#I don’t know if I should feel sorry yet.
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•°. *࿐ Sick days || JH86
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Love Lost - Mac Miller, The Temper Trap
Synopsis: Sick days usually aren’t fun. Especially for Jack. He hates them. But you somehow always make it better.
Word count: 1.401
Masterlist
Am I watching the canucks game while writing this? Yes, and stressing over it
When they said that men are always the most dramatic when they catch the common cold, you didn’t believe them. You thought it was an exaggeration. But the way Jack has been acting the past three days? Yeah, it’s not an exaggeration. You’re both curing his cold while nursing your own headache. One that’s been a product of his whining. This man is acting as if he’s on his deathbed, a damsel in distress, a whiny little-. You love him, but you wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of sedating him for a day so that you could get some peace and quiet. You would like to know how Ellen handled him whenever he got sick. It’s almost unbearable.
“Babyyy?”
“Am I dying? It feels like I’m dying.”
“Everything hurts…”
“More medicine? I don’t need it. It’s disgusting.”
“Can you please get me a painkiller? I do need it…”
The need to hit him with a pan to knock him out for a few hours is concerningly high. You’re trying to be patient with him. He’s not feeling well, and not being active, those are things that he hates and you know that. You’re really trying to be patient with him. However, he makes it very hard to when he’s whining every other minute.
You hide yourself in the kitchen to make sure Jack will leave you alone for a minute. You absentmindedly stir canned chicken soup in a small pan. When it starts smoking you take it off the heat and grab a bowl. You pour the soup into the bowl and grab a spoon. You carefully walk to your bedroom with the bowl, a bottle of water, and a pill. You open the door a little wider and walk up to him. He sniffles but manages to crack out a small smile. “There you are. I missed you.” He says softly, making your heart melt. Sick as ever and he still manages to make butterflies flutter. “I was only gone for a minute.” You say gently as you place the bottle and pill on his nightstand. You hold out the bowl of soup. He grimaces at the sight of it. You give him a stern look. “You need to eat something. Otherwise, you won’t get better. And make sure you take a pill after or while you eat.” You can’t help but fuss over him a bit.
He groans in response but takes the bowl from you. He starts eating at a slow pace. You sit by his bedside and watch him eat. Pale, sweaty face, hair pointing in all sorts of directions, and yet he still is so handsome to you. He notices that you’re staring and glances at you. He lets out a raspy chuckle. “There’s nothing noteworthy to stare at right now.” You smile and move his hair out of his face. It’s starting to become a little long again. “There’s plenty to stare at. You’ll always be pretty in my eyes.” His eyes shine at your comment. “Pretty?” He asks with amusement in his voice. You roll your eyes but can’t help but let a grin creep up your face. “Sorry. Handsome.” He smiles triumphantly. “That’s what I thought.”
He soon finishes his bowl of soup. You take it from him and set it aside. You hand him the bottle of water and the small white pill. He takes it from you. You notice how clammy his hands are. You frown as you watch him down the pill followed by big gulps of water. You place the back of your hand against his forehead. Your frown deepens when you feel how warm he still is. He knows better than to fight you back so he lets you do your thing. “Your fever is not letting up. You should get some more rest. That might help.” You say softly. He nods and slides underneath the blankets. He pulls it up to his chin. You gently run a hand through his hair. “I’ll be in the living room. Just holler if you need me.” You say softly. Although, you’re secretly hoping he’ll sleep for a couple of hours. For both of your sakes. “Alright.” He croaks before shutting his eyes. You watch over him until you’re sure he’s fallen asleep. You get up carefully and make your way to the living room.
***
Time passes by quickly when you’re finally able to relax. You check the time on your phone only to realize Jack has been sleeping for a while now. You get up from the couch and quietly walk back towards your bedroom. You peek your head in only to see Jack snoring away without a care in the world. You smile at the sight, happy that he’s getting some rest. You realize that the blanket has slipped down a little. You carefully walk up to him and tuck him back in. You tuck the sides underneath him. Tightly wrapping him up in the blanket. He looks like a burrito. A 5’11 burrito.
You step back and take in the sight. You let out a quiet snicker. You pull out your phone and take a picture. Saving that for later. You look at him one more time before leaving the room and going back to the couch. You throw yourself down onto the couch and look at the picture you’ve taken. You snort. Jack’s going to kill you for sure once he finds out. You send it to the Hughes brothers group chat that Jack has ever so kindly thrown you into.
Another hour passes as you’re peacefully watching something on the television. You laugh at the conversation going on in the group chat. You hear some rustling from the bedroom. You’re about to get up when you hear a hoarse holler. “Baby!” You chuckle, “yeah bub?” He lets out a loud groan. “You did not send that picture in the group chat!” You let out a laugh and make your way towards him. You snicker when you see his phone in his hand. The group chat is still open. “I did. It was way too hilarious to pass up. You were like a burrito. Or should I say a Jackrito? One of a kind.” He pouts at you. “Really? A Jackrito? Was that necessary?” He asks, almost offended by your shenanigans. You snicker. “Yes. It’s funny.” He crosses his arms and huffs. “I don’t find you very amusing right now.” He retorts before he gets into a coughing fit. You pat his back, helping him through it. “You’ll find it amusing when you get better.” He glares at you and shakes his head. He stops coughing. “You’re still in trouble. Don’t forget that, because I certainly won’t.” You let out a snort. “Whatever you say bub.” You look at him affectionately. You suddenly get a great idea. “I should send the picture to your mom.” His eyes widen at what you said. “No!” He exclaims. You burst out into laughter. He huffs and pulls the blanket over him. “I’m glad you are having fun while I’m dying.” You roll your eyes. “Now you’re being dramatic again. For the millionth time, you are not dying Jack. You simply have the common cold.” He lets out a raspy chuckle. He lifts the blanket slightly and pulls you into him. He covers you both with the blanket. “It feels like I’m dying, especially when you aren’t around.” You can’t help but smile at that, despite his theatrics. You can feel yourself getting tired. Even though it isn’t that late yet. The warmth he’s emitting is so comforting. You let yourself fall asleep in his arms.
***
A week later he’s back on his feet. But he transferred his germs to you. You’re as sick as a dog. He walks into your bedroom with a bowl of soup in his hands. “This will make you feel better.” You glare at him. He laughs, “are you still mad at me for getting you sick?” You nod, “what do you think?” He snickers and sets the bowl aside. He sits by your side and rubs your arm tenderly. “I said sorry baby. But…” he trails off. He shows you a cheeky grin. “It’s only the common cold. Don’t be so dramatic. You still want to hit him with a pan. “I hate you.” He rolls his eyes before planting a kiss on your forehead. “I love you too. Get better soon, okay?”
#hockey#nhl#nhl fic#nhl hockey#nhl players#nhl x reader#jack hughes#jack hughes x reader#jack hughes one shot#jack hughes imagine#jh86#new jersey devils#nj devils#blurb#drabble#fluff
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Hello! New to your account but i love your spencer reid x reader!!! 💕
Saw ur requests are open so im grabbing this opportunity to request a jealous spencer reid hehe something like they’ve been friends and then something happened, jealous!spencer appears lmao idk how to explain things lol
Thank you tho! Love lots!
The Way I Love You
Spencer Reid wasn’t someone who inherently hated anybody. But he hated your boyfriend. At first, he thought that it was because the two of you had been best friends for so long, he was the only person you fully confided in, and then you met James and, all of a sudden, everything changed. You’d spend more time with him and then you’d go and see a film that Spencer thought the two of you were going to see together. However, it really clicked for him the first time he saw you kiss him.
Spencer Reid was in love with you. And he hated that James plucked up the courage to ask you out first.
However, the longer you were with James, the more Spencer could see just how one-sided your relationship with him was. More and more, you’d come into work disheartened because he’d cancelled yet another date night and then whenever you’d bring him to the infamous dinners at Rossi’s, you’d be the one trying to sit with him only for him to find an excuse to wander away. It broke Spencer’s heart to see you quickly shake off the feeling of disappointment to follow him, and how you’d be glowing with happiness as soon as he showed you the slightest bit of affection.
It was when you came into the office for the fifth day in a row, with your eyes red-rimmed, that he felt all of the anger and jealousy he’d been feeling for the entirety of yours and James’ relationship bubble over the top.
‘He cancelled again, didn’t he?’ Spencer asked when you sat at your desk next to him, not really needing an answer.
‘Just drop it, Spence,’ you replied, sounding exhausted.
‘What was his excuse this time? Couldn’t be bothered? Too tired?’
‘Spence, please.’
