#and work's been a nightmare for the last year

[bradshawed]

His & Hers

summary — one-sided rival pilots idiots to lovers

warnings — idiots, grief, fluff, soft gooey shit, more idiots, jake being helpful?, multiple references to carole & goose, slight reference to nightmares/lack of eating, brad brad wooing the crowd *swoons dramatically*, no use of y/n, gender neutral, questionable timeline, not proofread, therapy mentions, no clear ending, voldemort references

note — i was replying to the original post, clicked save to drafts and then it went poof for some silly reason so i’m starting it again. the original post was for one-sided rivals to lovers with bradley bradshaw where he was so incredibly smitten with you, falling in love whenever you got angry, “she’s so cute when she’s mad”. hope i did it justice and sorry for the long wait @charliedaltonsgfsblog!!!!! massive thank u to ml @bruisedboys for motivating me to finally finish this, i love u <3 tempted to give this a pt. 2 hehe lmk if anyone's interested!

word count — 961 words

masterlist & tgm minilist!

...

"Give her my ring-"

"Ma-"

"She’s the one for you baby, keep it, you’ll know when it’s time."

That was one of Carole's last wishes among the others for their home, his reconciliation with Mav, and the promise that she'll be okay, finally with the love of her life, watching and protecting her baby bird every step of the way.

That was the first time you let your guard down. Bradley had been missing from classes all week, and you were getting worried. You were both notoriously known for being stuck at the him. Wherever you went, Bradley followed, with a cloud of sexual tension bickering surrounding you both. Rivals. Academic and in every other sense of the word, but the silence was getting to you, as well as the constant glares and questions from nosy students "concerned" for their star athlete.

Game day was the worst and your fuse blew. You marched over to the little cottage where the Bradshaw's resided, fists clenched and speech prepared, but the sight of your rival crying on the floor clutching a stuffed goose toy wasn’t what you’d expected.

"It'll pass", you told him. "Stay", he begged.

And you did, you never left his side for a single moment. By now, you'd seen it all, the hollow eyes, life drained from his soul, the concerning weight loss, and more. You supported Bradley through it all, developing a routine. You brought him notes from the classes he'd missed and you'd work on homework together, cooking one of Carole's famous recipes. You helped him sort through everything, holding your baby bird through the tears and the nightmares, gladly cursing up a storm about Maverick when he finally got the courage to apply to the academy. You did it all... together.

But then just like that, a switch flipped when he was back on his feet. Your walls came back up. Bradley remembers how quick you'd switch from a concerned friend to rivals. Funny how that works. It's still the worst form of whiplash he's ever experienced. But he understood, he always has, you wanted something familiar and you were scared that it could be something more, so he went along with it.

Four years later and Bradley was busy touching the heavens. You followed him, naturally. So it's safe to say you were chasing your sun this time, but he just didn't know it. That's where you met Jake Seresin, at flyboy academy.

Bradley watched as you fell head over cowboy boots for Jake. It only made sense since you were two sides of the same coin, but Jake knew, he always had. He was your best friend but it never became anything more, as much as he wished it was. Jake Seresin broke up with you, even if he says it was the other way around, not that you'll ever understand why. The blonde helped you get into therapy, knocking a whole load of sense into you. Sure, maybe it didn't cure your mean streak, but now you weren't so afraid all thanks to a fellow flyboy.

Years passed and you were both stuck to the hip, where possible. More often than not, you were flown around the world for some sort of disciplinary action and Bradley tried to keep in touch. You both managed as much as you could, but it was hard. Then you were both called back to Top Gun. Same time, same place... but not for the same reason.

You weren't good enough. Or at least that's what you heard when they told you that Bradley, Jake and the others were back for some special detachment of some sort and you were just here to teach (they figured it would help with your insubordination). Pissed would be an understatement.

So, while they were busy with their fancy flying shit that you weren't even considered for, you flew yourself in circles realising you needed to get your shit together because as good as you were, you couldn't spend your career flying like he-who-must-not-be-named simply because you weren't a man and didn't have a guardian angel (technically by extension you did but you refused his help). Maybe this post was good for you...

Weeks flew by and your baby bird had returned with a few new scars, and a plan to reunite with his evil godfather? "Promise me you won't call him he-who-must-not-be-named to his face tonight." You glanced up at your handsome aviator with a mischievous grin, replying with a noncommittal shrug before patting his chest and sauntering off towards the devil in Ray-Ban's talking to Penny. Fuck that was more solid than you expected it to be.

You'd both been talking for an hour or so, the long part over and now enjoying a beer, when some sailor boy almost collided into you slurring, "Heyyy pretty, why don't ya ditch the old man and come home with me, we could 'ave some funn?" The whole of the Hard Deck held it's breath, Mav ready to unleash hell when you replied, "How about you take your filthy hands off of me or I'll shove this beer up your ass. Better yet, take ten steps back out of this lovely establishment and piss off, this old man is better company than you and your friends over there could ever dream to be." You smirked as he scurried back towards his friends, Mav letting out a satisfied whistle, raising his beer to the sound of the bell.

You raised your beer in thanks to Penny, chuckling as your fellow daredevil pointed out the lovestruck expression on Bradley's face, "you've got him wrapped around your finger". You smiled, "he just doesn't know it yet".

"Oh he does."

*Cue Mav sharing a conspiratorial look with Jake*

[andromeda-pleiades]

Just Trust Me

WORD COUNT: 4,998

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

This was my first story that really gained traction. I'm so grateful to the people who left likes and comments, you all really made this worthwhile, and to the people on AO3 who left kudos and commented as well, love you all. Sadly it is time to say good bye to this story now I hope you guys are happy about the way it ended, if you want to add your two cents it makes my day to read it, if you are not happy about the way it ended let me know in the comments but be nice pls Check my other works on Tumblr and my AO3 page bye bye (。・∀・)ノ

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

The road appears through the trees like salvation, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the wilderness that has held you captive for what feels like hours but must have been days. Your legs give out the moment your feet hit the pavement, and you collapse to your knees, gasping. The sound of your own breathing is foreign—ragged, desperate, animal-like.

