#thank you so much for the ask elise!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 1 year ago

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Another Man’s Treasure

Max Verstappen x Reader + Charles Leclerc x ex!Reader

Summary: Charles made the worst mistake of his life when he threw away his relationship with you. Max … well he’s learned to take advantage of others’ mistakes both on and off the track

Warnings: cheating (not the main pairing) and pregnancy

“Please, Charles, why can’t we just talk about it?” you implore, the two of you standing on the balcony overlooking the glimmering lights of Monaco. The city shines brilliantly but your eyes are clouded with frustration and disappointment.

Charles exhales deeply, his jaw clenched as he avoids your gaze. The silver lining of the night —the glimmer of stars overhead — contrasts sharply with the tension between you two. “I told you already, it’s not the right time.

You take a shaky breath, trying to hold back tears. “Every time I bring up having children, you just push it away. Why can’t you see how much this means to me?”

Charles runs his fingers through his dark hair, exhaling slowly. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to have a family with you someday,” he begins, his gaze distant. “But right now, with my career at its peak, I can’t risk distractions.”

“Distractions?” Your voice breaks, the hurt evident in your tone. “Our children would be a distraction?”

He flinches, clearly not expecting that response. “That’s not what I meant. I just … I need to focus on the championship. The pressure is immense. Racing is my life. Ferrari is my life.”

“I understand your dedication to your career, but ...” You pause, your gaze searching his. “Don’t you think we can find a balance? Am I not part of your life too?”

He looks at you, those hypnotizing eyes you’ve always loved flinching away from yours after no more than a second. “I wish I knew how,” he murmurs. “But every time I think of the late nights, the early mornings, the endless travels ... I’m afraid I won’t be there for our children.”

You reach out, holding his face in your hands. “We can figure it out together. But not if you keep shutting me out.”

Charles leans into your touch for a brief moment, his warmth radiating under your fingers. But then he pulls away, taking a deep breath. “I just need time,” he whispers.

“You always say that,” you reply, voice almost inaudible. The weight of the situation presses down on you both. The future, once so clear and bright, is now clouded in uncertainty.

But one thing is clear to you. You love Charles Leclerc. Despite the pain, the hurt, and the disagreements, you still believe that one day, you’ll both find common ground. So, you nod, taking his hand. “Alright, I’ll give you time. But please, don’t take too long.”

He looks at you with a mixture of gratitude and guilt. “Thank you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

But deep inside, a gnawing feeling of dread starts to grow, leaving you wondering if you’ve made the right choice.

***

The soft hum of the espresso machine at your favorite café in Monaco is the only thing that brings comfort these days. You take a deep breath, trying to enjoy the momentary solace as you sip on your coffee. But today, the calm is quickly disrupted by the muted buzz of your phone.

An unknown number flashes across the screen. Hesitating for only a moment, you decide to pick up. “Hello?”

A hesitant voice responds, “Is this ... is this you? I’ve seen you with Charles.”

Confused and on guard, you ask, “Who is this?”

The voice falters, “It’s Elise.”

You wrack your brain, trying to figure out who she might be. But before you can respond, Elise continues, “I think we need to meet. There’s something you should know.”

Agreeing to meet up, you find yourself waiting at the edge of the Fontvieille Park, the minutes feeling like hours as you try to decipher what could be so important.

Elise finally arrives, her demeanor nervous, eyes darting around. She’s visibly pregnant.

“I didn’t know how to tell you this,” she begins, looking down at her swollen belly, then up to your eyes, searching for understanding. “This is Charles’ child.”

The world seems to spin, the weight of her words pressing down on you. “What? How? Why?” The questions blur together, each one as painful as the last.

Elise sighs, taking a moment before she speaks, “We’ve been seeing each other for a while. I thought he loved me ... but then I found out about you.”

You’re at a loss for words, feeling a mix of betrayal, anger, and pain more complex than you can describe. The very foundation of your relationship with Charles feels like it’s crumbling beneath you. “He said he wasn’t ready for children,” you whisper, more to yourself than to Elise.

Elise looks genuinely pained. “I didn’t know. If I had, I would’ve never—” she stops herself, tears forming. “I’m so sorry. I thought you deserved to know the truth.”

The rest of the conversation is a blur. Elise shares her story, and you listen, trying to reconcile this new reality. The Charles she describes isn’t the man you thought you knew.

By the time you part ways, the Monaco sunset paints the sky in shades of gold and purple. But its beauty does little to lift the darkness that has settled over your heart. Charles had been unfaithful, and now a child — a constant reminder of his betrayal — was on the way.

***

With every step you take towards the apartment you share with Charles, your emotions churn and crash like tumultuous waves. You have practiced the confrontation in your mind countless times, yet as you reach the door, your hands tremble. Taking a moment to gather your courage, you push it open.

Inside, Charles looks up from the couch, surprised. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” he starts, attempting a smile but his eyes give away a hint of nervousness. Perhaps he senses the storm brewing.

“We need to talk,” you say, your voice firm despite the turmoil inside.

Charles swallows hard, pushing himself up to stand. “About?”

“Elise,” you state simply, watching as his face pales.

He hesitates, and for a moment, you hope for an ounce of remorse, a hint of regret. But when he speaks, his words are cold and detached. “How did you find out?”

“Does it matter?” You shoot back, trying to hold back tears. “Is it true?”

Charles avoids your gaze, running a hand through his hair. “Yes,” he finally admits.

“And the baby? Is it yours?”

Again, he hesitates but then nods. “Yes.”

The weight of the revelation feels like a physical blow, and you stagger back slightly, gripping the back of a chair for support. “All those times … when you said you weren’t ready, that it wasn’t the right time …” Your voice cracks, pain and betrayal evident in every word.

Charles finally meets your gaze but there’s no warmth, no apology in his eyes. “I didn’t plan this,” he says but it’s not a justification, merely a statement.

“That’s supposed to make it better?” you scoff, voice rising in disbelief.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture you recognize as one of discomfort. “I never wanted to hurt you. But things just ... happened.”

“You think that justifies anything? Things just happened?” You shake your head in disbelief. “I gave up so much for us, Charles. I moved away from everything and everyone I knew to be with you. And you threw it all away like it’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs but his apology feels hollow. His eyes betray the truth.

The room is thick with tension and heartbreak. The man you loved, the life you envisioned — both seem like illusions now. You didn’t even know if they were ever real.

“You know what?” You say, a new determination rising within. “I deserve better. I deserve someone who truly values and respects me.” With that, you turn, making your way to the bedroom to pack a few essentials.

Charles doesn’t stop you. And that, more than anything, cements the truth. Your future lies elsewhere. The chapter with Charles is closed.

***

Rain begins to drizzle over Monaco, each droplet reflecting the city’s luminescence. With a bag slung over your shoulder and a broken heart, you wander aimlessly. The streets that once felt like home now seem foreign and cold.

As the rain intensifies, you duck under an awning, the gentle hum of a nearby bar providing a temporary reprieve. You’re lost in thought when a familiar voice breaks through, “Is everything okay? You look a bit ... lost.”

You look up, surprised to find Max Verstappen looking genuinely concerned. His bright blue eyes study your face, searching for an answer.

“Max ...” Your voice trails off, unsure of how much to reveal.

He gestures to the bar beside you. “Want to come in? We can talk or not. Up to you.”

Gratefully, you nod, and the two of you find a quiet corner. The dim lighting offers a cocoon of privacy, away from prying eyes.

Over a glass of wine, words start to tumble out. The betrayal, the heartbreak, the uncertainty of the future. Max listens intently, his gaze never leaving yours. His silence offers a comforting presence, allowing you to unburden your heavy heart.

“I can’t believe Charles would do that to you,” Max says after you finish your story, his voice laced with anger. “You deserve so much better.”

A tear slips down your cheek. “I thought we had something special. But I guess I was just naive. And stupid. So stupid.”

Max reaches out, gently wiping away the tear with his thumb. “No. He was the fool for not seeing what a treasure he had.”

The evening wears on and you find solace in Max’s company. The conversation shifts from heartbreak to hopes and dreams. He opens up about his childhood, the pressures of racing, and his aspirations for a family — one where he could offer his children a better upbringing than he had.

The connection between you two grows, the raw vulnerability drawing you closer than you could have ever anticipated over just a few hours.

“It’s getting late,” Max observes, glancing at his watch. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

You hesitate, realizing you hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I ... I hadn’t planned anything.”

Max looks thoughtful for a moment then says, “I have a penthouse not far from here. You’re more than welcome to stay. No expectations, just a place to rest.”

Gratitude swells within you. “Thank you, Max. I really appreciate that.”

The two of you leave the bar together, the rain now a soft drizzle. As you make your way to his place, the weight of the day begins to lift, replaced by an unexpected feeling of hope. You couldn’t have predicted this turn of events but perhaps, just maybe, the universe has a plan for you.

***

The penthouse apartment is a sanctuary, perched high above the city’s twinkling lights. The soft glow of lamps bathes the room in warmth, contrasting with the coolness of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that offer an unobstructed view of Monaco’s beauty.

Max hands you a plush robe and gestures toward the bathroom. “Feel free to freshen up. I’ll make us some tea.”

You nod, grateful for his understanding and hospitality. The hot shower washes away the day’s troubles, and when you emerge, wrapped in the robe, you find Max in the sleek kitchen area, preparing mugs of tea.

“Here you go,” he says, handing you a steaming cup. “Chamomile. Good for relaxation.”

You take a sip, the warm liquid soothing your frayed nerves. “Thank you, Max. For everything. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you tonight.”

He smiles gently, his eyes meeting yours. “Sometimes, unexpected moments bring people together for a reason.”

The two of you settle onto a surprisingly comfortable leather couch, gazing out at the night sky. Silence envelops you but it’s a comfortable one.

“You know, I never expected to connect with someone like this,” Max says, his voice soft. “Especially not after what you’ve been through.”

You look at him, seeing a depth of sincerity that surprises you. “It’s been a strange and difficult day,” you admit. “But talking to you, it feels like a weight has been lifted.”

Max’s gaze holds yours, and for a moment, it feels like the universe has conspired to bring you to this very place, to this very person.

He takes a deep breath. “I’ve always wanted a big family. A loving home, something I didn’t really have growing up. I want to give my kids the stability and happiness I never had.”

Tears well up in your eyes, touched by his vulnerability and his willingness to share his dreams with you. “That’s a beautiful aspiration.”

He shifts closer, a comforting hand on your shoulder. “And what about you? What do you dream of?”

You lean back, contemplating the question. “I dream of a family too, a partner who’s truly invested, children who grow up knowing they’re loved and supported.”

Max's fingers brush against yours, a gentle touch that sends a shiver down your spine. “You deserve that. You deserve to find happiness.”

As the night deepens, the emotional intimacy between you grows. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared connection, and for the first time in a long while, you feel a glimmer of hope for the future. The chapter with Charles might be closed, but perhaps, with Max, you can start to write a new one — one filled with shared dreams and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

***

The morning sun casts a golden glow over Monaco as it begins its ascent into the azure sky. You wake up, wrapped in the softest sheets you’ve ever felt, with memories of last night’s conversation playing on a loop in your mind.

Exiting the bedroom, you find Max in the open-plan kitchen, whipping up a breakfast spread. “Good morning,” he greets with a warm smile. “I hope you’re hungry.”

As you eat, Max discusses his plans for the day, mentioning an upcoming summer break in the F1 calendar. “A few friends and I have organized a yacht trip during the summer shutdown. It’s a tradition,” he explains. “A way to escape and recharge.”

You nod, picturing the glittering sea and warm beaches. “That sounds wonderful.”

He hesitates for a moment, then, as if taking a leap, says, “Why don’t you join us? It could be a good distraction. Get away from all this ... chaos.”

The offer catches you by surprise. The prospect of a holiday is tempting, especially after the emotional whirlwind of the past few days. Plus, the idea of spending more time with Max, getting to know him outside the confines of Monaco, is equally appealing.

After a moment’s contemplation, you reply, “You know what? I think I will. Thank you so much.”

The days leading up to the trip are a blur, filled with shopping for swimsuits and sundresses and a growing sense of anticipation.

When the day finally arrives, you find yourself aboard a lavish yacht, surrounded by Max’s close friends. Laughter and conversations flow easily, the crystal-clear waters providing the perfect backdrop.

As the yacht sets sail, you and Max find a secluded spot on the deck. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. The two of you talk, laugh, and occasionally, just sit in silence, enjoying the tranquillity of the moment.

During a sun-soaked afternoon, Max teaches you how to steer the yacht. Your fingers brush against each other, and there are shared glances, stolen moments, and an electric charge between you that’s impossible to ignore.

Each day deepens the growing bond between you. There are sunrises watched from the deck, dinners under the stars, and long conversations that last into the early hours of the morning.

One night, as the yacht anchors near a secluded cove, Max takes your hand, leading you to a quiet spot. The moonlight dances on the water, creating a magical atmosphere.

“You know,” he begins, his voice soft, “this trip has been special. Not because of the destinations but because of the company.”

You smile, leaning into him. “I couldn’t agree more.”

A tender moment passes between you, one filled with promise and the potential for something more. The yacht trip might be coming to an end but both of you sense that this journey, this new chapter in your lives, has only just begun.

***

The gentle lull of the waves against the yacht rocks you as the moon hangs low in the sky. The night air is warm and fragrant, carrying with it a sense of peace. Tomorrow, the yacht will dock back in Monaco and reality will catch up with you once more. But for now, you’re content to savor these final moments of the trip.

You find Max leaning against the railing, gazing out at the sea. As you approach him, he turns, his expression softening into a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, standing beside him, your shoulders brushing against each other.

“I can’t believe the break is almost over,” Max muses, his voice carrying a hint of wistfulness.

You nod in agreement, casting your gaze out to the horizon. “It still feels like a dream.”

Max glances at you, his eyes holding a certain intensity. “You know, I’ve had an amazing time with you.”

A flutter of warmth ignites in your chest at his words. “Me too. The best time.”

The moment is charged with unspoken feelings, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing day. Max’s fingers brush against yours and the touch sends a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t want this to end,” he confesses, gaze never leaving yours.

You take a deep breath, your heart racing. “I’ve never felt so connected to someone, so understood.”

He cups your cheek with his hand, his touch tender and affectionate. “I feel the same way. And I don’t want this to end.”

The tension in the air is palpable, heavy with anticipation and longing. And then, as if drawn by an invisible force, your lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss. It’s a kiss filled with all the emotions that have been building between you, a kiss that bridges the gap between friendship and something more.

As the kiss deepens, Max’s arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you under the moonlit sky.

When you finally pull apart, your foreheads rest against each other, your breaths mingling. Max’s voice is a gentle murmur against your lips. “I don’t want to rush anything. But I also don’t want to pretend that this connection we have isn’t real.”

You meet his gaze, your eyes reflecting the same sincerity. “I don’t want to pretend either. Max, I want to give this — give us — a chance.”

A genuine smile graces Max’s lips and he kisses your forehead in reassurance. “Then let’s take it one step at a time.”