‘When are you going to see that he’s only around when he wants to be, (Y/N)? That he only wants you, uses you when he wants to get his dick wet!’ Spencer’s voice had risen as he spoke and the volume of his voice paired with what he said caused your eyes to widen and to be thankful that the two of you were the only ones in the office at the moment. You’d been friends with Spencer for 7 years and not once had you heard him speak like that.
Not knowing how to respond, all you could think to do was to get up and leave the room. You heard Spencer call out your name as he got up from his own seat to follow you but you refused to turn around. The only thing that stopped you was Spencer’s fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you to a halt. ‘How could you say that?’ you asked, your voice a barely there whisper as tears filled your eyes when you looked up at Spencer. His eyes softened and he tugged you into him slightly closer.
‘(Y/N), I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I just hate seeing you accept the way he treats you. You don’t deserve to be with someone who loves you like he does. His love’s like a disease, (Y/N), and if you let it carry on for much longer then you won’t be able to step back and you’ll be stuck with him.’
‘Yeah? If he doesn’t love me the right way, what is the right way someone should love me?’ you asked, lowering your eyes, not wanting to get your hopes up.
‘You should be loved by someone who loves you the way I love you,’ he blurted out and your head shot up to look at him. ‘You should be loved by someone who knows how lucky they are to be loved by you. Someone who would bring you flowers just because he saw them and thought of you. Someone who wants to be around you all the time, even if it’s just to sit in the living room together and watch TV and - ’
Spencer’s words were cut off when you stepped closer to him and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into his shoulder as you felt a few stray tears fall from your eyes. As he had been speaking, you’d realised that not only did you want a love like that, you wanted a love like that with Spencer and you felt yourself relax when his arms wrapped back around you like a vice.
‘Ask me,’ you said, your voice muffled by the fabric of his cardigan.
‘What?’ Spencer asked, wanting to be sure of what you were asking of him in order to avoid making a fool of himself.
‘Ask me what you want to ask me?’ you repeated, pulling back slightly to look at him, a small smile playing on your lips.
‘Leave him? Go on a date with me?’ Spencer asked shyly, knowing that what he was asking of you was a lot.
In response, you reached up on your toes and pressed your lips gently to his. ‘Consider him left,’ you said against his lips, making him sigh happily against you as he deepened the kiss.
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Marc Guiu and reader making up after an argument pls
m. guiu | into it
ik hector doesn’t have his license yet but here he does ok?! also sorry i got carried away and wrote smut :o
warnings: toxic relationship, smut, not proof read
“are you actually fucking kidding me, marc?” you scoff, grabbing your things ready to leave. you were sick of his shit. sick of him taking his anger out on you when you did nothing but support and be there for him. how could be so mean? you understand that him loosing a game would get him upset, but making it seem like it’s your fault, when he should’ve been the one to kick the ball in the net is just not fair.
“yeah run away, like you always do when it gets tough.” he walks after you, shrugging his shoulders. “marc, don’t you take your shit out on me, because the both of us know it’s literally not on me you can’t kick a ball.” you shake your head, clearly having enough of your boyfriends whining. “fuck you can be such a-.” he stops himself before saying something stupid. “yeah, no we’re done. don’t even try to call me because i won’t come back. i mean it this time.”
you walk out the house, catching marc’s sister on the way. “hey, what happened, i heard yelling, are you guys okay?” she gives you an concerned look, probably noticing the tears that have been building up in the corner of your eyes.
before you completely break down in front of her, you decide to give her a nod, before leaving. you couldn’t believe marc. he has gotten mad about his team losing many times, but it has never been this bad. sure you would fight, it’s just something that was part of your relationship, but maybe that isn’t so normal after all.
you were both toxic playing stupid games with each other like how to make the other jealous. you loved it, the fights, the trouble. it’s what kept your relationship entertaining, but now you weren’t so sure anymore.
just fucking great! now you have to walk home. you go to walk on the other side of the street, when you suddenly hear a honk, making you jump. you turn to see hectors car stopping beside you. “shit, you scared me! what the hell are you doing here.” you sigh, shaking your head. “came to take you home.” he answers. “i’m f-.” “just get in the damn car, y/n.” hector interrupts you. you roll your eyes, walking to the passenger seat.
you wouldn’t have needed him to drive you if it wasn’t so dark out. “did marc tell you to drive me?” you ask, looking over at him. he doesn’t reply, instead he keeps looking at the road not giving a reaction, so you must take his silence as an answer. “what happened?” you can’t help but scoff. “as if marc didn’t tell you already.” he shakes his head. “he didn’t. he just told me he fucked up again and that i should pick you up.”
“we’ll at least he knows he did.” you breathe out a laugh. “seriously, what happened?” he repeats. “he’s just bitching about the lose of the game and literally behaves like a child, acting like it’s my fault. he also almost called me a bitch… so told him we’re done.” hectors eyes widen, looking like they are about to pop out. “wait what? you broke up with him, like for real this time.”
you giggle, nodding. “i’m just done with all the fights, you know.” you look out the window watching the peaceful road, with almost no cars to be seen. “but you guys love it.” he furrows. “i’m just tired lf it, you know?” he nods. “that’s fair, he’s dumb for treating you like that.” hector says, before shutting the motor down, because you arrived home. “what are you doing right now?” you ask hector, since you guys haven’t talked much previously. “nothing, why?” you smirk. “you have to stay with me! we haven’t had our gossip sessions in so long.” you nudge him. “yeah, if that makes you feel better.” he smiles shrugging. “definitely. god, there’s so much tea!!” you walk over to your house
…
“i still love him, even if he does stupid shit like that you know.” you tell hector, while stuffing the chips in your mouth. you would probably die if anyone saw you like this, but it’s only hector, he’s seen you your worst times. even though he’s marc’s best friend, he never told him anything when you would talk about him. that’s why you can talk so openly with him about anything, he just won’t tell anyone. “then why don’t you get back with him?” hector asks. a knock on the door cuts in your conversation. “y/n?” you hear marc’s voice, making hectors mouth drop in a gasp.
shit, this looks so wrong right now, with hector laying in your bed as well as yourself. you walk over to the door, opening it a tiny bit to see his sad looking face. he genuinely looks like he’s sorry. you look back to hector that sits dumbfound in your bed. “who’s in there?” marc asks. you shake your head. “no one.” you answer way too quick. he pushes open your door, revealing hector that is sat on your bed. you look him in the eyes to see an hint of reaction, but he doesn’t show any.
“why is he here?” marc asks, way too calm, it’s almost scaring you. “we just talked.” you say your eyes meeting with the ground, mentally preparing yourself for the yelling. “okay.” he just nods. you look up at him, a furrow on your face. have you heard that right? “can i talk to you..alone?” marc scratches the back of his head, nervously. you nod following him out.
“did you fuck him?” woah straight to it marc! also what the fuck? “what the fuck, no!” you exclaim. “okay.” he nods. “marc, can you explain yourself other than replying with an “okay”. why are you here?” he just keeps head low. he almost looks like.. he’s intimidated by you.
“i wanted to apologise.” he finally looks at you. suddenly hector comes out of your room. he points to the door awkwardly, mentioning he’s gonna leave. you give him a smile before looking back at marc.
“marc..” you start. “no please, don’t say anything, just hear me out. i shouldn’t have talked to you the way that i did. it was stupid of me to take everything out on you, because you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me and i would never want you to feel guilty of something that i did. i understand that you probably never wanna talk to me again, but i just need to make sure that despite what i said, you know that i love you.” something in the way he’s saying it makes you believe him, but you’re not sure if you can forgive him so soon.
but fuck, he has no right to look this good right now, you’re supposed to be mad at him! his lips plump and red from the way he’s been biting on them nervously, his biceps broad and strong as he crosses his arms and his eyes looking lowly down on you. how can you be mad at him, when he looks like that? “you’re on probation, i guess.” marc’s eyes light up. “what’s that supposed to mean? please. are you ever going to forgive me?” he asks, needing to know. “like i said, you’re on probation.” you reply, getting closer to him. “that isn’t a yes, y/n. do i need to get on my knees and beg for you?” you can’t help but smirk. “getting on your knees wouldn’t be such a bad idea, actually.”
