stretch the time to infinity and it’ll be some Groundhog Day-type plot.

You had started planning your arrival home around his schedule months prior. You aimed for leaving the office when you knew he had already left base about an hour earlier. If Bradley was anything, it was predictable, and he would either be in the shower when you had made your way home or cooped up in the home office he had made of the spare bedroom.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you see him standing in front of you; hands drying the ceramic plates Penny and Mav had bought you as a housewarming gift whenever he bit the bullet and moved you both into his parents’ old house last summer. Gray running shorts are low on his hips and a New York Yankees long-sleeve looks damn near painted on his biceps. You swallow the lump in your throat that travels down to your stomach.

Your brain can’t even begin to think of what to do or say but Bradley beats you to it.

“Hi,” he speaks, breaking the ice of your anxiety that freezes you both over. He knows that you can feel that something is off. He knows that you’ve felt it for a long time. He also knows that he’s about to shatter you completely and he’s not sure if he can watch as he does it.

“Hi,” your voice quietly sounds. Your hands start to shake and Bradley’s eyebrows upturn with sympathy as he drinks in your appearance.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He places the plate down and steps towards you. “C’mere.”

His arms stretch to accommodate you. His heart beats wildly as he approaches. He thinks you can sense it because you slam your ear against his chest. There’s no way you can’t feel the rise and fall and frenzied thumping coming from his pectoral.

“Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her,” his heart begs, but his brain knows that either way, hurting you is inevitable.

He wishes there was another way but he knows wishful thinking will only put you both in a landmine of resentment; a world of a loveless marriage and three kids who will eventually have to pack their bags for their respective weekends with you and him on opposite sides of town. He doesn’t want that for you. He doesn’t want that for him. He sure as hell doesn’t want that for them. So he pushes aside his selfish desire to keep you close and does what he always does.

He decides to walk away.

“Just get it over with,” you say weakly from his chest. He plants a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. His thumbs rub soothing circles on the backs of both shoulders. Your stomach is cold and the rest of your body is left scorching.

“What are you talking about?” his chin comes to rest on top of your head. His hold on you unintentionally shoves your face deeper into his chest.

“Don’t make me say it. Please don’t.”

“I can’t talk about it unless you tell me what you’re gettin’ at, babydoll.”

“Don’t play stupid, Bradley,” you release yourself from his grip, “You’re going to break up with me. We both know it so please, just do it already.”

The words that you say steer clear of the convoluted plan he had in mind. Breaking up is no easy task and the guilt of the thought even crossing his mind had been weighing on him for ages. It wasn’t like he sat down with himself and crunched the numbers of the housing market to see when the best time would be for you to move out or that he had a set itinerary of how the conversation was going to play out. He wasn’t even sure he was going to do it today until you had left for work, and it seems to him that you had figured it out without having to mention it to you.

Women always know.

“Don’t say it like I’m just trying to throw you away.” You flinch at his words. He realizes that his tone had come off more aggressive than he intended it to be when he notices the slight watering in your eyes.

“Isn’t that what a break up is?” you want to ask, but you’re so stunned you can’t get your vocal cords to carve out the shape of the letters, let alone thrust any sound out.

He takes your hand and leads you to your shared bedroom. The white duvet and navy blue bordered throw pillows remind you of when he used to take the time to hold you before you fell asleep at night. The hardwood of the floors tell the secrets shared between the two of you as hushed and giggled whispers; pointless gossip and serious confessions alike. The framed pictures on the dresser show you and him in various moments of your five years together.

Easter spent at your parents’ with your siblings and nieces and nephews this past spring. Thanksgiving with Mav, Penny, and Amelia three years prior. A selfie you forced him to take with you at Phoenix’s wedding last year. A candid shot taken by one of your friends of you two curled up on the beach; blissfully in love and lost in each other’s eyes at the start of your relationship.

The photos and the room had seen so much of you two. Various deployments and promotions. A canvas of emotions and intimate moments. Laughter and tears. Petty fights and teenaged makeout sessions. So many things that had written the story of you and Bradley long before you had moved in and long after. The thoughts of the memories fill you with excitement.

But the thought of him not feeling the same way - the fact that he’s bringing you to a room with the story of you both written exclusively in every crevice to end things - brings a waterfall of tears down your face.

The story of creation and its impending graveyard.

Another pang of anguish surges through you and the coldness in your stomach spreads to your feet.

He sits down on the foot of the bed first. He looks up at you with worry written in his irises. Bradley can sense your discomfort; the sadness and panic bouncing off of your aura in waves of deep indigo blue - the color that he’s assigned depression. He doesn’t know why (and he thinks that if he were you, he would slap himself across the face) but he offers his hand to you.

There’s no hesitation and his hand guides you to sit on his lap like how he always does when you’re upset and need comfort.

You sit down and push your face into the side of his neck. The stinging sensation from the hot salt water tears leaking into a cut he had given himself from shaving that morning makes the nature of the situation all the more realistic. This is the last time he will hold you like this. This is the last time he will know you as well as he does. This is the last time he will ever have the chance to make you miserable.

Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore.

But the feeling of disappointment is just so intense this time. He’s sure it doesn’t even fall within the scope of what could be considered “hurt feelings.” He would classify this as torture, and he can’t help his own quiet sobs racking his chest as he holds your crying and shrunken-in form in his arms.

“I don’t want to break up, Bradley,” you weep, “I just don’t want to.”

He shakes his head and wipes his own eyes. “We need to.”