***

“Where to now?” Max asks, his hand lightly touching your arm as the yacht crew busies themselves with docking procedures.

You hesitate, the reality of your situation setting in. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I … I moved here from my home country to be with Charles.”

Max looks concerned. “You can’t stay with him, not after everything.”

“No, definitely not.” You exhale deeply, feeling the weight of the situation. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe find a hotel for a few days.”

Before you can say more, Max interjects, “Stay with me.”

You look at him, a bit taken aback. “Are you sure? We’re still navigating whatever this is between us.”

He nods, his gaze steady and sincere. “I know. But I also know you shouldn’t be alone right now. You can take the guest room or,” he pauses, a hint of mischief in his eyes, “the master bedroom, if you prefer.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks at his teasing tone but his offer feels genuine. “Alright but only if you promise not to snore.”

Max chuckles, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as the two of you head off the yacht. “Deal.”

The familiarity of Max’s penthouse greets you as you step inside. It's comforting and safe, an oasis to escape the shattered memories that line the Monaco streets.

While you unpack, Max makes dinner. The two of you eat in comfortable silence, the city lights casting a soft glow through the apartment.

“Thank you for this,” you say, gesturing around the dining room, the food, the moment. “It’s more than I could’ve ever asked for.”

Max meets your gaze, his blue eyes reflecting warmth and understanding. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.”

The night unfolds, a sense of peace settling between you. Whether it's the soft hum of the city below or the comforting presence of Max beside you, you drift into a deep, restful sleep.

Waking up the next morning, the events of the past weeks feel like a distant memory. But the man beside you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, is a calming reminder of new beginnings.

With Max by your side, you feel ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead, knowing that no matter what, you’re not alone.

***

“Are you ready for the madness?” Max asks, offering you a hand as you step out of the car, the roar of the crowd at Zandvoort Circuit immediately evident.

Taking a deep breath, you nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The two of you walk hand-in-hand towards the paddock, drawing attention from fans, crew, and media alike. Whispers spread like wildfire but neither of you flinch. Together, you are a united front.

Suddenly, Charles appears from around the corner, his gaze immediately locking onto yours. “So this is the big reveal?” he asks, dripping with condensing sarcasm.

Max steps protectively in front of you. “It’s none of your business anymore.”

Charles scoffs, his eyes darting to the Red Bull VIP pass around your neck. “Jumping ship already? You always were fickle.”

Ignoring the jab, you retort, “You lost any right to an opinion about my life the second you threw away our relationship.”

Charles’ eyes flare with anger. “And you,” he snaps, turning his attention to the reigning world champion, “you think you can just swoop in—”

Max cuts him off sharply, “I think you’ve said enough.”

“You two deserve each other,” Charles hisses before storming off.

Max wraps an arm around you, his touch reassuring. “Ignore him. Today is about the race, about us. Nothing else.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “Thank you.”

The race itself is thrilling. From Red Bull garage, you watch as Max masterfully maneuvers his car, leading the pack with unparalleled skill. Every turn, every overtake steals your breath. And when he crosses the finish line, the roar of the crowd painting the grandstands orange is deafening.

As Max emerges from his car, he’s immediately surrounded by his team, celebrating yet another victory. And then, spotting you in the crowd, he breaks away, making a beeline towards you. Without a word, he pulls you into his arms, his lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss.

The world fades away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect moment. As you pull apart, Max’s eyes shine with triumph and love. “For you,” he murmurs, holding up the trophy.

Laughing, you pull him close once more. The challenges and confrontations of the day pale in comparison to the joy of this moment. Together, you and Max are unstoppable. And as you celebrate his victory, you know that this is just the beginning of many more triumphant moments to come.

***

The familiar sounds of roaring engines, the scent of burning rubber, and the vibrant energy of the paddock have been a part of your life for years. But being around the Red Bull team feels like a different world compared to your previous experiences with Ferrari.

Christian Horner welcomes you with open arms. “It’s great to have you on board,” he says during a quiet moment in the Red Bull motorhome. “Max seems happier than he’s been in a long time.”

You smile, thinking of the nights spent laughing with Max, the whispered conversations, and reflected dreams. “I’m grateful to be here. And to be with Max.”

Helmut Marko, although initially intimidating with his sharp gaze, soon warms up to you. “Just take care of our champ,” he jokes one evening after another successful race.

As the weeks pass, the bond between you and the Red Bull team strengthens. Daniel Ricciardo becomes a close friend, often joining you and Max for dinner or movie nights. Sergio Perez, with his playful humor, keeps everyone laughing, while the mechanics and engineers teach you the deeper intricacies of the sport.

Yet, it’s not all smooth sailing. The media, always hungry for a story, constantly probes into your relationship with Max. Rumors swirl, some true, most fabricated. Yet, through it all, Max remains your anchor, always supporting and defending you.

One evening, as the two of you relax in his suite after a grueling race weekend, Max turns to you, his eyes serious. “I know this world can be intense, the scrutiny constant. But I hope you know that you’re not alone in this.”

You nod, feeling a swell of emotion. “Being with you, being part of this team, it’s incredible. Like finding a family I never knew I needed.”

Max smiles, pulling you close. “That’s because you are family. And I promise, no matter what, we’ll face everyone and everything together.”

The season progresses, and as Max inches closer to clinching the championship title once again, the excitement within the Red Bull team reaches a fever pitch. Through every high and low, every victory and setback, you stand beside Max, cheering him on.

***

“Easy there!” Christian says, catching you just as the world starts to spin and your vision blurs.

The sound of concerned voices surrounds you as you struggle to stay conscious but it’s too much. Everything goes black.

When you come to, you’re lying on a couch in Red Bull hospitality, Max’s anxious face hovering above yours. “Hey,” he murmurs, relief evident in his voice. “You scared me there.”

“What ... what happened?” you ask, your voice weak.

“You fainted,” Daniel chimes in from nearby. “We’re getting a doctor to check on you.”

True to his word, a doctor soon arrives, performing a series of tests and asking various questions. He recommends a more thorough examination and you find yourself being whisked away to a nearby clinic.

As you await the results, Max holds your hand, his thumb gently stroking your skin. “I’m right here,” he assures you. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together.”

The doctor returns, a knowing smile on his face. “Congratulations,” he says, looking at both of you. “You’re going to be parents.”

The room goes silent, the weight of the revelation sinking in. You turn to Max, searching his face for a reaction. “I’m sorry. I ... I didn’t expect this. It’s so soon.”

Max pulls you close, his eyes glassy with tears of joy. “Life has a funny way of surprising us,” he murmurs. “But I know one thing for sure. I can’t imagine having a family with anyone else.”

Your emotions swirl, a mix of surprise, joy, and fear. “Are you sure? What about your career? The media?”

Max silences you with a gentle kiss. “None of that matters. The only thing I care about is us. Our family.”

Tears roll down your cheeks, touched by his words. “I love you,” you whisper, heart full to overflowing.

Max grins, his blue eyes shining. “And I love you. This might be unexpected but it’s the best surprise of my life.”

***

“Three-time World Champion! How does that feel?” A journalist thrusts a microphone towards Max moments after his astounding win in Qatar.

“It’s surreal,” Max responds, his gaze seeking you out among the crowd. “Every championship is special but this one ... it’s different.”

The winter months are a haven of privacy for the two of you in your own little bubble. As the world speculates about the upcoming racing season, you and Max nest away from prying eyes, savoring the anticipation of your growing family.

However, when the 2024 season kicks off, it’s impossible to hide your baby bump any longer. Whispers ripple through the crowd as you walk through the paddock with Max for the first day of preseason testing.

“It’s so obvious now!”

“They look so happy together.”

“She’s glowing.”

But one voice rises above the rest from the sea of murmurs, filled with venom. “So this is your grand plan? Trap Max by getting pregnant?”

You turn to find Charles, his face contorted with anger. You take a deep breath, preparing to face the storm. “Charles, this really isn’t the place—”

Max steps forward, partially blocking you from Charles’ view, his voice colder than ice. “What do you want?”

Charles scoffs, looking you up and down with disdain. “Just wanted to see the spectacle for myself. You always did know how to play the game.”

Max’s eyes flash with anger, his posture tense. “Let me make this clear. You don’t get to disrespect Y/N or our relationship. You lost that right a long time ago.”

“You think this will make him stay with you?” Charles sneers towards you. “That he won’t get tired of you just like he did with all the others?”

Before you can respond, Daniel steps in, his presence commanding and the joking smile that usually graces his face nowhere to be found. “Enough. Show some respect.”

Christian, overhearing the commotion, joins the fray. “Is there a problem here?” he asks, voice firm.

Charles hesitates, glancing around at the united front against him. “No,” he finally mutters, turning on his heel and walking away.

Max’s grip on your hand tightens, his expression stormy. “You know you’re never alone in this, right?” he asks.

You nod, your voice soft but resolute. “I do. And I know you’ll always have my back. Just like I’ll always have yours.”

He squeezes your hand. “Always. Nothing and no one can ever come between us. Our family is the most important thing in my life.”

***

The soft hum of chatter surrounds the preschool’s main entrance. Parents eagerly await their children, discussing the excitement of the first day. You stand beside Max, his hand resting protectively on your protruding belly.

“Look, Mama!” A little voice exclaims and two giggling children rush towards you — your daughter, Sophie, and a boy with familiar dark hair.

Before you can respond, another voice joins the fray. “Henri! Over here!”

You turn, finding Charles standing there, Elise by his side, her arm entwined with his. Their eyes meet yours, a mixture of surprise and recognition.

Sophie hugs her little friend, Henri. “This is my new best friend!”

Max bends down, ruffling Sophie’s hair. “That’s great, liefje.” He then stands and addresses Charles, his tone neutral, “Seems our children have taken a liking to each other.”

Charles nods, attempting a smile. “It appears so.”

There’s an awkward silence, the past hanging heavily between you all.

Finally, Elise speaks, her voice quivering, “I’m sorry ... for everything. I never expected things to turn out like this.”

You meet her gaze, seeing genuine remorse. “Life is full of surprises. But it led me to Max and he is the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

Max adds, “What’s important is that we’re all here for our kids. Let’s not make our past their burden.”

Charles sighs, rubbing his temples. “You’re right. I regret many things but right now, Henri is my world and I want the best for him.”

You place a hand on your belly, feeling the tiny kicks. “Our children have a chance at a fresh start, a friendship untainted by the history of their parents. Let’s not stand in their way.”

The two children, oblivious to the emotional weight of the moment, tug at your arms. “Can we go to the park? Pretty please.” Sophie asks, her eyes shining with excitement.

You smile down at her, “Of course.”

As your two families part ways, there’s a sense of closure. The past, with its pain and betrayal, has been acknowledged, but the future, the innocent laughter of your children, holds promise. Life has moved on, leading each of you down different paths, but in this moment, there’s newfound unity in the shared hope for a brighter tomorrow.

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bluerosetarot · 4 months ago

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Professor of Waterdeep

"I'm always willing to learn/If you've got something to teach." Strangelove, Depeche Mode

What if Gale had a professor kink? This is purely self indulgent smut, with a f!reader that I tried to make as ambiguous as possible for all AFABs to enjoy.

MDNI, this isn't a student/teacher ship this is you/Tav and Gale married happily with you/Tav teasing him when you realize how much he likes the title.

@amorgansgal @netherese0rb @dr-demi-bee @waterdeep-weavemoss

Your eyes scan the pages in front of you, a book from Gale's massive collection before you correct yourself mentally that it was partly your collection now. When the great Wizard of Waterdeep had asked for your hand nearly a year ago he promised everything that was his would be yours; books, scrolls, he even made a grand gesture of offering the very air he breathed in his usual flourishing manner with that mischievous grin that was so infectious that you couldn't help but return it every time.

And so over time you had made the space yours in your own little ways. A few paintings, trinkets from your travels together, your own books; and every time you'd bring home something from the town his smile would light up and he'd start looking over the tower for the perfect place to put it on display. The tower was becoming a home for the both of you, working together to build a life you could share for years to come.

It was just you in the tower for now, though, surrounded by books and other finery. He'd gotten back into teaching magic and you chuckled every time someone called him "professor". That title put a glimmer in his eyes and you could sense a noticeable shift in his demeanor. It fed the confidence and ego within, for sure, and his happiness meant you were happy. Tonight, however, when he came home you had a plan: you wanted to test exactly how much that word affected him and now it was your turn to smirk to yourself as you flipped a page. He'd be home soon if the clock on the wall was any indication; he rarely stayed late which he would say was because he knew you were waiting for him. The fact he had you, after so long being Mystra's puppet and the loneliness that followed after, was enough to make him want to rush back to your side at the end of each lesson.

You heard the downstairs door of the tower creak open followed shortly after by Gale's voice announcing his return.

"My love, you would not believe the day I've had." His warm voice echoed up the stairs, a hint of exhaustion in his tone. "I had to put out figurative, and literal, fires today at the academy. The Donlan twins are progressing fine in their studies though, was worried about those two at the beginning of the year…"

You thought back to the first time you two met, pulling him out of the stone and his verbose thanks. Both then and now you had the thought that the man loved the sound of his own voice the way he would ramble as he walked up the stairs. The difference between then and now, of course, was that you had grown to love it just as much as he did. Listening to his voice get louder as he made his way up the stairs made you a bit nervous, the thought of your plan backfiring in the back of your mind.

"Then of course you've got Damiana who has been a natural from the start and the half elf Elise who was a bit rough around the edges but she's been comparing notes with Marco lately which has improved both of them."

"Sounds like you've got a fine class; but of course how could they go wrong with you as their teacher? You're a natural at this, professor." That last word hung in the air between you two with the sultry tone you'd laced it with. You didn't look up from your book but you could hear the confidence as he replied, edging closer to you on the chaise lounge. He'd taken the bait for sure from the sound of the low chuckle rumbling up from his chest.

"Of course I'm a natural, the term 'childhood prodigy' comes to mind." His hands plucked the book from your grasp and he shut the book with an audible clap that brought your gaze up to meet his. "Though I must admit my finest work was our private lesson long ago, when we first began travelling together."

Memories came surging back; that night just after helping the grove and the tieflings. The literal magic building between you two. The closeness that brought your minds and thoughts together. Those warm eyes of his crinkled at the edges, soft lines from the smile on his lips. Though he hadn't said it outright you could tell he enjoyed hearing you call him that, so further on you pressed.

"Then perhaps we could have another private lesson here, professor? I fear I might have forgotten your initial teachings and might need something a bit more hands on." Your hand reached out to caress his forearm and he shuddered in rapturous delight.

"How could I say no to such an… enthusiastic pupil?" Gently he pulled you up from your seat, taking you by the hand and pulling you so close your lips nearly touched. "Shall we work on the verbal," his tongue would glide along his lips to accentuate his words, "or somatic," now his free hand slid down your back, "parts first?"

"Verbal, I think." It was your turn to shudder, suddenly your body felt so very warm. "If I can't properly form the words then I might cast the wrong spell, professor."