“fucking hell, well we can always make that happen, ma.” his hand makes its way to your waist, pulling you onto him. in a matter of seconds his lips are on your’s. he tightens his hands on your waist and runs the other up your back, pressing you harder into his chest. your hands move in his hair, pulling him closer, if that’s even possible. he parts your lips with his tongue, to deepen the kiss. his hand on your waist loosens and trails down the side of your body, until he turns it to grab your ass. he lets out a low groan, bringing his other hand also down on your ass. you pull on his bottom lip slightly, making him smile in the kiss before reconnecting them again.
he squeezes your butt, muttering a quick “jump.” before picking you up and carrying you to your bed. he sits down, your legs each spread as you straddle him. he grips your hips, moving them back and forth so you’ll grind on him.
he groans as you feel his dick twitching under your cunt. he unbuttons his pants, making you slide your hand in them to feel his hard and veiny dick. you always forget how big he is.
he groans, taking your hand out of his boxers. “i want to make you feel good.” can he get any hotter? you smile at him, while dropping beside him on the bed. he lifts your arms before taking off your top and throwing it on the ground. he begins sucking and kissing your neck, most likely in order to cause hicky’s so everyone knows who you belong to, but it feels too good right now, to care about. his hand slides down to your loose pyjama shorts, touching your clit. you let out a whimper. you forgot how well he knew what you liked. “you look so good, ma.” he now kisses your tits also sucking on them like a newborn.
his mouth moves back on your’s, when he slides his cold fingers into your shorts, forming goosebumps on your skin. he immediately finds your hole pushing his fingers inside of you without an warning. he keeps stretching your walls, causing you to moan in his mouth. you part your mouth in the kiss, marc taking the opportunity to bite on your button lip, tasting your cherry flavoured lipgloss. he plumps his fingers in and out of you, whispering sweet words in your ear, in order to show his love for you.
his mouth moves from your face, down to your body, where you need him the most. he starts eating you out like his live depends on it licking and sucking in all your juices. you push his head deeper in your cunt, needing to feel him deeper. “marc i need your dick, please.” you moan. he looks up to you, eyes glistening, having waited for you to say that. as soon as the words left your mouth, he instantly turns you around, having your face meet with the pillow. he pulls your pants down, following with his own. you turn your head to watch him pull out his dick. lord, you’re not sure if you’re ever going to get used to his size.
he stretches your cunt as he slides into you, having you bite in the pillow in order to not let embarrassing sounds out of you. he fills you up moving, his dick in and out of you. your eyes almost fall to the back of your head, from rolling them as he fucks into you relentlessly. “fuck, so tight, ma.” he groans. you move your ass up, for yourself to feel him deeper, according to the fact he isn’t fully in you yet. “fuck, y/n. if you do that one more time i’m gonna come.” he curses.
he buries his dick deeper inside of you, his balls hitting your butt, making you whine of pleasure. he spanks your ass, fastening his peace. “marc!” you cry, as you feel him hitting your g spot. he moves rapidly, squeezing your waist. your legs begin shaking, signalling marc that, you’re gonna come. “do it.” he demands. with a cry, you cum around his cock, making him twist inside of you and pull out, coming on your belly.
he breathes heavily, his sweaty chest rising and falling with each breathe he takes. “fuck.” he mutters before getting up to take a towel from your bathroom. you look on your cum covered stomach, then back at marc that’s coming back with the towel. he smiles slightly, as he wipes it all off of you. “how are you?” he goes to lay beside you, his arms naturally finding their way to your waist, hugging you. “for a person that won’t be able to walk for the next hours, i’m doing great actually.” he laughs, pecking your shoulder.
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Character Introductions
(yes, I know I should've done this before the first part was posted but I didn't so y'all get it now)
-------------------
Nika Mühl as herself
Height: 5’11
Age: 20
School/Team: University of Connecticut (UConn), UConn Women’s Basketball Team (#10), Croatia (#10)
Nicknames: Mühl, Love, Secretary Of Defense, Pookie (only by Paige)
Nationality: Croatian
Instagram: nika.muhl
Alt: nikalovesbball
“I don’t like her like that, we’re just friends, nothing more.”
“I don’t know what I want yet, but I do know that I want it with you. Not someone like you, it’s you that I want.”
“You know, I was always a Chelsea fan.”
You as Yourself (shhh, just imagine.)
Height: Tall as fuck
Age: 18
School/Team: Harvard, Harvard Women’s Soccer Team (#10), England WNT (#10/2+8)
Nicknames: Grumpy, Kid/Kiddo, Troll Child (Leah), Baby, Tiny (only by Paige), Captain
Nationality: English
Instagram: y/n.y/l/n
Alt: norflondonforever
“North London forever, whatever the weather, these streets are our own.”
“I want a beach house in Barcelona, with the most amazing view of the water. And maybe a dog, or a cat. And I want to run a small surf shop at the corner of the beach, hidden away from everything. That’s what my legacy will be, just you me and our beach house in Barca.”
“Sorry coach, I gotta go see ‘bout a girl.”
Gabbi Broussard as Emma 'Em' Whitmore
Height: 5’9
Age: 20
School/Team: Harvard, Harvard Women’s Soccer Team (#18), USWNT (#28)
Nicknames: Em, Emily, Emma Hayes (only by you to annoy her), Ugly
Nationality: American/Canadian
Instagram: emwhit18
Alt: thebetterwhitmore
“Cal’s not scary, he looks like the rat from Flushed Away.”
“I think you need to stop thinking about what everyone else wants and start thinking about what you want. This situation, it’s not your fault that you caught feelings, but it is your fault that you’re pushing her away, so man the fuck up and do the right thing.”
“Will you stop singing that already?”
Callum Turner as Callum 'Cal' Whitmore
Height: 6’4
Age: 23
School/Team: University of Connecticut (UConn), UConn Men’s Basketball Team(#26), US Men’s Basketball(#22)
Nicknames: Cal, Gollum, The Rat from Flushed Away
Nationality: American/Canadian
Instagram: callumwhitmore
Alt: nottheratfromflushedaway
“I don’t look like the fucking rat from Flushed Away, stop telling people that.”
“Em, dad called, he said shut up.”
“Watching you trying to flirt is the single most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.”
Robert Sean Leonard as Coach 'Dad' Daniels
Height: 6’0
Age: 66
School/Team: Head Coach of Harvard Women’s Soccer Team
Nicknames: Coach, Dad, Coach Dad, Pops, Ancient Being
Nationality: American
Instagram: headcoachdaniels
Alt: doesn’t have one, he’s too much of an old fart
“It’s called intermittent fasting, look it up, you should try it sometime.”
“No, for the last time, me and Coach Hansen aren’t secretly married with two dogs, you all need less free time to come up with theories like that, this isn’t dead poet’s society. Extra training sessions the whole week out.”
“Are those hickeys? Okay ladies, when you want to have sex make sure to cover up the evidence after, I do not need to know more about your intimate lives than I already do.”
Ethan Hawke as Coach Hansen
Height: 5’11
Age: 62
School/team: Harvard Men’s Soccer Team Head Coach
Nicknames: Coach Daniels’ Husband, Dad #2, Mr. Sir
Nationality: American/British
Instagram: headcoachhansen
Alt: an old fart like his husband, so no alt for him
“So you kids thought you’d get a different answer from me than from Coach Daniels? Why are you kids so incessant on trying to find out if we’re together or not.”
“Don’t tell anyone, but I kissed Coach Daniels last night. It was like something straight out of a movie, something so poetic about it.”
“This is Buddy, me and Coach Daniels adopted him so that he could be our mascot. No other reason.”
Paige Bueckers as herself
Height: 6’0
Age: 20
School/Team: University of Connecticut (UConn), UConn Women’s Basketball Team (#5), USA Women’s Basketball Team (#5)
Nicknames: PBuckets, PB&J, The Third Jonas Brother
Nationality: American
Instagram: paigebueckers
Alt: p5buckets
“I’ll beat you on Fifa all day every day.”
“God Nika, admit it, you like her. I can see it from a mile away and this thing you’re doing, this back and forth, will they won’t they, is going to hurt you both in the end. All I’m suggesting is that you evaluate what you want from this relationship and then take it from there.”
“I’m always right, it’s scientifically impossible for me to be wrong.”
Leah Williamson as herself
Height: 5’7
Age: 25
School/Team: Arsenal Women’s Team (#6), England WNT (#6/8/5)
Nicknames: Lee, Will, Spurs Nr 1 Fan, Oldie, Capi
Nationality: English
Instagram: leahwilliamsonn
Alt: will.i.am.son
“I’M NOT A SPURS FAN, STOP SAYING THAT.”
“Y’know in all the time I’ve known you kid, I’ve never seen you this enamoured with someone, you’re so in love it’s making me sick.”
“You’re like the little sister I never had.”
Lucy Bronze as herself
Height: 5’7
Age: 30
School/Team: FC Barcelona Femení (#15), England WNT (#2)
Nicknames: Lucia, Robert, Luce, Prehistoric Being, Dad
Nationality: English/Portuguese
Instagram: lucybronze
Alt: bronzesilvergold
“Ugh, the ladies just love me don’t they.”
“I’m down with the lingo, I’ve got so much rizz that the boomers come running. Cowabunga.”