Behind you, the forest seems to watch with a thousand eyes. Somewhere in those trees, Soap is nursing the wound you gave him, probably calling in reinforcements, coordinating a search grid. The thought should terrify you, but all you feel is a strange, hollow numbness.

You made it out. You actually made it out.

A semi-truck rumbles to a stop beside you, air brakes hissing. The driver—a weathered man with kind eyes and a trucker's cap—leans out his window.

"You alright there, miss?"

You look up at him, this stranger offering help without asking questions, and something inside you nearly breaks. When was the last time someone showed you simple human kindness without an agenda?

"Car trouble," you manage to croak, though you know you look like you've been through hell. Your clothes are torn, mud caked in your hair, scratches covering your arms like a roadmap of your escape.

He doesn't believe you—you can see it in his eyes—but he doesn't press. "Come on then. Let's get you somewhere safe."

Safe. The word feels foreign on your tongue.

The cab of his truck smells like coffee and cigarettes and honest work. He hands you a thermos without a word, and you drink the bitter liquid gratefully, letting it burn away the taste of fear that's been coating your throat.

"Name's Bill," he says, eyes on the road. "Been driving this route for twenty years. Seen all kinds of folks need a ride."

You don't give him your name. Names can be traced, tracked, used against you. Instead, you curl into the passenger seat and watch the miles roll by, each one taking you further from the nightmare in the woods.

Bill drops you at a truck stop three hours later, pressing a twenty into your palm despite your protests. "Get yourself a hot meal," he says. "And maybe clean up in the restroom. Fresh start and all that."

You want to hug him, this stranger who showed you more genuine care in three hours than Simon did in months. Instead, you just nod and watch his truck disappear into the distance.

The truck stop restroom has harsh fluorescent lighting that makes your reflection look like a ghost. You barely recognize the woman staring back at you—hollow cheeks, wild eyes, a hardness around your mouth that wasn't there before. Your hands shake as you splash cold water on your face, trying to wash away the grime and the memory of Soap's blood on your fingers.

You've hurt someone. Actually hurt another human being. The knowledge sits heavy in your chest, but you can't bring yourself to feel guilty about it. He was hunting you like an animal. You defended yourself.

That's what survivors do, isn't it? They do whatever it takes.

The next three weeks pass in a blur of small towns and cheap motels, libraries and bus stations. You learn to pay in cash, to avoid cameras, to trust your instincts when something feels off. You learn to sleep with one eye open and to always know where the exits are.

But most importantly, you learn.

In library after library, you devour books on psychology, on abuse, on manipulation tactics. You read about gaslighting and love-bombing, about trauma bonds and learned helplessness. Each page feels like a revelation, giving names to things you experienced but couldn't articulate.

You're not crazy. You were never crazy. You were being systematically broken down by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

The knowledge is both liberating and terrifying. If Simon was that calculated, that methodical, then how far does this go? How deep does the rabbit hole run?

You're in a diner in some forgettable town, nursing your third cup of coffee and trying to make sense of everything you've learned, when Kyle slides into the booth across from you.

Your blood turns to ice.

"Thought I might find you here," he says, and his voice carries that same easy warmth you remember from childhood. But you see through it now, recognize the careful modulation, the practiced concern.

You don't look up from your coffee. "Let me guess. Simon sent you."

Kyle's expression flickers—just for a moment, a crack in the facade—before settling back into concerned friendship. "He's worried about you. We all are."

"We." You finally meet his eyes, these eyes you once trusted above all others. "So you admit it now?"

"Admit what?" But there's something guarded in his voice now.

"That you were working with him. That you've been lying to me since the beginning. Maybe since we were kids."

Kyle sighs, a sound heavy with what might be genuine regret. "It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?" You lean back, studying him with new eyes. Everything looks different now—the way he holds himself, the careful placement of his hands, the micro-expressions he probably doesn't even realize he's making. "You've known me since we were eight years old, Kyle. You were supposed to be my friend."

"I am your friend," he says, and for a moment, his voice wavers with something that might be real emotion. "Everything I did was to protect you."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Even now, even after everything, part of you wants to believe him. This is Kyle—the boy who walked you home from school, who helped you with your math homework, who held you when your dog died.

But that's exactly what makes it so insidious, isn't it? The best manipulations always come wrapped in genuine affection.

"Protect me from what?" you ask.

"From yourself." The words come out sharper than he intended, and you see him immediately try to soften them. "You have no idea what you're doing out here. You're not equipped for this kind of life."

There it is. The condescension that Simon trained you to accept, delivered in Kyle's gentler tones. But you hear it now, recognize it for what it is.

"You sound just like him," you say quietly.

Kyle's jaw tightens, and for just a moment, you see something flash in his eyes—irritation, maybe even anger. "Simon loves you. He made mistakes, yes, but everything he did came from a place of—"

"He had you spy on me." Your voice is getting stronger now, more certain. "He had you manipulate me. He had you pretend to be my friend while you reported back to him about everything I said, everything I did."

"Because I care about you!" Kyle's mask slips completely now, and suddenly you're looking at a stranger. "Because I've watched you make one bad decision after another your entire life. Because without someone looking out for you, you'd be dead in a ditch somewhere."

The cruelty in his words steals your breath. This is Kyle—sweet, protective Kyle from your childhood—talking to you like you're a burden, a problem to be managed.

"How long?" you whisper.

"What?"

"How long have you been reporting on me? Since we were kids? Since high school? Did Simon recruit you, or were you always—"

"It's not like that." But he won't meet your eyes anymore.

"How long, Kyle?"

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. "Since before you met him."

The world tilts on its axis. "What?"

"Price has been watching you for years. Your family, your connections, your psychological profile. You were... you were perfect for what they needed."

"What they needed for what?"

Kyle looks up at you then, and there's something almost like pity in his eyes. "Simon needed someone to anchor him. Someone to give him a reason to stay human. You were the ideal candidate—isolated, eager to please, with abandonment issues that made you easy to control."

The words hit you like physical blows. Your entire relationship, your entire life, reduced to a psychological profile and a strategic need.

"They sent you to watch me," you say, pieces clicking into place. "To make sure I stayed isolated. To make sure I didn't have any real friends who might interfere."

"I was your friend," Kyle insists. "I am your friend. That was never fake."

