𝑂ℎ, my 𝕭rother,

You’re not one to wake up so late.　By your estimate　⸻　and judging by the weak flaxen hue of the light lazily streaming through your windows　⸻　it’s seven A.M.,　maybe a few moments past.　You,　typically,　find yourself at attention and ready to taken on the day by no later than five.　The sun and moon,　in each of their transient forms,　all play out like delicate cinema throughout your lengthy days.　Drifting across the sky,　caressing the clouds they each passed over,　the portraiture something to dream of.　You do not dream,　full stop.　Your empty head is full of fables　(fables that,　by design,　you do not recognize as such)　shoved unceremonious out of the way as soon as action befalls you.　A necessity.　Here you are,　still,　rousing two hours past your limit,　ensnared in Park’s hold,　slender limbs twisted in a bear trap.

Even worse,　you are usually much better at this.　You do not need to blink once,　twice,　three times,　steadily slotting into cognizance as though it is not inherent to you.　All you know is competence,　rising easily and without restraint,　ready to act and think and execute tender planning at a second’s notice.　So here you are,　entirely losing yourself,　peering up to him through the shroud of your blonde-tipped lashes.　What is his plan with this,　really?　You will find out,　once way or another.　Your lowered-guard is only a short walk from aposematism,　an unpalatable chemical,　prickles,　thorns.　He won’t know what’s coming.　Tried and true.

Your head shifts,　supported by cushioning of his chest:　his torso is bared,　and yours is not,　swathed in fabric that is his,　familiar scent that is his,　trepidation that certainly,　without a doubt,　has to be his.　A specter of affection,　if one could call it that.　Said chest rises and falls,　stable and sure.　You will never stop trying to figure him out,　and you can only pray　(should there illogically be some deity out there willing to hear you out;　every wise overseer has turned their back on you,　and you see no reason for it to change now)　that he feels the same way.　Porcelain crown of yours,　what does it house?　

A dreary sense of relaxation,　now.　So long as you are free of obligation to pry SSG 08 from its sturdy travel case and carry out the commands wired mercilessly into your competence,　you are free to soak up these feelings,　whatever they are.　You absolutely will not file them away,　and this is born of a fear that they will start to mean something to moment you stop pretending.　You are a darling fail-safe,　but the IRG slacked heavily in your exposure to the mundanities.　You should have been better,　stronger,　more impenetrable to a little bit of positive attention.　You aren’t.　A dog sinks its teeth into the unwitting:　do you blame the beast or the incompetent trainer still haplessly tugging at the leash?

Maybe there is no leash.　Maybe your collar has come free long ago.　Maybe they are phantom pains.

By now,　You would have gone for a run.　Capital Y,　their perfect and unfeeling assassin.　You would practice your speed against the adversary of yourself,　tightly lace your boots and dash off into the brisk morning air.　You want to stay here.　That makes you a bad asset,　presumably,　and you know how badly that damned look of dissatisfaction lashes at your few remaining vulnerable wounds.　To Hell with it,　though.　Anyone would grow tired of their inadequacy constantly projected back toward them.　Even you,　you who creeps unsteadily to personhood and humanity.　It is a human behavior to reach out,　to touch,　to gently stroke at plane of skin,　to take in the rhythm of his heartbeat in all of its melodic resonance.　You were raised to shoot between heartbeats.　It was trial and error to relax yourself enough to drag it down,　and in doing so,　you’ve entirely acclimated to the demands of shooting betwixt beats at an elevated rate.　One twenty or above,　holding no prisoners.　You can do it.　For now,　it is lower,　a classier sixty,　unperturbed by any hazard that could come.　

Except for one.　Like that,　the pulsing makes itself known to you,　steady rumbling in your chest.　Syncing with his,　maybe,　just as your breathing has done.　This is syrupy sweet,　excessively saccharine,　quelling teeth to rot where they are lodged in your gums.　Everything about this is so unlike You.　But you,　in her stead,　are almost growing fond of it.　Just like that,　your frame shifts　⸻　whether or not it is voluntary is no longer a matter of discussion:　you carry out actions,　you are a drone,　and yet,　just this once,　as delusional as you may be,　there is intent　⸻　and you climb on top of him,　legs astride as you peer to him laid beneath you.　He looks handsome like this.　Compulsion flashes like a twitch at your palms to strangle him.　How silly that would be.　Old habits die hard,　old training regimens.　You know you wouldn’t be able to,　anyways,　and gradually that fact comes to disturb you less and less.　This is not a quantifiable field that the average person assesses.　The only danger comes from the chokehold mercilessly squeezing your heart.

This kind of sweetness, though, instead of lifting you up with too much energy to take on the day, has you basking in it; you get a similar feeling when you go tubing and just lay there, letting the calm water rock you into a welcome trance. Weight pressed against you has always had a calming affect, too, and in your still-half-asleep brain you wonder if it might have a little to do with touch starvation. Maybe this whole thing has to do with it. Leigh is just one of several partners that you’ve had, but she touches you in a way that fills something within you that you didn’t know could be filled. Perhaps it’s because it’s her ⸻ in all of her oddness, her similarity to your coldness that acts as more of a blanket for you than anyone else’s warmth.

And perhaps this is the truth behind this ⸻ to why you stick around, why you have her stick around. She’s convenient in more ways than just getting yourself off. It’s not difficult to be who you are, forging different yous for everyone you interact with; you take pride and joy in your perfect craft. However, it is nice to forgo fake pleasantries and be with someone who, maybe, actually understands you. Or, at least, understands you much better than anyone else. You think she does. You could be wrong, and it would be unfortunate, but things like this slide off your back easily. You like having her here, that’s all, but leaving her behind or being left behind by her wouldn’t break your soul, or anything. You did leave your brother, all those years ago, without a single tear, though you suppose whatever this is between you and Leigh is entirely different. Still.