“Love is…love is effortless, it makes you feel all jittery and when you’re around them you feel like you can do anything. You’ll know it once you feel it kid, don’t try to rush the process, let it wash over you like the waves at the beach.”
Everyone else as themselves, also the other's alt instagrams will explained when they appear
#woso#woso x reader#lionesses#arsenal wfc#woso imagines#wbb x reader#uconn wbb#nika muhl#nika muhl x reader#10/10 series#harvard women's soccer team
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Notes On a Virtuous Affair
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Summary: One would think this road ends in something virtuous—a greenness so dazzling it hurt the eyes—and not the sort of man waiting in his far out removed solitude.
He was the experienced one, you the innocent. It should have been different. Maybe it should’ve felt different. And yet, there was something in him that made you feel very much the conquering one, you the baptizing one.
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Post outbreak; Jackson Joel Miller; Dom/sub undertones; Rough Sex; Impact Play; Face Slapping; Spanking; PIV sex; Ass Play; Oral Sex (m!receiving); Come Eating; Throat Fucking; Unprotected Sex; Potentially Toxic Dynamics? (haha?); Complicated Feelings; They Love Each Other in Their Own Weird Way, Ok?; Older Man/Younger Woman; Idk What This Is, I Don't Expect You to Either;
A/N: miss you guys, sorry for the disappearing act <3
Word Count: 3.1K
Read on AO3
Notes On a Virtuous Affair
Sunlight spills over everything, and the pastoral green leads you to him.
One would think this road ends in something virtuous—a greenness so dazzling it hurt the eyes—and not the sort of man waiting in his far out removed solitude.
But there’s an incongruity afoot here that only you appreciate.
The secret lies in that there’s a riddle woven through the three miles you pilgrim to see him weekly. The first, a boon, the green lush wasteland, if a thing that’s alive can be wasted. The second, an honesty, I’ll venture this distance for him. The third, a precursor, when your muscles start to tingle, your thighs, hot and itchy, nape, coated in a taste of salt. Your feet crunch along the gravel and dirt, protected by the soft leathered boots inherited from Lucy who’d died last Monday. A good start to the week, with new boots, and a thoughtful gift she’d left you, your friend, when your own shoes were so worn from all the walking you do for him. The end of the world changes death, finds good things within it.
The sun warms the bridge of your nose, and you tip your face up to the too-bright light, trying your hardest to look straight at the intensity of it. He’s very much like this too. Why would you look directly at the sun if not for the hurting it brings? Your palms splayed forward at your sides, the breeze moving through your fingers, and the world is all around you alive in this apocalypse.
Jackson is left further and further behind as you move towards him, and what no one understands, not even Joel Miller himself, is that there is something virtuous about this affair.
-
“I’m gonna fuck your mouth now,” he says down at you, bare as the day you were born and kneeling before his clothed and towering height. Nothing but the heavy hanging length of his cock is naked for you, the first you’d ever seen in your whole life. If he had his way, the only one you’d ever see for the rest of it. The wide head is slick and glossy, the way it bobs obscenely from his open jeans looking like the weight of it would hurt, the way it juts from the bed of hair at this groin like a threat to you.
You know now, after all his focused training, that it only hurts him when you don’t tend to it as he needs, that it’s only a threat when you fail to do the same. He’s shown you the rules of hurting, in all these months you’ve come your three promised miles to him time after time. Shown you how it comes easy, that of hurting someone you love. A running in place sort of thing. You know all the steps that will come, the exact spot you’ll tread in. The way to propel yourself forward to finally leave that same place, avoid it, if you want.
“Open wider. Won’t fit like that,” he clicks his tongue, voice a burr as he grips his throbbing flesh and with the other too big hand, also like a seeming threat, but not, he gives you a quick, softly stinging slap to the high of your cheekbone. The sound, fast and snapping like his disapproving tongue. You swallow a moan, looking up at him with that look in your eyes you know disturbs him, adoration, letting the hinges of your jaw go loose, saliva pooling beneath the cover of your tongue. “Don’t you want me?” He asks.
And you blink once, moan crossing the bridge to a laugh if your mouth wasn’t stretched wide as it’ll go. He sees it though, skipping water in your eyes and gives that half smile, the mean one, the one that says he has all the answers in the world, knows all the things there are to know, that one you like best. Good girl, and his voice makes no sound, only the shape of the words on his mouth. You haven’t been good enough yet to hear the real thing of them out loud. This tells you that you must apply yourself to the task at hand, making him come.
One heavy tap to the flat of your tongue sticking out for him first, and then he’s slicking that fat head against the surface, giving you the first real taste, salt and musk trickle down the back of your throat and you moan again, eyes screwing shut tight, cunt aching something fierce. Leaking just like the tip of his cock leaks too.
That’s the thing about this thing, the one you see very well and Joel still fails to. The two of you, as disparate as you might seem, are the same in all the basic but most important ways. Too much in common for him to look at in the eye comfortably and still do the things you do.
“Open your throat. Get me hard.” In your head, he calls you baby. In reality, only sometimes, when you’re extra good, does that happen. But in your imagination, where it matters more, he doesn't ask nice, but you are his baby.
He slides back, back, hits the end of your throat, pulls out against the wet heat of your tongue. You keep your jaw wide until you feel him harden entirely, until he stretches his neck back, tendons jumping stark, clench of his jaw fluttering with a choked groan. “Suck me,” your permission to savor him like you need to.
Hands pressed firmly to your bare knees, not digging at your soft wet like you’d like, or pawing at him as you’d like even more, you close your lips around him, cheeks hollowed and suck hard, tonguing at his slit on the pull back so that he’s bearing his teeth at you in a growl and shoving forward again hard, a snarl as the cinch of your tight throat strangles the head of his cock on every one of your swallows. Your eyes water, but he pets softly at the same spot he’d stung earlier with his slap.
A game you used to play with your siblings, who could slap one another harder until the other gave out. It’d taken a while for you to come to the realization, but eventually, you’d realized the memory of it in your mind as it exists now wasn’t innocent the way it should’ve been. That there had been something you’d liked about it in a strange way—that hurting. That the first time you’d asked Joel to play the same game with you, you’d wanted him to slap you other places just as hard until you gave out also.
The games were part of the thing. His own strange rules, like the way you couldn’t touch him sometimes—you dig your bitten down nails into the soft skin of your inner thighs—only when he said it was okay was it allowed. The way you were never allowed to touch your cunt unless he said so also. He had weird things about him, turned strange by the dangerous ways of life. Like the solitude, the house out and away, the begging you had to do for him to have you.
Sameness.
He wraps his fist in your hair, more sting, “Gonna fill your belly with my come, yeah?” His thrusts pick up pace, pulling your head back as far as your neck allows so that he can fuck your throat in full, jaw hanging wide, and you’re just the wet and willing hole you know he sometimes wishes you could always stay as.
The thick cock against your tongue throbs once, twice and then he’s spilling hot and heavy down your open throat, sweet salt against the back of your tongue while you try and breathe through his strangling, tears spilling.
When he pulls back, slipping wet and heavy from your mouth you fall forward onto your palms, breathing fast, almost hyperventilating, stinging with the forced will to remain obedient. Your spine burns beneath your skin and your sore jaw hangs unwillingly open, sloppy mouth dripping a string of semen between your splayed palms.
He crouches before you, dripping cock like your mouth, milked to heavy softness hangs long and sated between his thighs. And he pets your crown, the vulnerable shell of your ear, whole body on fire so that every inch of skin hurts without his touch, hurts worse with it.
“Good girl,” he says now with voice.
-
The walk seems longer some days. A thousand miles plus an eon instead of merely three. Especially on the days you’re more desperate than usual. The ones when your stomach feels full of sugar for him and the memory taste of his cock is already aching in your molars. Those days your steps are hurried, look in your eyes frenzied to get to him, to escape the things you leave behind. A too full house, your sister’s squalling, teething baby, your little brothers, and too many mouths to feed and not attention to be had, not enough mother for everyone to get loved.
There’s reasons for this game between the two of you, you’d had to come out and find your attention somewhere else.
Your love too.
And if it comes with a sting sometimes, well, so had your mother’s. You like it like this now.
The first time he’d touched your cunt: show me that pretty pussy, baby, and he’d had you from that very first sweet word, you gonna let me finger it? You’d spread wide, leaked into the cup of his palm like a whore, you’d needed to make sure he was for keeping from the first try, you see. So you’d done all he’d said, taken four fingers and only cried a little bit but whined a lot. Been all, hurts, Joel, high pitched and dragging his name out on a puppy whimper.
He’d given you that first lesson in hurt the very first time: Yeah? Supposed to. A real mean man. And then made you gush into that very cupped palm so that he could drink of your sweetness.