"But you still chose him over me."

Kyle opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. Because what can he say? How do you defend the indefensible?

"Get away from me," you whisper, standing on unsteady legs.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, settling back in his seat with renewed determination. "Not until you come to your senses and come home."

But you're already walking away, already pushing through the diner door into the late afternoon sun. Behind you, Kyle calls your name, but you don't turn around. You can't. If you look back, you might see the boy who used to protect you from bullies, and that would break something in you that's only just started to heal.

You walk until you reach another diner on the other side of town, this one smaller and shabbier but blessedly empty except for a tired-looking waitress and a trucker reading a newspaper. You slide into a booth at the back, order coffee you don't want, and try to process what Kyle told you.

They've been watching you for years. Years. Your entire adult life has been a carefully orchestrated performance, with you as the unwitting star.

But even as the horror of it sinks in, there's something else growing alongside it: rage. Pure, clean anger that burns away the last traces of doubt and self-blame.

You're not crazy. You were never the problem. You were targeted, selected, groomed—but you fought back. You survived. And now you're going to make sure no one else goes through what you did.

You're lost in these thoughts when the bell above the diner door chimes. You don't look up immediately, but something makes your skin prickle, some primal recognition that has your head snapping up.

Simon stands in the doorway.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, fight-or-flight responses warring in your chest. He looks exactly the same—tall, broad-shouldered, those dark eyes scanning the room with military precision until they find you. When they do, his entire posture changes, shoulders dropping slightly in what might be relief.

He approaches slowly, but there's nothing gentle about it. It's the careful movement of a predator who doesn't want to spook his prey. He slides into the booth across from you without invitation, without permission, claiming space like he's always done.

"Hello, love," he says, and his voice has that familiar warmth that once made you feel safe. Now it just makes you feel sick.

You don't respond immediately. Your hands are shaking slightly around your coffee mug, and you hate that he can probably see it, probably cataloging it as another data point in his endless assessment of your emotional state.

"You look tired," he continues when you don't answer. "Thin. Are you eating enough?"

The casual concern in his voice—as if you're still his to worry about—makes anger flare in your chest.

"How did you find me?" you ask finally.

He glances pointedly at your wrist, and you follow his gaze to the silver bracelet still clasped there. The one he gave you before his "deployment." The one you should have thrown away weeks ago but couldn't quite bring yourself to remove.

Of course.

Without breaking eye contact, you reach for the clasp. Your fingers are trembling more than you'd like, but finally the bracelet slides off your wrist and onto the table between you with a soft clink that sounds impossibly loud in the quiet diner.

"There," you say, pushing it toward him. "Now you can't follow me anymore."

Simon's eyes flick to the bracelet, then back to your face. There's something dangerous in his expression now, a predatory stillness that raises every hair on your arms.

"You think that's the only way I've been keepin' track of you?" he asks, voice deceptively mild.

The words hit like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"

"The libraries," he says simply. "Every town, same pattern. You go straight to the psychology section, check out the same types of books. Abuse recovery, manipulation tactics, trauma bonding." His lips curve into something that isn't quite a smile. "Always were a good student."

Your stomach drops to your feet. He's been watching you. Even when you thought you were safe, learning, growing stronger—he was there. Cataloging. Analyzing. Always one step ahead.

"I know you probably already know that," you say, voice hoarse with the effort of keeping it steady. "That I've been to the libraries. You're probably watching me everywhere."

"Smart girl." The praise feels like poison, delivered with that same patronizing tone he used to use when you figured out something he wanted you to know.

You take a shaky breath, trying to remember what you've learned, trying to apply all those hours of reading to this moment. "This is—you're trying to intimidate me. Make me feel like I have no privacy, no safe spaces. That's psychological control."

The words come out less steady than you'd hoped. You've read about these tactics, spent hours studying them, but sitting across from Simon now, you're not entirely sure you're getting it right. What if you're wrong? What if you've misunderstood everything and you just sound foolish?

Simon leans back, and you can see him assessing your uncertainty like a weakness to exploit. "Is that what you think this is? Some kind of textbook manipulation?"

"Isn't it?" But you don't sound confident anymore, and you hate yourself for it.

"You've got it all wrong." His voice is almost gentle now, which somehow makes it worse. "This isn't some big military operation, some conspiracy with Price pulling strings. There's no master plan, no other women, no grand scheme." He shakes his head, looking almost sad. "It's just me, tryin' to keep the woman I love safe."

The words hit you like a slap. Everything you thought you'd figured out—the files you saw on his laptop, the operation Kyle hinted at, the systematic nature of it all—what if you were wrong about all of it? What if you've been running from shadows, building conspiracies out of coincidences?

"But the files," you whisper. "I saw them. The profiles, the psychological assessments—"

"You saw what you wanted to see," Simon interrupts, and his voice is so reasonable, so patient. "What you needed to see to justify leavin' me." He leans forward, and his eyes are so sincere, so genuinely hurt. "I'm not the monster you've made me out to be."

You feel yourself wavering, that familiar doubt creeping in like poison. This is what he does—what he's always done—makes you question your own reality, your own perceptions. But knowing that doesn't make it less effective.

The worst part is, he looks genuinely wounded. This isn't the cold, calculating operative you've imagined. This is just... Simon. Flawed, damaged Simon who loves you in the only way he knows how.

"You had an app to track me," you say, grasping for solid ground.

"Because you wouldn't answer your phone," he replies immediately. "Because you'd disappear for hours and I'd be terrified somethin' had happened to you. Do you know what it's like, lovin' someone who won't let you protect them?"

"You controlled everything—the house, the car, the money—"

"I took care of everything." His voice rises slightly, and you see a flash of the temper he usually keeps so carefully controlled. "Because you needed me to. Because you were fallin' apart and too proud to admit it."

"I wasn't falling apart!"

"Weren't you?" He's fully focused on you now, intense and overwhelming in that way that used to make you feel like the most important person in the world. "When's the last time you slept through the night? When's the last time you ate a full meal without lookin' over your shoulder? You're a mess."