Each utterance of that title made his smirk that much wider and he nodded. "I agree, though for purely selfish reasons. Your voice when it resonates with the Weave could put any goddess to shame." He twirled you around and pulled your back against his chest, his lips close enough to your ear you could feel his hot breath as he whispered the first lesson. "Repeat after me… Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao…"

You remembered those words from the first time he taught you, though with him this close it was a bit tougher to concentrate. Still, you took in a shaky breath and repeated his words.

"Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao…" That familiar spark shot down your spine and you could feel the power in your words. "Like that, professor?" Gale's hands slid down the sides of your body to your hips as you felt his breathing quicken.

"Yes. Just so. Again."

"Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao." You said it with a bit more authority this time though Gale's wandering hand sliding up to cup one of your breasts through your clothing made you stutter on the last word.

"Careful, a mage needs to have utmost concentration even under the most distracting circumstances. Again." He tweaked a hardening nipple and you bit your lip to stifle a moan. "Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao!" Third time was the charm it seemed and Gale nodded against your ear.

"Very good. Now for the somatic components. One must have perfect control of your hands and fingers and what better way to practice than with a bit of exercise?" The hand not on your breast slid down past the waistband of your comfortable houseclothes and quickly found your soaked lower lips, thumb rubbing against your sensitive nub while a finger slid into your core. "I dare say you were hoping for this outcome, my lovely pupil."

Your breath caught in your throat while your head pressed back against him, legs already a bit shaky as you leaned into him. "I… I had an idea for an experiment, professor… I'm sure you can sympathize with a curious mind…"

"Oh indeed, and you've done very well so far. Quite possibly my best," a second finger joined the first, stretching you a bit more, "student yet." Your squirming brought another chuckle out of him as he twisted your nipple once more. "Do you remember the somatic components for this spell?"

Even as he gave you such sweet torment he still was focused on the lesson. It took a bit for you to recall through the fog of pleasure forming in your mind but you nodded wordlessly and managed, with a bit of difficulty, to emulate the movements as purple sparks flew from your fingertips.

"A good memory is the best trait a wizard can have. And I see your memory hasn't faded." His dexterous fingers slowly pumped in and out of your core while his thumb continued to drive you mad by circling around your clit. "Now for the last component… imagine your concept of harmony…"

You cursed as his hands would draw soft moans from your lips, each movement bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Willing your mind to focus, damnit, you conjured up a memory. Your first morning together in the tower; you'd had a night of bliss that left you both exhausted but that morning was nothing if not harmonious. Soft sunlight filtered through the drapes and illuminated Gale's still sleeping face and enhanced the look of peace on his features. That was harmony incarnate to you, and the vision flooded your mind.

The Weave was connecting you two already and you felt his pleasure at him being your focus. A wave of joy washing over your mind. That did nothing to stop his hands; if anything it spurred him on further. Fingers moved faster, the hand on your breast kneading it gently, warm breath on your ear as he spoke once more.

"Now combine all three. Do it for me, my love." You were so damn close to the edge of climax but followed his command as you felt his heart pounding in his chest behind you.

"Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao!" Everything was in harmony and the spell went off perfectly. You could feel your minds becoming one, connected by the Weave, and his voice edged into your mind.

"Now, my love. I want to feel you come undone for me. Now!"

A sharp cry of pleasure escaped your lips as the crashing wave of pleasure washed over the both of you, threatening to take your legs out from under you as Gale held you up. Even through the climax his fingers kept tormenting you until you were entirely spent, your breath slowly calming from panting gasps. Only once the final trembles subsided did he remove his hand from you to bring his fingers up to his mouth to taste you.

"Delicious. My favorite taste." Gently he turned you back to face him, his lips pressing to yours for a tender kiss and you could taste yourself on him. When he tried to pull away your hands found his hair and tugged to keep him there a bit longer. When you two finally parted he gazed at you with half closed eyes, that smoldering look that told you that you weren't done yet as he pulled you down onto the lounge. "My turn."

"Of course, professor."

#gale dekarios #gale dekarios x reader #f!reader x gale dekarios #gale dekarios x f!reader #reader insert #bg3 #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #gale #gale bg3 #wizard of waterdeep

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kpop---scenarios · 6 months ago

Text

Monster (2)

Pairing: Chan x Reader x Felix

Genre: Mafia, Arranged Marriage

Warning: Swearing, Mentions of blood etc

Word Count: 3k

Taglist: @gloriajovicc @bluebeard67 @stephanieeeyang @mouseyboo @stayatinykatsy @thicccurls @thecutiepieme @maisyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @kayleefriedchicken @msauthor @chloe-elise-2000

One |

“Are you sure you're okay?” Chan asks, glancing back to where your supposed boyfriend had previously stood. You watched as he walked off with his partner, part of you now felt like there was more to the story, but you weren't going to admit that right now.

“Yeah I'm fine.” You smile. “But I do think I'm going to go. Thank you both for a wonderful night, let's do it again.” You smile. You move out of the booth as fast as you can, trying to get away before either of them can say anything to you. Even if Seojoon and you weren't in the best place in your relationship, why was he lying to you about where he was? If he had told you he wanted to go out with some coworkers, you wouldn't have cared.

As soon as you stepped outside, the cool air hitting you in the face, your body cooled down immensely. You hadn't realized how hot you had felt, from being flustered with Seojoon or from being around Felix and Chan - you weren't sure. You pull out your phone, clicking your boyfriend's contact, you place the phone up to your ear as you walk to the edge of the sidewalk to hail a cab.

The phone continues to ring, and ring and ring. Once you get into your cab, you hang up the call, telling the driver your address to take you home. You enter your shared apartment and the feeling of loneliness consumes you. The quietness is so fucking loud, you can feel it in your heart. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to remember a good memory here you had with Seojoon, something, anything but no matter how much you tried, all your happy memories were things you did here alone, or times that you were alone here which was more often than not, and you didn't mind it. Which should say something. That night you laid in your bed, trying to dream about your boyfriend, but found yourself dreaming about two other men instead.

In the morning you woke up to the sounds of dishes banging in the kitchen. You got out of bed, walked to the kitchen rubbing your eyes, you saw your boyfriend, shirtless, flour and other ingredients all over the counter and breakfast cooking on the stove.

“What's this?” You ask, rubbing your eyes.

“Good morning.” He smiles. “I'm making breakfast.”

“I can see that.” You chuckle. “But why?” You ask. Seojoon stares at you, almost like he's trying to study your face to see what you know. Did he see you last night?

“I can't make breakfast for my girlfriend?” He asks, turning back to the stove.

“You can, you just never have. So I'm a little confused.” You say. You weren't lying and he knew that.

“What did you get up to last night?” He asks, completely avoiding answering your question.

“I went to the club with some new friends.” You told him. “Was work very busy last night?” You ask.

“Yeah it was. But we had some down time, so I went for dinner with the guys. Other than that it was pretty uneventful.. same old, same old.” He says. “Who are your new friends?”

You watch him bring his coffee cup up to his lips. His eyes are watching you intensely. “Bang Chan and Lee Felix.” You say. Seojoon chokes on his coffee, spitting some out while he coughs on the rest. He sets down his cup as he tries to catch his breath but you don't move. That was a weird reaction to the names, it made the wheels in your head spin.

“W..wrong..tube.” He gasps, practically coughing up a lung.

“I hate when that happens.” you sigh. “Do you know them?” You ask.

“No, no, how would I know them?” He awkwardly laughs. “How did you meet them?” He wonders.

“At my dad's party.” You say.

He nods his head. “Did you have fun? You know, I don't think I've ever met your friends before.” He smiles. “We should change that.”

“This change is weird and sudden.” You whisper.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“I was going to talk to you today. About how alone in this relationship I feel. And how I feel like you're lying to me about something.”

Seojoon looks at you, with a look you don't quite understand before he smiles widely, placing his hands on your arms before he plants a kiss on your forehead. “You worry too much. What are these friends of yours filling your head with?” He laughs. “I definitely need to meet them now to set them straight.” He laughs again. The most forced, and fake laugh that you had ever heard. He goes back to the stove, finishing making breakfast for the two of you.

You ate a little bit before, heading to the bathroom to shower. You weren't sure what the fuck was going on, but something felt so off but you indulged this new Seojoon. You weren't about to tell him no when he's becoming interested in certain aspects of your life because he's never done this before. Which is how you ended up sitting in a pub next to Seojoon, a drink in front of each of you as you waited for Chan and Felix to show up. When you had called the two of them to ask if they would meet with the two of you, they laughed so hard through the phone you were about to hang up on them, until they agreed, without you having to convince either of them to do it.

“Hi beautiful.” Chan says as he walks up to the table, smiling at you.

“You look stunning.” Felix grins, giving you a sly little wink. You glanced over at Seojoon, who looked unfazed by the nicknames from the two men across from you guys.

“You must be Seojoon.” Chan says, glaring at him. Felix didn't say a word, just stared at him, while Seojoon smiled widely.

“Nice to meet you two. You must be.. Bang chan.” He says, pointing to Chan. “And you Lee Felix.”

“You're right.” Felix says. “Good job.”

Silence around the table consumes you, making you feel so uncomfortable. You looked between the three men, Seojoon's eyes darting between Felix and Chan, Felix and Chan glaring hard at Seojoon and you sat there for a second, before the waitress walked by.

“Excuse me!” You yell. “I'm sorry, could we get some shots.. please.” You ask, begging her with your eyes. She looks around the table, feeling the tension between everyone.

“So.” You smile. “What are you guys doing tonight?” You ask Felix and Chan. They turn to look at you, smiling.

“We're actually going to your fathers house.” They announce. You look shocked. You had no idea anything was happening tonight.

“Oh? What's going on?” You ask.

“Just a late dinner, that's all. I told your dad I was seeing you this evening, and he told me to extend the invitation.. to you.” Chan explains.

Seojoon looks down at his phone before back up at you. “I gotta go to work.” He sighs. “I'm sorry..you.” He says. “You two.. make sure you take care of my girl.” He says, another forced laugh before he kisses your forehead. He slides out of the booth, walking away and out of the pub.

Chan and Felix both burst into laughter as soon as he's out of view. “Never, and I mean never, ask me to hangout with him again.” Felix laughs.

“I don't think I've ever been more uncomfortable sitting with a cop before.” Chan chuckles.

“He's not a cop, you guys.” You groan.

“Why does he walk like that?” Felix asks. “Cause he's a cop.”

“Why does he talk like that?” Chan asks. “Cause he's a cop.”

“Oh my god, would you two..” before you can finish, your waitress comes with your shots. You quickly take yours and Seojoon's before heading to your fathers.

Later that night, when you got home, Seojoon was already home, in bed and asleep. You were surprised, usually when he was called away it was at least a day before you saw him again. You quietly undressed yourself, got into your pj's and crawled into bed. You dozed off quickly to the faint sound of Seojoon snoring beside you. It didn't feel like you'd been asleep long enough when you're woken up to the sound of Seojoon answering his phone. You looked at your phone, it was 3:45 in the morning. Who the hell was calling him so early? As you tried to fall back asleep, you listened to him speak, only catching a few words here and there.

“Yes. YES.” He whispers. “Bang Chan.. Lee Felix.. big...us.”

Us. you think. A big what for us? And who is us? Why were Felix and Chan so important to him? You squeeze your eyes closed as you hear him try to quietly shuffle back into the room, crawling back into bed, falling asleep quickly, while you lay awake, thinking.

The next morning, Seojoon had gone to work before you had even woken up, like usual. You knew there was something going on with him, but you couldn't quite figure out what. Felix and Chan were still convinced he was a cop, but no, you didn't think he was able to pull that off. Later in the day, you called him, wanting to see if you could catch him in another lie.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” You begin. “Are you gonna be late today?” You ask. “I saw the big pile up on the news, how fucking awful. Are you working that accident?”

“Oh hi, um, yeah, I'm here now. It's so bad, babe. Like so bad. I probably won't be back until tomorrow, maybe the next day if I need to work extra. I'll call you, Kay? Oh gotta go.” He says, hanging up the call.

“That lying piece of fucking shit!” You scream. There was no pile up. You made it up to see what he would say and he fell right into the trap. You dial a different number this time, needing someone to talk to. “Hey. Are you guys busy?”

“You're sure?” Felix asks, glancing at Chan.

“What else could it be?” You sigh. “He's cheating on me.” You pout, taking a sip of your cocktail.

“He's a..” Chan begins.

“Stop it. He's not. There's no way. Look, I called him and asked him if he was working a pile up and he straight up lied to me about it.” You say. “I bet if I call him right now, he either won't answer or it'll be some other bullshit he spews.”

“Call him.” Felix says, gesturing to your phone. You finish your drink before dialing his number. Putting your phone on speaker and setting it on the table as you let it ring.

Ring

“Hello?”

Your eyes go wide, staring at both men, who stare back at you. It was a woman's voice. A woman's voice that you did not recognize. Your hand had never moved so fast to end a call before. Your screen goes black, with you sitting in silence, Felix and Chan unsure of what to say to you.

“I guess that's that.” You say. “Honestly, I thought I would have been sadder.” You chuckle. Truly, you felt fine, you almost felt a sense of relief. Like you finally had a reason to end things. You'd be able to get your apartment back, after he moved in sort of spur of the moment, with no discussion with you about it. A few months into dating, he came over with a whole bunch of shit, talking about how his lease expired and he thought it would be so fun to surprise you. A surprise was an understatement, that was for sure.

“You sure you're okay?” Chan asks, grabbing your arm as the three of you walk out of the bar.

“I'm completely fine.” You smile. “You guys go, I know you said you had some stuff to do.” You say, waving them off. You went home, seeing Seojoon there already, fast asleep, again. Could he not keep his lies straight? He wasn't even supposed to be home and frankly you didn't want to sleep next to a cheater, so that night you got changed and went to sleep on the couch, which only lasted a few hours before a continuous knocking on your front door woke you up.

“Y/N..” you hear from outside the door. “Fuck. Y/N!”

You pull the door open, seeing Chan, hunched over, his arm wrapped around his stomach. “What the hell?” You gasp. He stands up as much as he can, looking at you as your eyes trail his body. You can see the blood seeping through his fingers. “What happened?” You whisper, pulling him inside. You pull him to the bathroom, checking on Seojoon before you quietly close the door.

“Felix and I had some stuff to handle, the guy fucking stabbed me.” He grunts. You dig through your drawers, finding your first aid kit. You always had at least some medical supplies on hand, just in case. This wasn't the first time you needed to sew someone's wound.

“Where's Felix?” You ask.

“He got out of there, they got me as I was trying to take off. I remembered you lived around here. I'm sorry.” He says.

“I'm glad you came.” You smile. You help Chan to sit on the counter before you get your needle and thread out. “I'm just gonna..” you pause, your fingers lifting the hem of his shirt. Chan leans back as much as he can, you lift his shirt, revealing an extremely nice set of abs.

“Wow.” You whisper, closing your mouth to stop you from drooling. You can see Chan smirking from the corner of your eye as you grab disinfectant spray. “This is probably gonna sting.” You warn.

