#Fluid Handling System

[midseo]

Prover Tanks, Prover Tank Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter, India

Prover Tanks, Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter, Pune, Maharashtra, India, Saudi Arabia.

Prover Tanks, Loading Arm, Loading Arms, Unloading Arm, Unloading Arms, Loading Arms System, Loading Arms Systems, Unloading Arms System, Unloading Arms Systems, Swivel Joint, Swivel Joints, Floating Suction Assemblies, Floating Suction Assembly, Prover Tank, Prover Tanks, Storage Tank, Storage Tanks, Storage Tank, Storage Tanks, Rotary Joint, Rotary Joints, Mechanical Seal Support System, Mechanical Seal Support Systems, Thermosyphon, Thermosyphons, Heat Exchanger, Heat Exchangers, Test Aider, Test Aiders, Fluid Handling System, Fluid Handling Systems, Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter, Pune, Maharashtra, India, Saudi Arabia.

[arctic-hands]

I spent FOUR DAYS in an E.R bed because there were NO beds open anywhere in the hospital proper. I get discharged after a week of being dangerously dehydrated despite the constant heavy duty electrolytes being pumped into my veins round the clock and in the third worst pain of my life, only to watch on the news at home a report about the days-long wait times in hospitals and hear that the reporters have the audacity to wonder why hospitals are overcrowded again

It's covid. Stop being wilful idiots

[metalloyinternational]

Durable and Corrosion-Resistant Stainless Steel 304 Pipe Fittings for Reliable and Efficient Fluid Handling in Diverse Industrial Applications

Our Stainless Steel 304 Pipe Fittings provide reliable and corrosion-resistant connections for various piping systems. Suitable for applications such as food processing, chemical processing, and water treatment, these fittings ensure a precise fit and long-lasting service. Available in multiple sizes and configurations, they meet the demands of projects requiring efficient fluid handling solutions.

[somewhereincairparavel]

percy had an 'im a big three son' moment when he choked a goddess with her own saliva (controlling a fluid that was INSIDE her body) annabeth was terrified.

nico had an 'im a big three son' moment when he disembodied bryce lawrence (quite literally dissipating and shrinking his LIVING soul into a spirit) and threw him to the underworld, smashing his zombie warriors. reyna was terrified.

yet we were robbed of jason's 'im a big three son' moment where he sucks the air out of someone's lungs and makes them stop breathing, or damaging a person's nervous system with his lightning control, and literally cause internal bleeding, or a damaged/fried skull if he electrocuted hard enough (look up the effects of lightning damage on body y'all will get a whole list, tbh he doesn't even need lightning to do any of this, air control is more than enough since air takes charge of everything going inside the body, but this is just an added effect.) he could give people STROKES if he wanted to. he's the literal definition of burnt out kid who was suppressed from discovering the magnitude of his abilities, because one, his dad's ego wouldn't be able to handle it, two, because he, for some reason, can't be allowed to do anything other than get knocked out :/

also adding on, hardcore pjo fans know that after the ending page of boo, there's this fan story that rick chose to publish in the last few pages of the book where a fan reimagines the ending of hoo, in that work, annabeth collapses from an attack and percy sobs clutching her body. jason calmly asks him to step aside, and kneels before annabeth, jason regulates her breathing using his wind/lightning powers and brings annabeth back fully from her cardiac arrest, causing percy to be relieved. (I wanted to link the pics of the pages here so bad but I didn't have the hard copy of the book with me, and this isn't available anywhere online either, only in the original covers of boo uk and us version, so I edited this post and asked people to reblog this post w the pics if they have the hardcopy, and a kind blogger found the story I'm talking about and reblogged the pictures of the pages, you can check my reblogs of this post for the pictures of the almost all the pages after this scene) considering rick approved and even liked the fan's work well enough to publish it in the official boo book, I'd say rick was aware and never completely ruled out expanding jason's abilities and had them in mind, he simply didn't incorporate it into the books. (also W fan for giving jason the rep he deserves, I will always remember you, you saw the VISION before any of us did, the story was very well written, with great dialogue.)

[hydraulicsolutionsinnz]

Why Use Cooling Systems for Motors? Read Advantages!

It is critical to use high-quality cooling systems for motors that are designed specifically for motors to ensure that the machine stays reliable and lasts for longer. Motors are the workhorses of many manufacturing processes, and they need to perform them for efficient operations. Therefore, effective cooling system is necessary to maintain the endurance of motors during operation. 

Fluid handling equipment is frequently included in motor cooling systems. Coolants or oils are circulated through these cooling systems. to adjust the temperature, and efficiently maintain the proper temperature range. These processes can reduce overheating, and improve heat dissipation, which protects the motor.

In general, motors create heat energy, and this excessive energy can cause early wear-out, reduced performance efficiency, and, eventually, motor failure. 

A high-quality motor cooling system can manage and dissipate heat, ensuring that the motor functions at an optimal temperature. As a result, it can reduce energy consumption, and enhance performance and self-life.

Why Choose Reliable Suppliers for Industrial Mechanisms?

It is important to choose renowned providers of motor cooling systems and equipment for fluid handling. Know about the reviews of trusted machine and equipment suppliers.

Reliable machining tools and gear suppliers have a track record of delivering high-quality, dependable products. These suppliers usually provide tailored solutions to ensure that the cooling system and fluid handling equipment are well-suited to a manufacturing facility's specific needs and limits.

Additionally, these suppliers employ a team of professionals who can guide their customers for the best-fit equipment based on their requirements to meet their specific needs.

These suppliers provide warranties and post-purchase support for their customers. This can ensure that their products come with the highest quality and meet industry rules.

Overall, it can be said that applying high-quality motor cooling systems and efficient equipment for fluid handling is needed to maintain longevity and performance. Modern cooling systems are built with the conservation of energy in mind, in keeping with the growing priority on sustainable production and lowering carbon footprints.

Therefore, businesses should make informed decisions and get the best technology for their specific needs by collaborating with these reputable suppliers. They can be assured of getting the highest efficiency and the long lifespan of industrial motors.

Source

[goofygubegubler]

hi hi

reader gets period during sex (yes i know im a freak 🥲) and is very embarrassed but spencer is super sweet and cute… 😔

𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒖𝒖𝒖 (𝑺.𝑹)

wc: 1.2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: Period Sex, Blood Mentions, Bodily Fluids, Explicit Sexual Content, Embarrassment/Shame (Resolved), Tender Aftercare, Bath Scene, Late-Season Spencer Reid Softness.

Spencer had been giving you exactly what you needed—those sharp, deep thrusts laced with the confidence and precision that only experience could bring. He moaned low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he leaned over you, holding one of your legs high against his chest to open you up just right. That angle. God, that angle. Your vision blurred at the edges, your thoughts flickering into static, your skull knocking lightly against the headboard with each powerful stroke.

"Spence," you whimpered, voice cracking with need. He was so deep you could barely think. So deep it felt like your bones had liquefied. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he gasped against your throat.

"You're so fucking tight," he groaned, lips dragging along your jaw. "Feels like you’re made for me."

You could only nod, trembling, nails digging into his back. Your body burned, a slow spiral of heat in your belly. His hips snapped forward again, and the pressure inside you swelled—

—and then he froze.

His brow furrowed. Not in discomfort. In concern.

"Wait—hold on," he whispered, voice tender now. He slowed his thrusts and eased back slightly, and your stomach plummeted at the change in his expression.

"What?" you asked, breathless. You tried to hide the panic in your voice, but your gut already twisted with embarrassment.

Spencer sat back on his heels, still inside you but gentle now. He looked down—

—and you saw it too. Red. A smear of it across your thighs. On him. On the sheets beneath you.

Your heart seized. You bolted upright with a strangled gasp, pulling the sheet around yourself like it could rewind the moment.

"Oh my God," you choked, horror flooding your system. "Oh my God, Spencer, I—I didn’t know, I didn’t feel—"

"Hey. Hey," he interrupted quickly, reaching for you with those steady hands, the same ones that had just been gripping you like lifelines. "Look at me."

You didn’t want to. You kept your face buried in your hands, burning with shame, but he wouldn’t let you disapp, notNot like this.

"Look at me, sweetheart. Please."

You finally glanced up through your fingers, and what you found in his eyes wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t revulsion. It was softness. Concern. Love.

"It’s okay," he said quietly, brushing your hair from your face. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

You tried to speak, but your throat locked. All you could do was shake your head, whispering, "I’m so sorry. That’s so gross—"

"Stop," he said, gently but firmly. "Don’t say that. It’s not gross. It’s just... your body. It’s natural. It happens. Actually—statistically—about 30% of people with periods have reported unexpected onset during intercourse due to a variety of physiological triggers."

You blinked, stunned into silence as he adjusted the sheet around your waist with the same care he used handling case files and fragile crime scene evidence. "Also, menstrual blood isn't harmful in any way. It’s composed of roughly 50% blood and 50% other natural bodily components, like cervical mucus and uterine tissue."

"Spencer," you said weakly, but there was a smile threatening the corners of your mouth now. "Are you... giving me a period TED Talk right now?"

He shrugged, a bashful grin touching his lips. "I have three PhDs. One of them includes human physiology. It's hard to turn it off."

You snorted, the embarrassment slowly starting to burn off into something else. Relief. Affection. Love.

And he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your shoulder, and whispered, "But we can stop if you're uncomfortable. Or..."

You looked at him, your heartbeat steadying. His eyes were still so full of want—tempered now with care.

"I want you to keep going," you whispered. "If you're okay with it."

He kissed your shoulder again, lower this time. Slower. More reverent.

"I'm more than okay with it," he murmured against your skin. "Let me make you feel good again."

And when he eased you back against the pillows and touched you like you were precious—still precious—every ounce of self-consciousness bled away.

He moved with care now, slow and deep, every thrust more of a caress than a claim. His hand held your cheek like he was grounding you, his mouth whispering soft nothings between kisses—your name, his name, stars, science, everything blurring together.

"You know, during arousal, the cervix actually elevates, which—" He groaned when you clenched around him, interrupting his own monologue with a breathless laugh. "Okay. Okay. No more stats right now. Just—God, you feel incredible."

You were trembling again, this time not from embarrassment but from how deeply he adored you. His lips found yours, and you melted into him, rocking together in that slow, aching rhythm that said this wasn't just about sex—it was about trust. About knowing you'd shown him a vulnerable part of you, and he had only drawn you closer.

You came with his name on your tongue, gasping into his shoulder, his arms wrapped around you like he wanted to shield you from the world. And he followed seconds later, groaning low, pressing deep before stilling, resting his forehead against yours.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just the soft sound of breathing, your heartbeat in your ears.

Eventually, he slipped out gently, kissed your knee, and murmured something soft against your skin. Then he was gone, padding quietly into the bathroom. You heard water running—first the faucet, then the tub.

A moment later, he returned with a warm, damp towel and knelt between your legs. His touch was gentle, reverent, as he cleaned you up, murmuring little apologies even though there was nothing to apologize for. You watched him, heart aching with something deep and fragile.

Then, with that same calm tenderness, he cleaned himself, tugged on a pair of boxers, and reached for your hand.

"Come on," he whispered. "I ran you a bath. Let’s get you comfortable."

The bathroom was filled with soft steam, the tub nearly full. He helped you in with both hands, steadying you like you were something sacred. The warm water enveloped you, and your muscles sighed with relief.

He brushed your hair back, tucked it behind your ears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I’ll be right back," he said gently. "I’m just going to strip the bed, rinse the sheets, see if the stain will come out. Shouldn’t be too bad if I get to it quickly—oxidization is the real enemy with blood, you know."

You gave a small laugh through your exhaustion. Of course, Spencer Reid would think of everything.

But as he turned to go, you reached for his wrist with water-slick fingers.

"Spence," you mumbled, head tilted back against the porcelain. "Fuck the damn sheets. We can buy new ones. Just... get in with me. Please."

He blinked, halfway to the door, caught off guard by your voice—so soft and tired and raw. His shoulders relaxed, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips.

"Yeah?" he asked, toeing off his boxers again.

"Yeah," you breathed, watching the steam curl around his silhouette.

Spencer stepped into the tub behind you, easing down with a quiet groan of comfort. The water shifted, rising around your bodies, and then his arms were around you, tugging you back against his chest.

You exhaled, sinking into him completely.

"This okay?" he asked, lips brushing your temple.

"Perfect," you whispered.

He kissed your damp shoulder, then rested his chin in the crook of your neck. "Sheets can wait. Holding you can’t."

[nerdygirlramblings]

totally not at all inspired by a real life snowboarding injury, I present poly!141 x injured!reader

cw: hurt/comfort, accents attempted

You're sat in the hospital bed doing your best not to cry. You hold the tears at bay not because you're fine. Not because you're proud. Not because of the shock running through your system. No, you try hard not to cry because you don't know how your boyfriends will react if you're in tears when they show up.