There’s something so personal about failure. It’s not a stranger to you. It’s not a monster or fear or the Mucinex man that you try to boil it down to be. It’s something that you can’t obsessively try to avoid anymore because it’s right here in your face.

Except this time, it takes the shape of Bradley’s red-rimmed eyes and gray hairs on the border of his hairline that you hadn’t noticed before.

Bradley isn’t one for bragging. He can’t stand bragging, actually, and he wonders if that’s why he has such a hard time trusting his judgment. He considers that to be the reason why he’s always teetering on the edge of uncertainty, but he knows deep down that this time, he’s right. He’s so spot on and as much as it kills him, it would be more of a crime to deny it than to just admit that he’s right.

He knows it. You know it. He’s sure God does, too.

“No, you want to,” you stubbornly sniffle.

Ever the most hard-headed person to exist, but a sweetheart when it comes down to it. He almost cracks a smile at your attitude, but then he runs into it like a wall of bricks. You’re breaking up. This is the last time he’ll ever get to see your bull-headedness in full effect. The thought makes him whimper and he prays that you didn’t hear the infliction of it in his voice.

“That’s not true, sweet girl,” he sighs, fingers tracing the seam of your work pants, “I can’t make you miserable anymore. We need to.”

“Who said I was miserable?”

He pauses. He knows that the statement he’s about to make will send an uncomfortable chill down his spine. He knows that it’ll make him feel that way because he’s being called out.

“I don’t want to get married and you do. That’s miserable.”

Your ears burn more than they already had because he’s right. You’ve been waiting around for a stupid diamond on a stupid gold band; for reassurance that he wants you to be his as much as you love the idea of being his forever.

Five years and you know how he takes his coffee in the morning. Five years and you compromise regularly about what to keep the thermostat on. Five years and nine weddings you had attended with him. Five years of loving each other and knowing one another in ways that only fiction writers can dream of having someone know them. Five years of feeling like you would die without him.

Five years and he’s ready to throw it all away because he doesn’t think you both want the same things. Five years down the drain.

You think being kicked in the face would hurt a hell of a lot less than this does.

“Uh-uh. No,” you say. You paw at your eyes with your hand ferociously. “No! You don’t get to do that. You know that’s not fair!” You spring up from his lap like he was a fire that had just licked your skin with white-hot heat.

He grabs at your wrist, his eyes pleading with you to not leave him. His touch burns you but you give in. “It’s not fair to keep doing this to you.” His arms envelop you once again and you feel like you can’t breathe.

You push at his chest. “This isn’t fair.” Your arms try and pry Bradley’s arms off of you. “You can’t - I can’t just let you throw us away like this. It’s not fair!”

Bradley swallows down the lump in his throat. His eyes produce more tears the more he watches you struggle against him. He’s scared that if he lets you go that you’ll lose it completely. Part of him knows keeping you near is helping him hold it together too, but he tries to rationalize the overall shittiness of the entire situation by telling himself that he’s appealing to your needs - that you need him, but he also knows that he needs you.

“I love you so much,” he whispers into your hair.

“Then why are you hurting me?” The question explodes in the air, It’s something that he thought he was prepared to hear from the pep talk he had given himself on the ride to work this morning, but it still stuns him.

“I’m hurting you by keeping you with me.”

You scoff and cry harder. The fight inside of you hasn’t ceased yet. Such a stubborn girl, he thinks. It’s one of the things he loves the most about you.

“You’re hurting me now.”

Bradley swallows his comment. His mind ping pongs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on how to tell you why he knows this is for the best. The truth is, he doesn’t know it. He just thinks it, and the worry of having to follow his instincts, to have to be guided by something so material and un-cemented, scares him to death. But he knows that you deserve the word and the world is something he knows that he’ll never be capable of giving anyone.

“You deserve someone that will marry you.” The words taste bitter in his mouth. “Someone who will make you so happy that you won’t even think of us anymore. Someone who can give you that house in La Jolla and a huge wedding and babies and a dog.”

“Someone who won’t blow up in flames while they’re in the sky,” he almost adds, but he closes his mouth instead. The conversation was already heavy. There’s no need to tack on his death that is always in the cards.

“I deserve you,” you say, tone dripping with determination and assurance.

He’s full-on sobbing now. “You deserve so much better, baby. Why can’t you see it?”

You chew on your lips so hard that they start to split. The salt of the blood in your mouth is vile but you would rather taste that than the tears that have been roaming down your face.

“Why can’t you just be better then?”

He feels like you stabbed him in the heart. He guesses that he deserves that. “I can’t be better if you deserve the world. I know I can’t give you that.”

The room fills itself with hiccuped breaths. His heart cracks and yours disintegrates. Bradley moves himself to the headboard to support his back. If you weren’t so concerned with your world crashing down, you would have made a joke about how his age was catching up with him. But trying to force yourself to smile feels like a crime.

Bradley has experienced loss. He’s experienced disappointment. He’s experienced heartbreak. He thought he was prepared for what he was choosing to do, but he never had thought of how he would feel when he was experiencing all of these things at once.

His abs hurt from how hard he’s crying. The hair on the crown of your head is soaked from his tears but you don’t mind nor do you notice. The chest of his long sleeve is stained black from your own tears. You both cling to each other even though being close is what causes you to ache.

The bright white of the linen duvet reflects cornflower blue in the moonlight. Your throat is dry from your heaving. His head hurts from his racing thoughts. Both of your eyes sting uncomfortably; you seeing the world as if you were underwater. Not only because of your uncontrollable sobbing but because the focus of your life - the love you so willingly gave that has illuminated your world for the past five years - has finally dimmed.