The worst part is, he's not wrong. You are a mess. Exhausted, paranoid, jumping at shadows. Your clothes hang loose on your frame, and you can't remember the last time you felt truly safe. Maybe you have been seeing things that aren't there. Maybe you have been building conspiracies out of coincidences.

"Come home with me," he says, and his voice has that gentle quality that used to soothe your nightmares. "We can talk about this properly. We can work through it. I can change."

For a moment—just a moment—you almost consider it. The thought of being safe, of not having to run anymore, of sleeping in a real bed and eating regular meals is so tempting it makes your chest ache. You're so tired of being afraid, so tired of being alone.

But then you remember the app. You remember the bracelet tracker. You remember the way he answered for you, spoke for you, made decisions for you without ever asking what you wanted.

"You're doing it again," you say quietly.

"What?"

"Making me doubt myself. Making me think I'm crazy for wanting to make my own choices." Your voice is getting stronger now, more certain. "This is what you do—you make me question my own reality until I don't trust my own perceptions."

"What perceptions?" His mask is slipping now, frustration bleeding through the careful control. "You call this a choice? Livin' like a fugitive? Sleepin' in your car? Eatin' one meal a day because you're too paranoid to stay in one place long enough for a proper sit-down dinner?"

"Yes," you say, and your voice is stronger now than it's been in months. "Because they're my choices to make. My mistakes to learn from. My life to live."

Something in Simon's expression shifts. The careful control he's maintained throughout this conversation starts to crack, and you see something raw and desperate underneath.

"Your choices," he repeats, and there's an edge to his voice now that makes your skin crawl. "Your choices nearly got you killed in that forest. Your choices have you lookin' like a skeleton. Your choices—"

"Are mine!" The words burst out of you, louder than you intended. The few other patrons in the diner turn to look, but you don't care anymore. "I don't need you to make them for me! I don't need you to protect me from myself!"

"Yes, you do!" He's shouting now, leaning across the table, and suddenly he's not boyfriend-Simon anymore. He's Lieutenant Riley, Task Force 141, a man accustomed to command and unquestioning obedience. "You've never been able to handle pressure, never been able to make hard decisions without fallin' apart! You panic, you freeze up, you make everything worse!"

Other patrons are definitely staring now, some looking concerned, others annoyed by the disturbance. But Simon doesn't seem to care anymore. His composure is unraveling in real time, and you're getting a glimpse of what he's really like when his control is threatened.

"Look at yourself," he continues, voice harsh with frustration. "Look what your choices have done to you. You're barely functioning. You need me."

"No," you say, and the word comes out steadier than you feel. "I needed to learn how to function without you. And I'm learning."

"This isn't functinin'!" He gestures at you, at your hollow cheeks and tired eyes. "This is survivin', barely. This is—"

"This is my choice," you interrupt. "Even if it's the wrong choice, it's mine to make."

And that's when you see it—the exact moment something breaks in Simon completely.

His face crumbles, but not in the way of someone who knows how to be vulnerable. It's angry and desperate and confused all at once, like a child throwing a tantrum because someone took away his favorite toy. He's never learned how to process these emotions, never learned what to do when control fails completely.

"No," he says, and his voice cracks. "No, you don't get to—you can't just—" He's struggling for words, his hands clenching and unclenching on the table. "I did everything for you! Everything!"

"You did everything to me," you correct quietly.

"That's not—" He stands abruptly, the booth seat scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. "You're wrong. You're wrong about all of it."

But even as he denies it, you can see the truth in his eyes. The careful facade is gone, stripped away by desperation and rage, and underneath is exactly what you suspected—a man who sees you as a possession, a problem to be solved, a variable to be controlled.

"I know you still love me," he says suddenly, desperately, playing his last card. "I can see it in your eyes. You can't just turn that off."

And the terrible thing is, he's right. Even now, even with everything you know, part of you still loves him. The part that remembers his gentle hands and protective arms, the way he made you feel cherished and special. Love doesn't die easily, even when it should.

Tears start sliding down your cheeks—when did you start crying? You don't even realize you're doing it until Simon's expression changes, becomes almost confused.

"You're cryin'," he says, as if this means something, as if tears are proof of surrender.

"So?" You wipe your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming. "I'm allowed to be sad about this. I'm allowed to grieve what I thought we had."

"If you're sad, then why—" He stops, stares at you like he's never seen you before. This woman who can cry and stand firm at the same time, who can love him and leave him in the same breath. It doesn't compute with his understanding of how you work, how you're supposed to respond.

"Because love isn't enough," you say through the tears. "Not when it feels like drowning. Not when it means losing myself completely."

The words seem to hit him like physical blows. His face cycles through emotions too quickly to track—denial, anger, desperation, something that might be genuine grief.

"I never asked you to lose yourself," he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

"You didn't have to ask. You just... took. Little pieces at a time until there was nothing left of me that wasn't shaped by what you wanted me to be."

Simon's hand moves to his jacket, and your body goes cold as you see the outline of something concealed there. A weapon. Of course he's armed—he's always armed. But this is the first time he's ever let you see it, the first time the implicit threat has become explicit.

"Even if you're right," you say, meeting his eyes despite the fear clawing at your throat, "even if I am making the wrong choice—I still get to make it."

The moment stretches between you, taut as a wire. Simon's hand hovers over whatever he's carrying, and you can see the war happening in his expression—love and fury and desperation all battling for control.

But then, slowly, his hand falls to his side.

"You have no idea what you're doin'," he says, and his voice is broken now, smaller than you've ever heard it. "No idea what's waitin' for you out there."

"I know." You stand up, leaving money on the table with hands that only shake a little. "But I'd rather face the unknown than live in a beautiful cage."

You walk toward the door, your legs unsteady but your steps determined. Behind you, you hear Simon's voice, smaller and more desperate than you've ever heard it:

"Please."

The word stops you at the door, not because it changes anything, but because it's the first time he's ever asked instead of demanded. You pause, not turning around.

"I hope you find peace, Simon," you say without looking back. "Real peace. Not the kind that comes from controlling other people."

The bell chimes as you step into the afternoon sunlight. The air is crisp with autumn, and you breathe it in deeply, filling your lungs with freedom. Your chest is tight with grief and fear and something that might be hope.