The spill was the most ridiculous accident, comical in its cartoonish nature: ice on the steps. You were rushing to catch The Tube, desperate not to be late. You knew if any of your men were home, they would have chided your footwear. The pink heels were absolutely impractical, but they matched your pearl grey dress so perfectly. On a normal day, you would have worn something sensible and simply brought the cute shoes to wear around the office.

But today was not a normal day. Today was your anniversary, and you had lovely dinner plans with your men scheduled. You wouldn't be able to come home after work, so you needed to look perfect all day.

You were almost home free when the last step ruined everything. Your foot slid, your bag fell, and you put your hands out to stop your forward momentum. So many bad ideas all in a row.

You felt something pop, heard a snap, and knew immediately you were very injured. Pain radiated all the way up your arm, leaving fire in its wake. Signals weren't making their way from your brain to your hand; it flapped, unresponsive, in your lap.

Thankfully your neighbor, Mrs. Gillen, was on the curb, and while she couldn't help you when you fell, she called 999 for you. She asked if your men were upstairs, and when you shook your head, she called John. You knew she had everyone's number, but as she'd learned, a call to John usually got everyone.

As they loaded you into the ambulance, you heard Mrs. Gillen ask an EMT where they were taking you, only to relay that information into her mobile.

So now you wait in A&E, arm in a sling, hooked up to an IV of fluids and pain meds, to see just how bad things are. You hear your men before you see them, John's voice low, demanding information on you. You don't hear a response, but John's growled response means he didn't get what he wanted.

Next you hear Johnny, frantically shouting your name as A&E techs try to shush him for the benefit of other patients and their families. A nurse comes in, unease in his eyes, and says there are several people asking for you. He tells you they have a code they can call if you're not safe, if the people looking for you need to be directed elsewhere or handled by the authorities.

You roll your eyes and assure the nurse it's okay. You pass him your phone, open to a picture of the five of you on holiday in Majorca last summer. "They're mine," you tell him ruefully. "Best let them back if it isn't against protocol, otherwise you'll be dealing with a big ruckus."

He eyes you hesitantly, despite the evidence on your phone. "Really," you say. "We're together. They'll be harmless if they can see me."

He steps into the hall and you watch him talk with a doctor and a man in a security uniform. They all come in and you have to explain your unconventional relationship, all the while listening to Johnny's shouts grow more panicked and Simon's rumble join John's. The only one you don't hear is Kyle, but you sure it's because he's restraining Johnny, who would be running through the halls pulling open doors if he could.

Finally the nurse, doctor, and security guard leave. Within moments the door bangs open so hard it strains the hinges. The hall light is blocked by a mass in the door, breathing heavily.

"Hi, Simon," you say sheepishly. He steps into the room, strides eating up the distance to where you are. You watch his aborted attempt to hug you. You raise your uninjured arm and he quickly shuffles into the space, pressing his face to your hair and breathing deeply.

"Oh, darling," you hear John sigh, "what happened?"

You feel your face heat and won't meet his eye. His gaze tracks from your injury down your dress to your legs. And those pink heels. You see the realization hit. "Please tell me you did not leave the flat in those shoes." His voice is muffled by the hand he's dragged over his face.

"I wanted to look perfect for tonight," you reply. "And now I've ruined it all," you sniffle.

"Och, hen," comes Johnny's voice. "Ye didnae ruin anything," he coos, coming over, elbowing Simon out of the way to press kisses to your hair and cheek. "We were so worried when Mrs. Gillen called. We jus' wan' ye safe. Yer already perfect." He kisses you again and again.

"Ya mind if we wait with ya, love?" Kyle asks, sitting in the chair next to the bed.

You were nervous about being in A&E alone, scared of what damage you did to yourself. "I wouldn't want you anywhere else," you tell him.

They boys take up various positions around the room, Simon looming behind you, eyes crossed, watching the door; John in the chair near the door, looking at your chart; and Johnny on the bed with you, your uninjured hand in his.

When the attending finally comes in, she pulls up short at how full the room now is. She looks at your men, then at you, and says, "Do you want this medical information shared, or shall we ask everyone to wait outside?"

Suddenly the room feels smaller, the air stuffier. You know it isn't harder to breathe, but your men are expansive, and the idea they might not be welcome as the doctor tells you the extent of your injuries is too much.

"No, doctor," you say, trying to head off a confrontation. "They're with me. And it's best they hear whatever this is from you." You look at John and add, "I'm sure they'll have questions."

The doctor holds your eye for a long moment, and you see the moment she decides to trust you. She comes to the end of the bed and holds her tablet out, waiting for John and Kyle to come around and join Simon behind you.

She brings up the first scan of your forearm and you see it before she says anything, the glaring black line across the solid white bones. Combined fracture of the radius and ulna. She brings up a second scan of your shoulder where the injury is less obvious. There's no bone break, but the doctor points out where you tore the ligaments in your glenohumeral joint.

The more she talks the more the words blend together. You hear surgery. Physical therapy. Weeks of recovery. John's voice joins the doctor's. Then Simon's.

You tune them out, worrying about what this means for your job, for taking care of the house when your men are on deployment, for the burden this puts on the others.

You feel a warm weight on your thigh and glance down to see Johnny's hand, thumb rubbing soothingly back and forth. The sharp line of his jaw digs into your uninjured shoulder enough to get your attention. You turn your head to glance at him. He leans forward, breath warm against your cheek as he whispers, "Stop thinkin' so hard. Takin' care a ye isnae hardship. Hell, it's gunna mean ye cannae tell us tae stop."

You frown and whisper back, "I'm not supposed to be a burden," mouth twisted into a frown.

He scoffs. "Ah dare ye tae tell LT or the Cap'n yer a burden."

A throat clears, and you look away from Johnny. The doctor looks resolute; John's eyes are full of pity. They both seem to wait for your reaction, but to what? You were spiraling until Johnny drew you back to them, but what had John and the doctor said to make them look at you like that?

Your eyes dart between them, mouth opening and closing in your best imitation of a fish until the doctor saves you further embarrassment. "We can't do anything more today. The bones in your arm can't be set until the swelling goes down, so we can only put you in a temporary splint until a real cast goes on in about a week. And I don't want to schedule the surgery until the bone is in a cast, and preferably not until it's healed, but I need more imaging on the ligament to determine how quickly it needs surgery. I'm going to have to send you home with pain medication only. You're going to need quite a bit of help for a while."

At first, the most you manage is a small, "Oh." You clear your throat and try again. "Thank you, doctor. Er, when should I schedule the imaging for? And how should I do that? Oh, and where do I go for the actual cast?"

The doctor sighs and looks at John first before the others. "I gave your, er, friend all the contact information for the orthopedist and imaging specialists. He said they'd make sure you have your appointments set. I also gave him your script for pain medication to help you manage these first few days."

You thank the doctor again as your boys escort you home. You hold the tears at bay on the drive home, waiting quietly in the car when Kyle takes your prescription into the chemist. You make it up the stairs in Simon's arms, cradled against his chest like a fragile bird. It isn't until you're back in your flat that the tears come.

A torrent of pain snakes down your arm, stealing the breath from your lungs when you try to shrug your jacket off. Simon is only a step behind you, and he lunges forward, hands under you as you crumple, sobbing, to the floor.

A pair of warm, calloused hands gently cup your face. You can't see through the tears, but you smell sunshine when Kyle shushes you, telling you they're there.

"I don't want to be a burden," you cry between sobs. Your lungs are beginning to burn, everything throbbing in time to the ache in your arm. "Now I've messed everything up!"

You're picked up, gently, from the front hall. The smell of gunmetal tells you it's Simon. His soft steps thud along the floor. There're too many steps for you to be heading for the den, you think. The realization strikes that you must be going to the bedroom. The arms holding you deposit you in front of them on the bed.

Your hair is maneuvered over your uninjured shoulder and you hear the rasp of the zipper as it slowly descends. Simon carefully manipulates your good arm out of its sleeve while Johnny kneels to take your cute shoes off. Then Kyle and Simon work together to carefully, cautiously shift and support your arm to get your other sleeve off. You have a momentary flash - I'm glad A&E didn't cut my dress - before it's overwhelmed by the agony of getting your other sleeve down.

By the time the top of your dress has been slipped off, you're practically panting, teeth clenched tight to prevent the scream from clawing its way up your throat. The boys get you the rest of the way undressed and into your pajamas.

You look around and notice John isn't in the room. You look behind you to Simon, the one most likely to give you a straight answer, but when you ask about John, he pretends not to know him at all!

John walks in a moment later with some flowers you recognize from the vase in the kitchen. "I know you're disappointed, dove. We all are, but not because we think we're missing out if you're not there." John gets down onto one knee. "This isn't what we talked about. This isn't where we wan'ed to do it." He pulls a ring box out. "Was gonna do this at dinner, but I think you need ta remember, dove, you're our world."

You blink back more tears as Simon's voice vibrates your ribcage. His voice rumbles, " Wan' ya to be ours fully."

You look at Kyle and see the giant grin splitting his face.

You don't have to look to see Johnny's sitting, energy practically vibrating off him in waves, waiting as patiently as a kid on Christmas morning.

Your eyes land on John again, still kneeling. Silly man, putting himself through hurt for you. "Marry us, dove?"

Despite the unfounded hopelessness seeping into your bones. Despite the self-pity drowning you under waves of all you haven't done yet. Despite the agony rippling through your arm to the rest of you. Despite all that, you're answering before he fully finishes his question.

"Yes!"

main masterlist

[velaenam]

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you are a successful aerospace engineer, a girlboss, with terrible luck in romance. let's hope this strangers website brings you out of that rut! 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – NSFW topics! mature themes, swearing/foul language, slow burn, talks of depression/mental health, guilt tripping, manipulation, tba 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬– not proofread. erm, more domestic bliss!! stop expecting the worst (or do.. stay on your toes baby) 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 7 of many ! previous chapter | next chapter | playlist —reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

the sim drills went smoothly. too smoothly. caleb hit every mark, sharp and fluid like he was born to fly that frame. you’d caught yourself smiling halfway through the final sequence when he executed a near-impossible maneuver just to show off.

now, outside the sim bay, the group’s circled up. a handful of pilots, a few engineers, a tech or two from flight systems – all gathered around in a loose half-ring, laughing over debrief notes, tossing gentle jabs, and happily drinking and eating the catering you’d bought not too long ago.

caleb’s next to you, leaning against a column with his arms folded, sleeves rolled up again like he knows what he’s doing to everyone’s attention span. your shoulder brushes his every now and then as you speak. he’s still holding your coffee cup, but he won’t let you throw it out yet. “i swear you just barrel rolled for fun,” one of the pilots says to caleb, nudging him. “not protocol.” and caleb scratches the back of his head, laughing awkwardly, “i was following the sim’s response curve,” caleb replies, mock-offended, his laugh resonating afterwards “if that just happened to look cool, then hey… occupational hazard?”

you laugh, tilting your head toward him. “i think you’re just addicted to flair and being a show off.” – “coming from the one who reprogrammed the entire thermal loop in under six seconds mid-flight?” – “it was five.” the group laughs. there’s a lightness to the air. the kind that doesn’t happen often on base. everyone’s relaxed, orbiting the two of you, letting the ease ripple outward.

then there was a shuffle into the room 

“caleb.”

the voice cuts clean through the noise, and you turn first.

she’s standing just outside the ring of pilots–  boots spotless, uniform crisp, her hair tucked behind one ear, her pistols adorn her hips. you recognize her instantly. hunter hq. jenna’s office. her supposed star employee. that tight smile, the way she scanned you in aw with her friend as you debriefed them.

“caleb,” she says, all sugar and poise. he shifts beside you, and you feel it. not defensively but like he was on high alert, maybe tentative. “hey pipsqueak...” he says, voice quiet.

pipsqueak.

the group goes still, the laughter dying out. the silence says enough. you look between them. it clicks. she glances at you, recognition flickering behind her eyes. then she turns back to caleb, her voice light.

“i figured you wouldn’t answer my messages, so…i came here” her whined words hang there, and you don’t look at her. you look at caleb. “this is the friend you mentioned, right?” you ask, voice steady. he meets your gaze– surprised, then guilty, then it was honest. “yeah.”

you nod and she smiles at you. “we’ve met! hunter hq, right? miss jenna is your sister?” you nod, “that’s right,” you say calmly. “and you’re the one who told caleb to unadd me on whispr.” her expression changes into a shocked one–   “i didn’t tell him to do anything.”

you smile. it’s clean and polite– but full of edge. “right. just made the suggestion.” the group starts to drift, the moment crackling under the weight of the shift. caleb stays beside you, jaw tight, his silence heavy, really unsure how to handle this. you step forward just enough to close the space. “we’re dating,” you say clearly. “and i’m saying it out loud so there’s no confusion.” she blinks once. that’s it. “well,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “i just came to say congratulations.”

