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geminiwritten · 2 days ago

Text

could be me ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you've been in love with rooster since you were a kid, but a few years ago your father threatened to ruin rooster's career if you didn't get over your stupid crush and find an honourable man - so you date assholes to protect rooster, but it's getting harder to stay away from the boy you're in love with (loosely inspired by this song)

notes: okay, i admit defeat!!! i am in love with this man and it is consuming my life! i was so excited to write this, but i rewrote it and rewrote it, and it still doesn't feel right :( i hope it isn't too awful, but i promise i'm going to write something perfect for this boy, because wow, i love him... please let me know what you think! good or bad, i love feedback!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship/s (nothing detailed or major), negative father / daughter relationship, one brief mention of 'offing oneself', very little and most likely incorrect knowledge about the us navy, and some generally poor writing i'm sorry

word count: 10597

“That guy sucks,” Mickey mutters into the mouth of his beer bottle.

The whole squad is jammed into a booth on the beach-side of The Hard Deck bar, their necks craned and eyes fixed on the large blond man towering over their best friend at one of the tall tables beside the jukebox.

“He’s so rude,” Natasha states, “and cold.”

The only one not blatantly staring across the bar is Bradley. He’s too busy picking at the soggy label on his half-drunk beer and sulking. The corners of his mouth have been turned down from the moment you walked through the door with that hulking mass of man muscle by your side.

“Rooster,” Reuben says, nudging his friend’s side and knocking him out of his imaginary pity party.

Bradley glances up, “Hm?”

“Move, I need to get another drink.”

Realising why he had been feeling pressure on his right side, Bradley sighs and slides out of the booth, allowing his friend to shuffle across to freedom.

“Do you want a drink?” Reuben asks.

Bradley shakes his head and slumps back into the booth, returning his attention to the beer bottle’s label.

“Why is she with him?” Mickey asks, his brows furrowed.

“He’s got money,” Bradley replies dryly, “and rank.”

Natasha shoots him a scowl. “Come on, Rooster. Y/N’s not that shallow.”

Bradley scoffs, “You want to bet?”

Her brown eyes glance toward you, watching as your hand grips the thick forearm of the blond boy toy standing over you. She grimaces and shakes her head. “No, not really.”

“Exactly,” Bradley sighs, leaning back in the booth and finally dragging his eyes up to look at his friends. “Her dad has high standards and apparently dating some stupid commander with more bicep than brain and more money than manhood is her idea of being the perfect daughter.”

“You sound jealous,” Jake states, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

Bradley snorts a laugh, though there’s no amusement behind it. It’s dry. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Hangman?”

Before Jake can answer the rhetorical question, Mickey pipes up. “Who’s her dad, again?”

Natasha sighs, turning her head to face him. “The admiral,” she replies, “you know, Cyclone’s superior.”

“Shit, that’s right,” Mickey says. “He’s terrifying.”

Reuben returns to the table with wide eyes, gingerly setting four beers on the table before ushering at Bradley to scootch further into the booth. “Oh, my God,” he says as he sits down. “I just asked Y/N if she wanted to join us, and that dude basically growled at me.”

“Gross,” Natasha mutters, before taking a generous swig of her fresh beer.

“I did catch his name, though,” Reuben adds. “Johnny.”

Bradley scoffs, “Johnny.”

The squad spend the better part of the next hour making fun of the man whose arm is draped across your shoulders, all but Bradley. He’s too busy scratching the label off his beer bottle and shoving all thoughts of you and your newest Ken Doll out of his mind.

Across the bar, you pinch the stem of your wine glass between your thumb and forefinger and start moving it in small circles, making the yellowish liquid swirl. You hate white wine, but Johnny doesn’t seem to recall you mentioning that on your date last week. His arm is heavy on your shoulders, compressing your spine and making your neck ache as you try to maintain a decent posture on the uncomfortably high stool. You’ve never liked sitting at the tall bar tables, you prefer a booth.

It takes all your self-control not to gaze across the bar to where you’d rather be. It wasn’t that you hadn’t expected your friends to be in their usual booth at The Hard Deck on a Saturday afternoon, but when Johnny asked you to get drinks with him and meet his friends, you’d still hoped they wouldn’t be here. Especially Bradley.

You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since you were ten years old. He was the first boy to ever make your heart skip a beat, and the only one you’ve ever truly fallen in love with. Not that you’ll willingly admit that last part to anyone but your own reflection, and even then, you need a considerable amount of liquid courage to do so.

When your father, the admiral, was assigned to assist in overseeing the TOPGUN programme at MCAS Miramar, he moved your family to San Diego, right next door to the Bradshaws. Your mother and Carole Bradshaw became quick and close friends, and you soon learnt all about Bradley’s late father and the man who had since stepped in to help raise Bradley.

Your father wasn’t subtle about disliking the Bradshaws, or more specifically, Pete Mitchell, but your mother couldn’t have cared less. You spent most of your weekends and summer days with Bradley, since your mothers were practically inseparable, and the same was soon said for the two of you. It didn’t matter that Bradley was a few years older, you simply matchedeach other’s energies. Soulmates, Carole would say.

Years passed and you both grew, but your crush never wavered. You were there the day his mother passed away, and the day he sent his application in to the Naval Academy. You were also there the day he found out that it was Pete who pulled his papers, and if you close your eyes and think back hard enough, you can still hear the screaming and shouting.

It got a little complicated after that. Bradley decided that he was going to study at UVA for the four years before he could reapply to the academy, and despite your heart’s protests, you helped him pack and promised to look after his family’s home while he was gone. Without the honey-eyed boy next door to spend all your time with, you focused on school and growing up. Bradley would call every now and then, mostly to let your mom know that he was doing okay, but he didn’t visit for two whole years.

It was the year you turned eighteenth that everything changed. You were in your front yard, wearing your favourite red bathing suit and trying to water the poor, sunburnt flowers back to life. When Bradley turned the Bronco into his driveway, he nearly drove right through the garage door, slamming the brakes on just in time. His jaw popped open and his eyes almost fell out of his head as he stared at you bopping along to whatever music was playing in your headphones.

It took you more than a minute to notice the car in the driveway next door, but once you did you dropped the hose and ran across the lawn, jumping over the short fence that divided your yards. Bradley didn’t move until you wrenched the driver’s side door open and asked if he was okay, and he certainly was not okay when you wrapped your arms around him and pressed your scantily clad body against his.

After that, he visited a lot more. Every break he could, he would fly across the country to see you, and if he couldn’t come to San Diego, you would fly to him. The two of you gave ‘inseparable’ a whole new meaning. You spoke every day, sent each other letters and packages containing thoughtful presents or silly gifts, and whenever you could, you would video chat for hours on end. There wasn’t a single day that went by that you didn’t feel a tug in your gut toward the boy across the country who you were head over heels in love with.

Eventually, he reapplied and was accepted into the Naval Academy. You were happy for him, of course, but the bubble in which you were living had to pop at some point. It was harder to see him while he was in the academy, and even harder when graduated and got deployed, but the hardest part was not knowing where he was.

One morning, when you were on your way out the door to work, your father stopped you. He told you that Bradley had been accepted into the TOPGUN programme and would be moving back to San Diego for a while, but the look on his face was a stark contrast to the excitement on yours. It was that morning that really burst your bubble. You’d created this imaginary little world where Bradley would eventually come home to you, kiss you, and tell you that it’s always been you, but your father wasn't going to let that happen.

He lectured you for twenty minutes about the fact that Bradley Bradshaw is not good enough for you. He told you that he’s been holding it in for long enough, because your mother had begged him not to interfere with your life and your choices, but he can’t take it anymore. He said that Bradley is a flighty boy from a mixed-up family, raised by a dishonourable man, and he isn’t wealthy or worthy enough for you. He told you to let go of your stupid crush and find an honourable who could make you happy, or else he would ruin Bradley’s career.

Any sane person would have told him to fuck off, but you were too young and too scared, and you loved Bradley too damn much to risk something he’s worked so hard for. So you simply nodded and slipped out the door, spending the next few weeks avoiding your father and mourning the loss of a relationship that never was.

It was about that time that you started dating assholes. You couldn’t live in a world without Bradley, but you had to protect him, so you always had an honourable commander or captain on your arm to distract your father. You stayed close with Bradley, even when he flew off around the world again. When he was called back to TOPGUN for a special detachment, you were over the moon, and everything seemed to fall into place after the uranium mission. The dagger squadron became a permanent unit based on North Island, and you quickly became friends with the whole group.

After years of distance and uncertainty, everything feels good. That is, except for your shitshow of a love life that is getting harder to maintain as you juggle keeping your father happy while also trying to assure your friends that you’re not a clinical masochist who enjoys toxic relationships.

“Babe,” Johnny’s voice knocks you back into reality. “You good?”

You blink a few times, trying to refocus on the man sitting beside you instead of the waves out the window. “Sorry,” you say. “Just daydreaming.”

He chuckles. “What could you possibly have to daydream about when I’m sitting right here.”

Your eyes betray you, casting their gaze across the bar toward your friends, landing on the boy with the golden-brown hair. Johnny sighs, as if exasperated by you. “If you want to go see your little friends so badly, then go.”

You force yourself to shake your head. “Don’t be silly. I’m here with you, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Except squished into that booth beside Bradley, breathing in his scent and feeling his thigh pressed firmly against your own.

Johnny smirks before leaning forward with puckered lips. You try not to seem awkward as you lean forward and give him a kiss, but you can’t help feeling uncomfortable under the hard stares of his friends.

“I’m just going to get another drink,” you say, slipping off the high bar stool. You hurry away from the table before he can point out that you haven’t touched your wine, beelining for the bathrooms.

Once safely in the fluorescent lit lavatory, you plant both hands on the vanity and stare at your red cheeks in the mirror. You’re not sure why, but it’s getting harder being with men like Johnny. It used to be easy to pretend, to flip your hair and bite your lip, and flirt until they believed that you were into them, but lately, all you can think about is Bradley.

His soft hair and tan skin. The way his mouth curls into a smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His broad shoulders, long legs, and the way that every move he makes is so sure. When you close your eyes, all you can see are his honey-brown irises staring back at you, making you blush even when you’re miles apart. It’s like there’s a rope anchored in your gut and the other end is tied to Bradley. It used to be loose and languid, giving and taking as needed, but now its taut. One end of the rope is being wound up, pulling you into his orbit whether you like it or not. You worry that one day you’re going to wake up unable to breathe without him near you.

“Fuck,” you sigh, smacking your left hand on the vanity. “This is ridiculous.” You look up at your reflection, raising your right hand to point at the mirror. “Pull yourself together.”

You wash your hands and fix your hair before exiting the bathroom. You keep your eyes trained on your destination as you walk toward the bar, finding a vacant space to lean your forearms against the dark wood.

“Hey gorgeous,” Penny says with a soft smile.

“Hey Penny, could I just get the usual, please?”

She laughs lightly. “Of course. I was a bit worried when I saw that commander hand you a white wine.”

You breathe a half-assed laugh through your nose. “He’s still in training.”

She grabs a beer from the fridge behind the bar before turning back to you with a knowing smirk. “Well, I don’t see why you keep fostering these disobedient dogs when you have a perfectly well-trained puppy at home.”

You frown, tilting your head as your mind races to decode the metaphor. Only when she glances over at the booth of your friends and back to you does it click.

Your eyes widen. “Penny!”

She laughs again before adding, “And that is a cute puppy, if I don't say so myself.”

You roll your lips to stop yourself from grinning, because yes, Bradley is an adorable puppy and you would love nothing more than to take him home with you. “Thanks for the beer, Penny,” you say before she turns away to serve another patron.

You take a long swig from the bottle before weaving your way back through the bar to Johnny and his friends. The night wears on, and you try as hard as you can to remember how to pretend but you just can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Bradley every few minutes. You know Johnny is getting annoyed too, you’re just glad that he can discern exactly which one of your friends it is who’s stealing your attention.

"Alright,” Johnny says, pushing off his stool. “Let’s get out of here.”

Your eyes snap back to him and you nod. “I just want to say hi to my friends first.”

“Whatever,” he sighs. “I’m going to take a leak.”

You watch him walk across the bar and wait until the bathroom door closes behind him to roll your eyes. You slip off the stool and quickly squeeze through the groups of people standing between you and your friends, the grin on your face growing the closer you get.

“Hey!” Natasha greets you first, her face lighting up.

Your eyes scan the familiar faces of your friends. “Hi.”

The last to look up at you is Bradley, but the moment his honey-brown eyes meet yours, the corners of his lips start to curl up. You could never get tired of seeing that smile.

Mickey gasps dramatically. “Rooster, is that a smile?”

Reuben snorts a laugh. “I didn’t know your face made that expression.”

“Shut up,” Bradley mutters, flipping his friends the bird from where his hand is resting on the tabletop.

“Anyway,” Natasha says, turning from the boys to you. “How are you?”

You drag your eyes away from Bradley. “I’m good. Sorry I didn’t come over earlier. I was meeting some of Johnny’s friends for the first time and it was a bit awkward.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “We’re kind of glad you didn’t bring your new Ken doll over here.”

“Which model is this?” Mickey asks with a cheeky grin.

Reuben chuckles. “Ken on Steroids, comes with his own syringe.”

Laughter rumbles through your friends, and once again you roll and rub your lips together to stop yourself from joining in. You can’t let them know that you intentionally date douchebags, because then there will be more questions than you’re willing to answer and you're already struggling to keep those skeletons inside their closet.

“Very funny,” you sigh, before glancing over your shoulder. “I should go, but I’ll see you guys-”

“Babe!” Johnny hollers across the bar, earning a lot of confused looks. “Hurry up!”

You want to close your eyes and sink into the floor, totally embarrassed and utterly fed up with this stupid, disobedient dog. But when you glance back at your friends and your eyes easily find Bradley’s, you remember why you’re doing it.

You plaster on a smile. “Sorry, guys. I’ll see you later.”

You barely hear their goodbyes as you turn and hurry through the bar toward the door. You can’t help your body from recoiling when Johnny wraps an arm around you, but you play it off by pretending to be cold. The walk to his car is silent, as is the first half of the drive, until he takes two wrong turns in a row and you realise that he isn’t driving toward your house.

“Which way are you going?” you ask.

His Cartier bracelet twinkles under the passing streetlights. “What do you mean?”

“My place is back that way.”

He sighs and shifts a little in his seat, reaching out the Cartier arm to place a hand on your thigh. “I thought you could stay at mine tonight.”

“Oh.” Your stomach swirls nauseously. “I’m actually not feeling too well, I think I should-”

“Again?” he snaps.

You take a deep breath, your hand itching to find the door handle. “Yeah, again. I probably need to go to the doctors.”

The car screeches to a halt and your body strains against the seatbelt. “Good idea,” he says. “Why don’t you go right now?”

You frown. “Now?”

He nods at the door, and only then do you realise that your hand is gripping the handle. His face is cast in shadow and streetlight, making him look more menacing than he really is. You know he only acts tough, but you’re still not willing to push it given his significant size advantage over you.

You pop the door open. “Fine.”

You’ve barely got two feet on the asphalt before he hits the gas and takes off again, speeding down the dark street and leaving you behind.

“Fuck.”

You glance around and try to find something familiar. You might have grown up here, but you definitely don’t know the area as well as you should. You know your usual places and the direct routes to and from those places, but right now you’re standing on a street you’re fairly sure you’ve never been on before. It also doesn’t help that it’s dark, because everything is different in the dark.

You pull your phone out and open your maps, using two fingers to twist and turn the map on the screen until you can figure out how far off your usual route Johnny had driven. He lives further from the base and the bar than you do, in some schmancy mansion he inherited from his parents that you hope never to see in person.

“Fuck,” you groan again. The little blue dot showing your location is a good ten miles from either the bar or your house, and you’re definitely not doing a trek like that in the middle of the night.

You flick away the maps app and pull up Uber, your thumb hovering over the location box where you should type your home address and hit enter, but you can’t stop thinking about Bradley. Even the thought of him has an effect on you now, making your insides mushy and your brain foggy. The tug in your gut has you wandering across the street in the general direction that The Hard Deck would be, and you switch from the Uber app to your contacts list. You scroll to the top where your favourites are pinned and tap on Bradley’s name without a second thought.

It only rings once. “Hello?”

“Bradley,” you say, relief washing through you.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you guys still at the bar?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “What happened?”

You lean against the nearest streetlight, guilt and anticipation warring inside of you. “You can say no, but I’m kind of lost.”

“Hang on,” he mutters. You can hear shuffling and distant voices, then the squeak of a door and the background noise dies down. “What do you mean you’re lost?”

“It’s a long story,” you sigh, “but like I said, you can say no-”

“Where are you?” he demands. “I’m coming to get you.”

Your chest aches. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, and then the background noise returns. There’s music and chatter, and you can hear the jingle of keys while Bradley quickly explains himself to the squad.

Then there’s Mickey’s voice, loud and clear. “Go, Prince Charming! Go!”

“Fuck off,” Bradley mutters, and you can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up your throat.

There’s another few seconds of music and chatter before you hear a car door slam, and then it’s so quiet you can hear Bradley’s heavy breathing. “You still there?” he asks.