The hours spent holding each other felt like seconds and you finally muster up the courage to say something; to put on a brave face and revel in one of your lasts with him.

“Bradley?” you croak. He clears his throat and presses a timid kiss to the top of your head as if he’s scared that his lips are more of a weapon than a tool of comfort.

“Yes, baby?”

“Will we still be friends in a few weeks?”

He sucks on his lips. He wants to say that you’ll always be friends. That no one that comes after you will ever hold a candle to you and what you both had. That you’re his beginning and end, but he can’t keep dragging you along with a false promise of giving you what you actually want. He can’t make himself want to be a husband even though he knows that it’s what he needs to be to keep you. Wanting you just isn’t enough anymore.

The risk is contemplated, but he never wants to prey on you and your vulnerability. He settles for the safe option.

“Depends on if you still wanna be, sweet girl.”

You plant a soft kiss on the wet spot on his chest your tears have created. The answer is sweet but not what you want. You wish it would’ve broken his resolve; would’ve reversed your relationship ending. You know that he knows better than to do that.

The silence sets in again before you speak up.

“Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Will you still call me every night before I go to sleep so I can hear your voice?”

“I can for a little while, baby.”

His answer is the right thing to say, you know, but you can’t help the fact that the statement breaks your heart even more. “Why only a little bit?”

He sighs. You’re not making this easy for him. “Babe, you know why.”

“Right,” you whisper, shifting in his lap to wrap your arms around his neck. You peer into his eyes. The hazel in them is dimmed. There’s no sparkle left. “M’sorry for asking.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he reassures, “Just think that maybe that won't be healthy if we do it for too long.”

It kills him to say that, but he knows that he’s doing the right thing. It certainly doesn’t feel as such, and he would think that nearly twenty years of service in the Navy would help him separate the bad feelings from the nobility.

Breaks up just don’t work like that, he figures. No amount of experience or preparation can concoct an easy way out where no one gets hurt.

He gets lost in his thoughts before he hears your voice again.

“Bradley?”

Broken. Timid. Inquisitive. A test to see if he still cares enough about you to answer. He knows how you are and that you’re reverting back to old patterns that you had lost during your time with him. He has to push aside his feelings of being slightly offended that you’ve put the wall back up so quickly, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s done enough damage to last a lifetime. He just wishes that you didn’t think he could fall out of love with you this easily.

“Hmm, baby?”

“You’re my best friend.”

“My best friend too,” he exhales, the pang in his chest valiant in letting him know that this is the end, “Always will be.”

You pause and tailor your next statement carefully. Part of you takes it slow to prevent yourself from breaking down again but part of you takes your time to keep him near; to keep him from walking away from you. And you don’t want to do this to him. You don’t want to anger him or upset him and that’s the fucked up thing about it.

He’s hurting you and you don’t want to hurt him back.

“Yeah, but what happens when you date another girl and she’s your best friend instead of me?” The thought makes your skin crawl and you dig half moons into the skin of your hand with your thumb to prevent yourself from letting out a chest-wracking sob. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Bradley sighs. The thought of you moving on is selfish but he knows that it’s inevitable. He wishes that no one will ever get to know you the same ways that he’s gotten to, but shakes the thought as soon as he realizes how selfish it is - a declaration of love or the right answer.

He does the latter.

“You’ll find someone who’s an even better best friend than I am,” he sniffles. He hadn’t even noticed that he had started crying again. “Someone who doesn’t make you cry.”

Your breath hitches and it triggers more tears to stream down your face. He’s hurting, too. You never want to see him hurt like this, but then you realize that after today, you will never have to ever again. The thought makes your body ache; withdrawal symptoms before any withdrawal had actually begun.

“You promise we’ll still talk?” you speak in a watery voice.

“Yes, babydoll,” he wipes his eyes and sniffles some more, “ We’ll still talk.”

You start to play with his hands. Your finger runs across a faint scar on his index, the freckle on his pinky, the empty space where you wish a gold wedding band would be on his ring finger. The tips of your own fingers start to burn when you realize that his disinterest in ever wanting to wear one is why you’re breaking up.

You push the thought to the side and continue on in the conversation.

“About life stuff?”

He gives a soft chuckle, the one he usually gives you when he’s playing into your amusements. Part of him is never serious when he does it, but there’s a new wave of promise that he has to keep.

“About anything you want.”

The crying dies down again. The energy in the room is constantly going up and down like the waves on the beach near the back of the house.

“Bradley?” you interrupt the quietness again. The lack of sound makes you even more anxious than you already are.

“Yes?” He curses himself as the statement leaves his mouth. He knows you’re picking apart his lack of use of a pet name; that you’re convincing yourself that you’re an inconvenience to him and that he never cared for you the way you wanted him to.

Bradley almost tacks one on, but the pause between adding it and answering would have been too broad and you would have noticed and called him out on it. He decides against it. He also starts to wonder when he became so decisive all of a sudden.

Turmoil does that to someone, he guesses.

“My heart hurts so bad and I don’t know how I’ll fix it.”

The energy in the room spikes again. The tension you can feel radiating off of him like an unbearable heat makes your eyes water. Crying was something you did often but not something you enjoyed. You’re in for some long, painstakingly miserable months, you think.

“Mine does too but we’ll do what we always do, right?” You shift in his lap and curl into him more. You know he’s right, but it doesn’t mean that what he’s saying is what you wanted to hear. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I - I don’t think I kn-know how to d-do that anymore.”