“you’ve said it,” you reply. she nods. turns. walks off without a second glance. the hallway quiets again. caleb exhales beside you. “i was going to tell you it was her. i just didn’t–”

“you don’t have to explain,” you say, cutting in gently. your stomach curdles into knots. you suddenly felt sick, like you were about to vomit, but you remain steadfast– swallowing back the feeling of dread as you walk off from caleb, “i need 5.” you mumble as you disappear into the corner.

caleb stands there, a mixture of surprise, and dread surging through him. his breath was shallow, his eyes darkened, as he continuously tries to blink away the odd moment. he had to snap out of it, because it was killing him just standing there, but he was confused. but just like that– the room was empty, and he had two objectives to complete.

the hallway is quiet now. the briefing room is behind him, but caleb’s walking fast—shoulders tense, jaw set. the base lights above flicker a little too bright as he rounds the corner near the hangar access. that’s where he sees her.

she stands near one of the side exits, arms folded, weight shifted onto one leg. like she knew he’d follow.

he slows to a stop a few paces from her, breath still uneven from the sharpness of everything that just unfolded.

“you shouldn’t have come like that,” he says.

she exhales a slow breath, not looking at him. “you haven’t been answering.. i had to...” a tinge of whininess in her voice as she trails off

“i’ve been busy.”

“busy,” she repeats, dry. then she turns toward him fully, eyes tired but still sharp. “you’ve been busy for months, caleb.” he doesn’t say anything. “and when you do answer,” she adds, voice quieter now, “you don’t sound like you.”

caleb runs a hand down his face. “things are just different now.”— “yeah,” she says, mouth twisting. “because of her?” he blinks. not defensive, confused again. “this isn’t about her.”

“really? because it feels like i’ve been watching you disappear piece by piece. and i know you—i know you better than anyone else. and this? shutting me out? that’s not you.” he swallows. presses his tongue to the back of his teeth before speaking. “look… i didn’t mean for it to happen like this. i’m not trying to push you out.”

“then what are you doing?” he doesn’t have an answer she’ll like. not yet. so instead, he says spontaneously, “come over later.”

she blinks. “what?” he sigh, inaudible, “just… come by. we’ll talk. i’ll explain everything. i owe you that much.”

she watches him for a long time, but her expression softens—just a split second “okay,” she says finally. “i’ll come by.”

he nods once. it’s not relief exactly, but it’s something. then she turns and walks away. and he stands there in the empty hallway, alone with the weight of everything he hasn’t said yet. he stares at her disappearing figure before he turns back to the hallway, finding you.

-

the lights are soft. the sun outside’s dipping lower, casting long shadows across your desk. your tablet hums quietly beside the flight logs you’ve been annotating all day. the silence is good. it’s clean. keeps you grounded.

then a knock before the door slides halfway open— you already know who it is. you don’t look up. “if it’s about the fighter diagnostics, you’ll have the final render in an hour.”

there’s a pause. then caleb steps fully into the room, letting the door close behind him. he’s still in uniform, jacket half-unzipped. if you weren’t so tense you would’ve had a witty remark about how handsome he was looking, but the atmosphere didn’t call for it.

you finally glance up. “let me guess,” you say. “it’s about her.” he doesn’t answer immediately. he stands there, like the words are heavier than they should be.

“she showed up,” he says.

“yeah,” you reply, returning your gaze to the tablet. “i was right there.” he shifts his weight like he wants to say more. explain. justify. but you don’t give him space to.

“listen,” you say calmly, setting the stylus down. “if you came here to talk about where you stand with her, you don’t need to.”

his brow furrows. “that’s not what i—” “it’s fine,” you cut in, voice even. “i’m not going to be one half of whatever triangle this is. i don’t have time to navigate nostalgia.”

he stiffens, not insulted — just caught. “it’s not like that.”

you nod once, quietly. “okay. but if it ever starts feeling like it is — if it ever becomes easier for you to go back to someone who knows the old you instead of learning who you’re becoming — then i’m not going to get in the way. you know where i stand, I told you before. i won’t be in these types of situations” ‘im too good to be humiliated’ you think as you purse your lips. that is the truth. you worked too hard to be humiliated by a man and what looked to be his tail. and that was the hard truth. 

his mouth opens slightly, like he wants to argue, but the words falter. you’re not angry. that’s what throws him. you’re not defensive. you’re just… clear.

“you’re not a child, caleb..”  you continue. “you get to decide who’s in your orbit. i just don’t want to waste my time when you’re busy trying to keep one in line..”

his shoulders drop. the weight of your words settling into his chest.

“you’re not a placeholder,” he says softly. you smile, sad and a little tired. “then don’t treat me like one.” there’s a beat of silence between you — full of everything neither of you wants to admit out loud.

then you turn back to your screen. “we’ve got an inspection tomorrow,” you say, dismissing him, more rudely than you'd like to be “don’t be late.”

he lingers for half a second longer. but you don’t look up. and eventually, the door closes behind him.

-

the corridors feel longer on the way out.

boots echo off metal floors. low base lights flicker past him in pulses of gold, red, blue emergency lights, even when there’s no emergency. it makes the walls feel colder than they are. his hands stay deep in his jacket pockets. shoulders hunched. eyes down. always moving forward because stopping makes the noise louder.

he shouldn’t have gone to your office. you were calm. too calm. not distant, not rude but you knew what you wanted..

he exhales, slow through his nose, as the security gate opens and the city lights spill in. the sky over skyhaven is deep blue, stars caught behind haze. his apartment isn’t far. it never is. but it always feels like a long way home.

he passes a storefront window and catches his reflection — uniform half-unzipped, eyes shadowed, jaw tight.

i look tired.

i always look tired..

but there’s no one to say it out loud. no one to hand him a plate or touch his back or tell him to rest. not since grandma started needing help getting down the stairs. not since he was seventeen and everyone decided he was the man now. the strong one. the dependable one. he’s good at it. at carrying. at being the solid wall for everyone else to lean on. but he doesn’t know how to be held. it was hurting him, and every single day he had to throw that feeling of pain away. he couldn’t afford to falter— not when there were two women who depended on him. that kept him going. 

and now there’s her again. familiar, yes. easy in the way old friendships are, with all the hard edges already worn down. she’s never asked him for more than what he gave. and part of him loves her. he hated to admit it, but he did love her. and this is what hurt him. caleb loved her more than life itself.

he knows that.

but it’s a careful kind of love — like putting your hands on glass, knowing it won’t cut you, but also knowing it’ll never bend with you either.

then there’s her. you.

the woman who took his breath away. at the gala. the engineer with the steady hands and ambitious fire and a heart that scares the hell out of him because it’s real. it sees him. pushes him. expects him to be more than a caretaker. to be whole. 

but… he doesn’t know if he can be that yet. he doesn’t know if he has it in him.

he swallows hard as he keys into his apartment. drops his jacket onto the couch. the light in the kitchen hums when he turns it on.

he doesn’t make dinner. he doesn’t turn on the tv. he just sits at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. and wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll ever know what it feels like to be chosen for who he is, not for what he holds together. if he’s being chosen for being caleb. not caleb the protector, caleb the best cook, caleb the best role model. 

-

the city hums outside your window. the lights of skyhaven pulse low against the glass, gold and distant. your tablet’s dim beside you, diagnostics forgotten. everything feels heavier at night.

you stare at your phone a moment longer before hitting call.

it rings once. twice. then his voice: “hey.” you breathe in before speaking. “hi. i… wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”

“me either,” he says quietly. not cold — just tired. worn at the edges, but his voice hinted of surprise. like he was relieved you called. 

you suck air in, as you don’t tiptoe around it.

“i wanted to apologize for earlier. for how i handled things in the office.” he doesn’t interrupt. “i’m still figuring this out,” you continue. “how to be in something real. how to let people close without expecting them to walk away. but i’m not stupid. and i’m not fragile…. i don’t want this — us — to fall apart over a moment.”

there’s a pause. his breathing is steady on the line.

“i know you’ve worked hard your whole life,” you say softly. “i know how much people expect from you. how you carry everyone like it’s second nature. i know how hard you’ve worked your whole life as the sole protector of your family.” you swallow, voice steadier now. “but you don’t have to do that with me. i don’t want anything from you but your peace. your rest. your quiet. your self. i want to be the one who takes the weight off your shoulders, caleb. if you let me.”

his silence isn’t rejection. it’s listening. full-bodied, heart-deep listening. he felt like he’d crack in any minute now. “you don’t have to worry anymore,” you add gently. “not with me. not ever.” another breath.

“i really like you,” you admit. “probably more than i should. and i want to see you — not the exhausted version you give to everyone else, but the best one. the version of you that gets to breathe. to laugh. to be caleb. i want to see you smile- like you deserve..”

you wait.

and finally, he speaks — voice rough, like it caught in his throat before it came out.

“you don’t know how much i needed to hear that.”

“then let me say it again tomorrow,” you whisper.

he exhales —  his tears made their way down his face quietly as he listened to you

“okay,” he says. “tomorrow.”

he hears the knock before he sees her. it’s sharp, followed by that little silence she always leaves like she expects the door to open itself.

caleb wipes his hands on a dish towel and opens it.

she stands in the hallway, hands in her pockets, shoulders squared like she’s trying not to look like she’s bracing for something.

“hey,” she says, neutral, “you came,” caleb answers, stepping aside to let her in.

she walks in and stops just past the threshold, scanning the place like it’s a museum exhibit. the skyline glows through the massive balcony window behind her. the whole place smells like clean linen and something faintly citrus. there’s a hint of… female perfume in the air. everything is warm, sharp-lined, and understated. elegant.

she whistles low. “wow.” he raises a brow, locking the door behind her. “what?”.. “this is…” she turns in a slow circle. “not what i was expecting. at all.”

“you don’t like it?” she shakes her head “oh, i like it just fine,” she says, tapping her nails lightly along the counter. “i’m just wondering when you got taste. and a fridge that probably costs more than your old ship. and… you also gave gran your check recently….”

caleb exhales through his nose, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “came with the apartment.”

she  freezes. then she turns to him, one brow arching. “bullshit.” — “what?”

she gestures around. “caleb, i’ve known you since you were stuffing power bars into your duffel because you didn’t want to buy overpriced food. don’t tell me this entire setup ‘came with the apartment.’ ” he leans against the counter, folding his arms. “why does it matter?”

“because this looks like someone lives here now. someone with money. and a life.” she tilts her head. “and last i checked, that wasn’t really your style.” he shrugs. doesn’t answer.

she walks slowly past the living room, fingers trailing over the back of the velvet couch — the one you picked out. her voice softens just slightly. “so who’s the decorator?”

caleb looks away. “was it her?” she asks. his silence is enough of an answer. she sighs, “she’s the reason you stop talking to me, too?” he runs a hand down his jaw, tired. “i didn’t mean for it to get this bad. i told you i was busy.”

“busy… with her?” she asks, looking back at him. he doesn’t answer and she doesn’t push.

the light over the kitchen island glows warm gold, casting long shadows across the navy cabinets and clean lines. she perches on the edge of one of the stools, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of water she poured herself without asking.

caleb stands a few feet away, leaning against the counter. his arms are crossed, body angled away.

she watches him, “you’ve been off,” she says finally. he exhales, slow. “i’ve had a lot going on.” — “no,” she says gently, “you’ve been different with me.” he doesn’t answer. she swirls the glass slowly in her hands. “i thought we didn’t do this. the whole… not-talking thing.”

“i’m not avoiding you.” — “you are, though.” her voice stays soft, but her eyes pin him in place. familiar. knowing. she’s done this before but with control masked as concern.

“you stopped answering right away,” she continues. “you never used to do that. and when you do text, it’s like… short. detached. like you’re measuring your words.” caleb sighs, shifting his weight. “i’ve been working nonstop. i’m training on a new system. i’m in and out of base 13 hours a day.”