“Haven’t been kidnapped yet.”

He sighs. “Please don’t joke about that.”

You shift your shoulder against the light pole, trying to ignore the excitement in your stomach. “Don’t worry, they’d bring me back pretty quickly.”

Bradley chuckles dryly. “Not before I found you and killed them.”

Your heart thumps heavily in your chest, feeling swollen and ready to burst. “Why would you kill them?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

Maybe you are a masochist.

“Because I don’t like it when people take what’s mine,” he replies.

Your stomach does a somersault, and you wait for a laugh or a chuckle, but it doesn’t come. Bradley is dead serious right now, and somehow, he's managed to make you horny from ten miles away.

You clear your throat. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It looks like you’re near the old fire station.”

You pull the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker before flicking out of the call screen and tapping on the ‘Find My’ app. Bradley’s contact photo is floating on the map a small distance from your little blue dot, moving closer. You shared your locations with each other a few years ago, mostly because you wanted to see where Bradley was in the world, but it’s come in handy more than a few times. Like right now, for example.

“Thanks for doing this, by the way.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “But you do have to tell me why.”

You frown, still watching his location. “Why what?”

“Why you’re suddenly stranded when I saw you leave with your boyf-” He hesitates and clears his throat. “Your boy toy.”

You sigh and roll your head back, staring up at the dark sky for a moment before looking back down at Bradley’s slowly moving contact photo. “We had a bit of an argument and-”

“And he kicked you out of his car and left you?”

“No, no, he-” Now you hesitate. “Well, yes, technically, but putting it like that sounds bad.”

“Because it is bad!” Bradley exclaims.

You take a deep breath of cold night air before sighing it out. “I know.”

A moment of silence stretches into a couple of minutes, but neither of you hang up the phone. You know it’s for safety, in case the worst were to happen, but you also like to hear Bradley’s soft breathing. As creepy as that might sound. It’s comforting to know that he’s there and he’s on his way. He might even be mad at you for being stupid and dating an asshole, but he could never let his anger get in the way of your safety.

“Are you speeding?” you ask him.

“Um, no?”

You scoff. “Okay, that was convincing.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? My best friend stranded in the middle of nowhere at midnight.”

Friend. You roll your eyes. “You’re supposed to make sure you get to her safely.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

You frown. “How did you know?”

He chuckles. “Because I know you.”

Your pulse thrums harder, filling your ears and making your breath come and go in quick gasps. You don’t know what to say, because it's true. He knows you, better than you know yourself sometimes, and that makes you wonder if he knows exactly what you’re hiding from him.

“I think I see you,” he says.

Your eyes snap up toward the headlights that appear half a mile down the street. “I think I see you too.”

Your heart beats faster the closer he gets, and you wait until you can clearly recognise the front of the Bronco before hanging up your call. The car rolls to a stop in front of you, and Bradley ducks his head to look at you from the driver’s side. “Need a ride?”

He is fucking breathtaking. All golden-brown tousles and soft eyes, his lips perfectly kissable and his cheeks a little flushed.

“Mom told me not to get in strangers’ cars.”

His face breaks into a grin, and you’re pretty sure your heart stops altogether. “I have candy,” he says.

A giggle bubbles from your lips. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

You pull the door open and fall into the seat, his scent wrapping around you like a blanket. For the first time tonight, you feel safe.

“Hey,” you breathe out, staring at the boy beside you like he hung the moon. You’ve been looking at Bradley this way since you were ten years old, and sometimes you try to hide it, but after the night you’ve had, you can’t find the strength to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. “I’m a lot better now.”

The light inside the car is dim and his face is partially obscured by shadow, but you’re pretty sure you can see the colour in his cheeks deepen. You search each other’s eyes for a few too many seconds before he looks away, focusing on the street ahead as the car begins to roll forward.

The drive is silent, but not in the same way it had been with Johnny. This silence is thick with something unsaid, tangible and heavy as it hangs between the two of you. His right hand is resting on the gear stick out of habit, and your fingers itch to slide between his, feel his hot skin against yours in any way possible.

He clears his throat. “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

You sigh. “Do I have to?”

He glances at you and shrugs a shoulder. “No, but it might feel good to talk to a friend.”

Friend. You turn your gaze out the windscreen, focusing hard on the road ahead to avoid rolling your eyes. Maybe you should talk to someone about the shit you’re dealing with. It might be self-inflicted shit but at least complaining to someone about it might relieve some of the frustration.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you begin. “After about ten minutes of driving, I noticed that he’d taken a couple of wrong turns, so I asked where he was going, and he said I should spend the night at his house tonight.”

The steering wheel squeaks in Bradley’s tight grip.

“Are you sure you want me to tell you this?”

“Yes,” he replies, using a tone of voice that leaves no room for argument.

“Okay,” you sigh, turning back toward the road before continuing. “I told him that I didn’t feel well and just wanted to go home, but he got a little annoyed because I’ve been sick for the past couple of weeks.”

“You haven’t been sick,” Bradley states, brows furrowed.

"Well, not really, but-”

“So, you’ve been lying to him?”

Your stomach twists nervously. “I guess.”

Bradley nods slowly, his expression unreadable.

“Well, anyway,” you continue, “I said that maybe I need to go to see a doctor, so he stopped the car and told me to go right now.”

Silence envelopes you both again. The only indication you have that Bradley actually heard you is the way his knuckles are turning white as he grips the steering wheel. His face is stoic, his eyes fixed on the road but still distant. You know this look, it's the look he gets when he’s stuck in his thoughts.

You don’t want to interrupt him for the fear of being scolded. You know Bradley would never belittle you or tell you that you're stupid because of the decisions you make, but there’s no doubt that he’s mad at you for putting your own safety at risk.

He doesn’t speak until the car stops in the garage beneath his apartment block, and only then do you realise that he hadn’t driven you to your place. He moved here when the dagger squad got their permanent placements on North Island, after finally deciding to sell his family home.

“I’ll sleep on the lounge,” he says, pulling the key from the ignition. “You can have my bed.”

You hate the way your stomach squeezes at the idea of being in his bed. “Don’t be stupid, I’ll take the lounge.”

“No, you won’t.”

Before you can argue, he pops the door and steps out of the car. You quickly fall out of the passenger’s side and hurry after him, almost bumping into his broad back when he stops abruptly at the elevator.

“Bradley,” you sigh, standing at his side. “Please don’t give me the silent treatment.”

“I just spoke to you, didn’t I?”

You huff. “Well, yes, but I don’t like how you’re talking to me.”

He scoffs, his brows shooting up toward his hairline. “Oh! You don’t like how I’m talking to you?”

The elevator doors open and you both step inside. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He crosses his arms and leans against the back wall of the cabin. “I just think it’s funny how you let those men treat you like shit and talk to you like crap, but as soon as I don’t feel like being playful, then you’ve got a problem.”

You frown at him, your breath coming and going much faster than before as anger bubbles in your stomach. You’re not sure what to say, because how can you defend yourself against fact. Silence stretches until the elevator dings and the doors part.

“I’m just not like those other guys, am I?” he says, brushing past you as he steps out of the cabin.

You follow him, doubling his steps to keep up. “No, you’re not like them. You’re better.”

He jams the key into his apartment door and laughs bitterly. “Better but not good enough, right?”

He shoves the door open and stalks inside, leaving you to catch the heavy door for yourself. You follow him in, quickly kicking your shoes off in the hall before stepping into the kitchen after him. He stands on one side of the island, both large hands planted on the countertop. You stop on the opposite side, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Bradley, what the fuck?”

He stares down at the bench. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’re with them!” he exclaims, head snapping up. “Why do you deal with that? Why do you choose those guys when you could have anyone you fucking want?”

Your chest aches as your heart starts slowly tearing itself apart. “Bradley, please don’t-”

“You date these assholes that don’t give a fuck about you, but then when you need someone, when you’re scared or alone, you call me.” He pauses, his shoulders rising and falling with laboured breath. “Why?”

You close your eyes, wishing once again that the floor would open up and swallow you whole. But it doesn’t, so you open your eyes to meet his intense honey-brown gaze. “Because I know you’ve got me.”

“No, I don’t,” he snaps. “I thought I did once, but I know now that I never will.”

“Bradley-”

“I’m not mad,” he quickly adds, his features softening slightly. “I could never be mad at you, and I will always be there for you, but I need you to know that it kills me to see you with these guys.”

You want to ask why, because you’re a masochist and you want to hear him say it, but you can’t speak. Your throat is too thick and your emotions too wired. You knew this argument was inevitable, but you hadn’t expected it tonight. Maybe it’s not just yourself that you’ve pushed too far, maybe you’ve pushed the limits of your friendship too.

“I need sleep,” he mutters, dropping his gaze before turning toward the short hallway.

You watch him disappear into his room, feet anchored to the floor despite how hard that rope in your gut is trying to pull you toward him. You’ve never wanted to touch him more in your life, hold him and kiss him and tell him that you’ve only ever loved him, but you can’t. Your father might be busier these days and less of a threat to you, but he’s still a threat to Bradley’s career.

After a couple of minutes, he reemerges in a pair of grey sweats. Only grey sweats. You’ve seen Bradley shirtless more times than you can count, but you’re never ready for effect that it has on you.

“Bed’s all yours,” he says, throwing a pillow and a blanket onto the lounge.

You want to argue. You want to stomp your feet and tell him everything you’ve held back for years, and then you want him to kiss you and take you to bed where the two of you will stay for the next month. But you can’t, and you’re about to burst into tears.

You nod once before shuffling into his bedroom, shutting the door most of the way before turning to face the bed. When you see a pair of boxers and an old shirt laid out for you, the floodgates burst and tears stream down your cheeks despite your efforts to choke them back. Your throat aches and your nose stings, your vision blurred as you slowly peel your clothes off and wrap yourself in the comfort of Bradley’s.

You wonder if Bradley can hear you crying quietly as you crawl into his bed. The apartment isn’t very big, but you’ve done your best to suppress your sniffles as you washed your face in the ensuite bathroom. Your head hits the pillow and his scent overwhelms you, filling you with the most conflicting mix of sadness and horniness. You’ve been in Bradley’s bed plenty of times before, but not often sober and never after he just almost confessed to being in love with you.

Eventually, you fall asleep and have the best sleep you’ve had in years. You wake to the sound of your phone vibrating on the bedside table and startle when you see the time in the top left corner of the screen; it’s almost midday. You hang up on Johnny’s call, only to see ten missed calls from earlier in the morning and a ridiculous number of texts. You roll your eyes and throw the covers back, rushing out the bedroom door and into the lounge room.

Your heart sinks when you see the lounge is empty and the blankets are folded neatly on one end. There are no missed calls or messages on your phone from Bradley, but you can vaguely recall him making plans with the squad earlier in the week to go to the beach today. You go back into the bedroom and change into your own clothes, dropping your borrowed pyjamas in the hamper by the ensuite door before walking back into the main space.

You’re about to leave the apartment when a folded piece of paper on the kitchen island catches your eye. You snatch it and open it up, quickly reading Bradley’s scrawl.

Had to go. Coffee is fresh.

I’m sorry about last night, I overstepped.

You’ve always got me. I love you.

Breath catches in your throat and tears fill your eyes. You thought you’d cried yourself dry last night, but apparently not. It isn’t as if Bradley has never told you that he loves you. He’s said it before deploying and he’s said it to save himself after some particularly snarky jokes, and you’ve said it back, but this feels different. This feels like a confession.

“Fuck,” you mutter, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You shove the note into your pocket and continue toward the door, making sure it’s locked before it falls closed behind you.

It’s only a ten-minute walk to your place, and you quietly wonder if Bradley intentionally chose an apartment not far from yours. You wait impatiently as the elevator ascends to your floor, slipping through the doors the second they part and half jogging toward your apartment door. Once inside, you shower and pull on some clean clothes before running right back out the door.

Your mind races as you drive to the beach, trying to come up with the right words to say to Bradley. You don’t want to make it awkward, but you know you can’t leave last night unresolved. You would have to act normally in front of the squad, maybe pull him aside and tell him that you’re the one who's sorry. Or perhaps you should act like nothing has happened and text him later tonight.

You bounce back and forth between different ideas the entire drive. The only thing you do know is that you’re not going to take those last three words too seriously. Bradley loves you and he’s told you that before, this note is no different.

You slide your sunnies up your nose and scan the beach, easily spotting Javy’s broad frame and Jake bouncing around like an energetic border collie.

Mickey sees you first as you jog toward them. “Hey!” he calls, waving his arms like a maniac.

“Hey.” You’re a little breathless by the time you reach them, your eyes searching for Bradley amongst the bodies playing volleyball. “Where’s Rooster?”

“It’s nice to see you too,” Mickey chuckles. “He’s not here.”

You frown. “What?”

“Hey!” Natasha jogs up to you, abandoning the game. “Are you okay? Rooster told us you were stranded last night.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You push your sunnies to the top of your head. “It’s a long story but Rooster helped me out. Do you know where he is?”

She cocks her head, confusion written across her face. “He messaged the group chat this morning saying he couldn't come because he had to see Mav.”

“Mav,” you echo. “He’s at Maverick’s?”

Mickey nods. “As far as we know.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you quickly pull it out, letting out a sigh when you see Johnny’s name across the screen. You look back up at your friends. “I’ve got to go see him, so I’ll see you guys later.”

“Everything okay?” Natasha asks.

You nod. “Of course, I just need Bradley.”

You turn and start jogging back toward your car, your legs burning as your feet sink into the soft sand. The drive to Maverick’s isn’t long, but you have to remind yourself several times to slow down and not be stupid. Your stomach sinks when you can’t spot the Bronco parked anywhere nearby, but you still climb the front porch and knock on the door.

Only a few seconds pass before Maverick answers. “Y/N?”

“Hey Mav, I’m sorry to bug you but-”

“Are you okay?” he interrupts, concern painting his face.

“Yeah, why?”

He leans a shoulder against the door frame. “Well, Rooster told me what happened last night and you’re looking a little flustered right now. That Johnny guy isn’t giving you a hard time, is he?”

“Oh, no,” you reply. “I mean, he’s been calling, but I haven’t answered. I was actually just looking for Bra- uh, Rooster.”

Maverick hesitates for a moment, his eyes reading you like you’re an open book with size forty-eight print. Every emotion on your face so easily distinguishable.

“He’s not here,” he finally says. “He left a little while ago. Not sure where he was headed, though,”

You take a deep breath to try and wrangle your nerves. You need to calm the fuck down. “Did he say anything to you?”

“About what?”

“Last night.”

The tiniest of smirks lifts the corner of Mav’s mouth. “He said that asshole you’re dating kicked you out of the car and left you stranded.”

You nod once, brows raised as if asking for more.

“He also said that he might have overstepped a little.”

You lift your hands to your face and groan into them, frustration and anxiety seeping from every pore in your body.

“I’m going to ask again,” Maverick says. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head, face still hidden in your hands. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You hesitate, trying to think of all the consequences that could possibly come from telling Maverick your problems. When you finally pull your hands away, they’re wet with tears.

You sniffle, looking up at the captain. “Yes please.”

He steps aside and ushers you in, offering you drinks and snacks as he guides you through to the back patio. You take a seat in the most comfortable looking wicker chair and catch a whiff of Bradley’s cologne, which only causes more tears to fill your eyes.

Maverick quickly joins you with a pitcher of water and two cups, and a box of tissues. “I’m going to start charging you kids for these therapy sessions,” he sighs.

A wet laugh leaves your lips as you press a few tissues to your face. “Sorry Mav.”

He chuckles. “Don’t be.”

After a minute, you manage to calm down enough to tell Maverick everything, even though he already knows a lot of it. You tell him about the first time you saw Bradley, the first time you realised why you felt a certain way around him, and the first time you had a feeling Bradley might feel the same. You fill in all the gaps about your family that Maverick missed when he was flying in and out on assignments, and you tell him all about the years that he and Bradley didn’t speak. You even tell him about your father, how he never liked Maverick and later threatened you with ruining Bradley’s career.

By the time you finish, you feel so light you could float. You’ve stopped crying, and you realise now that all the weight on your chest had been put there by your father. The same father who hasn’t given you more than a minute of his attention since the day he told you not to go near Bradley Bradshaw.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Maverick sighs at the ground. He has his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands as he stares at the deck beneath his feet.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “My dad is a dick.”

He looks up, frowning. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because he had no reason not to like you, but he did anyway.”

He chuckles. “I’m not a stranger to being disliked, especially by admirals.”

You laugh softly before taking a long swig of water.

“You’re right about him being a dick, though,” he says. “The fact that he ever thought he could tell you who to date is the worst example of parenting I’ve ever heard.”

You laugh again, but it’s more of a snort.

“Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?” Mav asks. “What about your mum?”

You shrug. “I was scared, and I loved Bradley too damn much to risk anything.”

His lip lifts into a smirk. “Be that as it may, your father has no right to threaten Bradley’s career.”

“What do you mean?”

Maverick chuckles now, elbows still leaning on his knees as he clasps his hands together. “Do you think that I would still be here if one admiral was able to do completely derail someone’s career?”

“Well, no,” you reply.