You walk two blocks before you stop at a payphone outside an old gas station. Your hands shake as you dig change from your pocket. You've been carrying her number in your head for weeks now, afraid to call, afraid that Simon's control had extended even to this.

The phone rings three times before a familiar voice answers.

"Hello?"

"Sarah?" Your voice cracks around her name, three weeks of isolation and fear breaking open at the sound of her voice.

Silence. Then: "Oh my God. Oh my God, is that really you?"

You close your eyes, leaning against the phone booth for support. "Yeah. It's me."

"Where are you? Are you okay? I've been so worried—I tried calling but your number was disconnected, and when I came by the house, Simon said you were traveling for work and couldn't be reached, but something felt wrong about the way he said it, and I've been trying to find you for weeks—"

"Sarah." You interrupt her gently, smiling through your tears at the familiar sound of her rambling when she's upset. "Can I... can I come see you?"

Another pause. When she speaks again, her voice is thick with tears. "Of course. Of course you can. I'm still in the same apartment. Do you remember how to get here?"

You do remember. Sarah's little apartment across town, with its mismatched furniture and plants in every window. The place that always smelled like coffee and vanilla candles, where you used to go when you needed to feel human again.

"I'll find it," you say. "I might... I might need somewhere to stay for a while. If that's okay."

"It's more than okay," she says immediately. "It's perfect. I'll make up the couch, and we can order pizza, and you can tell me everything when you're ready. Or not tell me. Whatever you need."

The unconditional acceptance in her voice nearly breaks you. When was the last time someone offered you something without expecting anything in return?

"I'll be there soon," you promise.

"I'll be right here waiting," she says. "I'll leave the porch light on."

You hang up and stand there for a moment, listening to the ordinary sounds of the world around you. Cars passing. A dog barking somewhere. The hum of the gas station's neon sign.

Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

You start walking, and for the first time in weeks, you're not running from something. You're walking toward something. Toward someone who knew you before Simon, who will help you remember who you were before all of this happened.

The walk to Sarah's apartment takes forty-seven minutes. You count every step, partly because counting helps keep the panic at bay, and partly because you want to remember this—the feeling of choosing your own direction, of walking toward safety instead of running from danger.

Sarah's building comes into view just as the sun is setting, golden light spilling across the brick facade. The porch light is on, just like she promised, and you can see her silhouette in the window, watching for you.

She meets you at the door before you can even knock, pulling you into a hug that smells like home and safety and all the things you forgot you missed. You break down completely then, months of suppressed fear and loneliness pouring out in ugly, gasping sobs.

"It's okay," Sarah whispers, rubbing your back like she used to when you were kids and you'd had another fight with your parents. "You're safe now. You're home."

Home. The word feels foreign and precious at the same time.

Later, much later, you're curled up on Sarah's couch with a cup of tea and a blanket that smells like fabric softener instead of fear. You've told her everything—or at least, everything you can bear to say out loud. She listened without judgment, without trying to fix anything, just holding space for your pain.

"I'm proud of you," she says now, and the words hit you like a surprise. "For leaving. For surviving. For fighting back when you had to."

"I hurt someone," you say quietly. "That man in the forest. I cut his face."

"Good," Sarah says fiercely. "He was hunting you like an animal. You defended yourself."

The validation feels like a gift. For weeks, you've been carrying the weight of that violence, wondering if it made you as bad as them. But Sarah's acceptance helps you see it for what it was—survival.

"What happens now?" you ask.

Sarah considers this. "Now you heal. Now you figure out who you are when you're not afraid. Now you live."

You nod, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. The road ahead is still uncertain, full of challenges you can't predict and dangers you don't know how to face yet. But they're yours to face. And maybe, just maybe, you won't have to face them alone.

Outside, the world continues its ancient rhythm. Cars pass by. A siren wails in the distance. Somewhere, Simon is probably still sitting in that diner, staring at the silver bracelet you left behind, trying to understand how his perfectly controlled situation slipped through his fingers.

But that's his problem now, not yours.

You close your eyes and listen to the ordinary sounds of safety—Sarah moving around in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a television from the apartment upstairs. Normal sounds. Human sounds.

Maybe you shouldn't have dated Simon.

All banners by @cafekitsune

[sawdustandstardust]

have never been more relieved and grateful that we have finally made it to mel/langdon pet play. feels good feels organic I DO believe that would fix their brains.

🚫 tired: not jumping into a relationship and blowing up your marriage the first year of your recovery :(

✅ wired: getting a cute & smart puppygirl gf whose always excited to see you when you come home :)

here’s a slight continuation for you anon since i am insane:

“dana, please dana, you have to understand…yes, i know it’s late, but this…no, i’m not on the roof…remember when langdon had us all vote on what dog collar we liked more?”

“yeah,” dana yawns into the line. “the winner was that soft purple one with the gold plated heart-shaped dog tag. he personally thanked every single person for their cooperation right before his morning rounds. brought in three-dozen sprinkled donuts from sam’s donut world for the staff. incredibly nice of him actually.”

okay…maybe robby needed to be a little more direct.

“do you think it’s deeply weird that langdon’s never showed us a picture of his goldendoodle? that the dog doesn’t have an actual name anyone on staff knows? or how no one has met her?”

“come on robby, you’re being insensitive. one-you know his baby’s camera shy. they’re working on it through positive reinforcement.”

“two-we spend most of our lives inside the hospital. why would you want any dog that’s not a therapy or service animal near this place? plus mateo said he recommended an off-leash dog park he takes his rescue, the one with the bite history, to—great atmosphere, lots of space, strict rules and boundaries that prioritize pet safety…but langdon turned him down, said he’d never trust other puppies or their owners to play nice with something so precious.”

robby suddenly remembers when dr. mckay ran point on a nasty MRSA infection case last fall, mateo lightly tugging on her ponytail in jest when the patient was officially discharged and—his vision whites out because did no one think to tell him PTMC was officially renamed to puppygirl town medical center?

what was happening inside this damn hospital?