“sure,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “but that never used to stop you.” he looks at her now “what do you want me to say?” this was starting to hurt him more than she could perceive. she smiles, faint. practiced. “i want you to tell me when everything changed.” he stays quiet.

she sets the glass down, stands, walks toward him slowly and careful. she reaches out and places a hand lightly on his chest, right over his collarbone. “you and me,” she says. “we’re not temporary. we’ve never been.”  his jaw tightens. her voice softens. “i know it feels easy to drift when things change. new people come in, they bring something exciting, but they don’t know you like i do.” he flinches — barely. but it’s enough. “they don’t remember what you were like when you broke your arm climbing out of that tree to save a cat i thought was cute,” she whispers, almost fond. “or how you couldn’t sleep without me next to your bed, how you couldn’t stand the thought of not sending me to class without snacks. ”

“people change.” he says, finally. “they do,” she agrees. “but the good ones don’t forget who they were before the world tried to split them into pieces.” this didn’t sit right with him.

she looks up at him, eyes soft. “i’m just trying to remind you.” he swallows and says nothing. because a part of him still doesn’t know where if she was right or not.

her hand is still resting on his chest, light like a memory she doesn’t want him to shake off. caleb lowers it gently. not harsh. just firm. “you think she’s genuine because she bought you all of this?”

“you can’t talk about her like that,” he says quietly. her smile falters. just slightly. “i didn’t say anything cruel.”— “you don’t have to,” he says. “it’s the way you talk about her. like she’s some… stranger passing through. like she doesn’t matter.”

“caleb—” 

“she does,” he cuts in. “she matters a lot.”

she steps back, folding her arms. the practiced softness starts to slip, something sharper forming at the edges. “you barely know her. you shouldn’t trust everybody so freely caleb..”

he shakes his head. “you don’t get to decide that.” she stares at him for a beat, then lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “wow.” he tilts his head. “what?”

“it’s just funny,” she says, voice light and brittle all at once. “how quickly someone can rewrite your orbit.” “it’s not about rewriting anything,” caleb says. “you and i have history. but she and i… we have something . we have something real, here and now. and i need you to learn to coexist with that.”

she blinks. her jaw works. offended. then she speaks again, slower. “you’re seriously asking me to share you?” — “i’m not a possession,” he says, visibly hurt. “i’m asking you to respect that more than one person can matter to me at the same time.”

“but there’s only one woman in your life who should get all of that attention,” she snaps — not loud, but sharp enough to cut. his brows furl into something more than hurt, “and it’s me. it’s always been me, caleb.” he breathes in deep through his nose, jaw tightening.

“that’s not your choice to make,” he says, voice steady. “not anymore.”

her shoulders rise like she’s bracing for something. but nothing comes next — not a slap, not a shout. just silence.

he steps back, running a hand through his hair. he looks at her, and it’s not cruel. it’s just tired. “i think you should go.”

she doesn’t move. after a minute she finally grabs her coat from the stool. shrugs it on. walks toward the door.

but before she opens it, she glances back. “she doesn’t know you like i do,” she says quietly. “you’ll see that eventually.”

he doesn’t respond. she leaves and this time, he doesn’t follow.

.

the door clicks shut behind her.

the sound lingers long after she’s gone. caleb stands in the middle of the room, coat still in his hand, chest tight with everything she didn’t say — and everything she did. he sinks down onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands laced behind his neck. the apartment feels too quiet now. too clean. too arranged. like someone else lives here and he’s just visiting.

he rubs his thumb along the edge of his palm as if it was a nervous tic.

“there’s only one woman in your life who should get all that attention — and it’s me.”

that isn’t fair. he hears it again. word for word.

it doesn’t feel like a threat. it feels like history. like something stitched into his skin that he never questioned. he feels like she was scared of him slipping away from her and the worst part? a piece of him still believes it.

she was his beginning. the soft familiarity of her hand on his shoulder in every childhood photo. the one who sat next to him on the roof of the house, whispering plans about running away. the girl he shared his dreams with. the girl who knew how he liked his food and when to pull him back when the anger got too close to the surface.

it wasn’t fireworks. it wasn’t chemistry. it was gravity. a love he’s been quietly feeding his whole life.

and yet. you.

you came into his life in a beautiful dress. you came in without needing him. you didn’t reach for his hand like you needed saving — you handed him a soft manicured hand and asked him to carry himself better. you didn’t baby him. you didn’t expect him to fix anything. you expected him to show up. with his smile that had you smitten. and when he did — when he was around you — he didn’t feel like a tired man holding the world together with duct tape and obligation.

he felt like a man. grown. happy. in love.

and maybe that’s what’s terrifying.

because with her, he was the boy who never stopped being needed. and with you, he was someone who got to rest. he closes his eyes. presses his palms into them until stars bloom in the dark. maybe it's his thoughts of not being needed. maybe you will envelope him and he'd become like... her.

he loves her. he really, truly does. but he doesn’t know if it’s the kind of love that moves forward — or the kind that keeps him standing still.

and you — god, you make him want to be someone different. someone better.

but what if he doesn’t know how to let go of who he was?

what if he can’t?

-

there’s a knock.

it’s not loud, not rushed. just steady. three soft taps, like he’s hoping you’re still awake but wouldn’t knock again if you weren’t.

you were plopped on your vanity when the knock came, and as you start you scream through the hallway, “I HAVE A DOORBELL YOU KNO-“

DING DONG

you flinch when the loud ass ring went through. it probably woke your neighbors up. that was not calibrated since it hasn’t been used in a minute.

you cursed yourself as you continue to the entrance with quickened pace.

you pull open the door, pajama shirt loose at the collar.

caleb stands in the hall.

hoodie pulled low. eyes glassy. jaw clenched. he doesn’t say anything right away — he just stares at you like he’s not sure if he made the right decision coming here, but also like he had nowhere else left to go.

“hey,” you say gently.

his mouth opens, closes. his throat works around the words before they come out. “can i…” his voice is rough, almost cracking. “can i talk to you?” you nod immediately. “of course.”

he steps in — slow, like his body is twenty pounds heavier than it should be. the moment you close the door behind him, he turns and he wraps his arms around you.

it’s not a quick hug. it was a plea. his hands grip the back of your shirt, his forehead presses to your shoulder. like holding you is the only thing keeping him standing.

you hold him back, quietly, palms gentle against his spine. he exhales against your neck. shaky. raw. “i feel like i’m slipping,” he whispers. “like every day it’s getting harder to pretend i’m okay.”

your chest tightens. he doesn’t lift his head. “everyone just… expects me to be fine. to carry it. be strong. be reliable. even when i want to scream. even when it hurts to get out of bed.”

you don’t say anything yet. you just stay there. holding him together for a moment while he falls apart in your arms. “i don’t know how to ask for help,” he adds, voice breaking in half. “i never did. but i think if i don’t say it out loud tonight i’ll drown.”

you shift slightly, brushing a hand through his hair. soft. steady. “then say it,” you whisper. “you don’t have to hold it alone anymore.”

he nods against you, slow and trembling and in that quiet, late-night space — he lets go. just a little, because you’re there. and for once, he’s not carrying it all by himself.

you lead him gently to the couch, your hand never leaving his. the lights are low, the only glow coming from the city outside your windows and the soft flicker of the screen you’d left on idle.

he sinks down like his bones are too heavy. and when you sit, he follows — resting his head in your lap without asking, like something inside him already knows he’s allowed to. your fingers find his hair, slow and careful, brushing through it like you’ve done it a thousand times.

he breathes out. “she came over,” he says quietly, like it’s a confession. you stay quiet. just keep your touch steady. “she looked around like she didn’t believe any of it. like i’d turned into someone else.” you hum softly, giving him space. “she kept asking what changed,” he murmurs. “like she couldn’t stand the idea that i didn’t revolve around her anymore.”

he laughs a little under his breath. it’s not a happy sound. “i didn’t even fight her. i just stood there and let her say it.” — “say what?” you ask, voice low. “that there’s only one woman who should get all my attention,” he says, eyes on the ceiling. “and it’s her.” your hand pauses for just a second — then keeps moving. through his hair. down the side of his head. over his temple — gently and slowly. your teeth grits as you allow him to continue. you’d have a word with her. 

“i didn’t know what to say,” he admits. “because part of me still… loves her. or thinks i do. because she’s been there since we were kids. she saw me when no one else did.”

you nod a slight pain rising through your chest. 

“but with her… i always had to be the strong one. the protector. the steady hand. and now that i’m different — now that i’m tired — she doesn’t know what to do with me.”

his eyes flutter closed, “but when i’m with you,” he says, softer now, “i don’t have to pretend i’m okay.”

your fingers slow for a moment, then curl lightly into his hair.

“you make me feel like it’s okay to just… exist.. be me— be caleb xia.”

you lean down just slightly, pressing your lips to his forehead. a kiss like a silent steady vow “you don’t have to explain yourself tonight,” you whisper.

he doesn’t speak again, but his breathing evens out in your lap, hand resting lightly against your thigh.

and for the first time in weeks, he sleeps peacefully.

his breathing has slowed, his shoulders finally relaxed, mouth parted slightly in the kind of sleep that only comes when the storm’s finally quiet for a little while. his head’s still resting in your lap, his arm draped along the cushion like he’d melted there. like this couch, your hands, your presence — were the only place he felt safe.

you don’t move— not yet.

your fingers linger in his hair, slow and absentminded. your heart’s steady, but your thoughts are anything but.

you feel for him, how could you not? he was a child forced to grow up fast. now he’s a man who is having a hard time catching up. you saw it in his eyes when he showed up at your door — the exhaustion he carries behind that charming smile, the pressure that’s been building inside him for years. and when he spoke about her it wasn’t anger or guilt he felt. it was dread. pain. the hint of possible betrayal. 

you felt for him, truly. but at the end of the day you’ve known yourself longer than you’ve known him. you felt weird about this.

because you’ve never been one to share. not when it comes to something real. you’re used to being the one people orbit around. the woman who never has to try too hard. men bend for you. they rewrite the rules. they chase. and when you’re done, they accept it, because you never promise what you won’t give.

but this? caleb? this is different. he was different.

you don’t want to chase him. don’t want to beg for space in a heart that might still belong to someone else. and for a second — just a second — you think about walking away. cutting it clean before it gets messier. before you start reaching for things you can’t have.

you’d still be kind. still be composed… but your heart doesn’t move.

it stays right here. with him.

you watch him sleep — lashes dark against his cheek, brows finally unknotted — and you feel that quiet, inconvenient truth settle into your bones:

you really, really like him.

not for how he looks in uniform. not for the way he says your name. but for the way he let you in tonight — when he had nothing left. and still came to you. and a piece of you might think that that felt the bare minimum, but a piece of you also felt that this has become deeply rooted into something else.

you reach over for the blanket draped over the side of the couch, unfold it carefully, and wrap it around him. tuck the corner near his shoulder. smooth it down like muscle memory.

you sit back, letting your fingers trail down the back of his head one last time. then you smile — small, fondly, full of something warm you don’t quite have a name for yet.

you’d be there for him. even if it scared you. especially if it scared you. because some things are worth staying for. even the hard ones.

you wake to the sound of the city blinking awake outside your window — traffic  humming down, distant voices below. the apartment is quiet, but the soft weight on your legs reminds you you’re not alone.

caleb’s still asleep, curled slightly into your side, the blanket tangled around his shoulders. your hand rests in his hair, and you realize you must’ve never moved after he drifted off.

you shift gently, trying not to wake him, but he stirs anyway.

he blinks up at you, eyes bleary, voice thick with sleep. “morning.” you smile enjoying the sight of him. “morning.” he sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes. then he looks at you really looks — and something in his face softens as if reality hit him in the head and he realizes that he just slept on you.

“hey,” he murmurs. “i’m sorry for showing up like that. for just… dropping it all on you.” you shake your head. “don’t apologize.”

“no, i mean it,” he says, brow furrowing. “you didn’t sign up to hold all that. i should’ve—” you cut him off gently, with a kiss on the forehead. he immediately stops talking as you pull away,. “caleb. you’re okay. you don’t have to carry that alone anymore.”

he watches you for a second, like he’s trying to memorize your face. then his lips twitch into something small. grateful.

“you mean that?”

you nod. “if you ever need me — really need me — come. even if it’s 2 a.m. even if you don’t have the words. just come home. ”

he exhales a slow breath, like your words physically untie something in his chest. then, without warning, he grabs your waist and pulls you forward. you yelp — softly, more startled than upset — as he lifts you into his lap, the blanket falling to the floor in a lazy heap. your hands press to his shoulders automatically, your face going warm.

“caleb—!”

he grins, eyes dark and fond. “what? too early for a kiss?”

“it’s not that,” you mutter, flustered. “you just— you grabbed me so suddenly—”

he leans in and kisses you — deep, slow, like he’s been waiting days to. his hands settle at your hips, and yours curl into his shirt despite yourself. when he pulls back, you’re flushed and quiet.

he laughs. not teasing, just genuinely delighted.

“you’re blushing,” he says, amazed. you shove lightly at his shoulder. “i’m not.”— “you are.”

“it’s not the kiss,” you grumble, flustered. “you just— threw me onto your lap.”

“oh, is that it?” he asks, clearly enjoying this. “yes!”

he laughs again, pulling you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re cute when you panic. who knew miss ‘i don’t get intimidated by anything’ melts from one kiss?”