He was the experienced one, you the innocent. It should have been different. Maybe it should’ve felt different. And yet, there was something in him that made you feel very much the conquering one, you the baptizing one.
The third mile comes to an end, the precursor, over, his house in view. It’s all quiet and slumbering and the long grass pulls you forward with its wind blown sway. The wide door to his shed is propped open, half finished rocking chair up on the workbench that sways with the intruding gust. The grass whispers behind you, the dark woods across the field moan, and he’s nowhere while the Tetons loom in the distance.
You drag your fingers along the slats of his house as you pass, everything is so quiet, like he’d never been here. Like he’d gone and left you the way he’s promised he’d never do. Your belly feels bloated with heat, heart turned into four incongruous chambers that no longer beat in tune, memories of him rioting between each thump. Your cunt goes soft and drooling in your panties as your fear beats higher and higher, and you come to the mouth of the shed, peering into the cool darkness of this little place where he makes his beautiful things. The things that go into people’s homes to be used by people’s families to be stored in people’s memories.
The gleam of the sun does not cross the threshold, and you brace your palms on either side of the wide door, the air thrums and he’s not here—yet—you slide the toe of Lucy’s old boot across the border of sunlight into sanctuary and peek your closed-eyed face into the shade right before you’re taken bodily to the ground by his heavy weight. Palms catching splinters, his strong chest heaves into the line of your spine, strong arm at your waist to pull your breath from your lungs and your legs from under you.
He forces you belly first to the ground, other hand circling your throat in the imitation of a strangle lest you lose yourself and decide to struggle for the first time ever. But you dig your fingernails into the dirt, scratching for purchase in preparation of what’s about to come, all the fight going out of you; body, half in shadow, half in sunlight. Your bones feel salt bleached. An over abundance of sodium in the blood that renders you catatonic for him.
He nuzzles soft at your nape while his hand shoves under your dress, ripping your underwear down your legs so that the elastic cuts into your tender skin to hurt. All incongruous movement, this man is.
“Didn’t your daddy ever tell you not to go creepin’ ‘round strange men’s homes?” His voice is so deep, drawled, broken up into different notes of lust and anger and temerity. All the strange things that make Joel Miller up.
Yeah, you sigh into the dirt. “Told me exactly how it’d go for me if I did.”
You hitch your rump up then, presenting your cunt for fucking. The breeze doesn’t do half to soothe the throbbing wet. The sort of ache that’ll only be fixed by something heavy inside the hurting place. The sound of his belt quiets the disparate chambers, the beat in your ears of rushing blood is uniform now, there’ll be a wet spot in the shape of you in the dirt when he’s through. You lift your hips higher, knees scraped rough as you spread wider, face pressed to the ground and your fingers are well and burrowed in their little gouges now.
He smacks the heft of it against you asshole, spits and presses a little. He likes to scare you sometimes. Nooo, Joel, all whining stutter, but with your back arching deeper like a little babied liar; you don’t mind where he puts it, only that he puts it somewhere.
“Hush,” he soothes all nice, spanks your ass once all not— “Gonna teach you a lesson.” And shoves inside, bumping against your womb on the first try, stretching your hole too wide, too quick. And there’s no prep, no qualm. No need to hesitate when you own a thing. You swallow your animal cry, ah ah ah, you want to hear how good you’ve been out loud. He grips your hips tight enough to bruise which is what you know he wants and fucks hard and fast, each swing whistles with ownership.
He fucks you in the dirt like an animal, and this affair is virtuous.
He teaches you the truth about hurting, about ownership, about so many things that only a man like Joel Miller could teach a girl like you. And all the while he tells you that you’re too pretty to take such an ugly fucking.
The way he works your cunt, hungry, balls swinging wet so that they sting like his slaps, tip battering hard so that it aches like gratitude.
These are the things three miles give you. A whole man to teach you about the whole world.
The slick squelch of your overwhelmed cunt sounds loud, no more disparate heartbeat, no more green grassed whispers. Only the sound of his grunting above you like an animal remains. “You’re the perfect little cunt. You know that, baby?” There it is, you sigh. Start to tremble around him like that, like his good baby that you are, desperate flutters, little gash being fucked into obedience like you need. Your overwhelmed pants make little dirt dream clouds before your eyes as you start to come for him, crying his name, crying your love, crying that you’re so, so thankful.
“Don’t stop, Joel. Not yet.” And he loves it when you beg, loves it when your cunt pulls tight like a knot.
“Not yet,” he promises because he might be a real mean man, but he loves you like separating salt from blood.
Complicated and precise.
When he’s through with you, there’s sunlight spilling over everything again. It’s journey goes on and on, and his semen drips from your cunt now. He turns gentle, thrusting still, making sure it’s fucked deep, pulsing in time with your own throb. Rhythms merge between the two of you.
His rules are strange, his claims over you equally mysterious. He won’t say things out loud, won’t let you touch any real part of him, but his strange truths ring loud anyways, and when your heart isn’t disjointed, you hear him perfectly well.
When he lays you out bare and trembling across his messy bed, the groaned pains of his age and rutting in the dirt like an animal sound from him as he drapes himself alongside you. Large and hairy, feet hanging off the end of the bed, entirely real with one knee propped up so that his thick cock lays heavy and soft over the swell of his belly. Your heart beats soft and overfull now.
You watch the sun set across the planes of his chest and bask in the blue dark as the night draws breath around you. The work of meting out obedience to little girls who come searching for it is toiling, and you watch him melt into sleep, but right before he’s just gone away from you, with a single finger petting at the jut of the old broken bone in his shoulder, your whispered plea: Will you give me a falseness? You don’t call it a lie. This is a virtuous thing, after all.
Lies aren’t allowed in this house.
He breathes a deep sigh, and you watch the fan of his long lashes sweep open, staring up at the shadowed rafters of his home. You swear you can see each and every individual whisker in his thick beard, dark and gray dispersed throughout. You see every single detail.
He’d told you once there were ghosts here, in this house, and you’d learned later it wasn’t a lie. This became more and more obvious the more you got to know him.
He stares up at them now.
When he’d taken your virginity, when it’d left you the way you’d always imagined it would, covered in tears and blood and semen, you’d made that promise to each other. That you wouldn't lie, that he’d have all of you, that you’d not touch all of him. The ghost lay beside you in the damp bed of your lost innocence that day. It’d been just so ever since and over many miles of three you’d come to appreciate the realities of it. Who could be more connected than two people who always tell each other their truths exactly as they are?
“Give me a falseness,” you say again, not a lie.
“A good kind of a bad kind?”
You flip a mind’s coin, wish you could see the exact ghosts he sees— “Bad.”
He turns to look at you, this half smile he wears is your second favorite one now, the honest one, and it’s all there for you to see. All the disparate chambers of Joel, just like your heart beating in your ears. You suppose the ghosts don’t matter then.
“I don’t love you.”
And you nod solemn. Bad, like a whisper, like your game.
You smile back, the one you know he likes best, the one that looks like his.
Netherfeildren’s Masterlist
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matilda - m. murdock
a/n: hey guys i have back pain and i have daddy issues so i wanted to write a quick blurb about it. so. sorry if you guys cant particularly relate to this one it's for me <3
warnings: ANGST, reader cries a lot, probably cursing, lots of daddy issues, lots of being upset, mentions of fathers being drunk, matt picks up the reader but matt in my brain can lift like 250+ so, uhhhh i don't know guys just angst and daddy issues !
word count: 1.2k
summary: you have daddy issues and back pain. matt does his best to help.
pairing: matt murdock x gn!reader
now playing: matilda - harry styles
"i don't believe that time will change your mind/in other words, I know they won't hurt you anymore/as long as you can let them go"
Matt finds you on the floor of the kitchen, your knees hugged against your chest. He is so tired, bruises starting to really hurt after sitting all purple and blue on his ribs and his arms. He’s just in his boxers his hair damp from a shower.
You are just in a pair of boxers and a muscle tee. Your knuckles are white, and you are staring into space in the most literal definition. It’s four a.m. You are a twenty something year old adult, you have not slept in your mother’s bed in years.
And yet, you feel like a child.
And your back is fucking killing you.
Matt sits next to you on the kitchen floor, goosebumps shooting up his skin as his feet and palms feel the cold, rough tile floor. His hand finds your arm and gently rubs his thumb against your skin.
“What’re you doing on the floor, sweetheart?” His voice is low and thick with sleep. He is so tired, that his words aren’t nearly as poetic, sappy or flirtatious as he wants them to be (maybe not all at once, but he most certainly wished they were better than that).
You consider lying to him for a moment. Really, you do. You could tell him that the floor is just more comfortable, that you want him to fuck you right here against the tiles, that you just could not sleep, that there is nothing deeper than a busy brain that cannot calm down.