“Exactly.” He sits back now. “I don’t blame you for believing him, because that isn’t a threat that anyone would take lightly, but you really don’t need to worry. Bradley is a big boy now, he can stick up for himself, and if all else fails, he has a lot of other people on his side.”

You stare down at the empty cup in your hand, processing his words and letting them sink in, letting yourself believe them. “So, you’re saying-”

“You can love Bradley if you want to,” he says. “There might be other consequences for your relationship with your father, but as far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t deserve a relationship with his daughter unless he changes his attitude.”

Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs. “Thanks Mav, for everything.”

He nods. “Any time."

“Just one more thing?”

He quirks a brow, waiting for your question.

“What else did Bradley tell you this morning?”

The laugh that escapes his lips startles you, a wide grin stretched across his face as he pushes to stand. “Well, sweetheart, I think you should just go talk to Bradley yourself.”

You roll your eyes and stand too. “Fine.”

You thank Mav again as he walks you out. He gives you a hug and promises not to tell anyone what you’ve told him, but assures you again that whatever happens, Bradley’s career is safe. You walk off his porch feeling a lot lighter than when you had walked in, and when you get in your car, you pull your phone out and type a text to Johnny.

‘Fuck off.’

Then you block his number and drive home. You decide to give Bradley a little space, because you need to school your own thoughts before you go letting the skeletons dance their way out of the closet. You need to figure out how you’re going to explain yourself, and you need to decide if you actually want to risk the friendship and tell him you’re in love with him.

Just because Maverick got all giddy when you told him you were head over heels for Bradley doesn’t mean he’s definitely in love with you. You were hoping Mav might give you a hint, but he was stubborn, focusing on you and your feelings instead of divulging anything about Bradley’s feelings.

You busy yourself for most of the day with random chores and errands. When the sun starts to set, you settle onto your sofa and take your phone out, typing out a text to Bradley that you’ve been workshopping all afternoon.

‘Thanks again for last night. I appreciate you. What are you doing after work tomorrow?’

You put your phone on silent and toss it across the lounge, nerves creeping across every inch of your skin as you sink into the cushions. You’ve never been nervous to talk to Bradley. In fact, he’s the number one recipient of your usual word vomiting, but right now, you feel like you’re standing on the ledge of a skyscraper wondering if he’ll be there to catch you when you jump. If you jump.

Five days. It’s been five fucking days since you messaged Bradley, and nothing. You’ve only ever gone this long without speaking when he was deployed without access to his phone or reception. To say you were nervous five days ago feels like a joke now. You’ve barely slept, you’ve barely eaten, and you’re pretty sure you’re starting to see things that aren’t there. Had you imagined Bradley this whole time?

“You look tired,” Natasha says the second you open your apartment door.

“Thanks.”

You step aside and allow her to walk in, which she does with a scrunched-up nose. “Do you not have any windows in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you here again?”

She spins on her heel and flashes you a smirk. “To make you feel better, obviously.”

“Doing a bang-up job so far,” you mumble sarcastically.

You move some of the blankets off the lounge to make room for her. You’ve been sleeping there the past few nights, falling in and out of consciousness while the TV plays reruns of old 90s sitcoms. You’re lucky you have the option to work from home, because you're not sure you’d have been able to drag yourself to work at all this week. Instead, you’ve been doing half-assed days at your desk while resisting the urge to put your phone in the blender.

Natasha sits on the lounge while you open your balcony door, letting in the brisk autumn air. “So,” she says, still smirking, “are you ready to feel better?”

You sit down beside her, curling your knees up to your chest. “I feel fine, actually.”

She raises her brows. “You do? Because the last time you missed pool night at The Hard Deck, someone had literally died.”

Shit. You’d completely forgotten about Wednesday night pool. In fact, you’ve forgotten about everything except Bradley, who has apparently forgotten about you.

“Did Rooster go?”

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“See,” she says, her smile widening, “you already feel better.”

You roll your eyes. “Again, I’m totally fine, just-”

“Cut the bullshit,” she interrupts you, her expression turning serious. “I’m not here because I think you’re going to off yourself. I know you’re a big girl who can deal with heartbreak when she has to, but the thing is, you don’t have to.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Ugh,” she groans, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Do you know how painful it is to deal with the two of you when the answer is to all this tension is so simple?”

You wait a beat, letting her have her moment that she has clearly been waiting to have.

“I’m not going to tell you something that I don’t know for sure, but I am going to tell you that Rooster is miserable,” she says. “He’s obviously not sleeping, he’s barely eating, and he hasn't strung more than four words together all week. Now, I know something went down, we all do, but I also know that now you’re both just being stubborn.”

You frown and open your mouth, but she holds a hand up to stop you.

“I’m not done.”

You roll your lips and nod once.

“I know I haven’t known either of you nearly as long as you’ve known each other,” she continues, “but I think I know you both well enough to know that you’re better together than you are apart. Whether or not that means marriage and babies, I don’t care. All I care about is that two of the most important people in the world to me don’t lose each other, because it’s kind of fucking obvious that you two are soulmates… or whatever.” She tacks on that last part with a wave of her hand, clearly becoming uncomfortable with the mushy stuff.

You push your bottom lip into a pout. “Aw, Nat,” you coo. “Bob was wrong, you do have a heart.”

Her brows dip into a scowl. “What did that fucker say about my heart?”

You roll your eyes and ignore her question, leaning across the couch to wrap your arms around her. She hesitates but hugs you back, rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. Natasha isn’t the most affectionate person, but she knows how to be there for her friends.

“Wait.” You pull back. “It’s Friday, why aren’t you at work?”

“They needed someone to cover a weekend, so Mav gave me today off.”

“Oh,” you nod before falling back into the couch.

“What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “Bradley might be miserable and all, but he’s still avoiding me. I’ve messaged him and called him, but he keeps ignoring me.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. “I thought he might be. He’s been avoiding every conversation where your name comes up.”

You roll your eyes. Not that you blame him. From his point of view, you look like a pretty big idiot. You’ve been best friends for over a decade, flirting nonstop for half of that, and yet you keep dating assholes despite giving him all the signals that you’re actually into him.

“I have a plan,” Natasha says, her lips pulling back into a smirk. “You still have security clearance because of your dad, right?”

Twenty minutes and one hot shower later, you’re following Natasha out the door of your apartment and into the elevator. Your stomach flips nervously as the cabin descends, and you start to gnaw at your bottom on the way to her parked car. You haven’t been on the base in years. In fact, you try to avoid it, because you know that your father is there somewhere.

“Don’t be nervous,” Natasha says, glancing at you from behind her sunglasses.

Your eyes are fixed on the road ahead. “Bit hard not to be.”

You don’t live far from the base, and after barely ten minutes of Natasha’s questionable pep talking, the car rolls up to the main gate of North Island Naval Air Station. You both show your identification cards to the security guard in the booth while other guards inspect her vehicle. The butterflies in your stomach haven’t settled from the moment you stepped out of the shower, and now you’re starting to worry that the banana you managed to eat for breakfast isn’t going to stay down.

Natasha cruises through the familiar base, parking in one of the expansive staff lots before turning to you with an uncharacteristically wide grin. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good, let’s go.”

You force yourself to open the door and plant your feet on the tarmac. Step by step, you make it around the vehicle to where Natasha is impatiently waiting.

“Come on,” she sighs. “We have to get to there before they’re called in for the weekly debrief.”

You take a deep breath and force some confidence into your voice. “Okay, okay. Just a little anxious about doing the one thing I’ve spent a good chunk of my life specifically not doing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, very big deal. Now hurry up!”

Another deep breath has you feeling a little more human, more confident and grounded. You walk beside Natasha with a little more courage, gazing around at the huge buildings and looping roads. You haven’t been on the base in years because of your father. You’ve dated assholes for years because of your father. You’ve hurt the only boy you’ve ever loved because of your father.

Anger starts to bubble in your stomach as Natasha raises her wrist to check her watch. “Can you run?” she asks.

You nod. “Let’s run.”

The two of you break out into a sprint, shoes smacking against the concrete as Natasha leads the way. You don’t recognise much, not that you ever took special notice of the buildings when you visited with your father, but you do spot the Ford Bronco parked in one of the lots along the way.

“This way,” Natasha says.

You both slow to a jog as you approach one of the hangars. Natasha waves to a couple of the officers, greeting them with a vague explanation for her visit while you zone out and gaze up at the huge structure.

Through the hangar and on the other side where there are long stretches of tarmac and a line up of fighter jets, you find a familiar group. You have to squint to see them properly, all appearing in various states of exhaustion and one still on the ground doing push ups while Hondo counts beside him. The golden-brown head of hair makes your heart skip, and you trip on your own feet as you continue to approach the group.

Mickey notices the two of you first. He grins and waves before nodding once and walking up to each of the others, whispering something in their ears. They each give you a smile and a nod before slowly walking away from the boy doing push ups.

Hondo tips his head when you get closer, and winks. “194… 195… 195.”

“What?” Bradley gasps. “You just-”

“Quiet lieutenant,” Hondo snaps. “You’re going to make me lose count.”

Natasha gives you a subtle thumbs up before skipping off in the same direction as the rest of the squad.

Hondo inches away too, raising his voice to continue counting. “197… 198… 199.”

Your heart thunders within your chest, trying it’s hardest to break free as you watch Bradley sink into his final push up.

“200,” you say.

His arms wobble and his knees hit the concrete just in time to stop himself from falling on his face. When he glances up, sweaty and on all fours, you feel like you could faint.

“Hey,” he mutters. “What are you doing here?”

He sits back on his haunches and dusts his hands together, his eyes honey eyes sparkling under the setting sun.

“What do you think I’m doing here, Bradley?”

He glances around, noticing the absence of his squad. “Trespassing?”

You cross your arms and pop your hip. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” He pushes up and rises to his full height. “Last I checked, you were the one with a penchant for self-destructive behaviours.”

You narrow your eyes. “Define such behaviours.”

“Dating assholes for their money and rank.”

Anger sizzles through your veins, heating your skin and making your fists ball. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, before walking past you.

It takes you a moment to catch up, to find your voice and stamp down the angry monster rearing its horns. Bradley has a right to be angry. You expected him to be angry.

“Bradley,” you call after him.

He keeps walking.

“Rooster!”

He keeps walking.

“Bradshaw!”

His steps falter but he doesn’t stop.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw!” you exclaim. “For fuck’s sake!”

He halts and turns on his heel, his eyes stormy beneath furrowed brows. “You have no authority to pull rank. In fact, it’s kind of illegal and could get your father in some serious trouble.”

“Good!” You cover the ground between the two of you, stopping barely inches from him. “I hope he gets in shit, I hope he gets court martialled, or whatever the fuck it is that happens to you lot when you misbehave.”

His frown softens, curiosity taking over his expression. “What?”

You have to take a deep breath, because standing this close to him has your head spinning. “My dad is an asshole.”

Bradley tips his head. “Well, yeah, but why does that matter right now?”

“Because”– you take half a step back so you don’t hurt your neck looking up at him –“when we were younger, when you got accepted into the TOPGUN programme, he told me that you weren’t good enough for me.”

The muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.

“I didn’t believe him,” you continue quickly, “but he threatened me. Well, he threatened you, your career. He said that if I didn’t get over my stupid crush, he would ruin your career, and I was young and stupid enough to believe that he could.”

His jaw relaxes and his expression softens. “He said he would ruin my career?”

You nod. “I couldn’t let him do that, but I couldn’t lose you either, so I did the only thing I could think of. I started dating assholes that dad would like, so I could stay friends with you. If he thought I was with these other guys, he wouldn’t question how much time I spent with you.”

His eyes go a little glassy. “You dated all those assholes so you could stay friends with me and protect me?”

You nod again, the bridge of your nose stinging as you stare up at the most beautiful man you’ve ever met. “I couldn’t risk him finding out that I’m in love with you.”

Despite the distant sounds of the ocean, the birds chirping, and the hum of machinery, you feel like the world has stopped spinning. You hold your breath, waiting for him to react, to say something.

“In love,” he whispers, “with me?”

You nod for the third time, your voice stuck in your throat with the last breath you’d captured.

“Fuck.” He rubs a hand up his jaw and through his hair, his eyes bouncing around the hangar before returning to yours. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You feel like the elephant sitting on your chest has finally moved, and you let out a long breath.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters. “Because I am so in love with you, it-” He doesn’t finish his sentence before he dips his head and presses his mouth against yours, his hands holding your head.

His lips are as soft as you’d always imagined. They taste like mint and something sweet, and they move against yours in the most perfect way. Your fingers find the material of his flight suit and pull him closer, that rope in your gut demanding his body be against yours as you mouths move together. When he fits against you like he was made to be there, everything finally feels perfect.

“Hurts,” he whispers against your lips. “So in love with you, it hurts.”

“Does it still hurt?” you murmur into his mouth, not letting him more than an inch away from you.

You feel his lips curl into a smile. “A little less now, but you should keep kissing it better.”

He tilts your head back and deepens the kiss, making you gasp against his mouth. Your head spins and your knees give, but Bradley’s hands quickly fall to your waist and keep your body pressed to his.

He chuckles. “I’ve got you.”

“Always have,” you say.

He presses his forehead against yours as you both breathe. You know Bradley, you’ve known him since you were ten, and you know that he is doing exactly what you’re doing right now. He’s telling himself that this is real.

“Do you- um, do you want to come over tonight?” you ask.

In one swift move, his hands drop to the backs of your thighs and he crouches a little before hoisting you up off the ground. You yelp and wrap your legs around his waist, now looking down at his big, beautiful smile.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” he says. “Do we have to wait until then or do you just want to do it in the Bronco?”

You giggle, your cheeks burning. “It’s really weird to hear you say shit like that.”

He chuckles. “Oh, baby, you better get used to it. You’re going to hear a whole lot more come out of my mouth tonight.”

END.

231 notes · View notes

wandascosmic · 3 days ago

Text

typical tuesday night (10)

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

part ten of 'you belong with me' series

summary: basically a wanda series inspired by jim and pam from the office

word count: 1796

tags: swearing, mostly just fun, one-sided pining as usual, sam being insane as usual, wanda and y/n best friendship, y/n may or may not making moves/internally screaming, they're very very cute

taglist: @reginassweetheart @rroyale-109 @marvel-posts @sheriffhaughtearp

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10

“Okay, she had done a background check on me,” Bruce says. “She had it printed out.”

“No way,” you say.

“Yeah,” Bruce nods. “And she was asking me stuff line by line while we were having dinner.”

“That’s unbelievable,” you answer as everyone laughs in agreement.

Suddenly, Wanda walks into the kitchen holding a mug of tea, smiling as she walks over to stand next to you.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Oh, we’re doing worst first dates,” you answer with a smile.

“Oh my god, I win,” Wanda says, eyes widened.

“What?” you laugh.

“Okay,” Wanda starts, and you look over to her curiously. “It was a minor league hockey game, he brought his brother,” she pauses. “A when I went to the bathroom, the game ended. And they forgot about me.”

“Okay, that’s a joke,” Bruce says.

“No,” Wanda shakes her head. “They had to come back for me.”

“Wait, when was this?” you ask.

“Um..it was not that long ago,” Wanda gives a small laugh.

“Wait, no way it was Vision,” Natasha says, putting down her sandwich.

Wanda laughs awkwardly before looking over to you.

You smile, walking in front of her and starting to lead her out. “Want to go play Dwight’s mug basketball?”

Wanda nods with a relieved sigh, following you out eagerly.

You keep a happy expression on your face, because now you finally know why Wanda’s always refused to go to sports games with Vision.

“Shield Industries, this is Wanda,” Wanda answers the phone.

“Wanda, it’s Tony. I need you to go into my office and read some data for me please.”

“Okay,” Wanda says, picking up the book Tony’s requested her to read in his office. “You want me to read the jokes for you?”

“Yes, please,” Tony responds on speakerphone.

“Okay, um, a fisherman is walking down 5th Avenue leading an animal behind him–”

“No, no, nope!” Tony cuts Wanda off. “I already told that joke to Fury earlier at the dinner. Pick another one.”

“Okay. There’s a transcript between a Naval ship–”

“Oh, yeah! Bingo,” Tony says. “Great, thanks, Wanda!”

“Sure,” Wanda says awkwardly. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m good. But would you be able to put all those joke books back where you found them?”

“Sure,” Wanda agrees, hanging up the phone with a sigh.

Opening up the drawer to return the books strewn across Tony’s desk, Wanda’s eye immediately catches a thick stack of paper. Picking it up, Wanda has to cover her mouth to stop from bursting out in laughter.

You’re mindlessly clicking your mouse when suddenly, a huge stack of stapled paper is thrown onto your desk.

Reading the title, your eyes widen as you look over to Wanda who leans against the table casually.

“Is this real?” you ask, near giddy.

“It’s a screenplay,” Wanda pauses. “Starring himself.” “Agent Iron Man,” you read out.

“Of the FBI,” Wanda finishes.

“How long is this?” you laugh, flipping through the pages. “Oh my god, Wanda. Good work.”

Wanda laughs.

“Oh, no way,” you say, finding the last few pages and holding them up. “Drawings.”

“What is that?” Wanda asks.