“shut up,” you whisper, even as you smile into it. his voice drops, soft and sincere. “thank you. for last night. for this.” you kiss his cheek. “always.” and for once, there’s nothing left to explain. just warmth. just him. just you. and a quiet kind of morning that tastes like peace.

as you open your mouth to speak, your stomach rumbles. caleb stares at you, and you stare at him, blinks matching speed as a stupid smile creeps on his face. as it infects your face and you start to smile he nods toward the kitchen.

you: caleb and i wont be in today. let them know please. if they have any questions or issues have them call me directly secretary: will do ma’am

the kitchen smells like toasted bread and something vaguely sweet. sunlight spills through the window in long ribbons, casting warm light across the counter, the stovetop, the slight mess from cooking. his hoodie is slung lazily over the back of one of your chairs. he’s standing at the stove now, stirring something gently in a small pan, bare forearms visible under a rolled-up shirt. good lord almighty he was so fine. the slight flexed arm muscle. the side profile. the tall towering prince charming cooking you omelette or whatever. too busy drooling. 

you walk up behind him, slow, soft steps on the tile and without a word, you wrap your arms around his waist. your cheek finds the space between just below his shoulder blades as you lean into his back, your chest rising and falling with his breath.

he stills for half a second — just enough for you to feel it — then relaxes under your touch.

his hand moves off the spatula and rests lightly over yours. warm and steady. you close your eyes. the quiet is heavy, but not in a bad way.

“you’re not alone,” you whisper. “you never were. but you don’t have to pretend now, caleb. not with me.”

he doesn’t speak, but you feel his thumb rub lightly over your knuckles. “i’ll be here,” you say again, softer. “even when it gets heavy. even when it’s hard to ask.”

you press a small kiss to the space between his shoulder blades. “you don’t have to carry everything. not when i’ve got you.” his head drops slightly. like your words sink straight into his spine. you shift just a little closer your head resting on his bicep

“you’re so loved,” you murmur. “even when you don’t feel it. especially then.”

he turns his head — just enough to meet your eyes. and for a moment, he doesn’t have to say anything because you already know.

-

the two of you sit across from each other at the small table tucked near the window, plates half-full with the omelet and toasted bread and fruit you forgot you had. there’s the sound of a show, on low volume, serving as background noise. caleb picks up a strawberry with his fork and gestures across the table. “do you remember the night we messaged about that documentary of the first airplanes?”

you smirk. “you mean the one you said ‘aged like milk’?”

he laughs, nodding. “yeah. that one. but after that… you remember what you asked me?”

you tilt your head, thoughtful. “on whispr?” he nods and you glance down at your coffee, swirling it idly. “i think i asked if you believed in love.”

“you did.” you look up. “and you said yes.”

“i still do.” he says it so simply. like it’s not something that ever needed doubting.

you go quiet for a beat, then shift your plate aside a little, folding your hands around your mug.

“i don’t,” you say softly.

his eyes lift to meet yours not surprised, just listening as if egging you to continue.  you breathe in, steady. “i mean… i want to. part of me does. but love, for me, has always been tied to conditions. people want what i can offer. power, connections, money, the illusion of having it all.”

he doesn’t interrupt. “i’ve had partners look me in the face and pretend they wanted me, when really, they wanted my name on their grant. or the way my last name gets them past red tape. or the guest list i can get them on. cars. god— someone tried to get at me because they needed their rent paid.”

your voice doesn’t waver, but it’s clear this isn’t something you say out loud often. “i’m so used to being a prize — a power play,  i don’t even know what it feels like to be wanted for me. just… me.”

he sets his fork down slowly. leans forward a little, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you don’t scare me,” he says gently. “none of that does. not your name. not your power. not your money. i’m not here because i think you can give me something.”

you swallow, throat tightening suddenly so shy, “then why are you?” he smiles, slow and soft. “because you’re the only person i’ve ever met who didn’t ask me to be a hero,” he says. “you don’t need saving. you don’t want rescuing. and that terrifies me in the best way.”

you stare at him, heart aching a little in your chest. your fingers tighten around your mug.

“you’re the strongest person i know,” he continues. “but even strong people need someone who sees them. really sees them. not the version other people try to build around them.”

his voice lowers. “so let me see you.” you don’t say anything for a long time.

then, finally, you slide your hand across the table and let your fingers tangle with his.

and caleb — bright, battered, golden-hearted, golden retriever caleb squeezes back, like a promise. just two people, plates of cooling food between them, learning how to love each other without armor.

.

the plates are mostly empty now. the coffee’s cooled. but neither of you have moved. your hand’s still resting in his, fingers lightly intertwined, your thumb brushing along the side of his. there’s a quiet stretch thats just… full. full of thoughts that haven’t been spoken yet.

“can i ask you something?” you say, voice a little quieter now. he tilts his head. “yeah.” there was one more pause before you continue, “i know we talked about it before but what kind of partner do you want?” he pauses now. not because he doesn’t know, but because no one’s ever asked him that in a way that felt real.

“someone i can protect,” he says eventually. “someone i can build something with. not just… a relationship. i want a life.” you nod slowly, gaze soft. “a future.”

“exactly,” he says. “i want to wake up beside someone who’s still there years from now. who knows the worst of me and doesn’t flinch. who will love me as much as i love them.” you glance down, smiling a little. “that’s surprisingly poetic for a guy who steals all the coffee creamer.” 

he laughs, “you have the fanciest coffee creamer i’ve seen. i kinda have to.”  then looks at you. “what about you?”

you inhale through your nose, thinking. “i want someone who loves me. fully. unshakably. someone who’s obsessed with me, even when i don’t feel like i deserve it. not in a suffocating way — just… someone who never lets me forget that i’m enough.”

he watches you closely. “i think i’ve always been the strong one. the polished one. people fall in love with the version of me they can show off. not the one that cries at night when it gets too quiet. not the one who has a mental breakdown because her job is so impossible to do. the one who can create a plane from ground up but can’t decode a crossword puzzle.”

he chuckles at your last sentence, but then his brow furrows, eyes soft. “you’re allowed to be both,” he says. “strong and soft.” you shrugs a tilted smile on your face, “i’m trying to believe that,” you murmur. he squeezes your hand again. then — almost like he’s thinking out loud — he says, “i’ve never been with anyone.”

you blink.

“sexually, i mean,” he adds. “or romantically. not really.” you stare at him for a second. then your lips twitch. “you’re serious?” he shrugs, sheepish. “i’ve been a little busy, you know… school, taking care of my family, working odd jobs.”

you snort. “and i thought i was the last virgin standing.” he looks at you, eyebrows raised. “wait — you?” you nod, biting back a grin. “yeah.” a beat of silence — then both of you burst out laughing. 

“oh my god,” you say between breaths. “we’re such liars. acting like we’ve got it all figured out.”

“we’re frauds,” caleb says, grinning. you smile, leaning your cheek into your palm as you look at him. “i kind of like that it’s you,” you say softly. “that we’re figuring this out together.”

he reaches across the table, brushing your hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “me too,” he says. “i wouldn’t want it with anyone else.” liar. 

you don’t kiss, not yet. but the look you share across the table is deeper than any first kiss could be. 

you’re still smiling from the shared laugh, legs curled up beneath you, coffee cooling untouched between you both. there’s a pause —  before you glance at him, head tilted just slightly.

“you know,” you murmur, “you once said you didn’t have time for romance. that it didn’t fit into your life.”

he shifts, leaning back in the chair, eyes still on you. “i did.”

“so…” your voice is quiet, almost teasing. “what changed?” he watches you for a second — and then something flickers behind his gaze. something warmer. deeper. “you did.”

you blink. a little caught off guard. your lips then curl into a smile, as if you were trying to stifle a laughter, “going to be honest caleb.. that was corny..”  he just laughs, rolling his eyes as he shakes his head at you. your laugh escapes your lips as you both enjoy another round of laughter. then it dies.

“you’re…” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck with a lopsided smile. “you’re thrilling. you walk into a room and the air just shifts. but it’s not just that.”

his voice softens as he leans in a bit. “you make me feel comfortable in my own skin. like i don’t have to be performing strength every second just to be worth your time.”

you hold his gaze. “i don’t feel like i have to babysit you,” he adds, lips curving. “you’ve got your shit handled. you’re grounded. sharp. dangerous in the best way.”

you smirk. “so… competent?” he chuckles under his breath. “no. not just that.” his hand brushes yours on the table again. slower this time. “you’re a woman,” he says, voice low. “and i am so into that.”

your breath catches just slightly — it’s unexpected, it’s so clear he means every word.

“you walk like you don’t owe anyone your softness,” he says. “and you love like it still matters. you terrify me and calm me down at the same time. and it made me realize… romance isn’t the problem.”

his thumb strokes across your knuckles. “i just hadn’t met the right person yet.” your heart thuds once, low and warm in your chest. he grins again — that cocky, crooked one — but his eyes stay soft. “you made space for it in my life without even asking.”

you lean in a little, cheeks warm. “well,” you whisper, “glad i ruined your whole schedule.”

“best interruption of my life.”

the dishes are still in the sink. caleb’s now sitting cross-legged on your couch in a t-shirt and sweatpants you gave him, hair still a little mussed from sleep. your feet are in his lap. the curtains are drawn halfway open, city light pouring in like warm milk. everything feels slow, quiet, safe.

you glance over at him, head resting on the back of the couch.

“can i ask you something?”

he nods, lazy and comfortable. “yeah?”

“how important is sex to you?”

he blinks 

you watch his face carefully, not pressing. “it’s not that important to me,” you say softly. “not the act, i mean. it’s more about who i do it with. the feeling behind it. i don’t need it for connection. but if the connection’s already there…” you trail off, shrugging one shoulder. he’s quiet for a second. thoughtful.

“i don’t think i’ve ever really considered it,” he admits. “everyone around me always made it sound like a milestone. a checklist. but i never really…” he shrugs. “i guess i just wanted it to mean something..” 

you nod. “that makes sense.” there’s a pause. then, casually mutter just below a whisper: “you know we could fuck right now if you wanted.”

his head snaps toward you so fast you nearly choke on your own laugh, “w-what?” he sputters. you grin, tilting your head. “you heard me.” he blinks at you, eyes wide, ears instantly going pink. “i— you— are you serious?” you nod, “we’re alone,” you say, stretching your arms behind your head. “we both have the day off. you’re in my clothes. i’m feeling comfortable. you said you feel safe with me.” you raise a brow. “seems like the perfect setting.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. rubs his palm over the back of his neck and laughs under his breath. “is this a punishment...” you laugh, leaning in just enough to brush your foot along his thigh. “you’re blushing.” and caleb goes on the defense, “you said it like we were about to go do laundry.”

“just being practical.” he groans, hiding his face in his hands. “you’re going to kill me.”

you scoot closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “i’m just saying, if and when it happens… it’ll be because we want to. not because we feel like we’re supposed to.” he peeks out from between his fingers, lips twitching. “you’re dangerous.” you smile against his neck. “you like that.”

he doesn’t deny it.

and neither of you move — just staying there, wrapped in soft clothes and possibility. he’s still pink in the face, but that crooked smile is back now — the one he gets when he’s about to do something cocky, something dangerous and you’ve seen that smile before — during flight drills, when he pulls a move just to show off. but seeing it here, aimed at you, in your apartment where he just spent the night in your lap?

“you think you can fluster me,” he murmurs, voice low, leaning just a little closer, “but you forget—i learn fast.”

you narrow your eyes, grinning. “is that so?” – “mmhm.”

and then suddenly— his hands are on your thighs, and he lifts you with a smoothness that knocks the breath out of you it’s so unexpected. you gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as he rises to his feet in one fluid motion– your legs are around his waist before you can think.

“caleb,” you hiss, half-laughing, half-scandalized, “what are you—!” he raises a brow, smug. “what? we’re off today. we’re comfortable. i’m feeling very safe with you.” you stare at him, flustered in a way you haven’t felt in years — like someone just cracked your composure down the middle and peeked inside.

“this is wildly inappropriate,” you mumble, face hot. he shifts his grip slightly, hands snug at the curve of your thighs, holding you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “oh, i’m sorry—i thought we were being practical?” you glare at him, biting back a smile. “you’re mocking me.” – “you started it,” he says, laughing now, voice warm in your ear. “miss strong-independent-woman-who-doesn’t-get-flustered.”

“i’m not flustered.” he grins. “you’re flushed.” 

 “because you manhandled me.”