“Just do it.” He says through gritted teeth. You spray his wound, Chan opens his mouth to yell but nothing comes out. The silent yelling as he squeezes his eyes shut. Once you're done, you start getting your other things ready, warning him that this is also gonna hurt.

“Believe me, not my first time getting stitched with no numbing.” He chuckles.

“Luckily for you, not my first time stitching without numbing.” You grin. You start sewing him up, and his eyes never leave you. He watches you with such intent, how you concentrate on your work. He couldn't help but smile to himself as he watched you.

“Oh fuck.” He hisses, one spot a little more tender than the others.

You can hear Seojoon stir in the other room. You stop, waiting, listening.

“Y/N?” You hear a groggy Seojoon call out. You quickly stand up, dropping the needle as you press yourself against Chan, covering his mouth with your hand.

“I'm just in the bathroom.” You yell out.

“Ah, okay.” He yawns. “You okay? I thought I heard another voice?”

“That was my phone.” You say back. Chan's stare burns into your face as you wait to listen for Seojoon to shuffle back to bed. Your body pressed against his, felt so good, he completely forgot about his stab wound. Once you're confident that Seojoon has gone back to bed, you move your hand from Chan's mouth, taking a deep breath.

“I'm sorry.. I just..” you start as you back away. Chan grabs your wrist, pulling you back towards him. “What are you doing?” You whisper.

“Do you have any idea how bad I fucking want you?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. Your breath hitches.

His phone rings, he lets go of your wrist, answering it quickly. “Felix? Yeah, okay. I'm on my way.”

“Sorry princess, I gotta go.” He says, grunting as he gets off the counter.

“I'm not done.” You whisper. The world is spinning. He made your fucking head spin.

“It's good enough. Thank you.” He whispers, pling his shirt down. You put your supplies away, open the door and immediately hear Seojoon snoring. You usher Chan out the door, opening the front for him. “Is Felix okay?” You ask as he turns to go.

“Don't worry about him, or me. We're both gonna be just fine.” He winks, walking down the hallway and out of view.

In the morning, you wake up on the couch to Seojoon sitting in the chair next to you.

“Morning.” He smiles.

“Don't.” You sigh, getting up.

“What did I do?” He chuckles.

“Are you cheating on me?” You ask. He looks stunned, shocked and panicked.

“W-what? Me? No?”

“Something is going on, either you tell me now or I'm fucking done.” you spit.

“Babe..” He chuckles. “You're being delusional.”

“Get out.” You yell. “I'm done. This is done.” You say.

“Y/N.” He pleads. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Do I? You've never told me. Go ahead.” You say, crossing your arms, waiting for what he was going to say.

“I.. you know. I lo..” he mumbles. “We've been together for so long. You know how I feel.”

“No. I don't. I honestly don't think you've ever told me that you've loved me. I've told you plenty. I've always been clear to you about my feelings, but you can't even give me the decency of saying it once to save the relationship.” You scoff. “I'm done. Get out. We're over. “ You spit. “You have an hour to pack your shit.”

You go to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind you. You run a bath, sit and scroll through your phone for an hour. You really fucking hoped he would be gone by the time you got out. And thankfully, he was. Your place was quiet, and you felt like you could breathe. But you also felt hurt. Why didn't he fight harder for you? Why did he give up so easily? Weren't you worth more?

You pulled out your phone, calling the two people who had become the closest people to you in your life.

“I did it.” You breathe. “I'm single.” You laugh.

“That's cause for celebration!” Felix exclaims.

“Get ready. We'll be there at 10 to pick you up.” Chan laughs. You were thankful for them, and how in the short time you'd known them they were always there for you. Little did you know, sooner rather than later, you'd need them even more.

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advisorykitty · 1 month ago

Note

Hello can I make a request? Did you watch the anime Bungo Stray Dogs because I want to request Randal with Reader like Elise. She was "created" by Randal and in the episode when Sebastian first appeared, Randal spent so much time with Sebastian that Elise!Reader was upset because he didn't attend the tea party the two usually held.

Spilled Tea

Elise! Reader x Randal

[Y/N] was furious.

Not the "I'm-going-to-yell-until-my-voice-goes-hoarse" kind of furious—no, it was the quiet, simmering kind that settled deep in her gut, like hot coals waiting for someone to poke at them. She paced the length of the hallway, arms crossed, glaring at the pristine white walls of Luther’s house as if they were the source of all her problems.

Why was she mad?

Because Randal—her dear, ridiculous creator—had once again forgotten their tea party.

It wasn’t like it was some casual thing they did. No, this was tradition. Every week, at the same time, they would gather in the little tea room, surrounded by dainty china and enough sugary snacks to make even Luther cringe. And what had Randal done? Ditched her. For Sebastian.

Ugh. Sebastian.

The new pet—awkward and always a little too stiff—had somehow weaseled his way into Randal’s good graces, and now Randal was all about Sebastian, he wasnt even that good of a birthday gift!. They spent hours together, playing games, talking about who-knows-what, while [Y/N] was left to brew tea alone.

She kicked at the edge of a rug as she stormed down the hall. The sound of her foot smacking the floor echoed, and she half-wondered if anyone was going to come check on her. Probably not. No one ever did.

"They’re all idiots," she muttered, tugging at the ends of her hair in frustration. "Every last one of them."

Just as she was about to storm back into the tea room and throw a cup for good measure, she ran smack into a figure.

Thud.

"Ow!" she yelped, stumbling back.

Nyon stood there, looking bewildered, his large always shocked eyes blinking in confusion. His hat—never removed—tilted a bit to one side as he scratched the back of his head, his fingers moving in a nervous rhythm behind him.

"S-sorry," Nyon muttered, his English broken as usual. "Didn’t see."

"Of course you didn’t," [Y/N] grumbled, rubbing her arm where she’d collided with him. "Nobody does."

"Why... angry?" Nyon asked, tilting his head, trying to figure her out.

"I’m not angry," she snapped automatically, then sighed when she saw his confused look. "Okay, fine. I’m mad. Randal forgot about me again."

Nyon’s expression didn’t change much, but he did take a step back, giving her some space. "Randal... distracted. With... Sebastian."

"Tell me something I don’t know," [Y/N] muttered. She slumped against the wall, crossing her arms tighter around her chest. "He never misses our tea parties. Until now."

Nyon shuffled his feet, clearly not knowing what to say. He wasn’t exactly known for being talkative or helpful in emotional crises. "You still... important," he mumbled.

"Yeah, well, that doesn’t help much," she sighed, feeling the irritation bubbling inside her again. "I feel like I’m just a side note to him now."

Just then, a voice echoed from down the hall.

"You’re still sulking, huh?"

It was Nyen.

He strolled in, smirking as he leaned against the wall. He was always ready to poke fun at her misfortunes. His arms were crossed, and his tone dripped with sarcasm. "What’s the matter? Can’t keep your 'CrEaToRs' attention?"

[Y/N] shot him a glare. "Shut up, Nyen."

"Oh, come on," he said, feigning sympathy. "Did you really think he’d stick around when he has a shiny new toy? How naive can you be?"

She rolled her eyes. "This isn’t just about being jealous, you know. It’s about feeling—"

"Emotional," Nyen cut in, mocking her tone. "Yeah, yeah. Next time, just grab Randal by the collar and drag him to tea. No one’s stopping you."

"Thanks for the advice, really helpful," [Y/N] retorted, but a small part of her appreciated his brazen honesty.

Before she could retort, Randal appeared at the end of the hallway, his usual cheerful demeanor shining through. "Y/N?"

He stood there looking a bit sheepish, as if he had just realized something was off. Sebastian hovered behind him, awkward and unsure, like he was trying to blend into the wallpaper.

"Randal," [Y/N] said, her voice tight with irritation. "Where have you been?"

Randal blinked, clearly confused. "I’ve been with Sebastian," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why?"

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Because we were supposed to have our tea party! Remember? The one we have every week?"

"Oh!" Randal’s eyes lit up in recognition. "Right! Our tea party! I forgot!"

"Of course you did," [Y/N] groaned, fighting the urge to scream. "You know, for someone who’s supposed to be my creator, you really suck at remembering plans."

Randal frowned, a hint of guilt creeping onto his face. "I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to forget fufu~"

"Ugh," she sighed, her irritation softening just a bit as she looked at Randal’s crestfallen expression. "Just... let’s have our tea party now, okay? I need some snacks and a distraction from all this."

"Yes! Let’s go!" Randal said, brightening up immediately.

As they started walking towards the tea room, Randal practically skipped to his chair, plopping down with a bright grin. Sebastian, however, hung back, hovering near the door.

"Uh, is it okay if I...?" he started, his voice trailing off as he glanced between Randal and [Y/N].

"Of course, you’re invited, Sebastian!" Randal chirped, motioning for him to join.

Sebastian hesitated, taking a cautious step forward. "I don’t want to interrupt your... thing."

"You're already interrupting it," [Y/N] said, rolling her eyes. "Just sit down."

He slowly approached the table, and as he sat, he looked like he’d just been sentenced to death. "Uh, thanks?"

"You can pour the tea," Randal said, practically bouncing in his seat.

Sebastian looked like he was about to protest but caught [Y/N]’s pointed look and reluctantly picked up the teapot. As he poured, he managed to spill a bit on the tablecloth, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

"Smooth move, Sebastian," [Y/N] called, barely holding back her laughter.

"Uh, I’m sorry?? .I—" he stammered, only to be interrupted by Randal.

"Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it!" Randal said, waving his hands dramatically. "Just make sure to keep it on the table this time!"

Sebastian sighed, trying to regain his composure. "I was trying to—"

"Just be careful, okay?" [Y/N] interrupted, smirking. "Last thing we need is you drowning in tea."

"Yeah, that would be—" Sebastian started, but once again, Randal cut in.

"Time for the ceremony! Everyone stand up!" Randal declared, his eyes wide with excitement.

Sebastian looked around, clearly perplexed. "Wait, what ceremony?"

"You never mentioned that," he said, trying to make sense of the situation.

"You should’ve asked before coming," [Y/N] said, rolling her eyes, though she couldn’t help but laugh. "It involves Randal being extra and making everyone uncomfortable."

"Yes!" Randal declared, grinning like a fool. "Everyone stand up!"

Sebastian stood awkwardly, clearly unsure of what to do. "Um... am I supposed to do something?"

"You just stand there and look pretty," [Y/N] said, nudging him with a playful grin.

"That’s really not my strong suit," Sebastian muttered.

As Randal began his ridiculous "ceremony," pouring tea into the cups with exaggerated flourishes, [Y/N] couldn’t help but feel a warmth spreading through her. Despite the frustration earlier, watching Randal be his usual weird self made her heart lighten. Even Sebastian's awkwardness started to feel like a welcome change.

Wait. No don't feel that way. Randal is your sole purpose!

As the laughter flowed, Randal suddenly paused, looking serious. "And now, we all make a toast! To tea, friends, and not forgetting our traditions!"

"To tea!" [Y/N] echoed, raising her cup with a smile.

"To—wait, do we have to toast?" Sebastian asked, looking caught off guard.

Randal shot him a wide-eyed stare. "Of course! It’s part of the ceremony!"

Sebastian sighed but raised his cup anyway. "To... tea."

"And to me!" Randal added, grinning madly.

As they all took a sip, Sebastian attempted to interject. "I was thinking—"

But Randal cut him off again, waving his arms. "No time for thinking! We need more sugar!"

Sebastian’s mouth opened, clearly about to say something, but Randal continued. "You know, if you mix the sugar with the milk just right, it tastes like—"

"Randal, I really—" Sebastian tried again, but Randal was on a roll.

"And don’t forget the cookies! They must be chocolate chip, or else they’re just eugh!!"

"Randal can i-"

[Y/N] quickly interrupted Sebastian again.

"Sure I'll go get the cookies!" She giggled and skipped to the kitchen, feeling happy about the passive aggressive revenge she had gotten on Sebastian.

It was his fault for interfering anyway.

#ranfren x reader #nyen catman #nyen ranfren #nyon ranfren #fanfic #nyon and nyen #luther von ivory #randals friends #sebastian ranfren #randal ivory

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pettyprocrastination · 1 year ago

Text

Taste Test

Pairing: Line Cook!Simon Riley x Line Cook!Fem!Reader

Summary: Simon is warned by his manager about the dangers of a workplace romance. You are asked for your opinion on seasoning.

Warnings: profanity and smoking.

Wordcount: 1.3k

Note: take this silly little thing as an apology for my utter lack of activity lately I'm so sorry yall! Made simon a linecook as a little joke au but now its kinda stuck in my head and not leaving lmao. Big thank you to @madhyanas @thesadvampire and @yeehaw-djarin for being my beta readers and editors for this story! I smooch you all <3

__________________

Simon had just finished plating his sixth steak of the night when the manager, Elise, a woman with twitching hands and cold eyes, pokes her head into the kitchen and barks his name.

“My office.”

The others snicker and bump shoulders like schoolboys, calling out a jested “fuck did you do this time, Riley?” that he doesn’t bother answering with words so much as a choice hand gesture thrown into the air before he ducks under the door frame and disappears down the hall.

“You want to tell me what I’m getting chewed out for?” Simon rasps as he tucks his hands into the front pocket of his apron, scarred fingers curling around the carton of cigarettes tucked within it.

Elise’s office is hardly bigger than the pantry, just large enough for a rickety desk piled with bills and a chair with a threadbare cushion that was all but pressed flat.

“I’m not reprimanding you, Simon.”

“Is that so?”

“Think of what I’m about to say as-” Elise tilts her head, flashing him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “A preventive measure.”

Simon fishes out a lighter from his back pocket as she continues. She doesn’t have the energy to tell him to stop.

“What do you think of the new hire?”

Truthfully, nothing.

You don’t talk much outside of work. While the other cooks are content to crack jokes and tell stories of their weekend to one another as they prepare meals, you have no such social connection to anybody within the kitchen. The only moments Simon had even heard your voice was the rushed announcement of your position behind somebody or when coming around the corner.

“She’s fine.” He takes a slow drag of his cigarette and exhales, smoke curling from his lips as he speaks. “Does her job and doesn’t bitch like the others.”

“She’s more than fine.” Elise motions to a stapled pack of paper on her desk.

“Kid went to culinary school, trained under some big fucking names and even worked at some five-star joints before coming here. All her previous employers say she’s a hard worker who picks up shifts and doesn’t cause trouble.”

She picks up the paper and points it towards the six foot four cook hunched in her doorway.

“Which is exactly why I’m telling you now that she is off-fucking-limits to you.”

Simon bites down on his cigarette. “S’cuse me?”

“Don’t play coy, Riley. You’re far too fucking grown to pretend you don’t know what you do.”

He does know. Simon is more than aware of the past flings he’s had with multiple servers, none of which have ended on a positive note and all of which resulted in a souring work environment until they up and quit - leaving front of house understaffed until the next poor bastard walked through the door asking about the Help Wanted sign hung outside.

But the blame can’t be on him entirely, that is. Each doe-eyed waitress entered a fling with the cook knowing good and well what his intentions were, because he had no issue with saying it right to their face.

‘I’m not looking for a relationship.’