“Oh, those are drawings,” you respond easily. “In case the writing didn’t really put a picture in your head.”

Wanda snickers, biting her lip to keep from laughing too hard.

“And there he is, in the flesh,” you say, pointing to the drawing. “Agent Iron Man. Now we know what he looks like.”

“So, do we all have our copy of Armored Adventures, by Tony Stark?” you ask the office staff gathered around the conference room table.

Everyone makes a sound of agreement.

“Great, so, let’s get started. I’m gonna be reading the action descriptions,” you say. “And Steve, I would like you to play Captain America, the first Avenger.”

“Oh, cool that’s the name of the character?” Steve asks.

Suddenly, Sam barges into the room, and angered expression on his face. “Okay, you guys should not be doing this,” he states firmly.

“Why not, Sam?” you ask. “This is a movie. This is for all of America to enjoy.”

“You took something that does not belong to you,” he responds.

“Sam.”

“You brought it in here, you made copies–”

“Sam, do you want to play the lead role of Agent Iron Man?” you ask, giving him a questioning look.

Sam pauses.

“Okay, sure.”

“Inside the FBI, Agent Iron Man sits with his feet up at the desk,” you read. “Captain America enters.”

“Tony, you have some messages,” Steve reads.

“Not now!” Sam reads emphatically.

“They’re important,” Steve says.

“Fine, what are they?” Sam asks.

A few moments pass, when suddenly, a knock on the door is heard.

“Vision,” Wanda says, making you turn around suddenly, noticing the man.

Wanda runs up, greeting him with a kiss. “Hey, um, I have to work late,” she says.

Vision gives her an incredulous look, hearing the absurd scene between Spider-Man and Agent Iron Man currently being read in the conference room. “You’re joking, right?”

Wanda shakes her head.

“Agent Iron Man takes out a nine millimeter gun and shoots the cake to bits,” you read.

Sam imitates the shooting of the cake.

“Ha ha ha, Agent Iron Man, you’re so funny,” Peter says.

“A man sitting several seats down who has clown makeup on, turns to Agent Iron Man,” you turn to Bruce. “Bruce, want to play the Joker?”

“Sure,” Bruce nods, clearing his throat. “Agent Iron Man, perhaps you would be more comfortable in my clown car?”

“Yes, perhaps I would, Joker,” Sam says. “Spider-Man, get my luggage.”

“Sorry, I forgot it,” Peter reads.

“God, Spider-Man, you’re a terrible assistant!” Sam reads. “I can’t believe I hired you, Sem.” Sam pauses. “Wait, who’s Sem?”

You turn to Wanda with an amused smile, who matches your expression.

“I don’t think the search and replace works on typos,” Wanda says to you through a burgeoning smile.

“So, Spider-Man is the terrible assistant ‘causing the downfall of the United States?” you ask, holding back your laughter.

“Also known as Sam Wilson,” Wanda chuckles.

You and Wanda look over to Sam, who before your eyes, realizes what Tony has done, making the man throw the script onto the table in anger.

“Okay, you know what, this is stupid. I’m done,” he says, abruptly sitting up from his chair and leaving the conference room.

“Sam, some of us want to keep reading,” you tell him.

Sam turns to you. “Uh, you don’t speak for everyone, Y/N,” he responds, crossing his arms, before turning to the rest of the office. “Okay, announcement. My uncle bought me some fireworks. And anyone who wants to see a real show come outside with me right now.”

“That’s actually a pretty good idea,” you nod, starting to sit up from your chair. “We’ll all take a brief intermission.” You turn to Wanda. “Hey, are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Wanda says, grateful you’ve asked.

“Yeah?” you ask. “Okay, come with me.”

While you may have had plans to meet a friend tonight, which you’ve now had to cancel, spending your evening preparing grilled cheese sandwiches for you and Wanda in the office kitchen isn’t something you’re upset at whatsoever. In fact, you would say it’s pretty great, and you’re not really a complainer either.

“Hi,” Wanda says, greeting you as you make your way up the ladder to the roof of the building, holding a box of accessories for the two of you as you watch the fireworks together.

“Hey,” you laugh, setting the box down before making your way to sit in the chair next to hers. “What’s that for?” you ask, pointing to the candle she’s attempting to light.

“For the bugs,” she answers easily.

“Nice,” you nod, before turning to grab the sandwiches you’ve prepared. “That’s great, because bugs, tend to love my famous grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“Them and me both,” Wanda laughs, grabbing the plate you’ve made for her. Then, after a moment, she speaks, “I can’t remember the last time someone made me diner.”

You pause, before grabbing your sandwich from the bag as well.

“Oh, look,” Wanda points to the fireworks Sam’s beginning to light. “Wow,” you say, finally enjoying something Sam has created in the 7 years you’ve known him.

“They’re really nice,” Wanda states, before resting her head on your shoulder as the two of you spend the evening watching the sparkling lights together.

“They really are,” you say quietly.

“So, I guess I’ll see you in,” Wanda pauses to check her phone. “10 hours,” she grins.

“Mhm,” you nod, following her out the building.

“What are you gonna do with your time off?” she jokes.

“Travel,” you answer easily with a nod. “I’ve been looking forward to it.” You smile. “I’m gonna really find myself, you know?” you finish, fishing your phone out of your pocket and putting in one of your earbuds.

Wanda looks over to you curiously. “You have new music?” she asks.

You look down to your phone. “Oh, yeah! Want to listen?” You offer her the other earbud.

Wanda nods, smiling as you hand her the earbud she immediately places in her ear, the two of you standing within inches of each other as you share your song.

“Wanda,” you run up to her desk excitedly the second you walk in the next day.

“Yeah?” Wanda laughs.

“I think Tony might’ve gotten together with someone from corporate last night,” you say, making Wanda gasp. “He didn’t come back for his car.”

“Oh, my god, that makes so much sense! That’s why Tony had me read out his stupid jokes over the phone,” she says in realization.

“Well, good for him. I don’t think he’s had a first date, in like ever,” you laugh, before looking over to her. “You know, some might say we even had our first date last night,” you smile.

“Oh really?” Wanda asks. “Why might some say that?”

“Uh, ‘cause there was dinner. By candlelight,” you answer.

“Mhm,” Wanda nods.

“Dinner and a show, if you include Tony’s movie,” you continue. “There was a bit of dancing, and fireworks. So, pretty good date.” “We didn’t dance,” Wanda says, chuckling.

“You’re right,” you say, suddenly feeling very awkward as you put your hands in your pockets. “But um, it was more like, swaying.”

“Right,” Wanda says. “Pretty good first date with you.”

You perk up. “Thanks.”

“Mhm,” Wanda nods. “Now, I have some faxes to get out, okay?” she says, standing up from her chair, giving you a kiss on the cheek before heading to the fax machine.

You smile, watching her leave, forgetting for a moment that it truly isn’t a date if the girl goes home to her fiancé at the end of the day.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff angst #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wandamaximoff #wanda maximoff fluff #marvel mcu #mcu #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wanda marvel

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amypihcs · 2 days ago

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Took me a CENTURY to write this, but finally i'm decently satisfied with it!

I love this art, OP, it's really magnificent! Hope you'll like this tiny fic!

A simple life.

Dr Watson rolled his eyes again as Mr Holmes, at his arm, renewed his protests about their outing.

“It is you who insisted on not having a housekeeper.” Remarked Watson.

“Of course. I did not leave our home in Baker Street to behave myself around you.” Replied Holmes, undeterred.

“So we need to take care of the house and this includes taking care of the groceries. Together, Holmes.”

The detective sighed and acquiesced, still muttering under his breath about leaving his experiment.

The doctor smiled. “Oh, but cheer up, Holmes! It is a wonderful autumn day!”

“It’s freezing.”Answered Holmes a smile about his lips, just for the fun of arguing.

Dr Watson laughed at the quip and squeezed Holmes’ arm against his ribs. “Now, darling, don’t be dramatic. And remember your own deductions on Mr Parker.” He winked.

Holmes chuckled softly. “I have also promised you not to test any deduction of that kind, my dear. If Mr Parker is an invert, he certainly has good taste: he can’t take his eyes off you.”

Dr Watson laughed at the detective’s flirt and shushed him playful, pointing then at some detail of the countryside so as to cheer his partner up.

As in most of their trips to get groceries, it was Watson the one who actually took care of choosing their food and Holmes mostly worked as a porter, a very vocal and curious one.

“My dear boy, what sort of inhuman amount of food are you planning for.” Snickered the retired detective, holding onto the pumpkin Watson had pushed in his hands while he browsed the rest of the vegetables on sale.

Watson chuckled. “Should I remind you again that two adult men must eat to live, old man? – He asked rhetorically. – It’s autumn, and we can do a lot of delicious things with pumpkins, and they’ll do you good. Especially now that you’ve somehow taken to eating even less meat than earlier.”

Sherlock Holmes shrugged. “Meat is just quite a bit too heavy, I told you already. I don’t think we actually need to eat as much of it as certain people do, I find my mental energies much less impaired by a vegetable dish than a meat one.”

Dr Watson snickered again, locking his eyes with their green-grocer friend’s and exchanging a look with him.

“Ah, Mr Holmes. You can’t seriously believe that food impairs one’s mental processes!” Laughed Mr Parker, his incredulity painted on his features.

Holmes gave a bark of laughter and the doctor sighed deeply as the detective launched in his explanation.

“As we both know, Holmes, – interrupted at some point Dr Watson. – food is essential to the work of the brain and indeed of the body. I shan’t remind you of the times you fainted on a case, old man, or should I?”

Holmes huffed comically, as their friend hid a smile under his moustache. “This is for my protests, isn’t it?”

“Only partially, my dear Holmes, only partially. It’s also because you’ve been quite cavalier about your meals recently. And it shows.”

“You truly are biassed, dear boy. – Huffed Holmes, barely restraining himself from circling his husband’s waist. – I shall bow to your desire for food then, if only to make you stop worry.” He smiled.

Dr Watson chuckled again, now together with Mr Parker. “Thank you for such concession, old man.”

Holmes grinned a well-known mischievous grin. “Ah, we’ll see to my payment later.” He smirked as Watson paid for their shopping, almost making him choke on saliva to stop himself from laughing.

He coughed a bit to regain composure. “Sure thing old man. We shall indeed see about it at home.” He replied in a low growl that made some blood rush at Holmes’ gaunt cheeks.

Dr Watson grinned at the sight, and took his leave from the market stand with all his best London cordiality, Holmes’ arm safely in the crook of his elbow and every intention of paying his darling back for his concession and his impertinence.

And patience if the transaction might lead to a slightly delayed lunch, they would be very much able to cope.

Sussex fall market 1910

Sorry for late autumn pic

#my fic #not my art #fanfic #beeretirement #sherlock holmes #john watson #victorian husbands #sussex retirement #flirting

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starsjulia · 22 hours ago

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when the light went out // leah williamson

a/n : i listened to let down by radio head while writing this, so if you need to understand the vibe of the fic i think that explains it all, also there’s an amazing series called broken vows on here but about ap and this is kinda the opposite reaction?

warnings : cheating, angst, depression.

Leah always thought if she ever lost you, it would be in a storm of screaming and shattered glass. She thought you’d fight, that you’d demand to know why she did it, that you’d make her feel every ounce of pain she deserved. She thought you’d cry, curse her name, shove her away, something.

She never thought you’d just… disappear.

Not physically. You were still there, moving through the same rooms, sitting at the same table, answering questions when they were asked. But you weren’t there. Not really.

She could feel it the second you found out. The way the light just flickered out inside you, the warmth drained from your voice. You had been so alive before. You were the kind of person who made a room feel brighter just by stepping into it, who hummed little songs while you made coffee, who danced barefoot in the kitchen just because you could. You were the kind of person who made people feel something, made them want to be better just by being around you.

But the moment you learned the truth, you stopped.

It was late. Leah had barely made it through the door when she saw you sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at your phone, your hands trembling just slightly. She knew, instantly. She didn’t have to ask. She didn’t have to see the message or hear the accusation. It was written all over your face.

You didn’t look at her when you asked, “How long?”

She swallowed hard. “Baby….”

“How long, Leah?”

She couldn’t lie. Not to you. “A few months.”

There was a long, empty silence. She waited for something, anything. She thought maybe you’d scream, maybe you’d throw your phone at her head, maybe you’d cry.

But you didn’t. You just nodded.

And Leah swore she saw something inside you die.

She thought it was shock. That the rage would come later, that the fight would still happen, that she’d wake up the next day and find you sobbing, demanding answers. She would’ve taken it. She deserved it.

But the fight never came.

You weren’t mad. You weren’t anything.

You moved through life like a ghost, floating from room to room, answering questions with empty words.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

At first, Leah thought maybe you were just trying to process it, that you were burying it down so deep it hadn’t hit you yet. But days passed. Then weeks. Then a whole month. And you still didn’t feel anything. You didn’t yell. You didn’t cry. You didn’t talk about it.

You just stopped being you.

You didn’t hum while making coffee anymore. You didn’t dance around the kitchen with your daughter in your arms. You didn’t tease Leah about stupid things. The house felt quiet, even when you were in it.

And it scared the hell out of her.

She caught herself watching you constantly, waiting for some kind of reaction, some kind of spark that would prove you were still in there somewhere. But there was nothing. You weren’t sad. You weren’t happy. You weren’t anything.

Leah thought she could hide it from your daughter. Thought maybe if she held things together long enough, the little girl wouldn’t notice. But kids always see the things adults try to bury.

“Mummy,” she whispered one night, her small voice hesitant, “why is Mama acting so weird?”

Leah’s stomach clenched. She forced a smile. “What do you mean, baby?”

Her little brows furrowed. “She doesn’t smile anymore.”

Leah swallowed past the lump in her throat. “She’s just tired, sweetheart.”

But her daughter wasn’t convinced.

“She doesn’t look tired,” she whispered. “She looks, like gone.”

And Leah? Leah didn’t know how to tell her she felt the exact same way.

It wasn’t until weeks later that she finally brought up the divorce. She didn’t want to. God, she didn’t want to. But she didn’t see another way. You were already gone in every way that mattered, and even though it broke her apart, she knew she had to let you go.

You were sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV, when she finally forced the words out. “I think we should talk about the divorce.”

She braced herself for some kind of reaction. Maybe you’d flinch. Maybe you’d argue. Maybe you’d break down and finally let her see what you were feeling.

But you didn’t even blink.

You nodded once. “Okay.”

That was it. No questions. No hesitation. No why now? Just okay.

And Leah had never hated herself more.

She knew she deserved this. She had done this to you. She had taken the brightest thing in her life and snuffed it out. And maybe that was her punishment, to live with the version of you that she created. The one who couldn’t even care enough to hate her.

She had started to believe you weren’t capable of breaking anymore, that maybe this was just who you were now. That you would never feel again.

But one night, long after your daughter had gone to sleep, Leah woke up to something she hadn’t heard in months. A sound she almost didn’t recognize.

You were sobbing.

At first, she thought she imagined it. But then she heard it again, broken, muffled cries coming from the bathroom down the hall.

Leah’s stomach twisted painfully as she pushed the door open.

And there you were.

Curled up on the cold tile floor, hands gripping your own arms like you were trying to hold yourself together, tears spilling down your cheeks so hard you could barely breathe.

Leah’s breath caught. “Baby….”

But as soon as she spoke, your head snapped up, your eyes wide and terrified.

You looked at her like she was a stranger.

And for the first time since she lost you,

She saw you feel.

And it wasn’t anger.

It was grief.

It was the deep, shattering, all-consuming agony of knowing you had lost something you could never get back.

Your hands trembled as you wiped at your face, scrambling to stand, trying so desperately to hide it.

But Leah had already seen.

And for the first time since she lost you, she felt the full weight of what she had done.

And she didn’t know if she could ever fix it.

⸻

#woso #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso imagine #leah williamson imagines #leah williamson x you #leah williamson one shot #leah williamson fluff #angst

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beckubop · 2 days ago

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NSF(W)Dom! Silco headcanons

NSF(W)

Tags: Silco x reader, nsfw, ownership, marking, possessiveness, control, dirty talk, choking, begging

Minors don’t interact!

Note: Hello! I really enjoy writing for you guys! Based on all you answers on mu poll yesterday I figured out you were both interested in Silco following with you shopping and Nsfw headcanons! Majority wanted some nsfw so that’s what I will give you first! I hope you enjoy these nsft headcanons with our dearest Silco!

~ Silco doesn’t just fuck you. He owns you. And he wants you to know it.

~ He doesn’t share. He doesn’t care if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way that day, by the time he’s done, you’ll be marked and ruined beyond recognition.

~ He likes seeing his bruises on your body, scratches down your thighs, bite marks where no one else can see.

~ If he suspects you’re teasing him or being bratty? He’ll grab your chin, force you to look him in the eye, and demand you explain yourself.

~ Silco thrives on control. He decides when, how, and if you get what you want.

~ He’ll make you beg, not because he needs it, but because he loves watching you break.

~“Look at you. So desperate. So pathetic. And yet, you’re still mine.”

~ But just as easily, he flips to praise, whispering filth in your ear about how you belong to him, how perfect you feel, how you were made for him.