Her shifting atop you finally pulls you from the gentle waves of your half-slumber. You keep your eyes closed, curious as to what she’s thinking, whether she’ll stay like this until you open your eyes or if she’ll leave. You’re almost 100% certain about the former. Your surprising domesticity between the two of you has been steadily rising ⸻ surprising in the way she doesn’t leave and never come back, anyway. You wonder how different this is for her, if it’s a little unsettling. You’re used to cooking for people in the morning if they haven’t left, of holding doors open for them, kissing their head, hugging them from behind as they sip on their coffee. Domesticity means nothing without the feeling behind it, which you have always lacked. It’s more routine for you, habits formed that you don’t care to shake off. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person with such soft habits: her coldness feels barred, caged, while yours is more like the open tundra. You wonder if being with you has rattled her bars at all. The many kisses she initiates give you an answer that makes you smile.

The first thing you see is her eyes peering back down at you, boring into you with that odd expression of hers. Your smile grows, develops into a chuckle as she leans forward. Weight upon lips is as welcome and delightful as weight upon chest and lap. She doesn’t devour you, you don’t devour her ⸻ this kiss is something sweeter. You squeeze your arms around her tiny waist, don’t dare to kiss her any deeper and sour that sweet. You instead retract, only to press another kiss to each corner of her lips, and another akin to the one she’d initiated, and another. You bring one hand up to cradle the back of her head and, maybe a little abruptly, bring her with you as you sit up. You hum against her lips, suck in her bottom lip, and pull back with your perpetually curious expression.

a mix of arguments, tension, manipulation, gossiping, fighting, & general emotional messiness!

you  weren't  supposed  to  hear  that.

don't  look  at  me  like  i'm  the  only  one  lying.

want  to  tell  them,  or  should  i?

you  think  i  don't  know  what  you  did?

i've  hit  people  for  less.

oh,  i  thought  you  already  knew.

that's  funny,  you  didn't  say  that  last  night.

say  that  again.  i  dare  you.

you  wanna  talk  about  loyalty?

no  offense,  but  if  you're  the  last  to  know,  that's  on  you.

go  ahead  -  pretend  like  it  wasn't  your  idea!

they  deserve  to  know  the  truth.

you  didn't  hear  this  from  me,  but  -

oh,  so  now  you  care?

don't  flatter  yourself.  you  were  just  convenient.

you  crossed  a  line.

we  had  bets  on  how  long  it  would  last.

it's  not  even  a  secret  anymore.

you  don't  get  to  cry  about  it  now.

touch  me  again  and  see  what  happens.

say  it  again.  louder  this  time.

you  really  thought  nobody  would  find  out?

don't  act  so  innocent.

okay,  but  am  i  the  villain  for  laughing?

tell  me  who  else  knows.  right  now.

this  whole  time,  and  you  didn't  say  a  word?

don't  act  brave  now.

you're  really  gonna  do  this  here?

it  wasn't  supposed  to  get  this  far!

you  can't  rewrite  history.

oh,  i'd  never  say  it  to  their  faces.

it  was  supposed  to  stay  between  us.

we're  all  thinking  it,  i  just  said  it.

you're  not  as  untouchable  as  you  act.

do  you  even  feel  guilty?

they  warned  me  about  you.

go  ahead,  make  it  worse.

if  you  repeat  this,  i'll  deny  everything.

the  next  thing  out  of  your  mouth  better  be  an  apology.

you're  about  three  seconds  away  from  regretting  this.

you  keep  pushing,  and  i'll  push  you  back.

they're  going  to  find  out.

one  more  lie,  and  i  walk.

they're  lying  to  you.

you  need  to  back  off.  now.

you're  defending  them?  after  everything?

don't  try  to  hide  it.

tell  me,  was  i  just  a  placeholder?

you  really  think  sorry  fixes  this?

there's  nothing  left  to  say.

don't  act  like  you're  the  one  hurting.

i  don't  owe  you  any  explanation.

whatever  helps  you  sleep  at  night.

you  should've  seen  this  coming.

i  hope  it  was  worth  it.

i  told  the  truth.  just  not  all  of  it.

you'll  miss  me  before  i  miss  you.

smile.  you're  ruining  the  mood.

i'd  watch  that  tone  if  i  were  you.

it's  not  my  fault  you  believed  me.

you  have  such  a  talent  for  pretending  you're  innocent.

we  both  know  this  is  over.

i  never  said  i  was  a  good  person.

how long ago did you create your oc? how did the idea come to you?

how would you describe your oc's core aesthetic?

if your oc had a theme song, what would it be?

what inspires you when writing your oc?

does your oc have a faceclaim? if so, why did you choose them? if they don't have a faceclaim, why not?

does your oc have any particular ties to certain fandoms? how do they fit into the dynamics of these fandoms and their existing characters?

what are some of your favorite ships with your oc?

what do you think makes your oc unique?

what qualities do you and your oc have in common?

what makes you and your oc different?

does your oc have any quirks or habits?

in your opinion, what's the hardest thing to do when creating an oc?

in your opinion, what's the easiest thing to do when creating an oc?

are there any canon characters that inspired your oc?

are there any canon characters you wish would interact with your oc?

what's your opinion on ocs in general?

do you have any hot takes about ocs?

what colors do you associate with your oc?

what do you think your oc smells like?

are there any important npcs in your oc's life? what are they like?