He moves his chin from the top of your head to actually look at you. He had been avoiding it for the fear that he would be too cowardly and would retreat back to keeping you in this miserable, hopeless search for a marriage that he was never planning on partaking in. He can’t go back. He can’t undo what he had just done. Even if he were to announce that he wanted you to stay, it being brought up in the first place will forever have torn an irreparable hole in the fabric of your relationship.

Bradley’s hands cup your face and he smacks his lips on your forehead. He thumbs away the tears that had been endlessly streaming all night. He rubs soft circles back and forth on your cheekbones. The pressure you get in your cheeks from crying always gives you a massive headache, he knows.

The fact that someone else will know that about you sends him into a spiral of guilt. A spiral of weakness. A spiral of wanting to undo what he had just done.

But he doesn’t.

Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Do the right thing.

And so he does.

“Bullshit, baby. You’re the smartest woman I know. You’ll figure it out.” Truthful words, but not truthful feelings. He’s never been good at deciphering those.

“Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?”

The words get stuck in your throat. You never want to make him feel bad because you know how hard he is on himself. You’re not sure if saying what you want to say is even worth it but - from the way he’s holding your face, from the way you’ve gotten to know and love him, from the way that he will always be your sweet, sweet Bradley - you determine that he needs to hear it.

“You’re the kindest man that I know even though you stomped on my heart.”

He sends you a soft smile and delivers a soft kiss to your lips; the first one of the night despite being so close to him all evening.

“I learned how to be because of you.”

You don’t know how long you both stay like that - wrapped up in each other with waves of tears coming and going as they please. The soft whimpers leave your mouth and the sniffled breaths that leave his paint each corner of the bedroom with an ending.

One where you don’t get the ring and the house and the babies. One where he doesn’t get the girl and the family and the happily ever after. One where you both don’t have a soulmate anymore.

He knows that he shouldn’t say it. He knows that it’s probably the last thing you want to hear. He knows that he’s not ready for you to leave and he says it hoping that maybe, he can take back what had happened; that maybe you can steer the conversation in talks of staying together and compromising and “working it out.”

“I love you. I’ll always love you.”

You look up at him brokenly. His heart stops beating when you open your mouth to speak.

“But you’ll never love me enough to try.”

Bradley closes his mouth and exhales deeply through his nose. The point you made is compelling and it stings to know that it’s completely truthful. He sits with you on his lap, subtly rocking you back and forth until the sky turns from the midnight blue of nightfall to the yellow-tinted wisteria of sunrise.

Women always know. And he would be foolish to pretend like your gut feeling was wrong.

He loves me. He loves me not.

None of it matters if he doesn’t love you enough to be what you need.

975 notes · View notes

azirafuck · 9 months

Note

Spoiler/speculation for you:

In the coffee shop scene Prime released, they've modified the audio. In the background of the actual scene you can hear the instrumental ~coffee shop~ music change to Queen once Crowley has been there a few minutes. Which means the Queen is tied to *Crowley*, not the Bentley-which iirc, is a departure from the book.

Then, separately, the reason Aziraphale has the Everyday record is because Gabriel starts humming/singing the song, even though he doesn't remember literally anything else. Aziraphale finds out from Nina that there's a pub in Scotland where, no matter what record they put in their jukebox, it turns to Everyday.

So we have Crowley (who used to be a high angel, literally created the universe based on God's blueprint) who makes any music he's around turn into Queen. And then a pub where all of the music turns into Everyday, with Gabriel involved somehow.

Possible connection?

(Also the pub is where 'our Bently' comes in. Aziraphale wants to take it to Scotland to investigate the pub but needs Crowley to babysit Gabriel. So he tries to play 'it's our car. it *was* yours, like the bookshop *was* mine. but it's basically *our* bookshop now, so it should be *our* car' to get Crowley to let him take it)

!! QUEEN IS TIED TO CROWLEY NATION RISE THE FUCK UP !!

thank you SO SO much for this anon, I think we were all wondering how Everyday tied into the story, and that is SO cool hhgfjdd

and yeah, there definitely is a connection there but my brain isn't computing at the moment - i'll leave it for everyone else to speculate on. just, holy shit.

also CRYING at the OUR CAR and OUR BOOKSHOP hhhhh

#good omens spoilers #good omens #ask #gos2spoilers

145 notes · View notes

messedupfan · 10 months

Text

Chapter 2

Summary: Wanda is putting herself back together bit by bit. Vision doesn't make it easy.

A/n: I'm really enjoying writing this series. I hope all of you enjoy!

Masterlist | All Chapters | All Stories Taglist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Wanda arrived home, she was too distracted to entertain her brother further. She tried to get rid of him but he refused to leave until she agreed to let him help her fix the side of her house. “Okay!” she said, exhausted. “You can do the work! Now go, please,” she had begged. He then offered to take the boys for the night and she let him. With the reminder that they had to be back before four the next day to spend the week with their father.

Wanda hardly slept that night. She drank the beverage you had bought for her as she smoked a couple of cigarettes and worked on the plans for a new room in her house. As she worked she thought about what the space could be used for. The place itself had four bedrooms and her office space on the second floor. The first floor consisted of a living room, den, laundry/utility room that led to the garage, and kitchen/dining area. Then, there was the basement. Vision had claimed it as his man cave especially after she gave it quite the makeover. He has been out of the house for a while and has yet come to tear it down. Wanda doesn't have the heart to do it herself just yet, but she knows that the boys could use the space.

As she drew the space with large windows, because the house never felt like enough light was coming through, she realized the space could be the dining room she had wanted. Wanda woke up the next day in her office, to her brother nudging her awake with worry. All she does is show him the blueprints and walks away to clean up and take care of her hangover.