“finally, three-her name’s good girl? do you not pay attention? i know that boy talks a lot but—“

“dana—do you hear yourself? how ridiculous all this sounds—”

“why are you being so hard on him for having an emotional support animal? did you know that kiara’s so impressed by his progress, she’s encouraging him to submit a presentation to ACEP all about the benefits of puppy-human companionship in early substance abuse recovery interventions: a great way for folks to create and maintain a set routine, learn responsibility outside themselves, experience unconditional love, potentially for the first time…did you know that langdon’s sweet girl even recognizes when he’s on the verge of an anxiety attack, is trained in providing deep pressure therapy to calm him down. kiara thinks his lived experience would be really beneficial to harm reduction advocacy groups and their allies in the emergency medicine sector.”

robby can feel himself moving further and further away from reality with every word out of dana mouth, convinced now that frank langdon was specifically designed in a lab to terrorize him. or, better yet, to haunt him, for the rest of his days, like a ghost in a dickensian fable—the HR nightmare final boss of michael’s past and present.

“dana, what would you say if i told you that when i talked with abby langdon tonight, she had no clue about…’good girl?’” because how was she going to explain this one—

“of course abby doesn’t know, robby. jesus, mary, and joseph—she’s allergic!”

[cnl0400]

My problem Is not the tiers itself or the amount of money being asked. My problem Is not knowing what the MAIN APP will be about, other than being vaguely described as a lifestyle app... Being about married Life with the brothers... What are the core functions? The memo feature they posted today?

And even If the money Is going to extra stuff within the app and not the main app itself:

That's still counted as production costs, even If It isn't about core features and counting only tiers that add new features to the app. That are the words used in the campaign itself. Because Bonus content still amounts to the total cost of developing this app in the end.

Ok, imagine they don't reach the goals like the camera feature. What Is there to do in the app then?

Is the health tracker the main appeal? The journal feature they announced today? Collecting outfits for the characters? The "digital merch" (which I can only imagine It Will be like having some kind of shrine/digital room)? "Lifestyle app" Is vague as hell, at least to me. And people can only explain It with comparing to what It might sound similar apps like LADs or the Strawberry Prince app developed by one of the collaborating companies.

This thing will have a gacha. Is the same thing as the Nightmare System in both OG/NB? is this gacha only for collecting outfits (in the form of "cards" I supposed something similar to the Devilgram feature?) or Will the resources you get in the gacha affect the way you can Advance the main Story or just your ability to access side content? How do you Advance in the main story, by the way? With OG It was the Dance Battles and with Nightbringer It was the rythmn game. What Is the mechanic in this new app? Everyday there's a new thread post on Reddit/Tumblr/Twitter asking If this thing will have routes and nobody Is capable of answering with a clear "yes" or "no" (personally, I think the answer Is no just for the nature of having a gacha system) without being all speculation and rumours, because the stuff you don't say Is just as important as the stuff you explicitly say.

I don't doubt this app has been in development for some Time since the tentative release Is this year, so It should be Easy to answer at least what Is going to be one of the core features of the app itself. I don't work in the game industry but I have experience in software development, and while I understand the process can be chaotic and last-minute changes are bread and butter of development in general, It should be Easy to say "this Is going to be what makes our users use our app". "The romance with the brothers Is the main appeal" you might say, but I know people who passed on Nightbringer because they don't like rythmn games or people who found OG insípid for the monotony of the dance battles, so how you Advance Is just as important as the writting, because tedious grinding and boring gameplay can weaken the game success

And like I said, I don't mind the tiers, or the kind of money being asked, I don't doubt how expensive developing a game like this Is like. With the risk of sounding like a loser, I was even debating in buying the Bouquet toss tier (which Is the only tier that offers in-game rewards) but then I started to think... You're offering outfits which of course, Is a cosmetic thing, but you're also offering cards... Do the cards only offer a Devilgram (supposing that the Devilgram mechanic will return, which should be explicitly said because in the same Kickstarter they say to not only aim to attract veterans, but new players as well who might not be familiar with the System in the other games) or a card Is also a resource to Advance the main Story like the last two games? Or this Is all just cosmetic stuff to "show off"? To who? Like, Will you be able to show this cosmetics to your friends in-game? Or with "show off" do they reffer to like, sharing screenshots in social media? Considering the price of this tier, you should know what are you're buying before dropping that kind of money.

Some people don't mind going blind, but Is there any harm in being more explicit in what proyect you want people to support? Before today (in which they revealed the journal/news feature) the only thing they have revealed has been merch, and expanding the tiers (which again, it's not a problem in itself). It has been half of this campaign and nobody Is able to explain clearly what the main functions of the app is. Which If you want people to support your proyect... Should be the main priority. This crownfunding ends 7 of next month, I think its a Little too late to just start explaining what this Is all about, especially for people that are waiting for more information before investing in this campaign, like me. I don't want to wait to July 6 to know If I'm interesed or not in the app itself, unless they plan on extending the crownfunding period...

I have been bitting my tongue because I don't want to be a party popper or anything (not that It matter because this has always been a vent blog to me, not a fandom blog) but since they released new tiers that aré ridiculously expensive on Kickstarter AND we have less than two weeks for the crownfunding to end I can't anymore:

I just don't understand how succesfull this campaign currently Is when we know basically nothing about the game, I was waiting for AX for them to say anything but they decided to expand the tiers Instead of y'know... Promote what the game Is actually about...

Everything about this Is so... Vague... The goal of the Kickstarter Is to fund the new game/app... But we know basically nothing about it