~If he’s really lost in it, his voice turns low and breathless,a stark contrast to his usual control.

~ If you’ve pushed him too far, expect him to take it out on you.

~ He doesn’t stop after one round, he keeps pushing, fucking, overstimulating until you’re sobbing into the sheets.

~ Gloved fingers around your throat, whispering threats in your ear about how he’s not done yet.

~ “What’s wrong? You can take one more. You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

~ When you’re a shaking mess, completely spent, he finally stops, pulling you close, his grip still firm, his voice still dangerous. “Next time, don’t test me.”

~ If you’re innocent, shy, or hesitant, Silco takes it as a personal challenge to break you.

~ He’s slow, methodical, whispering every filthy thing he wants to do to you until you’re begging for it.

~ “You don’t even realize what you’re asking for, do you? I should make you beg louder.”

#silco x reader #league of legends x reader #league of legends smut #arcane x you #arcane x reader #arcane fandom #arcane fanfic #arcane #arcane headcanons #arcane smut #silco x fem!reader #silco x f reader #silco x y/n #silco x you #silco #arcane silco #silco x gn reader #silco smut #silco headcanons

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goldfades · 3 days ago

Note

Heyyy!!!!! I loveeee your Luka series, I literally didn’t know this man before you!! I was wondering if you can write a long fic about the crash out couple getting into a fight!! A lot of angst and then a happy ending.. thank youu!!

ouuu you know i cant resist a good angst-to-fluff!!! i hope you enjoy. also so glad to have put you on this sexy man<3

It had been brewing for days.

Little things—missed calls, clipped tones, the kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t easy. The kind that filled the room like static, like something waiting to explode.

You weren’t even sure when it started, not exactly. Maybe it was last week, when Luka was late to dinner. Or maybe it was the other night, when you had a game, and he was supposed to be there, supposed to be courtside like always, but he never showed. He said he was tired, that it had been a long week, but all you could hear was I didn’t feel like coming.

You tried to brush it off at first, to tell yourself it didn’t matter. You weren’t needy. You didn’t need Luka at every game. You were used to doing things alone, used to holding your own.

But this was different.

Because Luka was your person. Luka was the one who showed up, no matter what, no matter how tired he was, no matter where he had to be the next morning. Luka was the one who screamed the loudest when you hit a three, the one who talked so much to the refs that you got fined by association. Luka was the one who gave a fuck, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

And lately, it felt like he was slipping.

He was always somewhere else—on his phone, in his head, anywhere but here. He’d come home late, eyes heavy, voice distracted, answering in hmms and yeahs that barely felt real. And when you called him on it, he brushed it off.

"Nothing’s wrong, mačka. I’m just tired."

But that wasn’t enough. Not this time.

So, yeah, maybe that’s where it started. Maybe it was all those little moments, stacking on top of each other like bricks, until the weight of it all became too much.

It starts small.

It always does.

You’re standing in the kitchen, barefoot, arms crossed over your chest, watching Luka move around like he’s trying to avoid looking at you. His shoulders are tense, the set of his jaw rigid, and you can already tell—he’s not in the mood for this.

But neither are you.

The air between you is thick, charged with something unspoken, something sharp.

You should let it go. You should turn around, leave the room, pretend like everything’s fine. That’s what you would’ve done in the past, when you were still figuring each other out, when you weren’t sure how much Luka could take before he shut down completely.

But it’s different now.

Because this isn’t just a bad mood. This isn’t just exhaustion or frustration over a game. This has been building for weeks, creeping into every conversation, every silence, until you can’t ignore it anymore.

Until you don’t want to ignore it anymore.

"Luka." Your voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, something frayed at the seams.

He exhales, slow and heavy, before finally looking up. "What?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "What? That’s all you’ve got?"

He leans against the counter, rubbing a hand down his face like this conversation is already exhausting him. Like he’s already decided how it’s going to go.

"You wanna fight, huh?" His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s no real humor in it. "That why you’ve been looking at me like that all night?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "Looking at you like that? Luka, I’ve barely seen you all week. You come home late, you barely talk to me, and when you do, it’s like—" You cut yourself off, dragging a hand through your hair. "It’s like I’m pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out of you."

Luka huffs a breath, pushing off the counter. "I’ve been busy. You know that."

"Oh, busy—right," you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Too busy to text me back? Too busy to show up to my game? Or what, too busy to give a shit?"

The second the words leave your mouth, you feel them land. Luka flinches—not much, just a flicker of something in his eyes—but it’s enough. Enough to make your chest tighten, to make you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

But you don’t take it back.

Because fuck that.

You’ve been biting your tongue for too long, letting it slide every time he brushed you off, every time he made you feel like an afterthought.

Luka shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "That’s not fair."

"Isn’t it?" You fold your arms tighter, nails digging into your skin. "Because that’s how it feels, Luka."

He exhales sharply, frustration flashing across his face. "I don’t know what you want me to say."

You step closer, forcing him to look at you. "I want you to say something. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on with you, because I feel like I’m talking to a ghost."

Luka looks away, jaw clenching. "It’s not like that."

"Then what is it like?"

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, feel the way your body is coiled tight, ready to snap.

Luka exhales again, but this time, it’s different. Not exasperated. Not dismissive. Just—tired.

"You don’t get it," he mutters.

Your stomach twists. "Then make me get it."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and something in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s not just anger, not just frustration—it’s something deeper. Something that looks an awful lot like doubt.

"You think I don’t care?" His voice is quiet now, but there’s an edge underneath, something sharp. "You really think that?"

You hold your ground. "You’re the one making me feel like that."

Luka scoffs, shaking his head. "You have no idea what it’s like."

"What what’s like?"

"This." He gestures vaguely, his hands moving like he’s trying to grab the right words out of the air. "Playing like I do, being expected to be—" He stops, exhales sharply. "To be everything all the time."

You blink, momentarily thrown off. "Luka, I—"

"You think I don’t show up for you?" His voice rises slightly now, something defensive creeping in. "I always show up for you. Every game, every moment. But do you have any idea what it feels like to be stretched so thin you don’t even feel like a person anymore?"

Your breath catches. "Luka—"

"You get to be pissed at me. You get to yell and fight and say whatever the fuck you want." His voice is raw now, cracking at the edges. "But I don’t get that. Not on the court, not with the team, not with—" He stops, running a hand down his face. "Not with you."

Silence.

Your pulse is hammering. You don’t know what to say.

Because—he’s not wrong.

You do expect him to be there. You do expect him to show up, to fight for you, to be the Luka you’ve always known—loud, passionate, present. But you never stopped to think about what it costs him.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

Maybe you’ve both been keeping score, tallying up moments of disappointment, waiting for the other person to slip first.

You inhale, slow and careful. "Luka—"

But he’s already shaking his head, stepping back like he’s retreating, like this whole conversation is too much. "I don’t wanna fight anymore." His voice is quieter now, tired. "Not with you."

Your chest tightens. "Then talk to me."

Luka sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, finally, he exhales, slow and heavy.

"I don’t know if I can."

And just like that, the ground shifts beneath you.

Because those words? Those words feel a hell of a lot like giving up.

A couple of hours pass.

Luka showers first, steam curling out of the bathroom when he steps into the bedroom with damp hair and a clean t-shirt. He moves through the space quietly, the usual ease of his presence feeling heavier, more careful. He eats in silence, sitting at the counter while you finish up your post-game workout in the home gym. He doesn’t say anything when you pass through the kitchen for a water bottle, and you don’t push him, either.

You know Luka.

You know how he gets when things weigh on him—how he folds into himself, lets things sit heavy on his shoulders before he’s ready to let them out. He doesn’t like to be pushed, doesn’t like to be dragged into a conversation before he’s settled his own thoughts.

So you let him be.

You take your time finishing up, putting your body through the motions, not thinking too hard about the argument still hanging between you. By the time you shower and step into the bedroom, towel-drying your hair, Luka is already sitting on the bed, phone in his hands, but you can tell—he’s not really looking at it.

You pretend not to notice.

Instead, you move to the bathroom, tying your hair back before you start your skincare routine. The mirror is slightly fogged from the heat of your shower, and as you smooth moisturizer over your face, you feel the weight of Luka’s eyes on you.

He hates when you’re mad at him.

You’ve learned that over the years—how he can brush off criticism from fans, the media, even his coaches sometimes, but when it’s you? When he feels like he’s let you down? It sticks with him.

Still, you don’t rush him.

You move through your routine like normal, giving him the space to figure out where to start. It’s only when you cap your moisturizer and reach for your lip balm that he finally exhales, the mattress dipping slightly as he leans forward.

"I hate this."

His voice is quiet, a little rough.

You glance at him in the mirror. "Hate what?"

"This." He gestures vaguely, looking up at you with something raw in his eyes. "Fighting with you. Feeling like this."

Your heart tightens a little, but you keep your face neutral, fingers pausing over the curve of your lip.

"You think I like it?"

Luka shakes his head immediately. "No. I know you don’t."

You cap your lip balm and turn to face him fully, leaning against the sink. "Then what are we doing, Luka?"

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "I don’t know." A pause. "I just—I hate when I can’t make you happy."

You exhale slowly, taking him in—the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, the way his knee bounces just a little, like he’s working off nervous energy.

"You do make me happy," you say, voice softer now. "Luka, you make me so happy."

His brows pull together slightly, like he wants to believe you, but there’s something holding him back.

"But?" he says.

You sigh, stepping forward until you’re in front of him. "But I need you to be happy, too."

His gaze flickers up to yours, something vulnerable in it.

"You've been shutting me out," you continue, keeping your voice steady. "I know you’re stressed, I know it’s a lot, but when you don’t talk to me, I feel like I’m the only one fighting for this."

Luka’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down for a moment, fingers tracing the seam of his shorts. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"I don’t mean to shut you out."

You nod, waiting.

He exhales, eyes flicking to yours again. "I just—I get in my head, you know? And I feel like if I start talking about it, it’s just gonna sound like I’m complaining. And I don’t wanna do that. I don’t wanna bring all that shit home to you."

Your heart squeezes at the honesty in his voice.

"Luka," you say softly, reaching for his hands. He lets you take them, your fingers threading together easily, naturally. "I want you to bring it home to me. That’s what this is. That’s what we are."

His fingers tighten around yours slightly. "I know. I just—sometimes I feel like I gotta be everything for everyone. And when I can’t, when I feel like I’m falling short, it’s—" He exhales sharply. "It’s easier to shut down than admit I can’t do it all."

You nod, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles. "I get that. I really do. But, baby—you don’t have to do it all. Not alone."

Luka exhales again, this time a little shakier. He squeezes your hands, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"I really am sorry."

You feel it in your chest, the way he means it.

"I know," you say.

He looks at you for a moment, searching, like he’s trying to find reassurance that this—you—are still solid beneath him.

Then, finally, he tugs you forward, arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face against your stomach. You exhale as your hands slip into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp.

His voice is muffled against you. "Are we okay?"

You sigh, threading your fingers through his damp hair. "Yeah, Luka. We’re okay."

He tightens his hold around you, and for the first time in weeks, you feel him fully there.

Luka stays like that for a while, his arms wrapped around your waist, his face pressed against you like he’s anchoring himself. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the weight of everything he’s been carrying slowly start to lift. His breathing evens out, and when he finally looks up at you, there’s something softer in his eyes, something open.

"You sure we’re okay?" he murmurs, like he just needs to hear it again.

You cup his face, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. "Yeah, baby. We’re okay."

His hands slide up your back, pulling you fully onto his lap like he needs you close. You settle against him easily, arms draped around his shoulders. It feels like the tension from earlier has finally melted away, leaving only the two of you, just you and Luka, in the quiet of your bedroom.

"I really hate when we fight," he admits, voice low.

"I know." You sigh, resting your forehead against his. "But we’re always gonna be okay, Luka. You know that, right?"

He nods, exhaling. "I know. I just—" His hands tighten around your waist. "I don’t ever wanna let you down."

"You don’t."

His lips twitch slightly, like he wants to believe you but still needs convincing.

"Even when I act like an ass?" he asks, tilting his head.

You snort. "Even then."

Luka huffs out a small laugh, his grip around you tightening as he buries his face against your shoulder. "I don’t deserve you."

"That’s true," you tease, running your fingers through his hair again. "But I’m keeping you anyway."

He grins against your skin, pressing a lazy kiss to your collarbone before leaning back to look at you fully. His hands skim down your sides, his thumbs rubbing slow, absentminded circles against your skin.

"I love you," he says, quiet but firm. Like a promise.

You smile, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you too."

His arms wrap around you fully, pulling you into a deeper embrace. You can feel the shift in him—the weight he’d been carrying has lifted, his body no longer heavy with stress. He holds you like he knows this, knows that at the end of everything, it’s always going to be you and him, no matter what.

"You wanna sleep?" you murmur, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Luka groans dramatically, flopping back onto the bed and taking you with him. "Not yet."

You laugh as he tightens his grip around you, rolling you both onto your sides. "You’re like a giant teddy bear."

"A very handsome teddy bear," he corrects, smirking.

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away, instead nestling closer against him, your fingers tracing light patterns along his arm. The exhaustion from the day finally starts to settle into your body, but there’s a peace in it now, in the warmth of his hold, in the steadiness of you and him.

"Love you," he murmurs again, his voice already laced with sleep.

"Love you more," you whisper, pressing one last kiss to his jaw before finally letting yourself drift off.

And just like that, the fight from earlier feels like nothing but a distant memory—just another storm weathered together, another testament to the fact that no matter what, you and Luka always find your way back to each other.

#luka doncic #luka doncic x reader #luka dončić #luka dončić x reader #nba x reader

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satsugacafe · 2 days ago

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𝐀𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀 𝐒𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞…

➳❥ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: Aizen headcanon with reader who is his younger sister?will he keep her out of his plan, or vaguely update her? Will he make her play a role? Will he betray her if she's weak or does not go along with his plan or his viee of the world? Will he care for her? Be protective of her? Or just let her be on her own? Will he be gentle with her or indifferent towards her? If she's weak would he hold disdain/disappointment towards her? Will he spoil her? Or not even bother with her? Would he be an active borther in her life? Would she even know she has a brother?

➳❥ 𝐀/𝐍: I had a ball of a time writing this, though I feel so sorry for his sis 😔 (cuz not like I conjured this to be sad)

➳❥ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Aizen by himself is a warning, negligence, loneliness, subtle threats

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

˚₊‧꒰ა Aizen always had a knack for keeping secrets, and his younger sister was perhaps the best-kept one of all. Hardly anyone in Soul Society even knew you existed. He ensured it stayed that way—not out of shame or indifference, but because he understood the dangers of the world far better than most. Protecting you meant keeping you out of sight, out of reach, and most importantly, out of his way.

˚₊‧꒰ა You weren’t raised in the shadow of your brother’s ambitions. If anything, you were raised almost separately from him. Aizen made sure you were kept safe and comfortable, but he rarely visited in person. Letters arrived now and then, formal and distant, carefully worded so as not to betray too much. They were more akin to a noble’s formality than warm notes from a sibling.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Be well,” he would often sign off with, nothing more. No sentiment, no real concern, just a vague, clinical wish for your wellbeing. At least, that’s how it came across.

˚₊‧꒰ა Yet, despite his cold exterior, there was care buried beneath. You were one of the few people he did care for in his own way. That’s why he kept you in the dark about most of his plans. If you remained ignorant, you couldn’t interfere, and more importantly, you couldn’t be used against him.

˚₊‧꒰ა He never intended for you to play a role in his grand vision. You weren’t a pawn to be moved across the board. And in Aizen’s mind, you were more like a keepsake he kept locked away, safe from the chaos he intended to unleash on Soul Society.

˚₊‧꒰ა However, you weren’t blind to his true nature. You’d seen glimpses of it over the years—the way he could manipulate those around him with honeyed words, the calculated glint in his eyes when he spoke of Soul Society’s shortcomings. You suspected he wasn’t the dutiful Shinigami everyone believed him to be.

˚₊‧꒰ა “You’ve changed,” you remarked once when he finally visited you in person after years of silence. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a quiet calculation as he studied your, like he was assessing your usefulness.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Change is inevitable,” he replied smoothly, offering you a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The world changes, and we must adapt accordingly.” You didn’t trust that smile. There was never a need to anymore.

˚₊‧꒰ა There was always a lingering question in your mind: would he discard you if you didn’t live up to his expectations? Were you too weak, too naive, too stubborn to follow him down whatever dark path he was walking?

˚₊‧꒰ა The answer wasn’t clear. Aizen wasn’t one to show disappointment openly, nor did he seem to hold people to impossible standards. Yet there was always a risk with him—the risk that he would decide whether or not you were a liability rather than an asset.

˚₊‧꒰ა In truth, he didn’t want your involved in his plans at all. He saw your as separate from the rest of the world he intended to reshape. You were a piece of his past, a reminder of a simpler time before his ambitions took root.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Stay out of this,” he told your once, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The path I’ve chosen is not one you need to walk.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “And if I don’t stay out of it?” you challenged.