When Vision arrived to pick up the boys he noticed the tarp covered hole on the side of the house and matched in angrily. “I did not give you the house so you could-”

“No Vis, you did not give me the house. You lost it in the divorce,” Wanda corrected. “This is my house, I can do as I damn well please.”

The boys raced down the stairs before Vision could say anymore. He was many things, but he was not going to curse Wanda out in front of the children. It pained Wanda to come to the realization that the boys know this about their father and feel the need to protect her. That was her job. She was supposed to protect them and herself. “Get in the car boys,” Vision says sharply.

“Give me a hug,” Wanda says and the boys took turns in holding their mom in a goodbye. “You boys be good for your dad, okay?” They both agreed and reluctantly walked out the door to the car.

“What were you thinking when you destroyed this house? I was supposed to have people over for the game tonight! Now I have to cancel!” Vision says, frustrated as he stared at the broken wall.

Wanda shook her head and shrugged, “Should have thought of that before you tore this family apart.”

“You’ve changed,” he observed with a scowl. “I don’t like it.”

“Good, now go,” she says, waving the direction to the door. “And don’t think your entitled ass can host game night here again. I want you to get your shit from the basement when you bring the boys back home next weekend.”

Vision laughs and rolls his eyes, pretending that he doesn’t believe that she is being serious. “Or what?”

“I’ll throw it out or give it away,” she states calmly. Her calmness throws him off. Wanda took pride in watching him stumble on his words. “Bye, Vis,” she says as she walks away from the conversation. He slammed the door to make his exit known and Wanda began to shake as she lost all the strength she had for the conversation. Tears rushed out aggressively and she sobbed in fear of what her ex-husband might do since she stood up to him.

The rest of the week flies by as she is drowning in work and her new side project. She completely forgets about her arrangement with you until she is cleaning her house on Saturday and finds the bottle you bought her along with the pack of cigarettes she hadn't touched since that night. She checked her watch and saw that she would be cutting it close but she could still make it on time. Wanda passes a mirror and sees the mess that she is. Her hair is tangled and unruly. She was in her stained cleaning overalls with an old t-shirt with holes. Part of her thought she should change. But the thought quickly left her as she figures she isn't trying to impress anyone. So she leaves as is. Playing out an argument with you in her head if you have anything to say about it.

When she arrives, you are leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette. Wanda exits her car, “Alright, let's go inside and pick something for you.”

You put out the cigarette with a laugh,“Not bad, huh?” You hold the store's door open for her.

She shakes her head as she walks past you, “Not bad at all. Thank you.” Standing close by her, you follow her through the store. Spotting the next drinks you're going to recommend to her if the two of you continue this little game. “Here it is,” she stops suddenly and you crash your chest into her back.

“Sorry,” you blush.

“It’s, uh, it's no problem,” she blinks a couple of times before handing the bottle to you so that you can look it over. Just when you had thought you had tried it all, you find the brand to be unrecognizable. “I’m actually surprised to see this here. It's hard to track down unless you know someone. It's from my mothers' country. She used to have family send her a year's supply every Christmas.”

You nod, understanding why you've never seen this before. “It’s good?” You ask.

“I wouldn't recommend it if it wasn't,” she confirms. And you agree to try it, asking what's the best way to serve it. “A shot or… oh! There's a few cocktails that are really good. I don't know them off the top of my head though,” she taps her lips in thought. “You’re not a creep right?” she asks suddenly.

You laugh awkwardly, “I would like to believe I'm not but I can't definitively answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't know what behavior I exhibit that you would define as creepy,” you explain.

Wanda nods once as she understands, “Good point.” She plays with her lips in thought and shrugs. She grabs her pen and pocket sized sketchbook from her overalls and writes down her number. “If you start to be a creep, I will block you. Then you can have a definitive answer for the next person who asks.”

This makes you laugh again, this time it's more genuine. But not because you are mocking her thinking, the conversation just amused you. You take the slip of paper she holds out, “I promise not to be creepy.”

“Good,” she takes the bottle over to the counter and purchases it. You put her number in your phone as you wait. “Same time next week?” She holds the bag out for you.

It takes you a second to work out the schedule in your mind. The other day, you agreed to do a favor for your friend. It was free labor on the weekends but he said he and his sister were covering the costs of all materials. He just needed an extra set of hands. Normally you wouldn't have agreed since Saturday is the day you drop off or pick up your daughter. That way the two of you can have fun together on the weekends. Doing this favor, she would have to spend her weekends either with a sitter or onsite, which his friend said he was willing to accommodate for. However, you did owe him a really big favor and he said his sister was going through a rough time. You didn't mind helping, you were just concerned about your daughter's time being compromised. And now Saturdays might include this. “Uh yeah, I might be a little late but it should work out.”

“You know what,” Wanda waves her hand, “You have my number now. Let me know when.”

You smile gratefully, “Thank you, I definitely will.” You open the door for her as the two of you leave. “I’ll see you soon,” you wiggle the bottle in the air and get in your car.

“I’ll see you soon,” Wanda shouts from outside her car. She returns to her house and sighs as she looks at the mess. She gets back to cleaning so that her boys can come back to a nice clean home.

It has been years since she's had this motivation to keep the house clean. The house wasn't a bad episode of Hoarders but it wasn't the set of some popular family sitcom either. She wanted to be better about keeping the house clean now that it was mostly on her. Of course, she will teach the boys to do some chores when they're a little older. But for now, she feels they deserve the mother they had a few years ago. The kind that kept up with house chores and made dinner instead of getting the takeout everyday of the week. The boys always came back from their fathers talking about Vision and Virginia's cooking. It saddened her.