[campbyler]

ik part of it is that life and work just Be Like That sometimes, but every time i check back on your blog it seems yall are going through chronic ao3 author syndrome. sending love and good vibes your way i hope all three of you are doing ok and can catch a break soon!! (ik suni and thea yall are the ones writing the rest of it but sending love to andi as well)

also any tips on writing longer chapters without them sounding like they’re dragging on? i’m a (more casual) fic writer and my chapters always end up a little shorter than i usually hope they’d be

awake at 3am in a fit of jet lag and laughed aloud upon reading this bc you’re not wrong 😭 i feel like part of it is just timing, like thea’s work has a big busy season during the fall every year and her schedule also varies week by week and even day to day so i know some stretches are more difficult than others by default (rn she has been having to work from home on her weekend or after she clocks out which has been extra rough). my work tends to have bursts of insane work days every few weeks or so, and i just have a shitty daily commute on top of that and will sometimes get home like 12 hours after i left in the morning or something. so honestly there is a nonzero chance one of us is having a subpar time on any given workday i fear, and that schedule is pretty unpredictable given the nature of our very full time jobs. i also think it’s just statistically more likely that when we are active there is a reason for our Grievances to be brought up, either organically because we are coming out of a slump and are complaining about the Horrors or because someone checked in on us in a period of absence and we are giving a quick update, but either way, thank you so much for your wishesssss! thea will be getting a break soon (thank god) and i’m actually entering a bit of a busy stretch at work for the next week or so because we have a grant deadline to meet, which always means 10000 last minute experiments that i have to work into my schedule in the middle of the week and it’s really fun and lovely and great. woo hoo. 🙂

as for chapter lengths, i wish i had more solid advice but my problem is genuinely that i can’t for the life of me seem to trim them down 😭 i guess a part of it is largely how your chapters are structured — i only have a couple chaptered fics outside of acswy, but all of them are planned so that each chapter is quite meaty in terms of content or what i want each scene to accomplish. i will say that the singular thing that consistently drives up my word count is DIALOGUEEEEE!!! a blessing when i’m in a rut or have writers block and am trying to get something down on the page, a menace when im editing a scene transition i left to fill in for later and my wc is right at 29k and im sweating watching the number tick up. i find there’s absolutely nothing wrong with shorter chapters if it’s accomplishing what you hope for and i honestly am working really hard on trying to be more concise, but i do find dialogue to be a good way to slow down a scene that’s maybe rushing or is paced a little quicker than you intended. real conversations often stray off topic, people ramble or get sidetracked or get interrupted by things they’re doing — i love describing people talking while doing chores or eating or whatever because you can break up the dialogue with bits of action — and at least for me, it’s a lot easier to work in some narration or description in with dialogue than it is to just write a couple paragraphs of it straight up, which also sometimes feels a little more blunt and Quick than i intend it to be. one thing we both do a Lot is script out dialogue between characters and then go back in to fill in things like speech tags, action descriptions, inner monologues and thoughts, etc. literally just like:

character 1: ___ character 2: _______ 1, (note on how it’s meant to be said or what they’re thinking/intending to say to cue us in later): _____ 2: _____________ (small description of them moving around/something happening in the background to give a visual for describing later)

so on and so forth. it helps a lot either when we want to establish the setup of a dialogue heavy scene before we forget our inspiration, or we’re feeling a bit too blocked to be able to write more descriptively at the moment, etc etc. it’s a really natural way to focus on the flow of conversation without getting caught up in transitions and repetition of dialogue tags and stuff, and usually is the culprit for a scene taking way longer to finish than expected for me.

all that being said, the times i have actually felt like a chapter is paced too quickly is usually either when the dialogue exchange is too fast and feels like the conversation could be more fleshed out, or maybe likeeee a transition happens a little too immediately and it reads a little bit like one thing happening after the next after the next without much of a pause for expansion. if you’ve managed to get your point across in fewer words and your main concern is driving up the word count, i really wouldn’t worry about it! you could always have someone look at it with a fresh pair of eyes and ask for places they feel could use more explanation or detail (maybe describing a setting more vividly? or giving more insight to some of their thoughts at a certain point?) but genuinely — conciseness is a Skill, and seeing how i have once again accidentally answered an ask with one million words, i’ll actually just trade you some of my internal word vomit right now. here you go -> 🎁

[rainofcolours]

[ One-shot | Kaijou/Puppyshipping | Valentine's Day '25 fic ]

Summary: Seto knows what he has with Katsuya is a quiet kind of love, built upon small actions and passing moments. So, each morning he wakes, converging the essence of self in the stillness of the hour, and asks: what is it that he, Kaiba Seto, considers his centre? An introspection-driven relationship study of Seto and Katsuya. Note: Happy Valentine's to our boys! I decided to write them quietly happy for once (mostly; it's properly happy this time, really!) and living in bliss – because despite my withered husk of a heart, I only really want them to be (kinda realistically) happy c':

Click below for a few preview paragraphs!

It was 4.57am.

Seto awoke in the quiet, right on cue.

Whatever the impetus, this had been the single constant that followed him throughout his life. It was a habit he had cultivated from years of necessity – school, work, Gozaburo, stress. Once a product of authority and fear, Seto had since reclaimed its association, determined to cycle its rebirth from a past buried into a present of peace and rest.

Now, these hours he reserved for the anchoring of self before the ionisation of a day; a moment of him, for him – reflection rotated around the tightrope of interlude that separated his twilight from the awakening of the day.

It was one of the few luxuries Seto allowed himself.

He slipped, from his bed warmed by two into the embrace of quiet, footsteps light even though the bed hardly stirred. The shadow of his form the manual flicker against the slice of the city projected into the cover of their bedroom – constellations of city lights scattered across the corner of their duvet – gliding past the sliver at the edge of the curtains, one that fell just wayward of its seam against the corner of the wall. An imperfection, from when Katsuya caught the tail of the fabric a morning moons ago, sleep heavy in the clumsiness of his motions. 

An imperfection that neither had rectified since.

(Read the rest of the fic here!)

[thedeafprophet]

[sad sunglasses emoji]

[sydney-carton-of-sour-milk]

The Many Illustrators of A Tale of Two Cities 19: Fred Barnard

Surprise! And Merry Christmas!

I'm not even gonna bother to talk formally here. I have had. These. On hand. For. A year!!! Just! Waiting! For the right time to post them! And what better time than Christmas, a holiday I personally celebrate and a holiday defined by gift-giving? Thus, my Christmas present to you, dear reader:

Crisp, beautiful, & hand-scanned by me¹, here, for possibly the first time in Internet history², is a complete³ and high-definition⁴ set of Fred Barnard's iconic twenty-five illustrations⁵ originally made for the 1874 Household Edition⁶ of A Tale of Two Cities.

" She curtsied to him (young ladies made curtsies in those days) . . . . He made her another bow "

No other words are necessary here. Happy Holidays, and Enjoy!

( Unlike the others, which are embedded in the text, the above is a full-page illustration, rotated. )

And there they are. Have a wonderful last week of the year, everyone! See you New Year's Eve!