Simon is a blunt man. He tells people what he wants because in a world full of dragging feet and double entendres, he values efficiency and honesty above all else.

“Listen, I’ve never stopped you from dipping your hand in the cookie jar before, but this?” She waves your resume in front of him again. “This right here? Off-limits. If you run this poor girl out and leave us understaffed for the Sunday rush I will fucking gut you myself, Simon.”

It’s only been a week and a half since you’ve started working with them. Part of him wants to laugh at Elise’s exasperated accusation. That somehow, in the midst of chaotic shifts where several customers complain and a few bar patrons get rowdy enough for him to have to drag them out by the collar, he’d be able to find the fucking time to learn your goddamn name, let alone sweettalk his way between your legs.

But then he remembers the muffled laugh you hid in your sleeve yesterday when listening to the dishwasher crack jokes during the lunch rush and how you tap the side of your apron in a constant rhythm when looking for something within the kitchen. Simon interrupts his own thoughts and frowns, mildly surprised about just how much he noticed of you from the corner of his eye during the daily lunch rush. Had Elise said nothing, he wouldn’t have cast a second glance in your direction. But now?

“Simon! Are you listening?”

She may have just cursed herself.

“Yeah-” He stamps his cigarette out on the ceramic tray on her desk, offering her a dry clip of his voice before turning on his heel. “No fucking the new cook until we find coverage, got it.”

Simon narrowly avoids a stapler being thrown in his direction before ducking out of her office and back into the kitchen where his coworker grins at him from the sink.

“So? She fire your dumbass yet?”

Across the kitchen, you cut onions with a flicking wrist that never ceased movement, brows furrowed and mumbling to yourself.

Simon hums.

You’re quite pretty.

“Not yet.” He rumbles. “She likes my smile too much.”

You spare Simon a glance as he settles back into his work station next to you before you resume cutting. He notices there’s a scar on your bottom lip, a little sliver of raised skin that goes from the bottom of your chin to the swell of your lower lip.

“Hey.”

His voice shakes you from your focus, hands freezing as you turn to look at him, lightly craning your neck to meet his eyes.

Simon holds out a spoon to you, the other scarred hand hovering beneath to keep it from spilling.

“Mind giving your opinion? Can’t tell if it needs more garlic.”

There’s a moment where your brows cinch together and you look at him with caution, as if to sniff out any sort of deceit within his offer before you mumble, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” and lean forward.

There’s no need for him to feed you. You’re a fully grown woman who could take the spoon from his hand with no issue, but Simon finds himself guiding it to your mouth and letting his other hand tuck under your chin in an affectionate gesture far too intimate for the back kitchen of a local restaurant.

Simon is sure that Elise has cursed him too. He hadn’t given you a second glance or a spare thought since your first day. But now, he watches your eyes flutter shut as you hum at his cooking.

“Good?” he asks.

Your tongue darts out to catch a stray droplet of sauce on your lower lip. “Good.” Your lips purse like you have something more to say and you raise your hand, pinching your pointer finger to your thumb in a universal gesture.

“Could use just a bit more garlic though.”

There’s a brief moment after you speak where panic fills your eyes as Simon says nothing. Frantic thoughts fill your brain, wondering if that was some sort of test for the new hire that you had failed due to your own personal tastes until the man that towers over you nods.

“More garlic.” He echoes. With a short nod of his head, he turns back to his station without another word.

Simon doesn’t speak to you again for the rest of your shift yet at times during the night, where an unexpected pause takes over the kitchen for a brief but appreciated moment of silence, you feel his gaze on the back of your neck.

When the time of the night comes to hang up your apron and slip through the backdoor, he joins you without a word. A large looming shadow walking in step with your own, unexpected but not unwelcome. He bids you a rasped “ ‘Night” before turning to his car as you unlock your own, offering him a mimic of his words before you drive home.

You notice in the reflection of your rear view mirror that he doesn’t leave the parking lot right away. But rather chose to wait until you do to finally depart.

#line cook simon tag #nobody look at me im rusty lmao #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x fem reader #watch me find eight fucking typos the minute i post this lmao

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jaehunnyy · 2 years ago

Text

The sound of our tied souls

Genre: soulmate!au, rockstar!au, kinda enemies-to-lovers but not really, a bit of angst, fluff, happy ending

Word count: 3.3k

Pairing: rockstar!San x fem!reader (feat. reader's best friend x Mingi)

Warnings: swear words (quite a lot), time-skip, kind of a bad guy attitude—San's a bit of a jerk at the beginning but he has a character development :), soulmate rejection, mentions of some jealous fans, kinda slow-burn, one kiss, possible grammar mistakes

A/N: this oneshot is part of @sungbeam's soulmate collab, which i was so proud to be part of; thanks for the opportunity, love 🤍

You got woken up by that annoying song again, your beauty sleep being thrown away for the rest of the night—cause it seemed like your soulmate had no sleeping schedule. You couldn't understand how he could listen to this all the time, you often wondered if his hearing was still intact—cause the loud growl of what seemed to be an electric guitar could surely manage to make you deaf by now.

You have first discovered your soulmate bond after your 16th birthday, when you began hearing rock music everyday. Everyone was talking about how sweet their marks were: a tattoo with the letter of their significant other's name, a highlight in their hair matching their future partner's color, and the list could go on. You, on the other hand, had to struggle with listening to something you absolutely despised, without thinking that your soulmate returned the same feeling to your music choice. With a mischievous smile on your face, you made your way to your piano, starting to play one of your favorite songs. God, if only you knew how frustrated your soulmate got.

"San, you messed up again! Can you fucking focus?" Hongjoong, the leader of their group, Guerrillas, shouted, watching as the culprit lowered his head.

"I can't, Joong. I can't, because all I hear right now is Für Elise, and it messes my head up!" he shouted too, pulling his hair back in frustration.

The others looked at each other with confused looks; was there something they didn't know? Without actually meaning to, Mingi bursted into laughter, leading Wooyoung to chuckle as well.

"Since when do you listen to classical music?" he asked San, smirking playfully.

"I don't. That thing you call soulmate does."

"You're hearing what your soulmate listens to?!" Wooyoung exclaimed, covering his mouth in shock.

"Yeah. But you know I'm not into this shit of yours, so let's get back to practice. I'll try and focus." he simply said, taking his guitar again, the strap attached to it hugging his torso perfectly.

Seonghwa shrugged and signaled the others to start playing, their practice session blooming once again. You could swear that he'd never played music that loud before; it felt like a competition between the two of you, and you smiled at the thought of having him so frustrated. You didn't know who he was nor how he looked, but you were ready to make his life a living hell, as much as he had started to turn yours into one.

At one point, the music stopped and you managed to sleep a bit, but it was way too little for your liking. You woke up at the sound of your doorbell, your best friend standing behind the wooden door.

"You won't believe what my boyfriend got me!" she said as soon as you opened the door, barging into your house like it was her own.

"Do I wanna know?" you sighed, thinking that your best friend's excitement meant chaos.

"He got me two tickets at his band's concert! We're gonna see the Guerrillas!" she jumped, pulling the two golden-like tickets from her pocket.

She and Mingi—her soulmate, met a while ago, and since then, she was always talking about him and how much their music grew on her. She must have been so happy now, that her world had finally earned its colors. Her and Mingi's soulmate mark consisted of seeing the world in black and white, until the two of them met. You still remembered how fast they agreed on becoming a couple, and you still wondered how they made it work so well. You knew how proud she was of her boyfriend, mainly because it was the third time she was trying to convince you to go with her, thinking that it would be, somehow, her lucky chance.

"There's no way I'm going to a rock concert." you protested, crossing your arms.

"There's no way I'll leave you alone until you say yes." she smirked, shoving one of the tickets in your jacket.

Nice try, you thought, before taking a moment to actually read the information on the ticket. How bad could it be, after all? Maybe, in this way, you could find more about your soulmate's favorite genre of music. You also thought it was maybe an occasion to meet Mingi's friends; you knew he was in the college's rock band, though you've never met them in this formula.

"Fine. I'm only doing it for Mingi's effort to get you these." you said coldly, side-eyeing your friend when she gave you a bear hug; it was gonna be a long week.

While the two were already making plans for the big day, the boys took a break from their intense practice session, starting to talk about whatever traveled their mind while drinking a can of energy drink. San was absent from their conversation, fidgeting with his calloused fingers, the effort of always trying to hit the right strings showing. The thought of having a soulmate was really burdening him, he didn't want to spend his energy searching for someone he didn't even want to meet. Little San would probably be disappointed, because all he has ever wished for was to grow up and meet his other half. Arts student San, though? He didn't need anything else as long as he had his guitar by his side; a capo and some sheet music could easily solve his problems. But he couldn't stand the thought of someone constantly hearing the feelings he tried expressing through music; it made him feel vulnerable, like he had no personal space anymore.

"San, do you agree with the outfits we've decided on?" Jongho asked, looking curiously at the way too quiet boy.

"Huh… yeah, sure, sounds great." he replied, avoiding the way Yunho raised his eyebrow at his reply.

"You didn't pay attention," he sighed, before adding some other words: "Something's definitely bothering you, so talk to us."

"Is it because of your soulmate? Why don't you just search for her?" Wooyoung asked, feeling the way the elder tensed. "It should stop after you meet, right?"

"Meeting her means that I have to be committed, and I don't want to commit to her." he spat, putting emphasis on not wanting to do so, and without bothering to spare his friends the slightest glance, he just took his things and left them speechless, in the middle of the studio.

The week passed fastly, the not-so-wanted (by a certain someone, 'cause the whole college actually went crazy for it) concert finally coming to life. The boys were backstage, trying to memorize their lines or chords for the last time. You and your friend would be late though; because she couldn't let you wear the clothes you would usually wear.

"I can't believe you want to wear a coat to a rock concert," she sighed, slightly amused by your antics. "They cover songs like Smells Like Teen Spirit, Sweet Child O' Mine and more, and they will most likely sing their own songs as well. This isn't Antonio Vivanti."

You let out an offended scoff, grabbing the leather jacket she was trying to put on you and wearing it, despite the ick the weird material was giving you. "And it's Vivaldi, by the way. Pay respect!"

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, or else we will be late!"

Luckily for her (‘cause you tried to lose as much time as you could), you arrived just when they settled on stage, greeting the ones who came to see them. You couldn't say you weren't a bit jealous whenever you saw the way her and Mingi looked at each other—because it did something to you. But you were scared of being rejected, pretty sure that the soulmate thing wasn't as easy as it seemed.

Your thoughts were brushed off by the loud sound made by the mix of instruments, making you flinch, to your friend's amusement. Not being able to sneak outside because of her hand constantly holding yours, you decided that the least you could do was to pretend you were enjoying it. The others seemed to have fun too, even the boys, who really owned the stage—until something stole the show. San was taken aback by the way his in-ears worked—or so he thought. The same song they were performing was playing in a faded but bothering way in his ears, making him look at the others with a questionable look. He then made a few gestures to the staff, waiting for the song to stop so he could go and see what was wrong. Hongjoong looked at him worriedly while still focused on his bass, meanwhile Mingi almost messed up while playing the drums.

"We will be back in a few minutes, wait for us, okay?" Jongho screamed, hoping to keep the audience busy for a bit, while the others went to see what was wrong with San; their mics weren't off, though.

"There's nothing wrong with your in-ears, San. They work perfectly," the staff informed him, a few curse words leaving his mouth.

"What if your soulmate is at the concert, San?" Yeosang asked innocently, almost like a joke—though the younger boy freezed in his place.

The audience went crazy; some fangirls gasped and started to whisper several things about San's potential soulmate, meanwhile some of them had the same reaction as San. Some of them even started to run, looking suspiciously at every single girl they saw. "San has a soulmate?", "God, what did she do in her past life?", and so many other phrases that made you scoff. Who was this San and why was he so popular? The influence of his jealous fans spreaded through the whole venue, making the staff finally notice their mics and turn them off, though it was too late—the fuss was already created.

"I don't think that's the case—" Seonghwa tried to protest, but San stopped him.

"I think that's exactly the case." San looked at them, before throwing his in-ears somewhere. "What should we do now? I don't want to perform anymore."

"Then… let's wrap it up." Hongjoong sighed, before going back on stage. "Due to some unfortunate events, we need to stop here, darlings. Don't worry, we will come back soon!" He bowed and left the stage, leaving the fans high and dry. In other circumstances, nothing could have made him leave the stage that easily; he would have found a solution. But seeing how messed up his friend was, it made him want to try and understand him, he was going through a quite special phase, after all.

"I will go ask Mingi about what happened, do you want to come?" your friend asked, though your answer didn't even matter, she was already dragging you after her.

She greeted her boyfriend and the others as if they knew each other since forever, asking them about what was wrong.

"San hears whatever his soulmate is listening too, and he has only told us a few days ago," Mingi said, wrapping an arm around the girl's waist.

Your eyes widened at what he said, but you decided to keep composure—maybe it was just a coincidence.

"And she is into classical music, it's so frustrating. Why would she come to our concert?" San snapped, ignoring the guest his friend's soulmate brought.

It all made sense to you then. You probably didn't realize the music coming from him because you tried to enjoy the new experience, but it made sense. The two-tone haired boy, the arrogant San everyone was talking about was standing in front of you—moreover, he was your soulmate; and he didn't seem too happy with the idea of being bonded to someone.

"Who's the lady next to you?" Wooyoung asked, feeling the need to make you feel implied in the discussion.

"She's Y/N, I dragged her here with me," your friend laughs awkwardly. "She's not a fan, but Mingi got me two tickets so I made use of them."

"Oh! Do you happen to hear rock music sometimes?" Wooyoung asked, smirking playfully.

"Uhm… no, sorry." you said, looking at San, who was already looking suspiciously at you. He was really arrogant, you wished to be able to reject him, but he seemed to do it first.

"Even if she was, I told you guys I don't care. My soulmate can go search for another one." he said, before leaving them, once again. You were the next one to leave, not even caring about the possibility of giving your little secret away.

Even after a few days, you couldn't deny the emptiness you felt the moment you were indirectly rejected by your soulmate—it was definitely noticeable, somewhere in your heart. It was safe to say San didn't feel as good as he thought he would either, even when he rejected the one he was assigned to live his whole life with on purpose. He figured out it was you, because he stopped hearing the once annoying music; but he missed it. And the news about his soulmate was spread in the whole college as well, not helping at all; they were making even the outsiders interested in the tea going on.

"I'm tired of this shit, guys. I won't come to practice today."

Hongjoong looked at him once again, nodding, not knowing exactly how to comfort his friend in this situation, words long forgotten. San started to walk in the direction of where the studio was, his ears filling with the melodious sound of a piano playing. Like it was a habit of his, his legs guided him to the door, which he cracked open, just to reveal you playing the piano. Your fingers moved skillfully along the piano keys, Debussy's Clair de Lune resonating beautifully in the room. The sweet melody managed to comfort him somehow; he didn’t know if it was the calming nature of the song or the closure he was supposed to have with you, but he felt relaxed, listening peacefully until the painful silence started to bother him. He then took the matters into his own hands—in such a San way.