Several years ago, her and Vision would cook together. They wanted it to encourage the boys to want to learn how to cook. Vision is Tommy and Billy's hero. Anything their father does, they want to do as well. So, in order to raise good boys, Wanda asked Vision to cook dinner with her as much as possible. He was reluctant at the start but eventually gave in and even found a liking to the craft. They took a few cooking classes for date night for a time. It was one of the few activities that Vision and Wanda hardly fought during.

As the boys got older, they started to get curious and it led to Wanda and Vision teaching them basic steps in the process. Wanda stands in the kitchen as the rose colored lenses fill her memory of only the cute moments she shared with her family once upon a time. The laughter that filled the room, the fun messes that caused the noise, the delicious meals and treats after. She remembers it all with a broken heart.

It doesn't include when Vision wasn't paying attention to Billy and the boy reached for the knife his dad set down on the counter, it fell and luckily only the butt of the knife hit the little boy's foot. In shock, he burst into tears and screamed his head off. Wanda watched both her life and his flash before her eyes as she witnessed the incident from across the room. She rushed to his side in fear, making sure he was fine and trying to console him while Vision screamed at the boy. Blaming the entire incident on the curious six-year-old.

She isn't reminded of the night Vision came clean about his affair. He told her while she was washing the dishes. He was griping on and on about how she was lost and needed professional help. That he was exhausted from carrying the family on his own. That it felt like he lost his daughter and his wife in the same day. That she needed to get over her grief already and take care of the family she did have. Which, to a point, he wasn't wrong. She did need to open her eyes. But that didn't make his cheating right.

Wanda crumbles by the kitchen island as she thinks about the day they took the first house tour, how he spun her in the kitchen with excitement. She curls into a ball on the floor, praying that a hole comes and swallows her, when her phone buzzes in her pocket with a notification. It's a greeting from you. Then another message, asking for the cocktail recipes. She is shaking as she reads the messages. She can't respond, she isn't in the right mind. Instead, she goes to Vision’s profile to scroll through his recent posts.

The first one is the back of her boys and his son holding their hands as they walk in the direction of a sunset. His new wife was obsessed with aesthetics almost as much as he is. The next one is an announcement of another pregnancy. Vision’s hand rests on top of Virginia's over her stomach. Wanda drops her phone in tears. He was gone, she couldn’t fight for him back and she had to accept that she lost him.

After another hour of wallowing in her self pity, Wanda picks herself back up off the floor, takes a couple of shots from the bottle you bought her, and she gets back to cleaning. She reminds herself that she doesn’t need him as she scrubs the counters. She needs her boys. She needs herself. She needs to get out of this self pitying rut about the loss of her marriage. It was clear, she was the only one still affected by this. Vision and her boys have moved on. So should she.

In the morning, Wanda wakes to a spotless home for the first time since she left the house to deliver her daughter. The feeling is way more refreshing than she ever thought it would be. Around lunch time, as she's preparing a meal for herself, she remembers that she hasn't responded to you yet. She searches for the cocktail recipes that her parents had given her years ago and types them out for you. She would have sent pictures but they were written in her mother's native language. It wasn't a common language in the States like Spanish, French, or German. Options she was given when she was in school. So, she didn't assume that you could speak it.

After a couple of hours, she receives a thank you message with a picture of one of the cocktails looking a little off to her. A thought of inviting you over crosses her mind until the boys are running through the front door. She greets them both with warm hugs. “Where’s your dad?” she asks. Last night, Wanda had started the tear down of the mancave to make the move for him a little easier.

But when she looks out the kitchen window with the view of the front house, Vision is driving away with a middle finger in the air. She covers her boys eyes as they try to peer out the window. She closes her own eyes and takes a few breaths to calm the burning rage. “What should we make for dinner?” she asks them and they look at her confused.

“It’s only the afternoon noon,” Billy points out.

“It’s too early to start dinner,” Tommy continues.

“I know,” Wanda laughs and moves hair out of her boy's faces. They need a haircut soon, she makes a mental note. “We need to go shopping for the ingredients.”

“Oh,” they drag out the word in unison as they feel relieved that their mom isn't going insane just yet. They look at each other as they think about the meal their dad says they can't ever make because their step mom is allergic. They make the suggestion and Wanda feeds off of their excitement. She pulls out her phone to find the recipe and grabs a notepad and pen and offers it to either boy. Billy takes it because he claims he has better handwriting. Tommy, insecure about his spelling, doesn't fight his brother on this.

Wanda says each ingredient and tells him how much to mark down next to them and when the list is ready, they leave for the grocery store. Shopping with the twins goes much smoother than it ever has. They're focused and excited to make the dish. Something she never thought she'd see in ten-year-old boys. It fills her with pride. She remembers seeing cooking as a chore and she hated doing any of it growing up. She's happy that her and Vision found a way to make it something fun and that the boys look forward to it.

Then, it saddens her that she's deprived them of this for the past two years. She has to shake herself out of it before she lets the negative feelings consume her again and rob her boys of the meal they're so ready to make.

Back home, the three get all of the ingredients ready and although it's still too early for dinner, they decide not to wait any longer to make the dish. They barely even let it sit before serving themselves. “Thank you for the meal boys,” Wanda kisses each of them on their heads, “I love the both of you so much.”

“We love you too, mom!” Billy says happily. Tommy stays silent and he nudges his brother.

Tommy makes an ugly face, “Yuck! Love is for sissies!”