“My dad called me while you were away.” You tell him, your voice soft. Matt will be able to hear it no matter how loudly or quietly you say it. And at your confession, he tenses. He has a complicated relationship with your father, but his relationship is calm compared to the raging waters that make up how you feel about the man.
“Okay,” he starts, rubbing your arm gently. “And what did he say?”
You blink.
“Nothing. Nothing that should have made me feel like this.” You tell him, a horrible taste in your mouth. From what, you do not know. Matt doesn’t respond right away, waiting for you to tell him more. “He was drunk.” You say quietly.
“Oh.” He knows you don’t drink. He knows you have a very complicated relationship with substances. “I can understand why that might be upsetting..” he tries, and you shake your head, your face twisting into frustration, anger, and perhaps a hint of sadness.
“He’ll never change.” You whisper, too afraid to be any louder, too afraid that maybe from miles and miles away, your father will hear you. That maybe if you say it any louder, it won’t be a secret anymore, and that you’ll start crying if you say it any louder. “He’ll never ever change.” You say, and your head turns to look at him.
And you stare at the man that you love, and you stare and stare, and you think about Jack Murdock who loved his son so much that he was willing to die for him to have a better life, that he was entirely selfless when it came to the person you are lucky enough to call yours.
And you think about how your father wants nothing to do with you. He never did. Not really.
That’s when you start to cry.
It starts with a few tears rolling down your cheeks, salty and fat, as if they hold all of the memories your brain has locked away to protect you. Then, the tears come out faster, and faster, until you are choking on your own breath, racking with sobs. Matt’s arms are around you in an instant.
He pulls you close to him, and you feel bad for getting tears all over his skin. He’ll tell you it’s his fault for wearing just briefs. He pulls you into his lap, and while you cry into his neck, his hand comes down to your back and slips under your shirt, gently rubbing it up and down.
You twitch at the feeling, your back still aching as you sit with him, the pain contributing to your tears. Matt’s lips kiss your forehead, and he just holds you for a long time. Your breathing becomes short with how violently you’re sobbing.
“Hey, easy..” he says softly before he tilts your head up to look at him. “Your breathing isn’t healthy. Come on, watch me,” and he takes deep breathes in and out, expecting you to copy his attempts. When you’re finally at a point where you an breath on your own, Matt begins wiping your tears gently.
“Sorry…” You say quietly. He just shushes you softly and leans in to kiss your cheek.
“You never have to apologize for your emotions.” He promises, “I love you so much. I am so sorry he’s like that,” and now Matt is crying and he’s not sure why, but you feel awful about it, so your shaky hands come up to wipe his tears and he wants to laugh at your attempt at gentleness because he wonders how often you were shown the same kindness and his heart aches at the most realistic answer.
“Honey, you never have to worry about him again. You made it out, he can’t hurt you anymore..” He tells you, and you try to believe him. “You’ll never feel anything except safe and loved, I promise.” He says quietly, before leaning in to kiss you gently. “Is there anything else?” He senses that you are in physical pain too. Partially because he can tell by how your jaw clenches that you are tense, but even without his super senses, he just knows you aren’t feeling well.
He knows you too well.
“My back is killing me.” You confess, and he frowns. “And my head now.” Your head always hurts after crying.
“Okay,” He nods, “Hold tight,” and somehow, your fucking angel of a man picks you up off the floor and carries you to bed. He steps away only to grab you a glass of water and some Advil. You take it quietly, chugging the water before he sits on the bed next to you.
“Thank you for taking care of me.” You whisper, still upset, but so so grateful. He just smiles sadly and leans in to kiss you gently. Then, he pulls away to ask,
“How about I give you a quick back massage and then we get to bed? You must be tired. I know I am.” You sigh and nod, shifting so you’re laying on your stomach.
Matt leans down and kisses your shoulder before whispering, “I meant it you know. You made it out. You’re safe. You’re loved.”
And even without being a human lie detector like him, you can tell he’s telling the truth. It makes you cry more, but Matt stays to wipe the tears away. He’ll always stay. And he’ll always tell you as much when you need the reminder.
You’re safe.
You’re loved.
These words echo in your brain as you drift off to sleep, Matt holding you close, fingers tracing patterns into your skin as you fall into a dreamless sleep, focusing on the warmth that radiates off him.
#matt murdock x reader#matt murdock x you#matt murdock x y/n#daredevil#daredevil fic#matt murdock#daredevil fanfiction#matt murdock fic#matt murdock fluff#matt murdock angst#daddy issues#angst#back pain#matt murdock x gn!reader#matt murdock x sad reader#daredevil angst#daredevil blurb#matt murdock blurb#matt murdock blurbs
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Wicked Felina (The Girl That I Love)
Part 3 - Vampire
Azriel x Reader/Rhysand’s Sister - Angst
Elain and Azriel have a moment while Tamlin and Felina reconnect. Rhys winnows his sister away following a panic attack, leaving Azriel and Tamlin to face each other one-on-one. After poor decisions are made, Azriel must answer to his High Lady. If only Feyre realized how much danger she’s in.
Part 2 Series Masterlist
Warnings: blood, violence, self-loathing, panic attack resulting from past heartbreak and trauma, language
To Azriel, it felt like an eternity. An eternity of standing there watching his mate in the arms of a male he despised, reviled. And Felina, she looked like she was home. Like she’d just found solace after centuries of wandering alone and weary.
And fuck, it made him a bastard but it gutted him. He wanted, no, needed, to scoop her right out of his arms and carry her to a place where it was just him and her. They had so much to address. All they’d done was fed and fucked after Azriel had been turned, he thought there’d be plenty of time for talking once the bloodlust and mating frenzy settled but then everything had gone to shit.
He was so happy to have this female he adored back in his life - but to him, she was so new and he didn’t know how to feel. Because when he looked into those eyes, he still saw that swirling darkness. Not the dancing of stars he’d once adored when they were young but, the darkness of being trapped, locked away, tormented by those who should have been trustworthy. A darkness he could recognize all too well.
Where had she been all those years?
A gentle hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. He looked to find the brown doe-eyes of Elain, looking to him with concern - guilt.
“Can we talk for a moment?” She whispered.
Azriel felt the muscles of his jaw tighten. The thought of leaving Felina with Tamlin made him sick.
“Not now, Elain.” He grit a bit more harshly than intended. Her eyes cast downward and he saw the hurt flicker across her soft features.
Gods, looking at her now, he didn’t know how he’d ever thought the cauldron made a mistake. She was lovely, a kind soul, she was good.
But his mate - she was wild, curious about the world around her, stars eternal. At least, she had been in her youth. Somehow being turned only amplified her into a force that had yet to be reckoned with, dark and mysterious. She was fucking everything.
She started to turn away and the guilt struck Azriel. His words of “this was a mistake.” on that cursed solstice weighing heavily between them. He could give her a moment of his time.
So, he followed her. “Elain, wait.” He spoke softly, his long strides effortlessly catching him up to her. “Let’s speak over there.” Nodding his head toward a bistro set that was far enough away from the foyer for privacy, but close enough that he could monitor.
The Shadowsinger pivoted away from the situation just long enough that he missed Felina turning her head to search for him, just to see him walking away with the delicate female.
Elain seated herself at the small table, rays of sunlight shone through the window, casting a golden hue upon her hair, rendering the middle Archeron sister nearly blonde. Her leg bounced with anxiety as Azriel took a seat across from her, sending up his shadows to block the rays.
“I-“ Elain started. “Azriel, I am so sorry. This is my fault. Lucien and I have been writing, we’ve been trying to get to know eachother. I mentioned to him about the reunion between Rhys and his sister.”
Azriel pressed his lips into a line, shuffling through his thoughts and treading carefully. “It’s fine-“
“No,” she interjected. “It’s not. I only told him because I’d had a vision of blood, shadow, and night. It alarmed me but… nobody listens to me, Azriel. They don’t understand my visions, I- I don’t either. But Lucien, he listens. He tries to help. So when she showed up, and when we realized that she- and you- were turned, I realized what the vision meant. So I told him.”
Her glassy eyes looked to him. “I had no idea about Tamlin. And I think, I think I understand why Lucien told him. He knew, about the history between she and Tamlin. But I had never mentioned all that you were going through, that she’s your mate and that there are still so many unanswered questions. I’m SO sorry.”
Azriel shook his head. How could she have known? Azriel was the gods-damned spymaster, he’d always cared for Felina and made a point to look after her, and he’d never known. He had seen a note from “Peter” once but just assumed it was some crush she’d made in Velaris. How had he never thought to look further into who she was seeing?
He knew the answer though. He always had. It was the same reason he’d never looked into Lucien’s whereabouts, or Graysen’s.