˚₊‧꒰ა For a moment, something flickered in his gaze—irritation, perhaps, or frustration at your defiance. But then his expression softened, and he sighed.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Then you will make things far more difficult than they need to be,” he said quietly. “For both of us.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He wasn’t cruel to you. If anything, he was unusually gentle compared to how he treated others. He never raised his voice or spoke harshly. But there was always a distance between them, an invisible wall he maintained to keep your at arm’s length.

˚₊‧꒰ა If you showed signs of strength—spiritual pressure, combat ability, intelligence—he would acknowledge it with a nod or a rare word of praise. “You’ve done well,” he might say, though his tone would remain detached. He wasn’t one to shower anyone with affection, not even his own sister. And it was mostly done to not provoke interest in furthering yourself to prove your worth.

˚₊‧꒰ა But if you proved weak or unwilling to grow stronger, he wouldn’t express disappointment outright. Instead, he would simply let your be, leaving your to your own devices. In his mind, it wasn’t his responsibility to push your beyond your limits. You had to choose that path yourself.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Strength is a choice,” he once told your during one of their rare conversations. “Those who seek it will find it. Those who don’t will be left behind.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Despite his aloofness, he was protective in his own way. If anyone dared to harm your or use your against him, they wouldn’t live to see another day. He would deal with them swiftly and without mercy.

˚₊‧꒰ა “You are one of the few things in this world I refuse to lose,” he admitted once, his voice uncharacteristically sincere. “Do not make me regret that.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Was it a declaration of care, simply a warning to stay out of his way, or to behave?

˚₊‧꒰ა He never spoiled you. Gifts, affection, and indulgences weren’t his way of showing care. Instead, his protection was his way of expressing it. The fact that you remained alive and untouched by his enemies spoke volumes about how much he valued your, even if he rarely said it outright.

˚₊‧꒰ა Over time, you came to accept that your relationship would never be typical. Aizen wasn’t the sort of brother who would dote on your or offer emotional support. He was more like a distant guardian, always watching from the shadows, ensuring you remained safe even as he orchestrated his grand schemes.

˚₊‧꒰ა And yet, there were moments when you caught glimpses of the man he used to be—before his ambitions consumed him. Moments when he spoke softly, his tone free of the usual cold calculation.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Do you remember the fireflies?” he asked once, out of the blue, as you sat together under the night sky. You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. “Of course. We used to catch them when we were children.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Those were simpler times.” For a brief moment, he seemed human again—not the calculating mastermind plotting the downfall of Soul Society, but a brother reminiscing about their shared past.

˚₊‧꒰ა But it never lasted long. The warmth always faded, replaced by the cool, collected mask he wore so well. “Remember those times,” he told your quietly. “But don’t dwell on them. The world has changed, and so must we.”

˚₊‧꒰ა In the end, you knew that he cared for you in his own way. He would never abandon your completely, nor would he betray your trust outright. But he would always prioritise his goals above all else. You weren’t exempt from that.

˚₊‧꒰ა If you ever stood in his way, he wouldn’t hesitate to remove you from the equation—not out of hatred, but out of necessity.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Do not misunderstand me,” he said once as he looked you in the eye. “I will protect you. But I will not tolerate obstacles. Not even from you.” It was both a promise and a warning—a reminder that while he cared for your, his ambitions came first. Always.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @stygianoir @edensrose @spellboundsuguru @cactimorada @kennys-partner @cookielovesbook-akie @sovl-society

©satsugacafé 2025: no permission to repost, plagiarise, copy or translate my work onto any other platform or this one.

#˚₊‧꒰ა satsugacafé ໒꒱ ‧₊˚#aizen x sister!reader #aizen x reader #aizen x you #aizen x y/n #aizen sosuke x reader #aizen sosuke imagine #aizen sosuke scenario #aizen headcanons #bleach x reader #bleach x you #bleach imagines #bleach x y/n #bleach headcanons

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alittlegiraffe · 1 day ago

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hii, i love ur stories! your writing is perfection. i have an idea for a story, you don’t have to do it if you dont want to.

could it be marshall’s and y/n anniversary, y/n forgets because she’s been busy with work and looking after the kids. marshall remembers the anniversary but is upset that y/n forgot but he didn’t say anything about how he felt. y/n sees he’s upset and comforts him with her love.

Title: "Unspoken"

You’d been running around all day, barely stopping to breathe. The kids had been extra energetic, the house was a mess, and between cleaning up spills and breaking up little arguments, you hadn't had a second to yourself. By the time dinner rolled around, you were exhausted, but something felt… off.

Marshall had been quiet. Not in the way he usually was when he was lost in thought, but in a way that made your stomach twist. He answered when you spoke to him, helped get the kids settled, even kissed your temple when he walked past—but there was a distance.

It was only when you finally sat down, the house quiet, that it hit you. Your anniversary.

Your breath caught in your throat.

How could you forget?

Your heart pounded as you glanced at him across the room. He was sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together, staring at the floor like he was deep in thought.

“Marshall?” Your voice was soft, careful.

He looked up, his blue eyes locking onto yours. “Yeah?”

Guilt twisted in your gut. You stood, crossing the room to sit beside him. “I…” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I forgot, didn’t I?”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then, he exhaled through his nose, giving a small shrug. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

“Marshall.” You reached for his hand, but he didn’t move to hold yours like he usually would. That made your stomach drop. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I—”

“It’s fine.” He said it again, but his jaw was tight, his fingers flexing like he wanted a cigarette but knew better.

You studied him, your chest aching. He wasn’t the type to make a big deal out of anniversaries. Hell, half the time, he was the one who forgot. But this year was different. You should’ve realized that.

This was his first anniversary sober. The first one he actually cared about.

“Marshall…” You tried again, softer now. “Talk to me.”

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”

“That’s not true.” You reached for him again, and this time, he let you take his hand. “You’re upset.”

His fingers tightened around yours, his head dropping forward. “I just… I guess I thought this year would be different,” he admitted, his voice quiet, raw. “I never gave a fuck before, so it never mattered. But now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Guess it’s stupid.”

Your throat tightened. “It’s not stupid,” you whispered.

He was trying. He had been trying so damn hard, and you’d been too caught up in everything else to see what today meant to him.

You shifted closer, lifting a hand to cup his face. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a second before he let out a slow breath.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” you murmured. “I should’ve remembered.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, his fingers brushed over your wrist, a silent forgiveness.

“You’re here now,” he muttered. “That’s what matters.”

You weren’t going to let this moment pass. You weren’t going to let him feel like he was alone in this.

“Let me make it up to you,” you whispered. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

His eyes darkened just slightly, something else flickering in them now. Possession. Need.

“You sure about that?” His voice was low.

You nodded.

Marshall gave a slow smirk, but there was something softer beneath it. “Then come here.”

And you did.

You barely had time to react before Marshall pulled you into his lap, his arms locking around you like he needed to feel you close. His grip was firm, possessive, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to.

“I hate that I forgot,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against his.

He let out a breath, his hands sliding up your back. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, the edge of frustration giving way to something more vulnerable. “Me too.”

Your fingers tangled in the short hair at the back of his head. “I love you.”

His jaw clenched, his arms tightening just slightly. He hadn’t pulled away from you, hadn’t told you it was fine again, but you could feel how much it had hurt him. The fact that he’d never cared before made it worse—because now, he did.

You cupped his face, tilting it up so he had to look at you. His blue eyes were darker in the dim light, sharp but uncertain, like he didn’t know how to tell you what he needed.

So you told him instead.

“I should’ve known this was important to you,” you whispered. “I won’t forget again.”

He exhaled slowly, his fingers digging into your hips. “Good.” His voice was rough, but his touch softened, tracing slow circles against your skin. “’Cause I’m never lettin’ you forget again.”

A small smirk played on your lips. “Oh yeah?”

His expression shifted—still serious, still raw, but there was something else there now. That quiet, unspoken obsession that lived between you both. The way he needed you, even when he didn’t say it out loud.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw, then your neck. “You’re mine, right?”

Your breath hitched. “You know I am.”

He hummed against your skin. “Then prove it.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t asking for an apology—he was claiming you, reminding you what you meant to him. And you weren’t about to deny him that.

You tilted his chin up, pressing your lips against his in a slow, deep kiss. He groaned against your mouth, his hands pulling you impossibly closer, like he wanted to sink into you completely.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips.

Marshall’s grip tightened. “Say it again.”

You smiled softly, brushing your nose against his. “I love you, Marshall.”

His exhale was shaky, like those words settled something deep inside him.

“Yeah,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Love you too.”

And just like that, the weight of the night melted away.

Tomorrow, you’d make it up to him. You’d give him the anniversary he deserved. But for now, you stayed wrapped up in him, letting your love speak in the way only the two of you understood.

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader #gracie answers

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elene78-blog · 2 days ago

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Jeremy's past and what he's going through are far worse than we think, and Nora is saving the final straw for last.

Joshua's call and Jeremy's reaction, dropping the phone and seeking comfort from Laila? Laila's own desperate reaction, asking him not to answer?

Jeremy has dodged this search for comfort since TSC, but here Laila seems desperate, and Jeremy is actively seeking her arms. My opinion is that this message and her relationship with Joshua is far worse than we think, so much so that Jeremy can't keep his walls up.

You want proof? Joshua doesn't appear, except in dramatic mentions...

Just like Drake.

Just like Grayson.

Just like Zane.

We all know what happened the one time they appeared outside of flashbacks or mentions. This is Nora's trademark for villains beyond Riko. They are isolated mentions, something that does not catch our attention, and suddenly they shake the lives of the protagonists like a hurricane to discover the truth.

Do we need more proof? All the main characters in AFTG have their Mount Everest they're terrified of, something they can't face alone. Each one has their own monster.

Andrew had Drake.

Neil had Nathan.

Kevin had Riko.

Jean had Riko and Grayson.

And Jeremy?

He's not any of the current Wilshires because he's already interacted with everyone and wasn't terrified to impossible levels of any of them. Only Joshua remains.

My theory is that Joshua isn't with his grandfather because he wants to, but because he tried to kill Jeremy after what happened with Noah, and that's why Laila begs Jeremy not to pick up the phone so scared. She confronts Bryson without flinching because Bryson isn't the real threat, Joshua is, and she knows it.

Joshua blamed Jeremy for absolutely everything and became Jeremy's Zane/Grayson (not because he raped him, but because he's his personal nightmare). He tried to hurt Jeremy like a rabid dog until the Wilshires had to intervene to prevent the scandal of a son killed by a brother. Not another scandal. But Joshua continued threatening and torturing Jeremy until they had to send him away so he wouldn't try anything else and forget he wanted to kill Jeremy while they watched him.

But Jeremy (my poor boy) also feels guilty about this.

His brother, the one who loved Noah the most (and whom he also loves despite his cruelty), is now alone because of him and far from home. His mother is also saddened by this, and Jeremy writes to Joshua trying to seek his forgiveness. He needs to mend fences. He begs and pleads for forgiveness so he can come home and everything can get better. To achieve redemption...

And Joshua always responds the same. "If I see you again, I'll kill you."

And that, along with other nice things, is what Joshua says to Jeremy on the phone.

The person who keeps Jeremy from moving forward and knocks him down time and time again is Joshua, who wants him dead.

But also, based on Laila's reaction, I think Joshua attacked Jeremy or psychologically destroyed him to abysmal levels, and this is what Jeremy can't escape. This hatred directed at him. Since Joshua isn't there to torture him as he believes he deserves, it's Jeremy who hurts himself with sex and degradation.

There are more secrets here, Your Honor.

Joshua is going to appear in the third book, and it's going to be a bloodbath.

#the golden raven #all for the game #the sunshine court #jeremy knox #tgr #tsc #aftg #joshua wilshire #tgr spoilers #bryson wilshire #jean moreau #jerejean

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bidisasterevankinard · 2 days ago

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My fees are competitive

bucktommy/ m/ 1051 words / blowjob, semi-public sex in helicopter

Buck and Tommy roleplay their harbor tour, but this time Buck finds out how competitive Tommy's fees are

Read under cut or on ao3

It was Evan's idea to role play their second meeting with a different ending. Not that Tommy was not loving this idea.

He especially enjoys it now when Evan is again moving in front of him, giving Tommy a good view of his ass that this time put in such tight jeans he suspects would need to be cut off his boyfriend's legs.

Even if this pair will fall as collateral damage of Tommy’s lust, they’d be always in his heart for providing him such an eye candy of Evan’s perfect little ass.

Almost losing himself in ogling Evan’s body, Tommy has only half of his mind to try to make the dialogue the same as they had that day almost a year ago, and he thinks he does a good job, judging by Evan’s beaming smile.

And when finally they reach this moment he was waiting for so long, Tommy can’t stop himself from smirking, already feeling the ghost of Evan’s lips on his.

“Sure. My fees are competitive,” he smiles for a second letting his eyes fall to Evan’s plush lips.

“Y-yeah?” Evan bushfully smiles at him with a head tilt, playing obvious boy so good, “how competitive?”

“For pretty boys like you,” Tommy comes closer just one step from pining Evan with his body to the helicopter behind them. He licks his lips, letting his eyes slip to Evan’s pink lips, “really good price list.”

Evan audible swallows. “H-how much for the first lesson?”

Tommy makes that last step, cupping his face with his big hand. His thumb is playing with a slutty bottom lip.

“It depends on how much you want that lesson with me. And what is your goal?”

Evan’s eyes are glued to his lip, absentmindedly starting to lick his thumb.

Tommy simply smirks, pushing it deeper and then taking it from him just as quickly, smearing his saliva on those soft, basically silk, lips. He wants to ravish them and make them red. With his white marking them.

“What are your answers, pretty boy?”

“I,” Evan’s Adam’s apple bobs , “w-want it with you, Tommy,” he nods enthusiastically, with his breath erratic, “I want your attention.”

“Awww, pretty boy, you have it now.”

Grabbing Evan’s chin he kisses his man, pushing him to the helicopter, happy he chose the place for his personal one out of sight completely. No one would be able to see more than Evan’s legs near the machinery.

Biting Evan’s lip, Tommy commands, “get into the helicopter. Time for you to pay. I take only prepayment.”

The door is barely open when Tommy pushes Evan in, sitting on the back seat. He grabs Evan’s hips, making him sit on his laps, and attacks his lips again.

They are like bait for him. Always work as best at blowing his mind and get him wild. Evan can merely suck on the pen when he writes down something and Tommy has a raging bone that needs to be taken off with this slutty mouth or no less slutty hole.

And kisses? Tommy never loved kissing so much as with Evan. Maybe because before Evan he barely had a reason to actually enjoy it. For decades the kisses with people he actually wanted it with was a huge forbidden area. Even one thought made him anxious and nauseous. And then it was mindless hookups he tried to kiss as little as he could and boyfriends who believed kisses should lead somewhere and actually it was teenagers.

With Evan he can kiss for hours even when he isn't interested in ending it with orgasm. He can just kiss and kiss and kiss, showing his love and devotion and get it back.

Unfortunately, both Evan and he still don't know the secret for breathing without air, so they can continue kissing each other even when all the oxygen is out of their lungs. They should invent their own gas. And find the wait to create it when they kiss.

Evan licks his neck, taking his shirt and henley off, leaving him half naked.

“Like what you see, pretty boy?”

Evan nods, striping too and with some careful adjustments gets on his knees, looking up at him.

“Take me out and show your skill, sweetheart.”

Not waiting for anything else, Evan unzips his jeans and gets it and his boxers under his dick.

“Do you need me to use a condom or you will swallow our evidence?” he tugs lightly on the curls that definitely weren't there a year ago, but he’s happy they are here now. He’s just a man and his pretty boy is gorgeous with brown locks that like blazing fire when the sun hits them right.

Evan shakes his head with his eyes crazy and zeroing only on his groin.

“Help yourself then.”

He needs to bite his fist from the warm feeling of Evan’s mouth, when man swallows him whole like Tommy has a little lollipop and not a huge cock.

His baby trained a lot for it, he knows. Now he loves to show off.

Maybe Tommy will even take him somewhere where he fuck his throat for others to see. Let then a moment to see the absolutely perfect boy on his cock, swallowing it like it’s nothing.

“Like that boy,” he finally finds his composure, taking Evan only to his head and making him suck his tip, not reacting to begging with sad eyes. “You’re so skillful, pretty thing. You really want to be my favorite student, huh?”

Evan whines something pathetic that seems like yes and Tommy wickedly smirks.

“Ok, baby,” he sets his curls free, grabbing Evan’s shoulders instead, “show me that you get, cowboy.”

And Evan does. Succking and bobbing his head, stroking him when he licks the pre-cum from his head, showing off all his tricks.

Tommy just can’t help himself. He comes almost twenty minutes later from one of the best blow jobs in his life, for a second blacking out and getting back to Evan in his laps, looking like a cat that just caught the canary.

Gorgeous as always.

“Gimme a sec, baby. And I’ll help you.”

Evan blushes, “n-no need. It was so hot, I came already.”

No one can Tommy for attacking his boyfriend with another fierce kiss for it.

#tour roleplay fic #my fics #bucktommy #evan buckley #evan buck buckley #tommy kinard #911 abc #911 #911 fic #bucktommy fic #tevan #kinley

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earthlybeam · 2 days ago

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I was just watching ROP and now have a need for reader helping Gil-galad with his armour before the battle and then reuniting after, maybe reader helping him with a few cuts and scrapes.