“you liked it.”

you smack his shoulder, and he stumbles backward playfully, still holding you like you weigh nothing. the two of you collapse back onto the couch, tangled in limbs and laughter, breathless in the best way. you land on top of him, hands braced on his chest, hair swaying forward. his eyes are right there — warm and focused, lips parted.

you’re both still smiling. still laughing. but the air’s shifted again.

you don’t kiss. not yet. but your forehead rests gently against his, and for a second, everything is quiet again. his voice, low: “i’m not rushing this. you know that, right?” you nod. “i know.”

he exhales, eyes flickering down to your lips. “but when you’re ready…” your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“it'll be worth the wait,” he finishes.

you smile softly, “ it already is.”

as you relish the moment, your phone vibrates and you roll your eyes, stepping off of him, and checking the notification. it was from stacia.

'double date on saturday night with my boyf and you and yours! dinner is on me, i got a raise! mwah'

"well... if you have plans on saturday night, considered it cancelled. we have a double date." you state to caleb as you read the message out loud.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @mcdepressed290, @young-adult-summer, @unstablemiss, @britishfailure, @caramelizedpopcirn, @velvtcherie, @lonelylandofan , @llamabois , @i-messed-up-big-time , @mysticcollectionvoid, @iamawkwardandshy, @auraficial, @mxkvlio, @mysticcollectionvoid, @rxelarailuj, @angelwhizpers, @p5ycholuv, @dysphxriaii, @loversobession, @lucifers-silhouette, @alayaaaahhhhhh, @dwuclvr, @unstablemiss, @miffysoo, @perqbeth,

[bookshelf-dust]

cat in the castle

frank castle x fem!reader

gif by @darlingshane

word count: 2,626

warnings: nothing i can think of, barely a mention of frank’s occupation, some smooching, literally just fluff

synopsis: the cat distribution system has chosen you…and your live-in boyfriend, frank. it’s safe to say he never thought of himself as a pet-having guy.

a/n: hello!! what with ddba and the fact that i’ve been rewatching the punisher, frank has taken up residence in my brain and made himself quite comfortable. i hope i’ve done him justice! writing a new character and then posting is always a little scary lol. enjoy, my loves!! <3

————

It’s not quite dark out yet, but Frank is silhouetted in the warm light from the front porch. The moths haven’t even begun to flutter out, circling until the yellow bulbs embrace them. The man slips his house key in the lock and turns; the motion is fluid despite only having lived here for a few months. 

Frank had told you he would handle getting you whatever kind of house you wanted, but you never cared about living in a castle. All you asked was that there be a spare room you could turn into a shared library for the both of you. Now, it has big, comfy chairs and a set of antique lamps that Frank hauled into the bed of his truck before you’d even admitted to wanting them. He built you a ladder for the top shelf of books after a conversation with your mother one evening and wouldn’t let you cry when he showed it to you. 

He’s got a fistful of grocery bags in his right hand. You’d been watching some show on the Food Network earlier in the day and gotten fixated on this pasta they were making. All they had to do was say “four-cheese blend,” and you were sold. 

A few moments spent rummaging in your little pantry revealed that you had noodles. Macaroni noodles precariously close to expiring. So, in that gruff tone that makes you weak in the knees, Frank asked—no, he set down a pad and pencil in front of you and waited—what you needed. He grabbed his keys, said he might stop and pick up some oil for your car too, and that was that. He was out for maybe an hour and a half. 

Stepping inside, Frank uses his elbow to knock the porch light switch down. You always cut it on, just in case. He toes off his boots and turns the deadbolt before surveying his surroundings, looking for you as he walks into the kitchen. You’re not on the couch, though there’s an ass-shaped indent in the blanket thrown across the cushions. 

“Hey, babydoll, where you at?” he asks, projecting his voice to the other rooms in the house. No answer. 

He listens a little harder as he quickly tosses the cold stuff in the fridge and leaves the rest on the counter. He doesn’t hear the shower. He knows you better than to feel unsettled, knows the atmosphere of his home well enough to know nothing terrible is afoot. He’s just afraid of what you might be up to. 

Frank makes his way to your bedroom. The light in the en-suite is on. 

“There you go, sweetie. Take it easy.” A vein in Frank’s throat jumps at your voice. His thumb and forefinger slide against each other.

“That feels nice? Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff, huh?” 

Frank pauses in the doorway. Who the hell are you talking to like that? He crosses the threshold to the bathroom in two strides, courtesy of his long, long legs. The sight before him is not at all what he expected. But what was he even expecting? 

The porcelain side of the tub has gone warm from where you’ve been sitting up against it for so long, keeping watch over the little thing tottering around your bathroom, over your lap and back again. The pressure in your bladder is reaching its peak—you’ve been holding in the urge to go for at least forty minutes. 

You were so focused on the task at hand that you didn’t hear Frank come in, but you aren’t surprised to see him staring down at you. Relief washes over you. 

“Oh, thank God, Frankie.” He watches as you push off the wall and stand, your gait a little wobbly, probably because your legs are asleep. “Hold ‘em for me, I’ve never had to pee so bad in my entire life.” You don’t give your boyfriend any time to process things. Suddenly there’s just a teeny ball of fluff in his huge hands.

As you sit down on the toilet, you briefly think about the fact that you never imagined you’d be at the level of comfortable with a man so as to pee while he’s in the same room as you, but here you are. You’re quick, only taking in the expression on Frank’s face once you’ve washed your hands. 

You can’t read him. This is, without a doubt, a look you’ve never seen on him before. You have no idea what it means. 

“Frankie, baby? Are you with me?” 

He meets your gaze. “What is this?” You blink up at him. “I-I mean, I know what it is, but what is this?”

You giggle and take the kitten out of Frank’s hands, setting it back down on the small pallet you’d made out of some older beach towels. Your heart flutters at the triangular tail and teeny little paws padding across the floor.

“Well, I heard this noise out back while you were gone, and I couldn’t figure out what it was so I went to look and—”

“You went investigating while I wasn’t here?”

“—anyway, I saw this little baby kitty pawing at the siding. You know that loose vent cover you keep meaning to fix? They were trying to pull themselves up and under there. I think they were looking for a safe hideout, Frankie, and I couldn’t just leave him out there, so I checked for Mama kitty and any other babies, but I didn’t see anything and this one’s so small…I think it’s the runt. Mama might’ve left ‘em behind. Or they could’ve been dumped, I’m really not sure.” 

You look up at Frank, track the crease between his brows, the slight downturn to his full lips. But his eyes tell a different story. They’re soft, lashes kissing at the corners. His eyes have never lied to you. 

“…Comments? Questions? Concerns?” you quip, keeping your eyes on his. If this were anyone else, Frank’s stance would be guarded. He’d become a human blockade, standing his ground, making sure you knew nothing was getting past him. That he made the rules. But you’re his girl. 

He slumps up against the bathroom vanity, looking over the kitten. It’s a pale orange color, striped and its paws tipped in white. Its front two legs are in the food bowl as he messily eats the teeny bit of sustenance you’ve provided. It almost looks like you’ve taken a pestle to last night's pot roast. Frank knows you grew up with pets. You’ve told him about every last one, dug up pictures, said you’d love to get a cat or a dog or even a damn fish with him one day. And even though he loves the way your eyes turn into cartoon hearts when you talk about pets, it’s just never happened. 

Finally, Frank speaks. “You know how to take care of this thing?”

You beam at him. “Yeah! I mean, it’s too late now except for an emergency place, but I’m hoping to find a vet tomorrow because you never know what the baby might have or need, y’know? And we’ll need a litter box and a scratching pad and some toys. And I have no clue how old they are, I just hoped this food was okay. They might need a milk replacement.” You lean down and scoop up the kitten, causing him to look around madly for a few seconds. Frank catches the moment you realize you’ve probably gotten ahead of yourself. He senses the change in your breathing. 

“But that can all be temporary, too. Some vets will put animals up for adoption, and I can call around at work or ask my mom if she knows anyone who might want a—”

Frank takes the cat from you, successfully leaving you speechless. He lowers his head until he finds your eyes, wordlessly making you look at him when you talk. “Hey, no. Nah, don’t do that.” He lifts the kitten up so he’s level with it. “I know you wanna keep this thing, so just say that, sweetheart.”

“I wanna keep it so bad, Frank. Honestly, I was tempted to just keep him in the closet and take care of him in secret. I had a book like that when I was a kid, and it worked pretty well for them, so. But I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“Hush. If you’re happy, I’m happy—you know damn well that’s the case.”

You push up on your tiptoes, your arms going around Frank’s neck. “You’re sure? We get to have a cat?”

He rolls his eyes, wrapping his free arm around your back and slowly rubbing up and down your spine. He hums his response. When you go to pull away, he holds onto you tighter.

“Hey, hey, not gonna gimme a kiss? Didn’t when I came home, like usual.” He scrunches his brows together. The pout. 

You place your hands on his cheeks, feeling the start of stubble, and kiss him firmly on the lips. He tastes like those cinnamon mints he keeps in the truck. You kiss him three more times in quick succession, pulling out a smile. It’s the one he reserves just for you. His gaze darts away from you and his hands pull at your shirt. You’ve made him shy. 

The kitten mews between the two of you. “Oh, come here, little baby,” you say, taking the cat and holding it to your chest. “Too much PDA, huh? We’ll do better, I promise.”

Frank finds it hard to comprehend the flea-like size of the thing. They have a silent staring contest. “Is he gonna shit all over the bathroom tonight?”

You laugh. “I’ll go get some newspaper.”

————

It’s always the big, scary looking men that end up having teeny pets that they’re total suckers for. Frank is no exception. And right now, you’re pretty damn jealous of your cat. Mercutio (he let you have control over naming the little guy) is draped over Frank’s bare chest where he sits in your oversized, well-loved chair. He’s been there for hours. Frank hadn’t intended to sit there either, only pausing for a moment's time to cut the tv on, that is until Mercutio curled up on top of your boyfriend, exactly where you wanted to be. 

When Frank’s home, you try to spend as much time glued to his side as possible, which is why you’d asked to watch a movie with him, thinking you’d get to cuddle for the whole duration. You sit on the couch, legs stretched out in front of you, arms crossed over your chest. You’re watching the movie, sure, but you’re undoubtedly pouting. That cat was supposed to be yours—for one. For another, what ever happened to sharing?

You wiggle your toes in between the couch cushions like you would do to Frank’s thighs if he were sitting next to you, like he’s meant to be. Every few minutes you glance in his direction, hoping Mercutio will get up to go use the litter box or get something to eat, or even that Frank will be so desperate to be near you that he’ll move the cat himself if it means he can touch you. 

You tuck yourself more firmly into your little mountain of blankets and try to focus your attention on the film. A glare out of the corner of your eye distracts you almost immediately. Mercutio has swiveled his head in your direction, the light from the television reflecting on his eyes in the dim living room. He’s looking at you.

And he looks proud. Like he’s caught the damn canary. Traitor, you think. That’s my man, you little shit. You roll your eyes, turn back to the tv. 

Frank hears the sound your skin makes against the leather as you shuffle down the length of the couch. He glances over at you, your chin tucked into your chest, your brows practically hugging with the frown on your lips. He drags a hand down Mercutio’s back and the cat chirps, stretching his legs and hopping down. Frank sits up and stretches in a similar way. “What’s with the pout, sweetheart?”

You keep your eyes glued to the tv, despite your gaze being unfocused so that you’re not watching anything at all, just staring at a moving blur of color. “‘M not pouting.”

Frank knows exactly what your problem is. He has since he sat down and Mercutio hopped into his lap. He just wants to tease you until the words leave your mouth. My jealous girl. 

He stands, socked feet padding across the hardwoods toward you. Frank lifts your extended legs and slides onto the couch beneath them. He sets them on top of his own before dragging his fingers up and down your calves, occasionally massaging your skin with impossibly slow, firm strokes. You try to ignore the tingle that climbs up your spine. He’s giving you the attention you’ve wanted all evening, but you’re too far into your mood to let up that easily. 

You fight the urge to shut your eyes, to climb into Frank’s lap and curl into his chest, into that spot you swear was made for your body to slot against his like pieces of a puzzle. He resorts to grabbing for your hand. His thumbs pressing into the meat of your palms, sweeping out rivers of the tension you hadn’t even realized were there has always been it for you. The moment you’ll cave. You want so badly to keep up the stubborn act, but your body is already softening. Your heart flutters for him.

“You were supposed to be sitting with me…” you mumble, your voice a timid thing. Frank turns his head to look at you. His left arm extends, the backs of his fingers grazing your cheek and giving the gentlest of pushes, making you look back at him. 

He raises his brows. “You poutin’ ‘cause the cat was taking up your spot, sweetheart?”

You nod, trying to sink further into the couch cushions. “He knew what he was doing. He fuckin’ gave me the hairy eyeball.”