But he wasn’t ready to face that right now. The jealousy he’d harbored in those days and the well of emotions and complicated histories that it would bring to light.
So, he took a steadying breath and softened his gaze as he met her wide eyes. “Elain, it’s okay. None of us knew about their history and,” he reached a scarred hand out to brush her arm, a friendly act of reassurance. “I’m happy that Lucien is helping. Your visions are worth listening to, your voice is worth hearing.”
Elain gave a smile that didn’t meet her eyes, he could see the guilt there. And while Azriel was certainly not thrilled to see Tamlin there, he harbored no ill-will toward Elain, or Lucien for that matter, for Tamlin’s appearance today.
A sharp cry pierced the air as Felina pulled herself away from Tamlin. And Azriel almost, almost, felt a twinge of empathy for the male at the look of pain crossing his features.
“No, no, no.” Felina whimpered covering her ears, tears falling from her eyes. Azriel was on his feet in a moment, winnowing to her side as her breathing increased, pulling her in close - Felina opened her eyes, glistening with tears, and Azriel felt an intense jolt of heartbreak tug on their bond.
“I remember.” She choked out, pushing away from his embrace. She looked so small in that moment, so broken. Azriel placed a palm to his chest, as if physically feeling the pain barreling down the bond. “What is it, Felina?”
“I- I don’t. I’m sorry. I can’t-” she cried, her voice barely audible. But her next word came out clear, “Rhys?” Her brother looked to her with such sympathy, such tenderness. “What is it little star?” He asked, stepping to her side, shrouding the two of them in darkness. Azriel’s shadows whispered in his ear.
“Sad.”
“Hurt.”
“Mate.”
He couldn’t make out what was said but one moment Rhys had her in his arms, and the next, they were gone.
Rage filled Azriel as his mate vanished. Fixing his icy gaze toward a downcast Tamlin, his shadows whirled, promising violence. Elain hurried out the front door leaving just the two males. And Azriel was going to kill him.
In an instant, Azriel tackled Tamlin, fists brutally making impact with his face. “What did you do to her!?” He roared, pain filling him. Tamlin didn’t make any effort to hit Azriel, only turning his head and freeing an arm from beneath the Shadowsinger’s weight to block what he could.
Azriel was going to make this brutal, ensure Tamlin felt every ounce of pain the past centuries had brought upon them. “Nothing!” Tamlin choked out, blood filling his mouth. “I did nothing. I swear.”
“No.” Azriel spoke, landing a fist to Tamlin’s cheek. “Nothing is what you did while Feyre was fighting for her life, for Prythian, under the mountain. Nothing is what you did when your family tried to kill my mate- and her mother.” Another blow landed, this time cracking Tamlin’s nose, the metallic tang of blood filling the air. “Nothing,” Azriel spat. “Is what you are.”
It was then that Tamlin went still. All attempts of defense dropping as the words echoed through the room.
“Fight! You fucking coward!” Azriel shoved at his chest.
Tamlin turned his head to the side, vacantly staring off to the other end of the room, eyes going vacant as the weight of Azriel’s words settled within him. “You’re right.” Tamlin whispered. “I am nothing.”
The sound of Tamlin’s ragged breaths and Azriel’s heavy gasps filled the space. More blood trickled down the Spring Court High Lord’s face. “I am nothing and she is everything.” Tears lined the males eyes. “But I didn’t say anything, today. She she looked to see you walking away, she saw you with the Archeron sister, watched you caress her arm, and then she crumpled.”
Azriel gaped, his heart shattering. He was the one who’d caused her pain? Azriel let out an enraged roar, so low and loud that it rattled the windows. At that moment, the front door flew open. Feyre and Lucien entered the foyer, taking in the sight before them. The blood running down Tamlin’s face, dripping onto his tunic and splattering on the floor; Azriel’s disheveled state, his shadows snaking around him angrily, the blood coating his knuckles.
“What did you do?” Lucien ground out, stepping in Azriel’s direction.
Elain stood outside the doorway holding Nyx, excusing herself to remove the winged babe from the confrontation.
“What did HE do?” Feyre scoffed. “He’s not the one intruding in our home.”
Lucien only gave her a side-eye, swallowing whatever smart retort he had at the ready. “What. Happened?” the youngest Vanserra’s russet eye bounced back and forth between the two, the golden one whirring with each motion.
Tamlin and Azriel both stood there, like petulant children before a reprimanding father, neither speaking.
Finally, Tamlin broke the silence. “It was my fault. I’m leaving.” Azriel didn’t miss the sadness in his eyes as he looked to Lucien and Feyre and left.
“Tam, wait.” Lucien called out, but he’d already winnowed away.
Feyre looked to Azriel with a frown. “Given the state of Tamlin’s nose and your fist, something tells me this wasn’t just Tamlin’s fault. What the hell happened, Azriel?”
“I’d like to know the same.” Lucien chided, tanned arms crossing over his chest. Azriel’s hazel eyes narrowed in his direction. “You don’t need to know anything else, considering you can’t keep your mouth shut, Vanserra. You’re the reason he showed up in the first place.”
Lucien gaped, a rare show of the clever fox being caught off guard, before muttering “Shit.” He looked to the blood splattered floor, shaking his head. “I need to go find him.”
With that, he was out the door. Azriel let out a sigh, looking toward the stairwell as if Felina were up in their shared chamber and not wherever the hell Rhys had winnowed her to.
Feyre, ever the High Lady, held her head high, waiting for her spymaster to explain himself. “I need to get some air.” He muttered, making to move past her. “Oh no, you don’t.” Her hand grasped his shoulder, bringing him to a halt. “We are not finished here.”
And damn it, if she wasn’t the one person who could get him to listen right now. Rhys was one thing. Azriel could toe the line with him, test boundaries, display that icy rage that so often flowed through his veins.
But Feyre, he had no doubt that she could handle his rage as well but she was different. She had given everything for Prythian, even when she had absolutely no reason to give a damn about the fae. She was a good and just ruler. Not that Rhys wasn’t, but five-hundred years of brotherhood would jade anyone’s view, if only slightly.
So, Azriel stayed, hazel gaze fixing upon his High Lady, awaiting her next command. “Can we talk?” She asked gently, moving her tattooed hand down his arm. Azriel only nodded as she led him to the sitting room.
Situating herself on a tufted arm chair, Feyre smoothed her paint splattered dress, patiently waiting for Azriel to take his seat in the adjacent loveseat. “Elain came to find me at the studio, asking to reach out to get Lucien. She said Tamlin had shown up unannounced at the River House, that you two had talked, and something happened with Tamlin that upset Felina. Is that correct?”
Azriel nodded. It was mostly true. Was there really need to go into detail?
Feyre’s brow furrowed. “Look at me, Azriel.”
He flicked his hazel eyes to her briefly before looking back toward the entry. “You’re not telling me everything. It doesn’t take my daemati ability to see that, Az.” Her words held firm but her gaze gentle.
Emotions warred within Azriel. He didn’t want to talk to Feyre about this, about the way his heart clenches at the thought of losing Y/N - Felina - the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, knowing now where it originated from. At the same time, it was a support for her, a name that she held onto when nothing else made sense. He was a selfish bastard for resenting it.
However, he refused to feel selfish for the anger he felt toward Tamlin. He drew the line there. If she needed a friend, Azriel would be the first to offer that. If she needed Tamlin’s friendship, if somehow his presence were to aid in her healing? He’d swallow his pride and live with it.
He could support her, and her healing, while internally resenting Tamlin. For now it was the best he could do.
He knew he couldn’t lose control like he did this afternoon again. He’d likely have to make amends for that.
Consumed by thoughts he dropped his face into both hands, rubbing his eyes before leaning his head onto the backrest, arms crossing over his chest. Letting out a sigh of exhaustion. He couldn’t remember the last time he rested properly. Thank the gods for the unique design of this seat with indentions to accommodate Illyrian wings. The perfect spot for brooding comfortably.
A slight discomfort, however, began to set the Shadowsinger on edge. His body growing rigid.
“Hello?” Feyre’s voice invaded his mind, reminding him he still wasn’t alone.
“You’re rather persistent, High Lady.” he replied through the mental channel, that ache growing a bit stronger.
A soft laugh echoed. “Yes. Now tell me what happened.”
Azriel sent images to her, of Felina’s upset, Rhys winnowing her away, his own embarrassing outburst, the cruel words he’d spoken, the realization that he was the reason for her hurt and not Tamlin.
“That’s a lot to unpack. Speaking to you as High Lady, how you treated Tamlin was unacceptable - but, I know you are aware. From a political perspective, we should issue a formal apology at the very least. As a friend, however, you have been through a lot in a very short period of time and have so much to process. With such unusual circumstances and how new your accepted bond is - I cannot fault you for protecting her. We know so little about Vampyr bonds but I’m certain that also played a role.”