Thanks, I enjoy your writing so much!

Thank you so much for your kind words! I love the idea of exploring these quiet, intimate moments with Gil-galad. 🥺❤️‍🔥✨

Gil-Galad version below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The tent was quiet, save for the occasional muffled sound of armor being fastened and the distant clamor of preparations outside. The war camp was alive with activity, soldiers making their final checks, murmuring battle prayers, sharpening blades. But within these canvas walls, there was only the steady rhythm of breath and the soft rustle of fabric as Gil-galad stood tall, his back to you, waiting as he always did. Your hands moved with practiced ease, smoothing out the fine tunic against his skin. The fabric was cool, freshly cleaned, a stark contrast to the warmth of him beneath it. The contours of his back, the strength in his shoulders, all so familiar now after countless times performing this same duty. Yet it never felt routine. Not truly.

Gil-galad did not speak at first, allowing the moment to stretch between you both. The battle ahead loomed heavy, but here, now, there was still this—your hands, your care, the quiet intimacy of dressing him for war. He let out a slow breath as you adjusted the folds at his waist, your touch lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. He could feel the unspoken words in the way your fingers brushed against him. Be safe.

The temptation to turn, to capture your gaze, was strong. But he resisted. If he did, he might not wish to go. Instead, he stood still as you reached for the chainmail. The fine rings of mithril shimmered faintly in the dim light, a silent promise of protection. You lifted it carefully, stepping close as you guided it over his head, the cool metal cascading down his form with a quiet shhhh of shifting links. His body tensed, just for a moment, as the weight settled upon his shoulders. The familiar burden. The price of kingship.

Gil-galad exhaled, the weight grounding him. This was who he was—High King of the Noldor, protector of the Free Peoples, the leader of this war. And yet, as you reached forward to adjust the fit, ensuring each link fell perfectly into place, he did not feel like a warrior or a ruler beneath your hands. He felt like a man. A man who, for these fleeting moments, was not alone in his duty.

Your fingers traced over the clasps, tightening them with careful precision. You always did this, checking, adjusting, ensuring his armor was secure. Not because you doubted its craftsmanship, but because this was your way of protecting him. You could not fight beside him, could not stand between him and a blade, but you could do this. And he let you. “You always do this,” he murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was low, steady, but there was something else beneath it. Something softer.

You did not answer right away, only smoothing one last fold before stepping back. His armor was set, his tunic adjusted, his chainmail fitted. Soon, you would help him into the heavier plates, the gauntlets, the pauldrons that would make him the warrior the world saw him as. But for now, he was simply Gil-galad, standing before you, feeling your touch lingering in the fabric against his skin.Your voice, when it came, was quiet. Certain. “Because it matters.” He turned then, just slightly, meeting your gaze for the first time since you began. The battle called to him, but for a moment longer, he remained here—with you. Silent. Grateful. Understood.

The silence between you stretched, but it was not empty. It was filled with the quiet understanding that had long settled between you and Gil-galad, a language spoken not through words but through action, through touch, through every careful motion as you fastened his armor piece by piece. the breastplate was next. The silvered steel gleamed in the candlelight, adorned with the sigil of the High King. A symbol of strength, of leadership, of a burden he bore without complaint. You lifted it with both hands, stepping close as you helped him ease it over his head. He remained still, allowing you to guide the weight of it into place, the cool metal pressing firmly against his chest.

Your fingers worked to secure the clasps at his sides, pulling the straps snug, ensuring a perfect fit. He watched you as you did, his keen eyes catching the flicker of concern in yours. You did not speak of it, and neither did he. But as your fingers hesitated, just for a breath, against the engraved patterns on the steel—against the emblem that marked him as a warrior first and a man second—he felt your unspoken plea. Stay safe.

He wanted to reassure you. To promise that he would return. But he had given enough empty promises to the families of his fallen kin. He would not give one to you. Instead, he let his hand lift just slightly, the backs of his fingers grazing yours before you moved on. The pauldrons were next. You retrieved them without hesitation, the heavy shoulder guards cool beneath your fingertips. As you secured the leather straps, making sure the weight was balanced, he felt the firm, steady tug of your hands grounding him. There was a precision to the way you worked, but more than that, there was care.

“You have always been meticulous,” he murmured, a hint of something softer in his voice. You smirked faintly, tightening the last strap. “You would complain if I weren’t.” He huffed a quiet breath, something that might have been amusement if not for the heaviness in the air. “Perhaps.” You gave the armor one last firm press, ensuring it would not shift in battle. “I do not intend to let you fight with loose armor, Aran nín.” The title—my king—was spoken with the same reverence as ever, but there was something else beneath it now. A quiet plea. A silent promise. He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head just slightly.

“It is not the armor that keeps me standing,” he said, voice low, steady. “It is those who remind me why I fight.” You swallowed, but did not reply. Instead, you moved to his vambraces. The forearm guards were the final layer before the heavier gauntlets, and as you strapped them into place, your fingers brushed against the bare skin of his wrist. The touch sent a shiver up his spine, though he did not show it. He flexed his fingers slightly once they were secured, testing the fit. But more than that, he savored the feeling of your hands on him, knowing it would be the last true warmth he felt before battle.

You lingered longer than necessary, fingertips pressing lightly over the leather strap, as if committing the feel of him to memory. As if this might be the last time. He lifted his gaze to yours. “I will return,” he said quietly, knowing full well it was not a promise he had the right to make. You did not answer at first. Then, softly, you murmured, “I will hold you to that.” A pause. Then, with the smallest ghost of a smile, you pressed a final touch against the vambrace and stepped back, giving him space. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the weight, but all he could truly feel was the warmth you had left behind.

The gauntlets were the last true barrier. The final part of him that would be shielded, the last place where your touch could linger unimpeded. You slid the first over his hand, adjusting the fit with the same practiced care you had given every other piece. He flexed his fingers as you fastened the straps, testing the range of movement, but his focus was not on the fit—it was on the distance it created. When the second gauntlet was secured, he lifted his hands, curling them into fists before relaxing them again. The weight was familiar, but it was not comforting. “I prefer when my hands are free,” he murmured.

Your fingers, still bare, traced lightly over the ridges of the metal before pulling away. “I know.” There was something unsaid between you. Something both of you felt, but neither spoke aloud. He could no longer feel your warmth against his skin. The last piece of you had been locked away beneath layers of steel and leather. But there was still more. You knelt before him, retrieving the greaves and sabatons. The final weight he must bear. He watched in silence as you fastened them over his legs, adjusting each strap with precision, ensuring that every buckle was firm.

The sight of you kneeling before him sent something sharp through his chest—not because of what it implied, but because of what it did not. You were not beneath him. You had never been. And yet, here you were, securing his armor as if you bore some duty to him beyond obligation. As if this was not just your role but something more. His hands, still armored but not yet burdened with a weapon, twitched at his sides. He wanted to lift you, to pull you back to your feet, to keep you near. But instead, when you rose, he did the only thing he could—he let his gloved hand brush against yours.

It was brief, fleeting, but you still felt it. You looked up at him, eyes searching, but you said nothing. And neither did he. Finally, you reached for the last piece—the helmet. He did not move to take it from you. Instead, he hesitated, watching as you held it in both hands, turning it slightly in the dim light. The polished silver gleamed, its crest unmistakable. When he wore it, he would no longer be simply Gil-galad. He would be the High King. The warrior. The commander who must lead his people into battle.

Once it was on, there would be no more softness. No more warmth. No more lingering touches between you and him. You knew this too. So you met his gaze one last time. No words were spoken, but everything was said. Then, with steady hands, you lifted the helmet and placed it over his head. The metal settled over his brow, cool and firm, its weight pressing into his skin. His sight narrowed, his breath deepened. He was sealed away now, encased in steel. But beneath it all, he still felt you.

He did not move, but he was not looking at the battlefield beyond. He was watching you. “You needn’t fuss over me, you check it 100 times already.” he murmured, his voice low, steady. But he did not pull away, nor did he stop you as you smoothed the leather straps across his wrist. You knew what lay beneath those words. You knew the things he would not say aloud. Be careful. Come back to me.

Your hands moved with certainty, securing his armor in place, yet you felt the smallest tremor in your fingers as you adjusted the clasp at his shoulder. He felt it too. As you fastened the final strap of his gauntlets, his hand moved suddenly, covering yours. The metal was cold against your skin, but his touch was not. His grip was not firm—not commanding or demanding—just there. A quiet tether, a moment of stillness before the storm. “You always do this,” he mused, his tone softer now, edged with something else. “Making sure everything is perfect.”

You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze, feeling the warmth beneath the steel. “It must be,” you murmured, though you both knew your concern ran deeper than that. The battlefield was close now, the echoes of preparation vibrating in the distance. You knew you needed to let go, to step back, to let him walk forward as he always did. Still, you lingered. Your fingers brushed against his arm, a final adjustment, a final excuse to remain close. “Promise me,” you said suddenly. The words were quiet, yet they carried a weight that even the armor between you could not dull.

Gil-galad did not answer right away. Perhaps because he did not know what you were asking for—his safety, his return, or just one more moment before the world took him away from you. Finally, he exhaled, the barest shift of his shoulders beneath the armor. “I will try,” he said. It was not a promise, not truly, but it was the only truth he could give you. Slowly, he reached up, his gauntleted hand resting gently against your cheek. Even through the cold metal, the touch was unmistakably his. “Thank you,” he murmured.

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of all he could not say. Your hand lifted, pressing lightly against his wrist, as if trying to find him beneath the armor. “Come back soon my king,” you whispered. He did not answer. Your throat tightened, but you nodded. There was nothing more to say. And so, with one final lingering touch, you stepped back, letting him go. Instead, with one final lingering touch, he turned and stepped away—toward the battlefield, toward war, toward fate. And you watched him go, feeling the warmth of his touch even as it faded.

…

The battle was over. The cries of war had faded into silence, swallowed by the vast, aching hush of the aftermath. No more clashing steel, no more battle horns or desperate shouts—only the distant murmur of the wounded, the quiet sobs of those who had survived, and the weary shuffle of boots across bloodstained earth. The weight of it all still lingered in the air, thick and unrelenting, pressing down with every breath. Smoke curled in the distance, its acrid scent mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the damp musk of churned soil.

The field was littered with the remnants of war—discarded weapons, shattered banners, the fallen lying still beneath the mournful light of the moon. And then, amid it all, you found him. Gil-galad sat in the quiet, his usually radiant presence dimmed by exhaustion. His armor, once gleaming, was dented and streaked with blood—some of it his, some of it not. The royal sigil upon his breastplate was nearly unrecognizable beneath the grime of battle. Yet, even beneath the weight of war, the burden of leadership still clung to his shoulders.

His head was bowed slightly, his hands resting limply against his knees, fingers still curled as if they had not yet learned how to let go of his sword. The golden circlet atop his brow remained, though dulled with dust and sweat, a silent testament to who he was—who he had to be. But then, as if sensing you, his gaze lifted. Your breath caught. The moment his eyes found yours, something in them shifted. The hardened steel of a warrior softened, just slightly, just enough for you to see the relief beneath it. He was here. He had come back.

You swallowed past the knot in your throat and stepped forward. Your hands moved before you could think, reaching for the damp cloth at your side, your fingers trembling with the need to touch—to reassure yourself that he was real, that he was still warm, still breathing. Wordlessly, you knelt beside him. The firelight flickered over his face, highlighting the shallow cut along his cheek, the smudges of dried blood against his skin. He barely flinched as you pressed the cloth to the wound, wiping away the remnants of the battle that had almost taken him from you. His skin was warm beneath your touch. Alive.

“I’ve had worse,” he murmured, voice rough from exhaustion, edged with quiet amusement. “I don’t care,” you whispered back, your fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, brushing lightly over the curve of his jaw before you pulled away. His lips quirked, the ghost of something almost amused, but he did not argue. He only watched you, allowing you to tend to him in the way you always did.

The world beyond this moment was still broken, still stained with loss, but here—here, there was only the quiet press of your hands, the hushed breath between you, the unspoken relief of survival. Slowly, you began the painstaking task of unbuckling his battered armor, peeling away the layers of metal and leather that had shielded him in battle. Beneath them, his tunic was torn, revealing a deep gash along his forearm. Your breath hitched.

“You’re hurt,” you whispered, your brows drawing together in concern. Gil-galad exhaled slowly, his body finally surrendering to weariness. “Nothing I wouldn’t endure again,” he said softly, “to see you standing here.” Your fingers tightened slightly around his wrist, your grip betraying the fear you had not spoken aloud. The battlefield had taken so much. Had nearly taken him. And yet—here he was. You reached for the bandages, hands steady despite the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. He did not resist as you wrapped the cloth around his arm, securing it with careful, practiced movements. He let you take care of him. “You fuss over me,” he mused, voice dipping into something gentler, quieter, as if he were afraid to disturb the stillness between you. “As if I am not a warrior.”

You glanced up at him then, arching a brow. “And yet, you do not stop me.” A low hum of acknowledgment, almost a laugh. “No,” he admitted. “I do not.” His eyes fluttered briefly shut, the rigid composure of a warrior melting beneath your touch. His breaths slowed, deepened, as if, for the first time since the battle had begun, he was allowing himself to rest. Your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, smoothing back the strands that had fallen loose from his braid.

And then—his hand moved. He caught yours gently, his fingers wrapping around yours, the warmth of his skin seeping into your palm. “You were right,” he murmured, thumb tracing absently over the back of your hand. Your throat tightened. “About what?” His grip firmed, grounding himself in the feel of you. “That I would return to you.” Your breath stilled. You had asked for a promise he could not give. The battlefield was cruel, fate unyielding. And yet—here he was. Alive.

With you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Words felt too fragile, too small to hold the weight of what lingered between you. Instead, you moved closer, pressing your forehead gently to his, the warmth of his skin, the scent of steel and earth and him filling your senses. He sighed, the sound soft, his breath mingling with yours. And in that moment—away from war, away from duty—he was just Gil-galad. And he was home.

#Gil-Galad #Gil-Galad x you #Gil-Galad x reader #gil galad of lindon #elvenking gil galad #gil galad x reader #gil galad rings of power #gil galad headcanon #Gil-Galad simps #Gil-Galad supremacy #lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr elves

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chanafehs · 3 days ago

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BREAKS INTO YOUR HOUSE

1, 4, 13 and 20 for Asma and Cullen PWEAASEE

YOU BULLIED ME INTO THIS. but I will do it. for you. Answered number one here so I will do the rest

4. Have they ever been forced apart due to circumstance? How did they handle the difference?

I think every Cullenmancer has some headcanon about the Inquisitor leaving Cullen at Skyhold while he waits for them to come back to him. Such is the life in picking an advisor instead of a companion to romance. In the main game, I would say that they write each other letters frequently. They both have two versions of reports they send, one strictly professionally and the other personal. Cullen copes with being apart by spending some time in her quarters and taking his reports there, he explained it as if he's there he can just imagine her somewhere else in the fortress or getting some air right outside on the balcony. She feels less distant when he is surrounded by things that remind him of her. As for Asma, she is both in denial about missing him while also suffering from missing him. Her usual party is Sera, Vivienne, and Cassandra so they've learned by now that when she's sulking or irritable, it's because she's away from Cullen. Won't admit it though. She deals with it by putting his letters under her pillow or thumbing his lucky coin from where it dangles at her neck. I think you already know my many aus where something terrible happens and they're forced apart after the game and fight to get back to each other, but I think I've accepted it as canon that there are times that Asma has to stay behind at the Clan or Cullen is needed in Ferelden for the Templar Sanctuary. Under her nose, he commissioned a small locket with her face so whenever he is feeling particularly lonely without her (every day) he can just pull it out of his pocket to stare at. Asma isn't much better but she keeps all of Cullen's letters to reread and flip through when she misses him (every day). What losers.

13. How do they comfort or reassure one another?

Asma has a thing where she can't look people in the eye when she is feeling particularly vulnerable or upset, it's a bit too much for her, even with Cullen, so they've worked around it by Asma having her head in his lap or facing away from him with their backs pressed together whenever she needs comfort. Cullen doesn't push and Asma is grateful for it. Cullen likes the silence but with her company. Things get very loud in his head and sometimes he gets out of bed in the middle of the night to sit outside and ground himself in the moment. Asma will accompany him and hold him tightly to reassure him she is there and what he is feeling is real.

20. Is there a sentimental object they associate with their partner? What is it? Was it a gift?

The easy answer here is Cullen's coin but I refuse to take the easy way out so I will say that when Asma and Cullen's relationship got serious, she gave him the dagger that her father had passed down to her. Cullen insisted he couldn't take it and that it meant too much to her for him to have it but he finally relented when it was clear she was not budging. It's probably he fanciest thing he owns and the hilt is inset with precious gems and swirling gold. It stands out a lot whenever he's packing his things. Asma likes knowing that he has something of hers on his person and that it can protect him if he needs it. His luck will protect her but her blade will protect him so on and so forth.

THERE. I hope you are happy with these losers!!!