"You’ve got some skills, soulmate," he said, his lips stretching into a little smile, though a little dimple made its appearance still.

You got a bit surprised by his presence, but stopped what you were doing, to return a small smile and answer him.

"Thank you. I guess you do too."

"Was that Beethoven?" he asked curiously, sitting on the chair in front of the piano, next to you.

"Claude Debussy, but A for effort," you said, smiling at his attempt.

A wave of silence spread across the room, before you decided to break it: "We got off to a bad start, but we can still repair it. I'm Y/N," you said, sticking your hand out to him.

He grabbed it, shaking it softly. "I'm San, nice to meet you again." He waited for another reaction of yours, but seeing that you didn't plan on saying anything else, he made the next step: "Let's be friends."

You spent most of the day with him, sharing tips and talking about your opposite passions—though it was well known that opposites attract. Now, that you've gotten to know him a bit better, you could say he was more than just an arrogant guy.

One month passed since your first interaction with your soulmate, and you would have never expected that there would be more; yet here you were, watching as he excitedly got two tickets from his pocket.

"You're invited to our concert tonight! My treat this time, for you and our friend." he winked, handing the same golden-like tickets to you.

"I'll be there, Sannie." you smiled, giving him a side hug before running to your class. He smiled softly, not believing the effect love could have on him.

Furthermore, tonight's stage would be an important one for him; it could mean accomplishment or failure, but he was still willing to try. The boys found him smiling like an idiot—but they enjoyed it, they could tease him about how a certain someone made him change. He never failed to amaze them, but someone definitely brought the best in him. He watched as the boys looked at him, his freshly dyed hair glowing nicely into the dim lights. His hands were covered in a pair of fingerless mesh gloves, fingers full of rings, while his t-shirt was nicely tucked in his leather pants. Some chains were dangling on his neck and waist, and a fake lip ring laid on his lower lip, completing the rockstar look he opted for.

"Where's San and what have you done with him?" Yeosang joked, entertaining the other seven boys in the room.

"Shut up, Sang. Are you ready?" Seonghwa asked, taking his mic and retouching the last details for tonight's show.

"Never been more ready." San smiled, taking his guitar and being the first one to get on stage.

"Hello guys, thank you for coming today too!" Wooyoung exclaimed, getting ready to perform at his best.

You and your friend were somewhere in the front row, singing along with the other fans who came to see the eight boys. You were bouncing with her, enjoying the genre you softly became addicted to, but it was surely an influence San had on you. You didn't know what happened to you, but you still had hope, that maybe something would change his mind. Suddenly, the culprit's voice was heard in the whole venue, catching your attention and making you stop whatever you were doing.

"As you all know, one month ago, I met my soulmate at the concert we held in the same place. I'd like her to join me here, please, Y/N?" he smiled, gesturing for you to get on stage, next to them.

You looked confusedly at your friend, who pushed you in the direction of the stage, playing their game. You got there, finding yourself in front of the crowd and waving awkwardly at them, not expecting to hear their loud screaming.

"I know I was a bit of a douchebag at the beginning, and that was definitely not the way you wanted us to meet. I messed up, but I hope you can forgive me."

The fans cheered up louder, while a big smile found its way to your face, making the boy's lips stretch into one as well.

"I know I rejected you at the beginning, but let me try to fix things. I hope it's not too late," he laughed softly, before continuing: "Have you started your looking for another soulmate project yet?"

You burst into laughter, nodding as no a few times. His cheeks got colored in a crimson red tone, and you could swear you've never seen anything cuter than a shy rockstar.

"Can I have the chance of being the lucky one, then?" he asked and watched as your expression changed, nervousness noticeable in his voice as well.

"I thought you considered yourself unluck—" Wooyoung interrupted, but Jongho was fast to cover his mouth and prevent him from saying anything else. "You're screwing the moment, Woo." he said, mouth still pressed on his older friend's mouth.

You laughed at their antics, taking the mic from San's hand.

"As much as you've annoyed me, I still like you, Choi San. I always did, which is why I would actually love to give you this chance."

As soon as you finished your romantic little speech, he cupped your face, pressing his lips on yours softly. The fans went crazy, cheering and jumping as the two of you sealed the promise of loving each other forever with a soft kiss.

"With these being said, I'd like to announce the title of our next album, entitled The sound of our tied souls!" Yunho said, making the night of every single soul attending that concert, the stars shining even brighter above their heads.

You pressed your forehead on San's, admiring his beauty while your noses rubbed lovingly against each other's. The road you had to walk on to find your soulmate was a tough one, but looking back on it, you wouldn't want it another way; you were too excited for your future with your other half—the arrogant boy you started to love, the one destined to be eternally yours.

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compacflt · 1 year ago

Note

For the requests/open inbox, this may not be the lane you're looking for, but you made a throw a way mention in a response to the ask about Ice's enforcement of DADT that Bradley and Ice probably got into it at one point about Ice being totally okay with DADT as a policy (which I love your read on Ice being like, 'yeah, nobody should ask and nobody should tell. what's the problem here?') I would love to see that argument go down. Or honestly, just any Ice and Bradley interaction after the reconciliation that suits your fancy. I find that dynamic in your world super interesting. Bradley sees him as a father, Ice sees him as the person whose father I killed. I love the drama.

Five times Ice was so obviously Rooster’s dad + one time he explicitly wasn’t.

[Carole. 1994.]

He’s such a nervous man. Usually that’s not the word people associate with him. Nervous? Never! But he is. Carole Bradshaw’s more a religious woman than a spiritual one. She’s never put any stock into “chockras” or “ouras” or whatever the other girls her age were fooling around with in the late sixties and early seventies. But she does believe that you can understand a person just by looking at him or her, and when she looks at Tom Kazansky, she sees a little anxious creature, shivering in the cold, like one of those tiny spindly dogs who always needs a sweater. Maybe it’s her southern maternal instincts, something primal and animalistic inside her, I need to take care of you—and when he nudges her with a nervous shivering shoulder and whispers, “Can I bum a smoke?” —she reaches down to take his hand and says, “I only have one left. We’ll have to share.”

She knows she makes him nervous. His ears are red, and so’s the back of his neck. It’s early on a Saturday morning, and the church is crowded, and he’s self-conscious about the fact that she’s holding his hand. Good. It’s so rare she gets to make a man nervous anymore. She waves to Bradley, proud in his little striped button-down and his little blue bow-tie, where he’s lined-up with all the other aspiring pianists against the stage along the far wall, under the bare postmodern crucifix. The recital isn’t going to start for another five, ten minutes, and it’s organized by age, so Bradley’s somewhere in the middle. If Tom Kazansky needs a smoke, Carole Bradshaw will bum him a smoke.

They exit out the side door, and the low murmuring of the other proud parents in the church fades to the quiet of the alley. Birds chirping nearby. The sound of a latecoming car on gravel somewhere far away. Her cigarette and the flick of his lighter, her eyes on his mouth and his puff of smoke—it’s lit. He takes a drag, closes his eyes, then passes it to her. “Sorry to make you share,” she says, and she’s watching the red flush creep up the side of his throat with a silent pleasure. When she takes her own pull, she looks down to see that the filter’s gone the sweet red-pink of her old lipstick. Kind of like a kiss, sharing a cigarette.

“That’s okay,” he says. Nervous spindly little dog. “Uh, what’s he playing?”

“Beethoven. ‘Für Elise.’” Then, before he can think to judge, she goes on quickly: “It’s more complicated than you’d think. Goes up and down and all over the place.”

“It’s a good song,” Tom Kazansky says, “though I don’t know too much about piano.” He pauses. “I’m learning a little German, though. I think it’s E-leez-ah. She must’ve been an alright girl if Beethoven wrote a song for her.”

Carole Bradshaw doesn’t know what to say to that. So she says this instead: “Thank you for coming. It made Bradley—well, over the moon, I guess.”

Tom Kazansky smiles shyly. “Sorry Maverick couldn’t come. I know he wanted to.”

Of course he brings up Pete Mitchell. Drags her back into reality. “He’s in Washington again, isn’t he?”

“Correct.” He reaches out for the cigarette; she gives it to him. “TOPGUN’s biggest advocate. I keep telling him he should go into politics. I just talked to him yesterday—he told me he went to the Natural History Smithsonian on Wednesday—he bought Bradley a dinosaur picture book, I think. Does Bradley like dinosaurs?”

Carole Bradshaw shrugs. What nine-year-old boy doesn’t like dinosaurs, but… “He’s more into sea life these days. Whales, sharks, fish.”

“Some fish used to be dinosaurs, they think,” says Tom Kazansky, clearly just trying to fill the silence. Ears red, lips red. Smoke out of his mouth like a fire-breathing dragon.

Carole Bradshaw doesn’t know how much dinosaur history she actually believes. So she says, “It’s still really nice of you to come. You know, Bradley—Bradley thinks of you and Maverick as his—well, his fathers, I s’pose. So it’s nice for you to be here.”

She watches his reaction—just nervousness. Straight anxiety. He doesn’t meet her eyes, like she’s just kicked him in the ribs. He does not want to be Bradley’s father.

She says, “You don’t have to sign any papers, Tom. You don’t have to put a kid seat in your car. I’m just saying. Don’t worry about it.”

He says, “I can hear the kids starting inside—we should probably go back in.”

So Carole Bradshaw drops the cigarette butt to the ground and steps on it with the bottom of her flat. They go inside, and wait for a kindergartener to finish an overly simple “Canon in D” to take their seats again. She takes his hand. He lets her. After another half-hour, Bradley sits down on the bench in front of the hand-me-down Steinway and busts out “Für Elise” without a single missed note. It still shocks her, sometimes, to watch him play—it still shocks her, sometimes, that she is the mother of all that talent. And now maybe Tom Kazansky is the father of all that talent. How did that happen?

At the end of the recital, Tom Kazansky lets go of her hand. She knew he would. Knew his fatherhood is only temporary. But he lets go of her hand to accept Bradley’s great-big hug in the parking lot: “Gosling, that was so good.” Bradley’s proud smile is missing a few teeth. It makes Tom Kazansky laugh.

And after he drops them off at home, and peels away with a wave and a smile, Carole Bradshaw lights another cigarette from the half-full pack she’d brought with her to the recital and brings Bradley out to the backyard so he can play and she can watch him. But before she lets him go, she looks down at him and says flatly, “If kids at school ask you about Uncle Tom and Uncle Pete—you need to tell them they’re just friends.”

And in his eyes, she can see the confusion of a little boy who hadn’t been aware that Tom Kazansky and Pete Mitchell were anything other than just friends—the confusion of a little boy learning about duplicity for the first time in his life.

“Okay,” he says, so she lets him go.

—

[Maverick. 1998.]

“Don’t go easy on him,” Maverick hollers breathlessly over his shoulder, fishing around in the ice chest in the sand for two cans of Coors; “He just joined the J.R.O.T.C.; don’t go easy on him; he’s tougher than all your squadrons combined; beat him into the dirt…”

“Thanks, Uncle Mav,” shouts Bradley from across the volleyball court, where he’s getting initiated into one of the volleyball teams of younger fighter pilots.

Maverick flashes him a thumbs-up and finds his T-shirt on the first bleacher bench, pulls it on with one hand, and then hops up the rest of the benches to sit with Ice, who’s got his CVN-65 ballcap on and a book open in his lap and is offering informal career advice to one of the other lieutenants: “Yeah, so, in my opinion, it’s all down to what you think you can stomach… If you want me to look over your C.V., I can totally do that—I think I’m free Monday at around thirteen-hundred, if you want to stop in to talk. Not a problem. Not a problem. Alright. See you later.” He watches the lieutenant go, then lolls his head over to look at Maverick, who’s tossing an ice-cold can of Coors up and down. “Hey. Good game. —Coors, Mav? This is an insult.” But he takes the offered can anyway, looking out onto the court, where Bradley—fourteen and just entering his beanpole phase of evolution—is currently spiking the ball. “Cool.” It’s a nice summer Saturday, a casual opportunity for the officers of Miramar to socialize with their families (Ice is wearing a golf shirt and jeans), and by now pretty much everyone knows that Maverick Mitchell’s raising his friend’s kid and that he and Captain Kazansky are good friends, so this is pretty nice. Not much to hide.

“C’mon,” Maverick says, popping open his own can, “you and I were having a scintillating conversation, a few minutes ago.” He’s hunting around for the sunscreen so the tops of his feet don’t burn to ashes in the sun.

“Scintillating. That’s a big word for you. Wow.”

“You’re rubbing off on me, Sir Reads-a-lot—”

“See, that’s funny,” Ice interjects, “because I seem to recall, before you so-rudely interrupted me to go play volleyball with the kids, I was telling you that it’s really not that interesting. It’s actually, Maverick, quite boring.”

“Well, I’m intrigued now. Go on. Finish it off, I wanna know.”

Ice slaps his book shut and gives the long tired sigh of a man who is very self-conscious about the fact that he’s about to turn forty. He pops the tab on his can of Coors and huffs in exasperation when it foams all over his hand. “I mean it, my family history’s really not that interesting. Typical eastern-European immigrant shitshow. U.S. officials change one letter in our last name and everyone loses their goddamn minds… Actually, that story might be apocryphal, I keep forgetting which former Soviet Socialist Republic I’m actually from, I just can’t remember, all the borders got redrawn so many times, one of ‘em…”

Maverick smiles and pulls his TOPGUN ballcap back down onto his head, tugs the brim down low over his eyes so he can tip his head back and not go blind from the summer sunshine. He’d thought Ice would be reluctant to share his family history, but it turns out that most people are just afraid to ask him, and he’s actually pretty eager to talk, if you just ask. Maybe over-eager. He’s rambling. Maverick cuts him off: “Yeah, you do have a left curve to you, don’t you. Genetic.”

The dirty joke strikes Ice dumb for a second, but then he forges ahead, wisely choosing not to engage. He keeps going, oblivious to the fact that Maverick’s not really listening… “Anyway, my grandfather was Jewish, but he died literally the second he stepped foot in America, so it doesn’t count…my grandmother was Orthodox, crazy story how they ended up together; actually, that story’s probably apocryphal, too…she’s the one who raised me, pretty much. I told you that. She brought my dad out to Southern California when he was a little kid, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed, So-Cal’s not exactly the Mecca of Orthodox churches or anything, so he wasn’t very religious at all… My mom was from Milwaukee, I think. Or maybe Minneappolis. Some kinda Protestant. Forget which kind. The preachy kind. But then she died and I didn’t have to go to church anymore, so I didn’t.”

“You just never believed?” Maverick mumbles, half-joking.

“Nah. I mean, I always had too many questions no one wanted to answer. For instance: okay, say you’re bad. Say you commit sin…”

“I’ve never sinned, sir. You’re talking hypothetically.”

“Right. Me, neither. Hypothetically speaking. So you go to Hell. Well, the devil’s there, too, ‘cause he’s a sinner, too. But why’s he want to punish you? What does he get out of it? You’re both in the same boat!”