Frank’s head falls against the back of the couch, the thick cords of his neck bared to you and only you. He’s stubbly. Without meaning to you’ve taken one of his big hands in both of yours, holding it to your belly. “You’re something else, y’know that?” he says. 

You stick your bottom lip out. Frank stretches his body over yours, kissing the pout away. He kisses you with purpose, telling the jealousy to quit while it’s ahead. Butterflies wiggle in your stomach at the way his brows knit together while he kisses you; he’s so intent on making it better. He kisses you twice more. 

“Not my fault that the cat I found and cared for is trying to steal my man. He’s so unappreciative.”

Frank laughs, breathy and sweet. “There’s plenty of me to go around, babydoll.”

You scrunch your nose. “Ew, Castle.” Frank keeps laughing, laughing until he’s settled fully on top of you, his arms circling your back and his cheek flat against your chest.

Mercutio appears a while later, licking his lips. He’s clearly been helping himself to that late night snack. He appraises the situation on the couch and raises himself up on white-dipped paws, peering over the edge of the cushions. Frank’s half asleep on you, but there’s no missing the feeling of Mercutio’s feet on his bare back as the cat settles himself there, leveling his gaze with yours. The cat blinks slowly at you and begins to purr. 

“Jesus,” Frank mumbles. But he hears you giggle. You’ve got both your boys right where you want them. 

————

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

rb banner by @steph-speaks

[midseo]

Floating Suction Assemblies Manufacturer, Supplier, India

Floating Suction Assemblies, Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter, Pune, Maharashtra, India, Saudi Arabia.

Floating Suction Assemblies, Loading Arm, Loading Arms, Unloading Arm, Unloading Arms, Loading Arms System, Loading Arms Systems, Unloading Arms System, Unloading Arms Systems, Swivel Joint, Swivel Joints, Floating Suction Assemblies, Floating Suction Assembly, Prover Tank, Prover Tanks, Storage Tank, Storage Tanks, Storage Tank, Storage Tanks, Rotary Joint, Rotary Joints, Mechanical Seal Support System, Mechanical Seal Support Systems, Thermosyphon, Thermosyphons, Heat Exchanger, Heat Exchangers, Test Aider, Test Aiders, Fluid Handling System, Fluid Handling Systems, Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter, Pune, Maharashtra, India, Saudi Arabia.

[maryymaruu]

I present to you, the Iterator oc number two, the child that refused to be named, now having many, hah! _(:3 」∠)_

While I adore the true name I finally scrambled for him, and couldn't resist disclosing it, for lore reasons it'd be best to address him with his title;

Sentinel Of The Unforgiven, [SOTU] or just The Sentinel.

This one's novel is even longer, so for those who don't have the patience, the trivia board on the ref is a pretty good TLDR! ^^);

This guy needs to have quite a few more clarifications made first, as I'm stepping quite further away from the canon here, and even more into fanfiction/AU territory.

Some background;

[We're talking about one and the same group Three Signals (TS) is included in. They are neighbours of Sliver Of Straw, far away from in-game locations.]

- This group exists in a very mountainous area, and from the very beginning, the Benefactors decided it's more efficient to use their already existing underground tunnels (from drilling for Void Fluid) as a transportation modus; turned into an underground train system for Iterator construction process. That system runs quite far into the group, connecting Iterators like roots, with SOTU at the near center (first one built in the area).

- Due to some harsh weather conditions and poor decisions the city was equipped with "wind-breaking" walls, giving a quite claustrophobic effect. Citizens began feeling discomfort there even before resource problems.

- Once the resource demand problem became eminent, the citizens expressed lack of care or attachment to the city and/or the Iterator. It was agreed upon to simply use the underground trains to relocate to now already standing, various newer cities.

- The justice system is... blurry at best. This post is getting too long already so I'll fully explain it another time; for now it's only important to know SOTU is not the one judging the criminals, he merely holds them up to the verdict.

- The notion of "a stay in SOTU's city feels like a punishment in itself" became wide spread amongst the Benefactors. In face of necessity it evolved into an effort to make it a reality; SOTU was repurposed into a prison facility. Instead of upgrading him to be able to be more habitable, they completed the claustrophobic city with taller sealed walls and gates, and a new set of laws/taboos for the Iterator to obey. Making for a secure, depressing, fully automated trap box.

Now more about the Sentinel himself...

SOTU has always been a rather reserved personality that struggled to express emotion or weakness. There was a specific idea he had to live up to, (be it conditioned into him or self-imposed) of someone competent, serious and strong. Giving off a strict, cold and unapproachable first impression. The Group Senior that believes he has to carry the woes of the world on his shoulders alone and never break, in order to be a good example.

However, despite poorly expressing it, SOTU does deeply care about his people and about his peers. And always tried his best to be someone they can relay on, without directly admitting it though. Like a grumpy old man, would chew one out for making a mistake first, and then help them out of trouble, without sparing any effort.

Would never admit it, but feels quite hurt by how easily his citizens decided to abandon him, and resents them for what he's been turned into. He really tried to take care of everyone. He doesn't enjoy what his city has become, he doesn't enjoy being feared. Secretly wished it was a lot more like something that of TS's city... full of life, bonded and happy, but is unable to let go of the false idea what a Senior should be like, denying himself vulnerability to even express that.

The reformatting into a prison only worsened this problem. The new, additional programming discouraged acts of compassion or affection. (So that he doesn't pity the prisoners)

Despite best efforts, his group did not integrate very well. His ways of handling things left much to be desired, some labeling him a tyrant no one can ever reason with. Some just simply disliked him too much to ever relay on his advice. Communicating within the group was difficult, hence why eventually many stopped bothering and kept to themselves, or to smaller private cliques.

The repressed emotional impulses did catch up to him eventually, allowing for small acts of disobedience against the law.

Didn't stop SOTU from feeling it though. And feeling he sure did....

Those efforts were too little too late, inadequate to prevent the conflicts escalating into hostility. Once an arrest warrant was cast from the Benefactors above, there was nothing he could do. And once the poorly integrated group got a taste of connection against a "common enemy" it was over.

Delays, stalling, omitted reports, "errors", "lost" data, "unreceived" broadcasts... All in efforts to keep the prisoner numbers low, and make the stay of those present shorter and more bearable. Ignoring all reports about what was going on in TS's city in particular- hoping to at least protect something SOTU could never be.

(More to come)

TS got hurt, and the lively community on top was broken up. It is unclear who is responsible for the malware attack idea, nor who exactly deployed it, but SOTU feels fully responsible regardless. He wallows in ever growing guilt and regret since.

[literallymechanical]

Breeding blankets for fusion reactors

So, barring a few ambitious projects involving helium-3, fusion reactor power plants will use hydrogen isotopes as fuel: a 50/50 mixture of deuterium (hydrogen-2) and tritium (hydrogen-3). Deuterium is very stable and relatively abundant, as far as these things go, and can be extracted from ordinary seawater.  Tritium, however, has a half life of just over 12 years, so it doesn't occur in nature.

Fortunately, you can use your fusion reactor to synthesize its own tritium fuel, via the transmutation of lithium-6. You use the powerful neutron flux from the fusion plasma to “breed” tritium in lithium, extract it, then feed it back into the reactor. The figure of merit for this process is the tritium breeding ratio (TBR), which is simply the ratio of tritium bred to tritium used. The goal is to get a TBR substantially greater than 1.

This figure shows the physics of tritium breeding, where neutrons from the deuterium-tritium fusion plasma are absorbed by lithium, which then splits into helium and tritium. [source]

Generally speaking, most concepts for tritium breeding involve wrapping a lithium “breeding blanket” around the outside of the reactor, with as few gaps as you can manage. A deuterium-tritium reactor is constantly generating fast neutrons. You want to keep as much of that emission as possible inside the breeding blanket, for both tritium and power generation.

There are a few different ideas for breeding blanket designs, several of which are going to be tested on ITER, the massive reactor being built in France. One concept is a thick sheath of lithium ceramic that surrounds the vessel, either as solid slabs or pebbles.  As tritium breeding occurs under the blanket, water or liquid helium is circulated through it, cooling the lithium and potentially extracting heat for electricity generation.

While such a blanket might be relatively “simple” (lol) to build, there are some pretty fundamental challenges. Neutrons will penetrate most materials with ease, and it might be tricky to extract tritium that's been bred deep inside of solid lithium.  Ideally, you could do the extraction without pause, even as breeding is ongoing. For some designs, though, you have to cycle out breeder units for harvesting as they get a full load of tritium.

Another concept is “liquid breeding." This concept uses a molten mixture of metallic lithium and lead, or a lithium salt compound like FLiBe (fluorine-lithium-beryllium). The liquid would be pumped through a “breeding zone” around the vessel, where the neutron flux is thickest. The tritium will then be continuously extracted from the breeding fluid as it flows back out.  As part of the process, you can run the hot liquid through a heat exchanger, heating water to power a steam turbine. 

Liquid breeding does raise some prominent engineering challenges. Hot, molten breeding fluid will be very hard to handle – not just because of the heat, but also because you're trying to pump a massive quantity of viscous fluid into a very tight breeding zone. Moreover, molten lithium-lead might react explosively with air. If your breeding system springs a leak, you’ll have a serious mess on your hands!

It’s still unclear which of these breeding strategies will bear fruit. From conception to implementation, there are still a lot of unknowns!  Both liquid and solid breeding will be conducted in France, and a number of private fusion companies have plans to breed tritium in their machines as well.

[lets-try-some-writing]

the duality of an autobit having their kid fall asleep inside them

aww they trust me to keep them safe while i drive

and

...they are drooling in me oh no ew ew ew ew ew ew

honourable mention: arcee, who instead of getting either of those was met with the reality of balancing jack on top of her while he was out and not crashing or dropping him, which would kill him

Y e s

On one hand, the bots are honored to have their little ones trust them so much. On the other hand...

Gross.

I imagine they even have a few little rules just to keep things decent. For Arcee, the rule is that Jack is NOT getting on her while his hands are all greasy. Sweat is acceptable because it washes off easy, but if he gets off work with oil or other things on him, that's a no go. Get a rad and clean up, then we roll.

Ratchet has had so much crap to carry around over his life that one of the kids drooling or passing gas won't bother him too much, aside from maybe an internal grimace. But what will get him is food crumbs. Bodily functions are acceptable. They aren't really able to be helped. But NO ONE is allowed to eat while riding with him because getting crumbs into his internals is the same as getting sand stuck in a swimsuit and he won't have it. He got a french fry stuck somewhere and he could feel that sucker going stale in there until he got Raf to grab it.

Optimus is generally chill as can be when it comes to carrying around people in his alt-mode. He's too old and too nice to care more often than not. The only thing he will not tolerate is foul language. You ride with Prime, you use every word in the book except an actual curse. For him its just a matter of peace. Driving around is calming for him, and he would rather not have it ruined by curses, thank you.

Bulkhead has a personal vendetta against snoring, but that's only because he hung around with enough wreckers for the sound to quite literally make him unable to recharge. It's a trauma response. If a kid passes out in the back and starts snoring, he's turning up the radio to cover it or wake them up. Either works for him.

Bumblebee is the one bot who has issues with muddy shoes. He's a scout, he's used to grime. But for goodness sake, if one more kid jumps into his alt-mode with mud covered shoes, he's going to lose it. He can handle a little dirt, just not the globes that come from shoes. So unless the situation is serious, he requires his passengers to rub their shoes on the grass or something.

Smokescreen doesn't like small humans in him, period. He can handle Jack because Jack has already been trained to not bring weird fluids into a bot's alt-mode by Arcee. but the others? Nope, he's not doing that unless he has to. He does NOT want drool in him.

Ultra Magnus refuses to let humans ride unless specifically asked. It's nothing personal really. But if he had to pick someone to ride with him, it would be Fowler. At least he knows to not screw up anything.

Wheeljack has no problems with anything brought in. He just doesn't want fingers being jammed into his AC system or anything, thank you.

[robolvrr]

friend you can keep ꩜ .ᐟ

jazz x prowl x gn! human reader warnings: nsfw. buzzed sex.

"this what you wanted, wasn't it? attention? couldn't shut up and let us focus, could you?"

"relax, prowler - they're drooling. awww, wait a min', that's cute!"

is this a wet dream? it feels like a wet dream. there wasn't an oracle in the universe that could have predicted such an event - and it was fitting to classify as such, grandeur and overwhelming on so many levels you swear your eyes see nothing but fuzzy interference.

"p-p-prrowwwl, puh.. slow down!"