“Hey mister!” Wanda scolds her son. “You will learn one day that love is what makes a person brave. And I don't want to hear you using that kind of language again. Are we clear?”

“Yes ma'am,” Tommy says into his plate as he plays with the remaining bits of food.

“Okay, now both of you go get cleaned up. We're going to have a family movie night,” Wanda says as she collects the plates from the table.

Chapter 3

Taglist: @princessprudy @sayah13 @agaymilflover @awkwardmandalorian @bentleywolf29 @evenbeingcrazy1998 @olsensnpm @artisannat @thisischaismagic @wqndanat @madamevirgo @likefirenrain @tearsofglitter @feltlikethat @the-writer-arcane @natashasilverfox @karsonromanoff @aloneodi @lovelyy-moonlight @red1culous @jovialsublimecomputer @natasha-maximoff @iliketozoneout @doudouneverte @druggedduck @notbornbutforged @when-wolves-howl @lifespectator @justyourwritter69 @wandaromamoff69 @awesomelygayasf @nekoannie-chan @diaryoflife @wuwu96 @wandanats-goodgirl @sincerely-indi @blueredg52 @sisiwritesfanfics @lizziesplant @fuzzyuniversityeclipsefriend @arcturusseer

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x you #wanda marvel #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff au #wanda maximoff x reader #wonderstruck series #messedupfan

158 notes · View notes

stellocchia · 5 months

Text

Even now, I still don't understand the logic behind having the Disc War Finale be faked when it was executed the way it was. Specifically, having Dream want to go to jail.

I'm assuming that, by the time the reveal happened, they already decided that Dream and Punz both knew how the Revival Book worked. And, regardless if they did or not, the characters canonically already knew. They'd been experimenting.

With that knowledge, if Punz gaining the trust of the public (which was never actually used in any context ever, so, even that is a very debatable gain to aim for?) was the aim, them killing Dream in front of everyone and then reviving him once they all left would have served the goal just as well if not better?

Like, what did Dream gain from actually going to prison? To the prison, he specifically made awful on purpose? Literally nothing. Just some torture which, sure, he could not have foreseen, but he knew his permanence in there would not be pleasant. He also, like, didn't give Punz the blueprints that explained how to get him out? Which meant that not only Punz couldn't help directly, but he couldn't even get Techno to pay back the favor and get him out that way. Which means that Dream's brilliant plan of being in prison for a while was wholly reliant on Techno giving enough of a shit to remember the favor and decide to pay it back, and then also on Dream giving him the location of the blueprints and hoping that Techno had a way to safely get out alive with that information.

Like, sure, it happened after well over a year, but that was not a concrete plan by any means. It couldn't be. Chucking books at the warden until he was let out would honestly have been just as well thought-out!

And, for all of that time, Punz didn't do much in general. He got mind-controlled for a while and that's about it. He didn't use the time to gain intel or allies or even spread 'Dream isn't that bad' propaganda. He did jack shit with it. So Dream got out right back where he started off.

And the thing is, there was still a way they could have played this out effectively.

They could have gone for an approach that humanized Dream (so we didn't have to have the child he abused later on be the one who realized his "humanity" and apologized, because that was laughably ridiculous and a terrible decision, though that's a rant for another day) by making it so that the original plan WAS the kill and revive Dream one, but, at the last moment, when it should have happened, Dream got scared.

Fear of death is a very human thing to have. It could have been interesting for him. A character who sees himself as a god with no weaknesses and no attachments, still so attached to his own life and scared of his own mortality. It's even in line with his desire for immortality!

And that's when he blurted out about the revival book and begged not to be killed. And Punz, still trying to gain the favor of the masses, couldn't go against their will when the plan shifted from killing Dream to trapping him.

It could have been interesting. It would be a loss for them, but one that would, funnily enough, make Dream look like less of a complete and utter moron than the "win" they got.

It would explore his character's weaknesses and his hubris. His belief that he's above the ridiculous attachments the rest of the server is plagued by would be the very thing that crumbled beneath his feet and caused his fall.

But, instead of that, we got the nonsensical "lmao I'm always 10 step ahead of everyone... what do you mean I walked into a plothole?" story instead. What a waste.

#dream smp #dsmp #dream smp analysis #c!dream #c!punz #staged duo #staged duo critical #dream smp critical #ultimately no character without weaknesses is fun #and no character who never loses is fun #not even when they're villains #and trying to spin c!dream's biggest loss as a victory is what fucked them

84 notes · View notes

mavia-anon · 7 months

Text

Pandora's Key

Tommy had been having a good day.

For once, in his fucking miserable life things had been going well.

He should have known it wouldn't last but never, not in his wildest dreams, could he have imagined it would go to shit this badly.

The fucking Blade bares down at him, all fucking six feet whatever of pure bloodlust and barely contained rage with a shimmering sword at his throat. Red eyes glowing behind a skull mask stare into his soul and he's saying something, Tommy thinks. Asking him questions or hissing threats, Tommy doesn't know. He cant-- he can't hear him over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.

The sword at his throat digs in a little deeper, a sharp burning pain that makes Tommy full body flinch and that only makes the pain worse and there's blood on his skin and those red eyes narrow, just slightly and--

Tommy doesn't know how long has passed, but when he finally comes to, he's still in his apartment. The Blade standing a healthy distance from him with his sword sheathed at his side.

Not that he needs it to be able to kill Tommy in a hundred painful ways, but it settles his nerves, if just a little.