“Probably a sexual thing,” says Maverick, watching the purple-green imprints of the sun dance around behind his eyelids. “He probably gets off on it. The devil, I mean.”

Ice laughs and laughs. “Sure. Try saying that in front of my mom and see if you survived. I learned pretty early on that they don’t want you to be too curious. So I kept all my questions to myself.” He’s also joking, not taking this super seriously, but that’s a pretty in-character answer. “What about you, Mav?”

“If I’ve told you my family’s history once, I’ve told you a thousand times…” That’s a joke. Maverick’s the one who doesn’t like talking about his family history. Ice hasn’t heard any of it, and for good reason. Maybe someday he’ll tell him about it. “Later. But, remember, I used to be Southern Baptist? Jesus, I was serious into that shit, Ice.”

Ice snorts. “Yeah, right. You.”

“Not joking. I had about eighty girlfriends between fourteen and eighteen, but that’s the most pious I’ve ever been. Lotsa loopholes to make my relationships biblical. Was thinking about being a youth pastor. —I’m not joking. It was my whole personality, for a while. Most of my childhood, anyway.”

Ice is still laughing in disbelief. “Oh, yeah? And then what happened?”

Maverick smiles. “…Got hooked on sinning.”

“…Yeah,” Ice replies, and Maverick can hear the nervous smirk in his voice, “I guess I’d know a little something about that.”

And normally that would be the end of the conversation. But Maverick’s feeling a little sun-drunk, a little giddy, and he’ll never, ever, ever grow out of instigating stupid arguments with Ice just for the fun of it. From beneath the brim of his ballcap he mutters, “…You think Carole’s brainwashing her kid?”

Ice huffs a laugh, and says through a lazy yawn, “I’m not militant in my atheism, no.” But he, also, will never, ever, ever grow out of instigating stupid arguments with Maverick just for the fun of it, and his curiosity’s clearly been piqued. He stews in it for a second before he snaps, “Do you think Carole’s brainwashing her kid?”

“I’m just saying she has him readin’ outta the Bible, like, five times a day. She sends him to church camp. Does something to a kid.” He has no dog in this fight, but this is fun.

“And what did it do to you?” Ice says, reaching down to shove his shoulder good-naturedly. “Weren’t you just telling me not five seconds ago how you used to be the perfect model of Christian charity?” Maverick mumbles a retort sleepily; Ice pushes on through it: “Bradley’s a human being. Either he grows out of it like you did, or he doesn’t, in which case, whatever, land of the free. That’s the First Amendment. You swore an oath to the Constitution. Maybe you should read it.”

“I’ve read it. I’m not Congress, shithead. How’s it go, you want me to cite it to you directly, ‘Congress shall make no law…’ actually, I don’t know what comes after that. Got me there.”

“Don’t call me shithead, dipshit. And whatever. Good thing he’s Carole’s kid and not yours, then. He’s got a mom who wants him to go to church. It’s up to him if he wants to listen to her or not. That’s growing up.”

Maverick tips up the brim of his ballcap to look at him, sprawled out in the bleachers very unprofessionally for the CO of this entire volleyball court, and snaps back, “Well, he’s a little bit my kid. The same way he’s a little bit your kid.”

Ice just flicks his sunglasses down onto his nose and purses his lips and neither confirms nor denies this allegation.

They watch the game together for a while, Ice’s toes pressed against Maverick’s lower back discreetly, trying to work their way under Maverick’s T-shirt. Until one of the young pilots approaches a few minutes later: “Sir!” / “What’s that kid’s call sign again?” Ice mumbles to Maverick, prodding him with his foot. / “Hooker.” / “No shit.” / “Sir!” says Hooker again. / “Which one of us, kid?” says Maverick. / “Captain Kazansky, sir. We’ve got a spot opening up. Wanna play?”

Maverick looks up at Ice expectantly. Ice sighs and harrumphs and waffles for a minute— “I’m too old for this shit.”

“Sir,” says Maverick, “it’s not a competition, but if it were, I’d be winning.”

Lighting the fire of competition under Ice like that is always a good strategy. He rolls his eyes, but immediately stands and tugs off his shirt and rolls up the cuffs of his jeans; “I’ll only play if I can play with the kid.”

So Maverick watches the teams get scrambled again with a smile, and sits up to watch Ice join Bradley in the sand. Bradley’s only just now taller than Ice, and Ice clearly isn’t used to having to reach up to curl an arm around his shoulders to strategize, his eyes narrowed like an eagle’s, staring down the competition. Maverick can read his lips from across the pitch: Alright, kid, I’ve been watching for a while, and I think I know these guys’ strengths and weaknesses…okay, here’s what we’re gonna do… And the game begins when Bradley spikes the ball.

Ice won’t always be this fun, this down-to-earth, this human. The admiralty and the guilt and the grief of the years to come will strip it all away from him, bring him back to the cold, remove him from his own humanity. And maybe, even if it isn’t conscious, Maverick can recognize that, right now, watching Ice dive into the sand with a laugh: this summer sunshine is only temporary. It’s gonna have to end at some point. So he doesn’t take it for granted. He keeps his eyes open and watches and tries to commit it to memory.

And after the game, Ice and Bradley come over so Ice can finish his beer and put his shirt and his baseball cap back on, and Maverick can make fun of them for losing. And: “What were you guys talking about for so long before the game?” Bradley asks Maverick with a grin.

“Whether or not your mom’s brainwashing you,” Maverick says.

“Oh!” Bradley says mildly. “…No, I don’t think so!”

“Oh, that’s a great start,” Ice laughs. “You would’ve made a great Soviet. No, I don’t think I’m getting brainwashed. Hey, by the way, Gosling, if you want a beer, Maverick and I won’t tell anyone.”

“Aw, really?” whispers Bradley. “Thanks, Uncle Ice!” And he races down the bleachers towards the ice chest in the sand.

Maverick watches Ice watch him go, fingers still pinching the brim of his CVN-65 ballcap, clearly worrying about something the way Ice always is.

Then he looks down at Maverick, stares openly for a minute, and says, “You don’t think we’re teaching him to rebel too much, do you?”

—

[Bradley. 2000.]

“Kiddo! You’re here early!” It was Uncle Ice, walking through his own front door, catching a glimpse of Bradley watching the Astros-Nats game on the TV. He was still in uniform, but smiling wide, and he set his bag down near the couch and leaned over to ruffle Bradley’s hair goodnaturedly.

“Practice ended early today.”

“Oh, okay. Cool. Maverick should be home soon, still at work—your mom’ll be here in about an hour—she told me to put the chicken breasts in the oven, but you know me, every time I use this oven I set off the fire alarm, so you oughta help me with that…”

“And,” Bradley said, watching Uncle Ice wash his hands in the kitchen sink, “I got here early because I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, sure!” chirped Uncle Ice. Then he paused, sensing a trap. “What about?”

“Advice,” Bradley mumbled. He took a deep breath, and stood to follow Uncle Ice into the kitchen “I was just—I was just curious. If you had any advice for me joining the Navy. You know, with me being gay, and all. How do I—I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. It’s kinda been weighing on me. Do you have any advice?”

Uncle Ice was still drying his hands off on a kitchen towel. Rubbing them red and raw. And when he raised his head to speak, there was something dull and startled in his eyes: “I don’t, um—no, I don’t—I don’t know anything about that. —You should ask Uncle Maverick about that.”

“I did,” Bradley said desperately, because he had. Yes, he’d gone to Uncle Mav first. “He—he told me to talk to you.”

“…Oh,” said Uncle Ice, now standing in front of a shelf to return one of his books to it. This surprised him. Maybe hurt him a little. “No. I—I, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“But—”

“And there are probably better people to ask than me or Maverick. I—I don’t know—that’s not really my…I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

Uncle Ice swallowed, put the book back on the shelf, then clasped his hands together and set them on the shelf, too, as if leaning over his captain’s desk to chastise someone. He blinked for a long moment. Clearly shifting gears. Becoming someone else so easily. Why couldn’t Bradley do that? “But I can tell you this,” he said, and his voice had gone grave and dim, “and I know you and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on politics—but I can tell you this, professionally, because I respect you, and I care about you, a lot—you’re going to have to keep it a secret.”

Dismayed, Bradley said, “Why?”

“Why’s a funny question to ask about something like this,” said Uncle Ice curtly. He shrugged. “Why? Because it’s the law. That’s why.”

Bradley swung his bat at the hornets’ nest. This was always dangerous with Uncle Ice. “It shouldn’t be a law. Don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s the law. And we get paid to enforce the law, internationally speaking. And the military doesn’t work if personnel refuse to follow the rules in broad daylight. So.” He trailed his fingertip along the spines of all his precious books, then eventually found a different one, started flipping through it absentmindedly. “And even if it weren’t the law, it’d still get enforced extrajudicially. You know what that means?” He did that, when he was intentionally being cruel; used big words that Bradley didn’t know to make himself sound smarter. “It means outside the law. The way people talk to you. The way people respect you or don’t respect you. And this business, the one you want to go into, is all about respect. Being a pilot is kind of like being a knight: you have to be noble, you have to be honorable, you have to respect your service and your adversaries and yourself. And because I respect you, and because I care about you a lot, I’m just telling you the truth—you’re going to have to keep it a secret.”

Bradley blinked. There was something crushing and overwhelming about the truth—maybe the fact that it was the truth, maybe the fact that he hated the fact that it was the truth. It made sense. But it also meant his future was unspeakably bleak. He tried to speak over the lump in his throat when he said, “Yeah. That’s what Maverick told me, too.” And what he’d wanted to hear from Uncle Ice was that Uncle Mav was telling a lie.

Something went soft and slightly wounded in Uncle Ice’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Uncle Ice said gently. “I wish I could give you better advice than that. But that’s all I know. I don’t know any more than that.”

“Don’t you want to know more than that?”

“No.”

And thus did the generational gap widen into a chasm.

—

[February 2003.]

Dear SN Bradshaw, / Please call/email/write me back when you get a chance. / Love Uncle Iceman.

…

[August 2003.]

Dear AN Bradshaw, / I hope you’re doing all right. I hope at some point you and I can get in touch to talk. Please let me know if there is some other address I should be sending my letters to. I am not sure if they are finding you. / Love Uncle Iceman.

…

[May 2004.]

Dear AN Bradshaw, / I wanted to congratulate you on your acceptance to college. Yours is a very good AE program & you should feel very proud. Please let me know if there’s anything you might need as you prepare to start your first year. / Love Uncle Iceman.

…

[August 2010.]

Dear LT Bradshaw, / I wanted to let you know that I’ll be at NAS Oceana for a conference from December 6-9. I understand that’s your neck of the woods—would you be interested in having dinner with me on either that Tuesday or Wednesday night? I would love to hear how you’ve been doing. You can reach my secretary at the number below. / Love Uncle Iceman.

…

[October 2014.]

Dear LT Bradshaw, / We Maverick and I want to wish you a Happy Birthday 30th Birthday. We heard you are deployed out in the Atlantic now—we hope you will be able to enjoy the enclosed gift card when you make it back to terra firma. Our updated personal cell numbers are below. / HAPPY BIRTHDAY! FROM UNCLE MAVERICK & Uncle Iceman.

…

“Haven’t heard back from the kid yet.”

“…You think we ever will?”

The longest silence.

—

[Pacific Air Type Commander Beau Simpson. 2016.]

You could see it in the way they held themselves. An utmost similarity. Aristocratic propriety. Maybe a little sense of entitlement: look how hard we’ve worked to be here. All three of them had it. More accurately: Captain Mitchell and Admiral Kazansky both had it, and had passed it down to their son.

“Captain Mitchell.” Everyone was watching. The sun had only just set; the sky was melting from horizon-red through orange and yellow and teal up to midnight black above them.

“It’s an honor, sir,” said Captain Mitchell, accepting Admiral Kazansky’s handshake. God, you’d never know it by looking at them. Half the people here on this Roosevelt flight deck knew about them, but they were so convincing that more people weren’t sure. TYCOM Simpson glanced at Rear Admiral Bates, who glanced back in confusion—I thought they were…? They were, TYCOM Simpson signaled, just abnormally good at keeping it a secret.

“Honor’s all mine, Captain,” said Admiral Kazansky, and he passed by without a second glance.

And when he made it down the line of aviators to Lieutenant Bradshaw—you could see it. The similarity in the way they held themselves. Straight and rigid and unyielding. Cold and dismissive beyond belief, even to each other. Admiral Kazansky held out a hand. Lieutenant Bradshaw took it, but refused to make eye contact. Quiet rebellion under the radar: Admiral Kazansky had taught him well.

TYCOM Simpson glanced at Captain Mitchell, to gauge his reaction. And for once, he and Captain Mitchell were clearly thinking the exact same thing.

Like father, like son.

You could see it in their stubborn determination. How far they were willing to go. How hard they were willing to push. How long they were willing to hold their own hands to the fire, if it meant the familiar painful comfort of staying warm. “Ice-cold, huh?” TYCOM Simpson asked him the next morning, trying to pin down their strategy, trying to secure a guarantee that their family would do what their country asked of them, even if that meant death. Even if that meant the ultimate sacrifice.

“Only when I have to be,” replied Admiral Kazansky, which meant always, and—soon thereafter, he ordered Lieutenant Bradshaw to his death.

But also, Lieutenant Bradshaw went willingly, too.

“Dagger One is hit.”

“Dagger Two is hit.”

Loss is supposed to hit a man in stages. Isn’t that the truth? —Not so for Admiral Kazansky, whom grief obviously swallowed whole in just an instant. He did not break, or bend under its weight. Just stood there staring at the E-2D AWACS screen with wide wounded eyes—not disbelieving eyes. They were gone. Captain Mitchell and Lieutenant Bradshaw were gone. He was in no denial whatsoever. He had leapt straight to acceptance.

“Sir,” said TYCOM Simpson hesitantly, and he reached out to touch him—the stars on his shoulder—guide him back to reality—what must it be like, to lose a son?—to willingly forfeit your family?—

But before he could make contact, Admiral Kazansky drew a breath, moved away, and closed his eyes for just a second. Perfectly composed, even with the waters of grief closing over his head, even with three dozen observers in this C2 room all scrutinizing him for his response. Perfectly composed. How did he do it? How could he manage? How was he possibly still this proud?

“Vice Admiral Simpson,” he said calmly, “I relinquish my command to you, until you deem me necessary to return to my post.”

“Sir,” said Rear Admiral Bates, darting panicked, sympathetic eyes to TYCOM Simpson, but it was too late—Admiral Kazansky was already leaving the room. Head held high and steady.

Some confusing weeks later, after Captain Mitchell and Lieutenant Bradshaw returned from the dead, TYCOM Simpson and Rear Admiral Bates would casually debrief the mission together in the lobby bar of the Waldorf-Astoria in Washington, D.C. No hard liquor, just beers. Just barely enough alcohol to give them an excuse to philosophize. “You think pride is a sin or a virtue?” TYCOM Simpson found himself asking, tracing the rim of his gilt-edged Stella Artois glass with a finger, after having recounted the above testimony.

“Neither,” said Rear Admiral Bates. “Gotta be a vice.”