"slow dowwwn? slow down?" he's grinning, awful asshole. he rarely does, fanged smirk infuriating and itching to be clawed away.

still, your protests are corroded, lacking bite or want. that much is obvious otherwise you wouldn't be clutching so greedily round the law enforcer's waist, babbling praises and curses that make prowl want to take you by the throat.

whereas he takes and takes, jazz on the other hand, gives.

his smile is saccharine, pleased. you can still make out his expression, mesh lips cloying while they travel in the crook of your neck in determined, practiced trails. he is the sweet to prowl's sour, soothing lovebites where his partner's teeth once dug. he knows what places make you melt.

"y'know, you about the smoothest thing i've ever heard. ain't that something?" his door wings give a proud twitch when prowl tsks, careful to squeeze your cheeks. it may have taken some coaxing and prayer but he's relieved to feel you relax when his spike bumps against your leaking hole.

"cut it out, jazz. they were a brat. they don't deserve praise right now."

something akin to a wheeze bubbles from your lips. you call him dozens of insults he doesn't bother researching. they clearly can handle their drinks better than you could.

"prowl, they're about to take both of us, like a good little sparkslut. aren't ya, babe?" his digits interlock with the paler mech's, helm canted and before long, his simmering gaze is enough to ease some of the other's disgruntlement. unlike him however, he knows you're still fragile, slowly easing the tip of his spike and hissing quiet when it bumps against the ridges of prowl's.

prowl couldn't be torn from this even if the whole building set aflame.

"say it. say you'll be good and i bet ya he'll be nicer."

"i-iiiii... i'm good! i'm good, 'mgoodsogood, so good, jazz it's. not gonna fit, not gonna, how-"

more kisses. you, prowl, jazz, you again. you're in heaven and hell.

"slow. 'll take it slow with you. wanna feel that stretch."

naturally, jazz knows you'll secrete lubricant of your own, though the challenge of the pair inside was asking a lot. he also knew you were an over-achiever and had been eyeing them the entire assignment, with the lingering boldness of your own kind's vice still a whisper in your system.

"... thereee we go!"

pain is devoured by euphoria, grinding hauling to a pause as prowl remembers not to shatter your resolve entirely. you cum, hard, because your associates are huge.

jazz checks out how you creamed, far from bored from the lack of light pink that smears his spike. he flicks a glance to prowl, who looks a mixture of angry and very turned on. he can bet his battle computer is on the fritz which explains why he's practically steaming at the jaw.

"ain't this nice?"

"can it jazz, please. just.. j-just for now. frag."

there's an inside joke which you're left out of for now. you'll ask about it when their fluids aren't soaking your uniform.

"... another round, newbie?"

they swear you squeeze them a little harder.

robolvrr 2025.

a/n: so. eat up. i know there is barely ANY content of both of them and i don't know why because they would handle you SO WELL. i am unleashing my demons for now while the weekend lasts.

[scientia-rex]

Why does your body have different systems for liquid and solid waste?

Trick question. It doesn’t. Urine isn’t filtered off feces—it’s filtered from your bloodstream. Your kidneys rely on seeing a lot of blood flow, and they have intricate mechanisms for tightly regulating the chemistry of your blood. Kidneys are built to keep our blood within the very narrow range of acidity where we can stay alive. (Which is why “alkalinizing” diets are generally going to be bullshit.) They keep us from having so much salt that our brains stop working, or so little that our medullas explode. They regulate our potassium so that our heart doesn’t go into a fatal arrhythmia due to membrane instability. Kidneys do break down many chemicals, including NSAIDs (aspirin, ibuprofen, naproxen), but they have one fundamental job—keep our blood from making our bodies an unlivable environment. And they do that by using water from our blood to carry away whatever we don’t want at a given moment.

Bowels, meanwhile, handle food. After food gets churned to chyme in the stomach, it gets squeezed into the small intestine. The small intestine is very long but smaller in diameter than the large intestine. It has one job: retrieve nutrients. The digested-digesting-food slurry makes it way through the small intestine thanks to rhythmic, longitudinal muscle contractions called peristalsis. After about 30 feet of this, it reaches a hard turn into the large intestine in your lower right abdominal quadrant, where the appendix hangs off the main channel. The large intestine goes up to the diaphragm, turns about 90 degrees, runs across your belly at the top just under your ribs, and at your left side makes another hard turn down, hanging a right at the spleen to dive down the left front side of your belly and then back and down to your rectum and then your anus. The large intestine, also known as the colon, has one job: get water back out of the food slurry, now that the water has helped the body absorb nutrients by creating a lot of surface area for contact with membranes lining the small intestine. So the longer stool spends in your colon, the more water gets sucked out of it, the harder and drier your stool gets, and the more difficult it is for the combination of peristalsis and your conscious effort to get it to move down and out of your body.

Anyway, eat lots of fiber. Drinking water won’t make you poop; your kidneys are way too good at regulating your fluid balance. Only fiber and indigestible sugars can save you now.

[airybcby]

Hiii! Can I get a Matcha with vanilla syrup and whipped cream, iced, with Osamu Miya? TYYY if you do it🫶🏼

Side note: this is my first ever requesting anything at all lol ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

order up!

iced matcha add vanilla syrup and whipped cream!

( i'm so glad to be your first ever ask!! )

જ⁀✦ so kiss me

( osamu miya x reader )

♡ a/n — for my for here or to go event! ( now closed! ) ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.5k

♡ content — osamu miya x reader, soulmate au, taste what your partner eats? type thing?, fluff, osamu hates you for like .2 seconds, domesticity, not proofread

♡ synopsis — Osamu Miya swore to himself that he would never meet his soulmate. How was he supposed to love a person who mixed orange soda with their chocolate??

─��� .✦ kiss me beneath the milky twilight

All throughout high school, Osamu Miya ate to get the taste of his soulmate out of his mouth.

Not because he hated it — not really.

But because they had horrible taste.

Artificial flavors. Syrupy textures. Sweet-on-sweet-on-sweet. 

Whoever they were, they clearly had no respect for their own digestive system — and Osamu, whose tastes were simple and clean, found himself suffering through phantom tastes of bubblegum lollipops and sour mango gummies in the middle of biology class.

The worst part?

The orange soda.

Every week, like clockwork — bright, fizzy, and absolutely foul. It always lingered.

“Maybe yer soulmate’s a kid,” Atsumu joked once, watching his twin slam down a bowl of miso soup like it could wash the sugar out.

“Maybe I’m the one who died and this is hell.”

But despite the teasing, despite his constant grumbling, Osamu never once said he didn’t want to meet them.

He just didn’t need to.

Not while he was building something with his own hands. 

Not while the dream of owning a restaurant was still in his mind. 

Not while he could taste everything they felt.

That was enough.

For a while.

By the time you walk into Onigiri Miya, the weather’s still clinging to winter. 

Cold air bites at your ears, and your gloved hands fumble with the handle of the shop door until it swings open with a soft jingle.

The smell hits you first.

Warm rice. Salted nori. Something sharp and sweet and savory, all at once.

It’s a small place — wooden counters, soft lighting, cozy tables pressed up against the windows. It’s clean, minimalist, and it feels like a hug the second you step inside.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, eyes focused on the grill — him.

Osamu Miya.

You know who he is, vaguely. Not from his time playing volleyball with his brother. But from food blogs, and the internet, and whispers about that guy who turned down pro volleyball to open a rice ball shop.

You slide onto a stool and glance at the small, handwritten menu. It’s simple. Just like the space.

Just like him.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Welcome in. What can I get ya?”

His voice is deep, low, warm.

You blink down at the menu and order the first thing that catches your eye — a grilled salmon onigiri. Your voice is quiet, your fingers tap the wood of the counter, and Osamu just nods.

“Comin’ right up.”

You watch him work — fluid, precise, practiced. His hands move like he’s done this a thousand times. 

You notice the cut of his jaw, the way the light touches his temple. The quiet furrow of his brow.

When he places the plate in front of you, you smile, soft. “Thanks.”

And then you take the bite.

You don’t know it yet, but that’s the moment it all changes.

For Osamu, it’s instant.

A wave of warmth, so deep and sudden he nearly drops the pair of tongs in his hand.

It’s not just that you liked it — it’s that your whole body lit up from it.

It’s euphoria. 

A flavor he’s felt his whole life, whenever you had something sweet or stupid or sour — but now it’s coming from him. 

A full-circle pull that settles deep in his ribs, warm and sure.

He looks up, finally, eyes meeting yours.

You’re smiling.

Not politely. Not with awkwardness.

You’re smiling like the food just told you a secret.

And Osamu Miya knows.

It’s you.

You don’t know why you keep coming back.

It’s not just the food, even though it’s easily the best you’ve ever had. 

It’s not the price, or the quiet, or even the cozy atmosphere.

It’s him.

There’s something about the way Osamu watches when you eat — like he’s reading you through the curl of your lips and the shift in your posture. 

He’s quiet, always. But his eyes are warm. 

He always says your name when you walk in. Always sets your tea just the way you like it. 

He always remembers the candy you keep in your coat pocket and jokes about how your stomach must be made of steel.

Sometimes he smiles at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

And sometimes… when your eyes meet, you feel like you’ve known him forever.

The realization doesn’t hit you all at once.

It builds.

You eat something strange and Osamu winces. You bite into a chocolate bar and he makes a face. You leave a half-empty bottle of orange soda on the counter and he laughs, low and quiet.

“I used to puke from this taste,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “Nothin’.”

But your heart races.

Because lately, you’ve been craving rice.

Not just any rice — his rice. The way he seasons it. The way it feels warm in your hands and soft against your teeth.

Sometimes you wake up with the taste of miso lingering on your tongue. Sometimes you taste grilled cod when you haven’t eaten a thing.

And when he touches your wrist to pass you a plate, something electric sparks beneath your skin.

You know.

You know, and it’s terrifying. 

Because this man — with his quiet smile and warm hands and steady presence — has been yours all along.

One evening, long after the dinner rush, you help him clean.

You don’t even ask. You’re just there, humming to yourself, wiping down counters. 

You say something small and dumb about how you had a dream he fed you miso soup, and he just pauses.

Looks at you.

“You always ate like a child,” he says softly.

You laugh. “I just like sweets-”

He nods. “Y’know… I used to hate orange soda.”

You pause.

And when your eyes meet his, everything clicks.

You see the knowing in his gaze. The warmth that’s always been there. You see the slow realization mirroring your own. The longing neither of you ever named.

And then—

“Well, do you like it now?” you whisper.

He smiles. Steps closer. “Hell no.”

When he kisses you, it’s soft. Familiar. Like something you’ve done in another life. 

Like something you’ve always known.

Later, he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Finally get to feed you real food.”

You smile, bright and full.

“I’ll never eat another sour gummy again.”

He hums. “Liar.”

You grin. “Maybe just one.”

And he doesn’t mind — not anymore. 

Not when every taste leads him home.

Osamu Miya wakes up with the taste of artificial strawberry on his tongue.

And not the good kind. The candy aisle, 4-for-a-dollar, chews like rubber kind.

He blinks at the ceiling, groaning low in his chest like he’s being punished for loving someone with no culinary morals. 

There’s a distant rustling sound, followed by the crinkle of plastic and the unmistakable pop of a soda can.

He turns his head. There you are.

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wearing his shirt and your sheepish grin, a half-eaten strawberry marshmallow in one hand and a fizzy neon-pink drink in the other.

He narrows his eyes. “Yer killin’ me.”

You gasp, fake and dramatic. “It’s breakfast!”

“It’s a crime.”

Still, he doesn’t look away. He never does. 

You’ve got crumbs on your cheek, hair sticking up on one side, and you’re smiling like you didn’t just hijack his entire mouth with the taste of childhood mistakes.

He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “How do ya even eat that crap first thing in the mornin’?”

“I don’t always,” you argue, poking a marshmallow at his shoulder. “Just sometimes. On special occasions.”

He glares at you, but it’s useless. 

You’ve had him wrapped around your finger since the moment you bit into that rice ball and smiled like you’d just seen god.

You take another sip of soda and hum in satisfaction. “You taste it?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Tastes like disrespect.”

You lean over, nuzzling against his shoulder with a pleased little hum. “Mm. Romantic.”

He sighs, long and suffering — but wraps an arm around you anyway, pulling you close.

“Y’know,” he mumbles into your hair, “most people’d kill for their soulmate to wake ’em up with breakfast in bed.”

You look up at him, sugar on your lips, eyes bright. “Well, most people aren’t lucky enough to have me.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Unlucky’s more like it.”

But his hand settles low on your back, fingers tracing lazy shapes against your spine, and he kisses your temple like it’s habit. Like he’s been doing it for a hundred years.

Because he has.

Because he will.

Forever, even if he has to taste your questionable choices every single day of his life.

And when you offer him a bite of your marshmallow, grinning wide?

He takes it.

Because love — real, quiet, everyday love — is sweet.

Even when it tastes like pink rubber and regret.

OSAMU MY LOVE

i hope you like it!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