¹ painstakingly over a period of several days because some individual illustrations took several hours of trial and error to scan them with the degree of detail and accuracy they deserved😌 ² by my thorough (if not desperate at a certain point) research anyway🤪 ³ there is of course... one more illustration, completely separate from these, that Fred Barnard made from A Tale of Two Cities... but that will be for a different post altogether one day😉 ⁴ I know Tumblr can crunch image quality, so if you want the super high-definition versions of these, feel free to DM me😁 ⁵ if you're curious about any of these, this link is worth a click because it gives a description and context to all of the illustrations! all of them!!🤩 ⁶ technically, the edition that I own is a combination of A Tale of Two Cities and Sketches by Boz and is undated - and Barnard created his illustrations for Sketches by Boz in 1876, so this can't be from the original 1874 print - but as far as has ever been indicated in my research, it is of some variation of the Household Edition😎

& the standard endnote for all posts in this series:

This post is intended to act as the start of a forum on the given illustrator, so if anyone has anything to add - requests to see certain drawings in higher definition (since Tumblr compresses images), corrections to factual errors, sources for better-quality versions of the illustrations, further reading, fun facts, any questions, or just general commentary - simply do so on this post, be it in a comment/tags or the replies!💫

[spotaus]

Late Night quick thing (New Age Sillies)

Bad news: That joke post about including Reset + Orchid is definitely not canon. (I legit got sad thinking about Reset being in a universe where Orchid isn't- because their stories are so so intertwined- but Nightmare 100% would NOT risk the whole twins exploding Error's soul thing.)

Good news: This means I COULD include Kane (Reset's older brother who usually dies in timelines where Reset is born) and use it to develope his character a bit more! Also! Perhaps a Blue × Dream kiddo is finally in the stars for me to design?

[mer-se]

So much of anxiety is living in both the past and future and not being present so, I’m trying to make a conscious effort to stay in the present from now on because I literally don’t actually exist anywhere else. so whats that matter - we just have right now. Constant worrying doesn’t actually alter anything. If bad, shitty stressful things are going to happen they will, there’s no control in that. Just have to live. Just have to continue, adapt and do the best you can in the moment you’re actually fucking in and keep going. Gotta go through bad stuff to get to the cool shit. There’s always good stuff coming. Either way you gotta just keep going.

so presently I’m standing in my kitchen and it’s crazy foggy outside. I have the worlds most precious cat at my feet and i’m eating warmed homemade coffee cake.

[fourx]

no more fucking vague talking im going to be up front because this has been going on for an entire year and has genuinely distressed me for a while. I will preface this by saying that I don't mind if you take inspiration from me, im so glad I was able to be an inspiration for you. I make art out of happiness.

but there's times where I feel people cross the line in taking literal aspects of my identity and who I am. I dont think I ever was built to deal with things like this, i struggle heavily with who I am and my artwork. if you take inspiration from me the most I can ask for is a mention it means a lot. In the end I'm just a random person on the internet, and i can't control what you do. I only ask for respect

[lisbethtylanhnem]

It should be illegal to be this stressed out about something you don't even HAVE to do.

[fantabulisticity]

I was really pumped to go to a local concert that I thought was tomorrow, where a really good band is playing, and I found out AT THE TIME THE CONCERT STARTED that it's tonight and not tomorrow. I looked through concert tickets and shit and tried to find the length of the concert and band order for way too long and then finally decided to go and by the time I was ready, it was 45 minutes past start time and I would still have to drive across town and find parking. And not a single place online told me the band order. I HATE that shit. Idk where everyone finds that info bc i can fucking NEVER find it. So I didn't even know if I could still see them or not if I showed up late, and then it was so late that it's not even worth going. And the concert goes SUPER late and I work at 7 am and the tickets are $50 and I don't really have that right now. I am so sad and angry. I thought they were the headliner and I'd get to see them tomorrow. But I don't get to see them at all bc I've been so fucking busy and tired all the time that I didn't have the bandwidth to look for tickets until tonight. So now I'm going to bed without a shower even though I'm STICKY bc I spent the last HOUR trying to decide whether or not to try to go to this concert. I fucking HATE this shit. If I could have found this info earlier and more easily then I could have made it. But no. I don't get to go at all. And I don't know if this band will ever be in town again. I've seen them once and they were AMAZING, but that was years ago, and I was excited to see them as an adult. I had fucking PLANNED for this concert but my plans were wrong. And now I don't get to go at all. Bc this internationally recognized band is playing on a fucking THURSDAY NIGHT. Why the FUCK would I know they were put on a THURSDAY. And the websites are so impossible to navigate anyways, esp on Mobile. It is SO HARD to find the most basic info about this shit. And now I don't even get to go. Because it took me half an hour to find the info I needed in order to even make a decision, and that half hour started AT CONCERT START TIME. I'm so fucking sad and angry. I have had kind of a rough week, and I was really looking forward to this. The concert tomorrow doesn't have ANYONE I recognize bc I only know older musicians in this genre and I have NO IDEA who any of these people are. So I don't know if I even want to go to the one tomorrow. Because the one I wanted to go to was TONIGHT. A fucking THURSDAY. And I can't even just get my shit together and go anyways bc the concert will be halfway over and my bedtime is right fucking now. I'm so fucking sad. This event happens once per year and it changed dates a few years ago so I never fucking know when it is anymore, and now in the year when I DO know when it is and have a job where I can conceivably afford to go, and I fucking PUT IT IN MY CALENDAR AND TRIED TO BUY TICKETS, I actually can't go. The rug wasn't even pulled out from under me, I was trying to run over it and tripped on it and landed face-first on the ground. What the FUCK.

[faggling]

The worst part of taking an opiate is having to eat something with it

[crimsonblackrose]

.

I think I usually view myself as the nervous cheetah in the enclosure in need of a buddy golden retriever. But my boss essentially just told me I'm doing great and she's hoping I rub off on one of my nervous coworkers so she's scheming ways for me to work with that coworker. I.e. I'm the golden retriever.

[wulfhalls]

hey don't cry I don't think you look like colin robinson with hair that's something

thanks queen 👍 😭