“A vice.”

“Yeah. Good men die because of pride, bad men die because of pride…we send our sons to battle because of pride…wars are fought and won and lost because of pride… every war in human history, when you boil it down, begins when someone says, ‘You’re wrong and I’m right, and I’m proud of my own righteousness, proud enough to kill, proud enough to die, proud enough to send my sons to die…’”

“Oh, okay. That’s the root of all human conflict, then, according to you, Warlock. Okay.”

Rear Admiral Bates smiled and laughed at himself, too. Pride, he mouthed. Then shook his head. “We’re a proud species. It’s our vice.”

TYCOM Simpson was thinking about the two proudest men he knew, Admiral Kazansky and Lieutenant Bradshaw, and wondered what it was, exactly, that had driven a wedge between them, you’re wrong and I’m right and I’m proud enough of my own righteousness to send you to your death/inflict my death upon you… And then he remembered the warnings he’d previously received about Lieutenant Bradshaw and Lieutenant Seresin and their open relationship, and then he remembered Admiral Kazansky coldly shaking Captain Mitchell’s hand… and he wondered if the wedge between them was exactly that: the matter of pride.

—

[Tom. 2018.]

“Merry Christmas and a happy new year, and all that,” says Pete, raising his glass and reaching over the dining table to clink rims with Tom and then Bradley. “A good year! A really good year! —Sorry your guy couldn’t be here, Rooster. We’ll call him tonight before you go. Tell him we miss him.”

“Where is he again?” Tom asks.

“Washington,” Bradley says with a smile. “Big conference at the Pentagon. I’ll see him next week.”

“You know,” Pete says with a sly grin directed at Tom, “I’ve never actually heard the story of how you two got together.”

“Oh,” Bradley says, shrugging as he tears open a dinner roll, “not that interesting. Pretty much what you’d expect. Inter-squadron competition-turned-sexual tension. Not exactly within regs, but we did meet each other before D.A.D.T. got repealed, so it wasn’t like we’d’ve ever been within regs, either…” (All the while, Tom’s smirking over the rim of his wine glass at Pete, No, Mav, I’m not gonna tell him I had them reassigned to the same boat…) “We broke up when I got sent to TOPGUN. But we figured it out eventually.”

“Glad you did. Sorry he couldn’t be here.”

Bradley hesitates, then says, “You know what I just realized? I never heard how you two got together…! You’ve never told me that story!”

Tom glances over at Pete, do you want to take this or shall I, and when Pete motions all yours, he sighs and says, “Uh, we don’t really know. We’ve just been telling people nineteen-eighty-six because it’s easy. But in a much more real sense…” He thinks about it, then shrugs. “Whatever. If you really want to know. In nineteen-ninety-three, right after I came back to San Diego to take command at Miramar, he and I had a drunken one-night stand. By accident. Which then turned into twenty-five years of accidental one-night stands. So.”

“Oh, c’mon. You guys bought a house together.”

“Yeah, that,” says Pete, “that was, uh, to facilitate the accidental one-night stands. Make it more convenient for everyone.”

“Cut out the middle-man,” Tom supplies, then shrugs again at the look on Bradley’s face. “That’s our story, kid. It’s not super romantic. We weren’t thinking about it that way. We didn’t know how.”

Pete raises the wine bottle to refill Tom’s glass—though it’s still halfway full—and then raises his eyebrows when he “notices” the bottle’s empty. Changes the subject as he stands: “Okay, what’s everyone feeling? Red, white, what’s next?”

“Red,” Tom says absently. “Anything big, I guess—first cab you see…” But then he thinks about it, and he amends his order before Pete leaves earshot: “Actually—we’ve got that petite sirah we gotta drink—two-thousand-four. Israeli. Might be somewhere in the back, sorry. But now’s a good occasion, I think, to bust it out for the holidays. No reason to save it.”

“Israeli sirah two-thousand-four,” Pete repeats, “okay. I got that.”

Then he steps outside, leaving Tom and Bradley alone. It’s not awkward—they’ve worked really hard over the last two years to make it not-awkward, after the mission—but human beings are human beings. Prideful, stubborn creatures. There will always be a little guilt between the two of them, and a little blame.

“I have to be honest,” Tom says after a moment, interested in being honest for Bradley’s sake, “sorry we don’t have a better story to give you, about us. It is a little hard to talk about.”

“Why?”

“Well—we don’t know the words we’re supposed to use, for one. It’s your generation who sets the standard for that kind of thing. You young people. We’re a little out-of-date. And…well. I guess we’re just jealous of you. It’s hard to talk about.”

“Jealous?” Bradley repeats quizzically. “Why?”

Tom leans back in his chair and really thinks through what he wants to say. This is one of those impromptu speeches you never really intend to make, but are probably still important to get off your chest. “Maverick and I,” he starts carefully, “will never stop feeling guilty about what we did to you. Ever. You need to know that.” And when Bradley scoffs and huffs and tries to interrupt, he goes on, “Not just pulling your papers from the Academy. It goes back further than that. We will always feel like we deprived you of your father. The merits of that feeling are debatable, sure, but it’s a fact of life. A fact of our lives, anyway. And it’s dictated so much of how we live, and how we’ve lived, over the past thirty years. Part of the reason I came back to Miramar in nineteen-ninety-three was to be with you and your mom. Because I felt I owed you that, in return for what I’d taken.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Bradley says. “Or, at least, I never blamed you for killing him. You or Maverick both. You guys were my dads. You didn’t take anything from me. —Excepting the obvious, the Academy, but that was mostly my mom, I guess, so, whatever.”

“I’m just telling you what our lives have been like since the day I met you. Why we did what we did.”

“Okay. But I still don’t understand why you’re jealous.”

Tom smiles, a little faintly. “Because the other part of the reason I came back to Miramar in nineteen-ninety-three was to be with Maverick,” he says, “and I’m jealous of you because I didn’t recognize that at the time. —Everyone hopes, when they have kids—because, look, I’m not your dad, but you are my kid, really—everyone hopes they can bring their kid into a better world than the one they had when they were a kid, and we did. But no one prepares you for how jealous you get when your kid grows up in a better world than you did. I’m not sure people your age understand how hard it was for us when we were your age.”

“I do.”

“Sure, but I don’t think you do. I—I didn’t…” He sighs. “I never meant to fall in love with Mitchell. He never meant to fall in love with me. There certainly were men in relationships in the Navy back then who could make it work—we weren’t those guys. We looked down on those guys. Most people did. And when you were an officer, your job security and your paycheck relied on your subordinates’ respect for you. If we’d rocked the boat, traded away our respect for our relationship, well, we’d have each other, but we’d be out of a job. And then, if we’d been fired—what did we kill all those people for? For nothing! What a waste of all the lives we took! It wouldn’t have been honorable. Would’ve disrespected the Navy, our careers, the men we killed. So we didn’t talk about our relationship. You know that. Didn’t talk about who we were, or what we were doing, or why, because we were afraid of losing our own honor. Didn’t talk about it until the day you two died and came back from the dead. That’s what it took. Maverick still hates talking about some of that stuff, all the labels, all the words—that’s why I sent him to get a bottle at the back of the fridge, he might be out there a while…”

“Cunning,” Bradley says softly, but leaves the space open after he speaks.

Tom looks away. “Maybe this is getting too deep into the weeds. I’m just trying to tell you what it’s been like for us. Not sure how much of this you want to hear.”

“All of it. —All of it.”

Tom clears his throat. “…Well, Maverick keeps trying to convince me that we never wasted any time. And I know there is some truth to that—we didn’t start out liking each other at all—even if we’d been as brave as people your age are nowadays, even if we’d been open with each other about that kind of stuff, we still probably wouldn’t have ended up together. I mean, we really didn’t like each other. Especially right after your dad died, and especially after you left, in two-thousand-two. So maybe it was better for us in the long run that we didn’t talk about it. But I look back on the thirty years I’ve spent with him, and…it still all feels like a waste to me.” Maybe he really is too deep into the weeds. But he just wants Bradley to understand. “Look, Mitchell is, beyond any possible shadow of a doubt, the love of my life. Always has been and always will be. Right? —I just wish I’d known that at the time. I’m jealous of you because you’re exactly the age I was when I came back to Miramar to be with you and your mom and Maverick, and you’re already married, and you won’t ever have to sacrifice any of your honor for your marriage. You’re one of the most respected men in the Navy.”

“So are you, Ice, and you’re also married to another man.”

“I’ll remind you, though it hurts a little, that I’m almost exactly a quarter-century older than you, and you and I got married within a week of each other. I had to wait for times to change.” He holds Bradley’s gaze for a moment, then finishes the last of his dinner and sets his fork down on his plate. “So, if you were ever wondering why Mav and I are a little bitter around you and Jake, well, it’s because we are.”

“Oh,” says Bradley. “See, I always thought it was just because you and Maverick are both notoriously bitter people.”

“We are,” Tom admits through a laugh. Then he continues, “But—you should also know how proud of you we both are. How proud of you we’ve both always been. We’re not very brave men—well, we are, of course, but maybe not in the way that matters. It’s pretty gratifying to have a kid who’s braver than you are. Every parent’s dream, whether we want to admit it or not. You’re brave enough for all of us.”

It’s at this moment that Pete opens the garage door and sticks his head inside and hollers, “Ice, I can’t find it. What about a merlot? Can we do a merlot?”

“No, baby, the sirah,” Tom answers without turning his head. “It’s on the second shelf, you might—have to rearrange some of the bottles—we have too much wine. We need to drink more, me and you.”

“Not a problem,” says Pete, and he shuts the door again.

“It’s on the third shelf,” Tom tells Bradley in an aside. “He’ll find it eventually. He would’ve tried to change the subject six times by now. —The previous Secretary of the Army—he actually just got married this week, I think; I need to send a card—also gay. He and his partner invited Maverick and me out to dinner the last time we were in D.C. Most uncomfortable I’ve ever seen Mav in my whole life. Asking us questions like, ‘How did you guys get together…?’ ‘Was it easier for you guys because you were in the Navy…?’ ‘When did you…know…?’” When Bradley laughs, Tom does, too. It’s really nice, it turns out, to joke about this stuff with someone who understands. “We just made our answers up out of thin air. I was uncomfortable too, admittedly. That’s what I’m saying. Mav and I never learned the vocabulary to answer questions like that.”

Bradley starts taking their plates to the sink. What a good kid. “You know,” he says from the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder when Tom joins him at the counter, “it’s so funny you bitch that you and Mav don’t have a romantic love story, or whatever. When I was a kid, you and him were literally the pinnacle of romance.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yeah. There’s something romantic about the secret, too. When Jake and I made our relationship official—the first time—I begged him to keep it a secret just for a little while. You know; it was sexy, for a few minutes! Something only he and I knew!”

“And you immediately discovered how awful it is, I’m sure,” Tom says noncommittally. “I’m jealous of you that you learned that lesson young. —Yeah, real romantic. Maverick and I could’ve ended each other’s careers fourteen thousand times over. Real romantic.”

“And trusted each other not to,” Bradley points out—

—which makes Tom reconsider.

Yeah, okay, maybe it’s a little romantic. The way Grimm’s fairytales, once you wipe away all the blood, are just a little romantic. “I’m of the opinion that the only thing getting old is good for is looking back on your life through rose-colored glasses. Sure. Historical revisionism it is. It was a little romantic.”

“What’s a little romantic?” says Pete, stepping into the kitchen and triumphantly brandishing his 2004 petite sirah; “Have I missed something funny? —It was on the third shelf, by the way. Could’ve told me that before I went and reorganized the whole fridge.”

Tom graciously accepts the half-annoyed kiss to the cheek, and answers, “Nothing you would’ve laughed at, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, one of those conversations,” says Pete, hunting around in the drawer for the corkscrew. “If you were planning on continuing, I can go out and rearrange the wine bottles by region instead of by year—” and scoffs when Tom kisses him back to reassure him, conversation’s over.

“Did you know,” Bradley says, “your husband is now openly calling you the love of his life?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Pete with a smile, popping the cork from the bottleneck, “he tells me that all the time. Nothing new.” Tops up their glasses, then deftly changes the subject: “Oh, gosh. I never asked. This is the big news. How are you and Hangman enjoying SOUTHCOM?”

“Oh, God,” says Bradley, rolling his eyes. “Let me tell you…”

“I think we did good,” Pete says later that night—they’re alone now, so he’s fine talking—as he tugs loose the tucked sheets to clamber into bed, and when Tom moves to turn off the light he adds, “No, you can keep reading.”

Tom sets his book down onto his chest and pulls his glasses off anyway. “Well, you and I are known for doing ‘good,’” he muses after a second. “We’re pretty universally renowned for being good at stuff. But, regarding what in particular? —Raising our kid?”

“Yeah. We did good.”

Actually, they didn’t do very well at all. But of course that’s not what Pete means. Pete means: it’s shocking and stunningly fortunate that they did as poorly as they did and still somehow ended up with such a good kid. Tom’s looking up at the ceiling and feeling very small. “How did that happen? Genuinely, how did that happen? I did always build getting married into my plan for my life—but I never thought far enough ahead to consider having kids. And now you and I have a kid who’s in his thirties. How’d that happen? I remember when he could barely walk!”

Pete yawns and rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes. “You and I have a kid who earned a Medal of Honor.”

“I know exactly how that happened” —and doesn’t like to think about it too much. “I suppose we’re just a family of overachievers. A lot of failing upwards, you and me. Somehow we failed our way upwards into a very happy lifelong relationship, a superstar kid…a few dozen medals each, ourselves…”

“That’s life,” says Pete sleepily.

“That is not most people’s lives. You’re aware that our lives look nothing like the average person’s life, right? You understand that?”

“That’s our life.”

Tom considers this. Yeah, it is their life. Wild how that happens.

He smiles at the singular word life, sets his book on the nightstand, presses a kiss to Pete’s bare shoulder, and turns off the light.

#happy Father's Day!#some light discussion of religion in this one but u should be used to that with me #this one is long bc it hits a LOT of prompts sry it took a minute #going thru my inbox: for this anon obv #and FTAW (for the anon who) wanted more competitive icemav #for the FOUR anons who wanted ice and bradley to talk about queerness in the navy #FTAW wanted rooster to explain how hangster came to be #FTAW wanted more ice breaking the rules (‘management tier asshole’ lol)#for the THREE anons who wanted more soft 90s icemav #which is hard for me to write bc those years are kinda boring #it’s literally just: they wake up together. Go to work together. raise their kid together. eat dinner together. fall asleep in the same bed #occasionally fuck. Keep it a secret. don’t talk about it.#for 5 years. like… narratively speaking it’s v boring but yeah they’re happy :)#FTAW wanted more of ices prenavy backstory (this isn’t really much but…)#FTAW wanted icemav’s relationship with religion #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchell #top gun maverick #top gun #icemav #top gun fanfiction #you guys sure love ur anonymity don’t u #i wanna know who’s sending in asks!!! my dms are open!!! Please come say hi!!!#there are some timeline issues wrt Carole in this one sorry. u can deal.

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