fave tumblr imagins

⚠️ definitely annoying pt1-rooster

Arthur: callsignbob

Rooster jumped and spiked the ball down onto the net, and you dove at it hard as it bounced back up, but your fingertips barely swiped before it landed on the ground, along with your thoroughly bruised body. Everyone cheered and booed in equal measure, a cacophony of noise surrounding you as you glared up at Rooster from the sand. 

The sun glinted off his shades and his teeth and he grinned his shit-eating grin down at you. “Maybe next time you’ll get it, kid,” he chuckled, offering a hand to pull you up. You swatted the hand away and grumbled something not suitable for work back at him. Rooster laughed it off and swiped his hand up into his hair, pretending to adjust an imaginary fly-away.

You could push your own self off the ground, thank you very much, and you did. Some of the guys were crowding around Rooster, slapping him on the back and congratulating him. Phoenix jogged over from where she had been standing in the ankle-deep surf and brushed your shoulders off fussily.

“You were so close to having that one for the ladies!” she moaned. You shook your head, ponytail flaring sand everywhere, which made Phoenix spit and wrinkle her nose as it hit her in the face. Others were crowding in around you now and murmuring good-natured encouragement and “you’ll get him next time!”s, but everything had been reduced to a dull buzz in your ears as you watched your opponent showboat around his group of admirers.

Bradley Fucking “Rooster” Bradshaw.

Evidently, God’s gift to humanity. He was a decent pilot and, it had to be said, a pretty good spikeball player, and you could have almost respected him, if he didn’t insist on one-upping you at every. Availably. Opportunity. You kept your head down and performed your pilot-ly duties in an efficient and successful manner, but that wasn’t enough for Bradshaw.

No, he needed to prove that he could do everything just a bit better than you. Written tests, back at the academy: you’d flush with pride upon seeing a 98% marked across the top of your paper, only to look up and see him smugly flash his 100% across the room at you. Tactical training: you would fly every turn, every obstacle, every tiny thing expected of you perfectly, but Rooster would do it ten seconds faster. 

Spikeball on the beach: you would make it through the tournament-style game into the final two players, and who would beat you?

“Rooster!” Bob swore under his breath as he crouched between you and Phoenix, snapping his fingers in a very aw, fiddlesticks! way. “It’s like we have to end each beach day with him obliterating everyone at spikeball. He couldn’t have let you win just this once?”

“I don’t want him to let me win,” you practically growled. You glared down at Bob, who looked back up with one eye squeezed shut to block out the setting sun. “I’ll beat him just fine next time,” you promised. Bob shrugged and allowed Phoenix to pull him back into a standing position. Saltwater sprayed from the shore onto the three of you as you gazed, momentarily silent, out into the ocean. 

Phoenix suddenly smiled and looked around to make sure no one was in earshot of the three of you. “You know what I think he’s doing?” she asked, and you frowned in response, having lost the train of thought. “I think he’s yanking your pigtails.” 

A gasp from Bob. “Oh, wow, he totally is!” he crowed, then remembered to be quieter (the remembering was partially thanks to an affectionate but no less painful tweak on the ear from Phoenix). 

The frown hadn’t left your face. You asked what the hell Phoenix meant as Bob trotted away to retrieve his shirt from the duffel bag he’d brought with him. “I mean, like, he’s doing the ‘little boy on the playground who likes the little girl on the playground’ thing,” she explained, and the very thought made you roll your eyes to the pink and orange sky.