His hands are tied behind him, is the next thing Tommy becomes aware of, a dull ache in his shoulders as the bindings wrap tight from his wrists to his elbows. He's completely fucking helpless, not that he would have been able to fight before but at least he could move, could run could--

"Well then," The Blade starts as he sees Tommy blinking blearily up at him. "Where were we?"

When Tommy doesn't answer, the Blade crosses his arms over his chest. He can't see the villains face, but he can imagine the withering glare he must be giving him.

"The blueprints." The Blade demands.

For a moment, Tommy is confused. He doesn't have any damn blueprints, he works customer service at a restaurant, he's not a damn architect or engineer or anything that could be considered important.

And then he realises.

Tommy doesn't like to think about his life during his time with Dream. And even if he wanted to, he can't even remember half of it.

He knows that Dream loved him, a long time ago. In his own way. They were not quite brothers but- had things been different, if Dream wasn't a hero, they might have been. He knows if he thinks about it too long, his head gets fuzzy and reality feels like a distant concept and--

And there's one memory that sticks with him, as vivid as the moment it happened. Dream, with a resigned look in his eyes and a knife in his hand. Dream, who pinned Tommy to the ground and brought the knife down on his back.

Dream, who spent weeks making sure the scars stayed. Healed in jagged lines and burned edges.

Tommy swallows thickly, desperately trying to keep the sick feeling in his stomach under control. He'd never been able to look at what Dream had done to him. At what hours of torture had left him with. He could barely stand to think about it most days, even when after hours of working left his skin tender and the pain became bone deep, he could never bare to behold what lay there.

It would break him all over again, he thinks. To know what Dream valued more than him. Someone he used to claim he would burn the world for.

But with wide, horrified eyes, Tommy suspects he finally has an answer for all his unasked questions.

There are no blueprints, no carefully kept and cleverly hidden sheets of paper Tommy can fork over and then continue on with his life.

There is only Tommy, and the mottled expanse of scars on his back. Blueprints-- a map of Pandora's Vault. The prison in which Dream is currently rotting in. Where he should have stayed, forever.

And Tommy is the key that will let the beast free.

#tommyinnit #technoblade #drabble #dark sbi #dreamwastaken #sbi fanfiction

68 notes · View notes

rayshippouuchiha · 1 year

Note

Saw someone say that "with the reveal of Mysterio, Tony Stark created 7 villains" and I'm just adsfghmjsadfghfd *incoherent screeches of rage*

FIRST OF ALL, Tony didn't freaking do ANYTHING to Obadiah, Whiplash or Mysterio to "create" them. Obadiah freaking LITERALLY RIPPED OUT HIS HEART to get his tech and his company, Whiplash was pissed about something HOWARD STARK did that Tony didn't even know about until he told him, and Mysterio MADE TECH FOR TONY'S COMPANY, WHICH TONY EXHIBITED IN A BIG TECH DEMO THING. HE DIDN'T STEAL THE TECH, THE GUY WAS WORKING FOR TONY!!! Of course the head tech designer and owner of your company has a right to name the tech whatever he wants, dickhead. And even though they don't tell us outright, I find it reeeeeeeallly hard to believe that Tony "Always Buried to His Elbows In Tech To The Point That He Seemingly Rarely Sleeps" Stark, who was also trying to work out deep-seated emotional issues with the help of said tech, didn't have a direct hand in its planning/blueprint/creation. Plus, I think maybe, JUST MAYBE Tony was RIGHT to fire the "crazy" guy when he wanted to make a PUBLICLY, WHOLEHEARTEDLY WEAPONS-FREE COMPANY BUILD HIM WEAPONS, AND his solution to being fired was to PUT THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE AT SEVERE RISKS AND EVEN ATTEMPT MURDER SEVERAL TIMES.

SECOND OF ALL, his role in the "creation" of Killian, Zemo, Vulture and Ultron was freaking TINY. He played a kinda mean prank on Killian ONCE and then the dude decides that makes it A-Okay to start EXPERIMENTING ON HUMANS AND MAKING THEM EXPLODE??? FUCK him. Vulture got dealt a bad hand but I'm kind of on Tony's side on the whole "don't let regular people get their hands on highly dangerous and volatile alien tech" thing. Plus, the one who was mean to the workers directly wasn't even Tony! It was some random lady! I'm pretty sure if Tony had been there he would've made some sassy remark but still paid some compensation to the displaced workers (gift giving is his love language after all, and he's NEVER EVER been shown to be stingy with his money). And as for Ultron (+Zemo)? I think this post says it all better than I could, but TL;DR I don't think Tony should be blamed for his creation. Even if you don't believe that, the fault should be EQUALLY SHARED between him, Bruce and Wanda BUT SOMEHOW NO ONE GIVES THE OTHER TWO ANY SHIT ABOUT IT.

AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON WANDA "BLAME THE GUN-MAKING COMPANY CEO INSTEAD OF THE FREAKING GUN SHOOTER OR THE GUN DISTRIBUTOR FOR THE MURDER" MAXIMOFF

Sorry for the long rant, it just makes me SO FREAKING MAD ASDFXCGHJASDFGSDZFG I WILL DIE MAD ABOUT THIS.

The MCU's relationship with Tony Stark is something that will always just piss me off so so much and is proof of how the MCU's musical chairs act with writers/directors/etc can lead to the most ridiculous mistakes/plot lines/etc.

#RayRambles #Tony Stark #MCU

239 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

anjelicaroselyn

ANJELICA ROSELYN

writingsbymo-mo

Mo-Mo's Writings and Some Other Stuff

dewdrop5

Shreya

juanfranfch

Juan Francisco

redazione-rosebud

Rosebud Giornalismo Online