#ask #dragon age #cullen rutherford #oc: asma lavellan #ask game #star—nymph

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lisalamona · 2 days ago

Text

𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 - XVI

Chapter XVI: Done For

. Summary: Despite your brother's insistence, you stubbornly decided to join him and his men in the war. Now, are you prepared to face the consequences of your actions? . Pairing: Various x fem! Reader . Warnings: None . Notes: I honestly wanted to make this chapter longer, but then I decided I would just do Done For from Ody's perspective and There Are Other Ways directly in the next chapter. I hope you guys aren't mad about it 👉👈. Take this as more of a setup for what's about to go down next chapter. I also feel like it was overall pretty rushed, but if I'm completely honest, I love writing, but I'm sick of looking at words—they don't make sense anymore.

Previous chapter │ Next chapter

Masterlist

Night had begun to settle on the beachside.

The sky bled from deep blue to black, the first stars flickering into existence. The waves whispered against the shore, gentle yet restless, a rhythm that should have been calming. But to the men, it wasn't. The sound of rustling leaves, the occasional snap of a twig in the underbrush—it all felt eerie, unnatural. Like the island itself was watching them. Waiting.

Despite this, exhaustion had won over fear.

Most of the men left behind had already settled into uneasy sleep, stretched out on the sand or slumped against fallen logs. They were still on edge, still terrified of what had happened—of what was still happening. Would their captain return? Would their comrades? Or would they be next to vanish into that cursed forest? There were no answers, only waiting.

Eurylochus sat perched on the stump of a fallen tree, his back to the men. His gaze was fixed on the path Odysseus had disappeared down hours ago.

One elbow rested on his knee, holding his head up, his mind was elsewhere. His right leg bounced rapidly, an unconscious movement, but one that betrayed him. Every so often, his eyes flickered away—searching, expecting, hoping—only to be met with empty shadows.

Polites watched him from a distance, arms crossed over his chest. He had known Eurylochus for years, long enough to recognize when he was lost in thought.

Any other time, he might've teased him—maybe snuck up on him just for the fun of watching him startle. But tonight, there was no room for laughter.

Because while the others had tried to rest, Polites had been thinking.

Thinking about their comrades. About how many they had already lost. About how many more they might lose. And then, finally, about Odysseus and you.

What if something had happened to you both?

What if Odysseus hadn't been able to face Circe alone? What if she had been stronger, smarter? What if you had fallen into the same fate as the rest?

And then—a memory surfaced.

He remembered being younger, following after Odysseus into the woods with you and Eurylochus, just to catch glimpses of him training with Athena.

And suddenly, the answer hit him like a flash of lightning.

They couldn't just wait.

Before he had fully processed the idea, his legs were already moving.

He sprinted toward Eurylochus.

The sheer sound of his footsteps snapped the other man out of his thoughts.

Eurylochus' head whipped toward him, alarm flashing in his eyes. "What happened?" His voice was sharp, already scanning the other men for signs of danger or something going wrong.

Polites skidded to a stop, breathless.

"We have to go."

Eurylochus blinked, his expression shifting from concern to confusion. "I'm sorry?" He turned fully to face him, brows furrowing.

"We have to go." Polites repeated, shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "They have been gone for too long. We should follow them—see if they need help."

Eurylochus' face hardened. "No."

"But—"

"No, Polites." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "We can't just march in there. We don't know what we're walking into. And if I disobey Odysseus' orders and everything goes wrong again, he'll have my head. I am not willing to risk several years of friendship over this."

Polites crossed his arms. "What if they're in danger?"

Eurylochus clenched his jaw. "That's exactly why we shouldn't go."

"That's exactly why we should."

Eurylochus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "And what if we get turned into pigs?"

"What if we don't?"

Eurylochus glared at him. "Who will watch over the men if we leave?"

"They're too exhausted to do anything." Polites countered. "And our ship is still in ruins. Where would they even go?"

Silence.

Eurylochus hated that he had a point.

Still, he wasn't convinced. He shook his head, voice tight with frustration. "Let's say, somehow, we manage to sneak into the palace and then out again with everyone else. What then?" He gestured vaguely. "They're still pigs. And in case it has escaped your attention, none of us are magical."

Polites hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"She'll find us in less than a day." Eurylochus continued, voice low. "And then? We're all dead."

Polites paused. He hadn't exactly thought that far ahead.

After a moment, he straightened, clearing his throat. "We'll talk to her."

Eurylochus stared in disbelief. "Talk to her." He repeated.

"Yes." Polites nodded confidently. "We'll tell her this was all a misunderstanding—"

"A misunderstanding?!"

"—and that we mean no harm!"

Eurylochus let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He wished it were that simple.

"She turned men into pigs, Polites." He deadpanned. "Do you honestly think she's interested in having a heart to heart with us?"

"Well, we won't know unless we try!"

Eurylochus opened his mouth, ready to shut him down once and for all.

But then—

"Alright, then." Polites said, tone suspiciously nonchalant. "I'll just go myself."

He grinned, the type of grin that meant he already knew Eurylochus would follow.

Then he turned and started walking toward the tree line.

And for the first few steps, his confidence remained unshaken.

Then, gradually, it wavered.

As he got farther away, his own words began to sink in.

He was really going to walk into a witch's lair alone.

Eurylochus sat there, watching him disappear into the dark, battling with himself.

Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay.

Damn it all.

"Wait!"

Polites stopped, turning back.

Eurylochus let out a long, suffering sigh, dragging a hand down his face before pushing himself up.

He strode over to the pile of weapons that had formed after the men discarded them and plucked a sword from it, his fingers curling around the hilt as if it might give him strength.

Then he grabbed a second one.

Polites' grin widened.

Eurylochus shoved the spare sword at him. "You don't even know where the palace is."

Polites took it happily. "Guess it's a good thing you're coming with me."

Eurylochus grumbled something under his breath, but at this point, there was no turning back.

As they started toward the palace, he gave himself a thousand reasons why this was the worst decision of his life.

And yet, he kept walking.

──────🐷──────

You could feel the heat of the pottage spreading through your body.

Maybe it was the carelessness of not blowing on it before shoveling it into your mouth, too desperate to care. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn't had a proper warm meal in so long that your body almost rejected it, unfamiliar with the sensation.

One would think that, at the rate you were eating, you wouldn't have time to savor the taste.

But in truth, it was so flavorful that you were confident you could pick out every ingredient—the richness of cheese, a hint of honey for sweetness, and the faintest trace of wine, buried beneath the rest.

Across from you, Circe watched.

Her own bowl sat mostly untouched compared to yours—not that she wasn't eating at all, just taking slow, measured bites.

She was too focused on you.

There was amusement in her gaze, a flicker of something almost impressed.

"I take it you like it, dear?"

Still with a mouthful, you only gave her a muffled "Mhm" with your mouth closed, nodding slightly.

She giggled, her eyes scrunching in delight. "I'm glad."

You were finally relaxed enough to take in your surroundings.

The room was quiet.

No one else but you, Circe, and a few nymphs sitting off to the side, engaged in soft conversation as they ate their own meals.

Your stomach twisted.

Your mind drifted back to the men you had arrived with—the ones who had vanished into the palace.

A small part of you, stubborn and hopeful, still clung to the idea that they were okay. That Circe had helped them, the same way she had helped you.

But her earlier words made that hard to believe.

You swallowed, pushing past the unease, and forced yourself to speak. Dancing around the subject wouldn't get you anywhere.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Circe tilted her head, giving you a mocking sort of smile. "Of course."

You took a breath.

"The men that came in earlier," You began carefully. "where are they?"

The reaction was instant.

Circe let out a sharp, delighted laugh—loud enough to startle the nymphs nearby. They turned to look at her, but she paid them no mind.

You didn't react, only staring back at her, your expression making it clear you were waiting for an actual answer.

"Oh, you're serious." Her laughter faded into something almost pitying, though not for long—her smile returned. "I thought it was obvious, dear."

"That doesn't really answer my question."

She hummed, resting her head against her palm. "Right... You and your questions."

With a slow, almost lazy motion, she traced the rim of her bowl with her index finger, as if toying with it.

"You see..." She mused. "Sometimes, men are just... how to put it...?"

She pretended to search for the right word, but you both knew she had already chosen it.

"Pigs."

Your breath caught.

She gave a light, casual shrug. "And sometimes, they need a little help from people like me to show them their true forms."

The words sank in like a stone.

The pigs. The ones you had seen before—the one that had run to you, panicked, desperate. He had been trying to ask for help. Circe had drugged them. She had turned them into pigs.

Your stomach churned.

"Oh."

It was all you managed.

Circe grinned.

"Oh." She mimicked, giddy—as if she might burst into laughter at any moment.

Your eyes darted to your own bowl, and suddenly, the taste in your mouth wasn't comforting anymore.

Your heart hammered. "Was there..."

You pointed to your food, dreading the answer.

Circe snorted. "Oh, in Olympus' name, no." She giggled at your paranoia, clearly enjoying herself.

You exhaled, barely registering the relief before forcing out your next words.

"...Is there a way to—?" She didn't even let you finish.

"None that is of your interest, no."

Silence.

A slow, creeping realization settled into your bones. You had to get out of here. Find a way to fix this. Find Odysseus. Tell him everything. Let Eurylochus say I told you so right to your face and just take it.

Your thoughts raced.

You started to think you should have listened to him.

But at the same time...

This wasn't impossible, right?

It wasn't like you were dealing with some terrifying, unstoppable monster.

In the grand scheme of things, this wasn't that bad.

Right?

...Right.

You could handle this.

You just needed to think.

How would you approach the situation? And you hated to even think about it but how would your brother approach it?

Running was out of the question. The palace was crawling with nymphs and lions—you wouldn't make it five feet.

Brute force? Also out. Even if you did try, Circe's magic was stronger.

Which left you one option.

Play along. Wait for an opening. If you were lucky, you'd get a chance to slip away at night.

You sat up straighter.

Your expression softened.

You forced your voice into something gentler, more sincere.

"About what you proposed to me earlier..."

Circe's gaze sharpened.

"My patience is starting to wear thin, dear." She warned, clearly expecting you to ask to leave again.

You shook your head quickly. "I apologize. I've... thought about it."

And then, you lied through your teeth.

"You were right."

Circe's eyebrows lifted, intrigued.

"I will stay." You continued smoothly, preparing to put on the performance of a lifetime—just like you used to do back home, whenever you needed to worm your way out of trouble.

"I must thank you," You added, placing a hand over your heart. "for opening my eyes."

Circe's lips curled.

She lifted her goblet.

"A toast to that."

──────🐷──────

You had been escorted to a room to spend the night—or, according to them, several nights, possibly even the rest of your life.

The room was spacious and undeniably beautiful. From the looks of it, you would be sharing it with another person. You soon learned that your roommate would be Aora—the very same one who had helped you get there in the first place.

Two beds stood on opposite sides of the room, their footboards facing each other. They weren't just beds; they were works of art. Intricate designs had been carefully carved into the wooden frames by hand, depicting twisting vines and delicate blossoms. Real plants wove through the carvings, their leaves curling over the edges and flowers blooming in soft, luminous colors. Between the beds was a large window, its glass unshuttered, allowing the moonlight to pour in without restraint. The pale silver glow illuminated the room just right, making everything look almost ethereal, as if you had stepped into a dream rather than a prison.

Aora showed you which bed was yours, bid you goodnight, and slipped under the covers, quickly surrendering to sleep.

You reached up, carefully plucking the flower Circe had placed behind your ear earlier. As you rolled it between your fingers, its petals felt impossibly soft, like silk, with a faint warmth lingering from where it had been tucked against your skin. The scent was subtle yet intoxicating, something between honey and the earth after rain. You set it beside your bed, exhaling slowly.

For the most part, your time in the room was spent tossing and turning, unable to settle. Frustrated, you gave up and started scanning your surroundings, waiting for a moment when the hallways might be less occupied. As your eyes adjusted, you took note of a few small belongings scattered around Aora's side of the room—personal trinkets that hinted at who she was beyond being one of Circe's followers. A small wooden comb lay near her pillow, its teeth worn from use. A bundle of dried herbs was carefully tied with a thin ribbon, placed near a simple but elegant dagger, its hilt wrapped in deep green leather. There was also a collection of tiny, smooth stones stacked in an almost meditative formation on the windowsill, each one a different shade, polished by the sea.

Your gaze drifted to the window. Aora was fast asleep, so it wasn't difficult to shift quietly, propping yourself up to get a better view outside. The stars were partially hidden behind the dense canopy of leaves, their light flickering through the gaps like whispers of something just out of reach. Still, you could map them in your mind with ease. You had spent so many nights memorizing the constellations that even without a clear view, you knew exactly where each one should be.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Finally, you gathered enough confidence to move. Your heart pounded as you slid out of bed, carefully placing your feet on the cool stone floor. You tried to calm every nerve, inhaling slowly as you moved toward the door. Each step was measured, each breath deliberate. You pressed against the wood, barely nudging it open before slipping through, letting it close behind you without a sound.

The corridors were quiet. You moved as swiftly and silently as possible, rounding a corner—only to freeze at the sound of hurried footsteps. You ducked behind a pillar just as a nymph rushed past, breathless, making a beeline for who you assumed was Circe.

"There's someone nearing the walls." She said, voice hushed but urgent. "I saw them through one of the windows."

Your pulse quickened. Someone outside? Could it be one of the men left behind? Eurylochus, maybe? Had he grown tired of waiting? Oh, gods—you had forgotten about him. Was he still okay?

Or... what if it was your brother?

That thought sent a shiver through you. If it was Odysseus, this could either be the most helpful thing that could happen—or an absolute disaster.

Before you could decide what to do, a voice whispered directly into your ear.

"Oh, what are we sneaking around for?"

You nearly died on the spot.

The voice was not discreet in the slightest—it might as well have been a battle cry for how much it startled you. You stumbled backward, letting out an embarrassingly undignified yelp, and nearly toppled over. But before you could hit the ground, a hand caught yours and—rather than simply steadying you—spun you back onto your feet with a dancer's effortless grace.

"Am I that ugly?" The figure before you asked, grinning ear to ear despite the self deprecating words.

Your vision spun for a moment before you pieced together what you were looking at—the traveler's cloak, the winged sandals, the hat.

Hermes.

Your stomach dropped. Why was Hermes here? What could he possibly want?

"Hermes?" you asked, completely and genuinely confused.

"Ding ding ding!" He tapped your forehead three times, punctuating each touch with a smug little sound.

"Why are you here?"

He sighed dramatically. "It's always, 'Oh, Hermes, why are you here?' 'Hermes, what is that?' 'Stop that, Hermes.' But no one ever says, 'Hello, Hermes, nice to meet you, how are you?'"

You hesitated. "...How are yo—"

"No, no. It's too late now. Doesn't count." He folded his arms, feigning offense, though it was painfully obvious he wasn't actually mad. Not that you had any intention of testing a god's patience right now.

An awkward silence followed. Well... awkward for you. Hermes, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying it immensely.

Finally, he got bored of waiting for you to ask again and decided to answer the original question. "But, if you must know—" He uncrossed his arms and casually placed his hands on your shoulders, steering you forward. Or—wait. Was he even walking? No, he wasn't touching the ground. His winged sandals kept him hovering a few inches above the stone, moving with effortless ease.

That's when you realized something else. In the chaos of running into him, you had completely lost track of Circe. The palace was a maze, and your chances of finding her now? Essentially impossible.

"I came for some good old fashioned entertainment," Hermes continued. "But then I saw a little rascal sneaking around and got curious." What little you could see of his eyes glinted mischievously. "Tell me, darling, why are you here?"

You hesitated but ultimately explained your situation. The moment you mentioned your brother, Hermes smacked his forehead. "Oh, duh! How could I miss that?"

You were about to ask what he meant by that, but before you could, the two of you rounded a corner—

And came face to face with a lion.

The massive creature was locked in place, its tail flicking wildly, muscles tensed. Its amber eyes burned into yours, unblinking. You didn't dare move.

Hermes, however, looked unimpressed. With a sigh, he reached into his satchel and rummaged through it, muttering, "Hold on... I know I have it somewhere..."

"Are you seriously—?!" You hissed, barely holding back panic.

"Ah-ha!" He pulled out a small bundle of something—herbs? Dried leaves? Whatever it was, the lion's ears twitched, its nostrils flaring. Then, miraculously, it relaxed, lowering its body onto its haunches.

Hermes lowered himself and sprinkled the herbs onto the ground. As soon as he did, the lion leaned in, purring softly, as if trying to sink into the scent.

"See? Lots of tricks up my sleeves," Hermes said smugly, dusting off his hands.

"You don't have sleeves." He just waved a dismissive hand at you.

Before you could argue, a deep, guttural growl echoed through the halls. Hermes' head snapped toward the source, then he let out an exaggerated groan.

"Oh! We're late!"

And without another word, he grabbed you under the arms and—like it was the most natural thing in the world—lifted you off the ground and shot forward at an absolutely terrifying speed.

. Taglist: @permanently-nothere @lemonberryberry @supernatural-bangtanboys @doodle-with-rhy @yonkersworld @pookiezme @keikeiluvyou @hornehlittleweeblet2

#epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #greek mythology x reader #platonic x reader

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