Azriel’s cheeks burned with shame. “Do you know where they went?”
His breathing increased, a metallic tang settling into his nose, seeping to his very bones.
A pause. “I do. She is safe but she needs to be with Rhys right now. Honestly, I think they both need it. He’s been on edge since she arrived.”
Azriel let out a huff, sitting upright and ending the mental connection to speak aloud. “I can understand that.”
Was the air in the house growing warmer or was that the increase in his pulse?
Sympathy flickered in those blue-gray eyes as Feyre reached out, placing a hand on Azriel’s knee. “I can’t imagine what this must feel like, Azriel, and I won’t pretend to, but things will work out in time. Perhaps the Mother knew what she was doing when she put someone with - today’s incident aside - such patience, when that is exactly what Y/N needs. What is it Amren used to tell Cassian about Nesta?” Feyre’s brows drew downward as she tried to remember.
Azriel’s restless state rendering him impatient as she searched for the words, he blurted out Amren’s saying, “Keep reaching out your hand.”
And fuck - he looked at his own hand now remembering the dried blood coating it, the blood that had filled his nostrils, when he rubbed his face.
Hunger. This was hunger. Oh gods-
His sharpened canines flashed as he looked to his High Lady, “Feyre-“
Her pulse fluttered deliciously.
Feyre’s eyes widened with realization. “Oh fuck.” She whispered, standing and stepping back from him. “Hold on, Az. It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
And then he lunged.
———————————
Rhys sat in silence as his sister sobbed into his chest. He’d winnowed them directly to the cabin - the one that seemed at this point everyone used to avoid their own mate at some point or another.
Visions of past solstices danced in his mind. How she would sit and watch until her cheeks turned frigid. Cassian would tease her, telling her that any male that wanted to win her heart would have to take them all on in a snowball fight and come out alive. Rhys would chuckle and Az would wrap his scarf around her, or blow on her hands to warm them. He’d always cared for her. Rhys had thought in a brotherly sort of way, he knew for a fact that was how Azriel intended it, but now- he imagined it was the mating bond buried deep down, likely just starting to spark. He didn’t know whether to smile or cringe at that.
He’d become so lost in thought, holding his sister and running fingers through her raven locks that he hadn’t noticed her shutters slow down, her breathing evening out. “It looks different.” She whispered, shocking herself with the statement. “I remember this place. I think. It’s familiar, but not.”
Rhys smiled. “Well, that, my dear sister, would be because Amren and Morrigan went head to head and reduced the place to rubble a century or so ago. I rebuilt it the best that I could but made some changes - the tubs even accommodate Illyrian wings now. And Feyre darling, she added her own touches to the place.”
“Interesting…” she whispered. “I think our father would have keeled over had he seen that.”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “You’re not wrong. Our father never was the type to appreciate the arts, though he did enjoy your love of it. Not enough to let you paint the walls of any of our homes but- enough to take you to the theater whenever he could, enough to ensure the Rainbow was well-funded and thriving.”
Smiling sadly, he continued, “When I first saw the paintings here, I thought of you. How if you’d have been here, you would have been right there with her, painting along.”
Felina looked to her brother, trying so desperately to remember her old self. Who she’d once been.
“I never forgot you, sister. I’ve carried you in my heart every day, there was not a sunset that I didn’t think about the way your eyes shone with wonder as the stars appeared, about the nights you’d beg me to fly with you….wishing I’d have been there more often, wishing I’d said yes every time you asked.”
“Our past does not define us. What we do with today does.” She whispered, puzzling at her own statement. Rhys whipped his head toward her. “You remember more than you realize.”
She thought on her words. “Azriel. He used to say that, yes?”
Yes. Rhys nodded grimly, remembering the treatment his brother received as a child. “Do you remember what else he would tell you?”
“I don’t think I do.”
Rhys wrapped his arm around her shoulder, holding her closely.
“It’s the courage to continue that counts.”
Felina’s hands shook and Rhys gave them a squeeze. She whispered to herself “I am Y/N.” Her given name felt less foreign than she’d expected. “I am courageous. I will not be afraid.”
Rhys’ eyes glazed over, his posture going rigid. The grip of his hand squeezing more tightly onto his sister’s cold hand.
Suddenly she was brought into Rhys’ mind, Feyre’s voice frantic.
“It’s Azriel. He needs Felina. NOW.”
——————————————
A/n: If you read this chapter and think “Wow, Felina is being pretty dramatic over Elain” Please hold. There’s more to it that will be unpacked later - she has been through a lot and is still harboring centuries old feelings/emotions that feel recent to her as her memory slowly comes back.
Tags:
General ACOTAR tag: @lilah-asteria
Series tags: @glittervame @julesofvolterra @saltedcoffeescotch @candyjaypoppins @st4r-girl-official @nocasdatsgay @gxdsmonsters
#acotar#sarah j maas#a court of thorns and roses#azriel#a court of silver flames#a court of frost and starlight#a court of mist and fury#a court of wings and ruin#azriel x reader#azriel shadowsinger#tamlin x reader#Feyre#Elain#Tamlin#tamlin x rhysand’s sister#azriel x rhysand’s sister#rhysand’s sister#vampyr#azriel’s mate#Spotify
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200 - TWO HUNDRED
Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey.
Transcript under the cut. For more episodes, click here.
[click, static]
Okay, I think I’m—I’m ready to read this note now. Beyond just the date and the first few lines.
“April 6th, 1975
Abigail—
I’m okay. If you do find this, I have a feeling you’re going to have questions about the blood. You always have questions about everything. It’s one of your best qualities and also one of your most infuriating. Though I suppose I should be grateful you’ve been dogged in your pursuit of the truth. Maybe this can be repaired.”
I don’t know if she means the jacket or…
“It’s chicken blood. I am not as capable as you when it comes to butchery.”
That’s…that’s as far as I got after finding the note. The relief hit me like a freight train but…
I don’t want to be capable of butchery. I know that’s not what you meant but I…
Anyway. Moving forward.
“I’m sorry I didn’t reach our meeting in time, but after that man came to the house, I went to ground. I heard a car in the distance a few times over the last few days, but I couldn’t be sure it was you.
I got the car you left me. And the radio. I’ve been transmitting out regularly but I’m going to guess that you haven’t heard me. That’s what I’m choosing to believe anyway, given I’ve sent you more than a few messages over the months, with no reply. And, yet, somehow, I’ve heard many of your transmissions—not all, and they are very often full of static and breaks in the signal, but you have reached our garage even from Los Angeles.”
She crossed out something here. I think it says…(crinkle of paper) "I thought about joining you” but I can’t read the rest. Goddammit, Harry…
“Do you remember that one diner that we went to every month for all of ’69? I know that you’ve been to a lot of roadside diners in the last ten months, so maybe they’ve run together in the way that they’re almost purpose built to do. The one down the street, the one we could walk to—we haven’t been back in ages, because I got spooked the one time the neon sign flickered back to life, but we’d carry thermoses of tea and pretend that we were going out for a morning cup, because the monotony of our existence was threatening to destroy us both.
Whether you remember it or not, that diner has a working radio. I believe it too spooked me when there was a power surge, even if it was just static. In any case, I’m no longer at that diner, but I was briefly and heard several of your transmissions. There was no way to speak back to you, as it wasn’t that kind of radio, but it was picking up your signal just the same.
I’m not in the state anymore. I threw the jacket from the car as I drove out of town, a final ditch attempt to contact you. I had a feeling you would take it with you if you found it, despite the state of it, and just had to hope that you would find these pages sewn inside the lining.
I’ll keep transmitting, so we can find a time and place to meet, but there are conversations I don’t want to have over the airwaves, or in a letter. So I’m going to give you instructions now, that I’ll keep repeating on the radio, in the hopes that you’ve found this even if you can’t hear me.
Do you remember the show I did up north at that gallery near the water? You’d been in Provincetown with Francis for a few days and he drove the both of you up for the opening. It wasn’t a particularly short journey, but manageable. You both stayed the weekend, at that little B&B that shares its name with one of the planets.
I don’t think you thought very much of my show. It was one of my more abstract periods. I know you never cared much for that style, but I do have to wonder if you’d have been more generous to it if you’d known what inspired it. Then again—”
And she crossed that out too…
“It was still nice having you and Francis there. I always wondered why you’d agreed to come. You seemed so unhappy to be there. It makes me wonder if my demeanor made you think that I was unhappy to have you there. That was never my intent.
I’m headed there now. I think you left me with enough fuel to make the journey, and I want to get somewhere familiar that isn’t terribly close to where we've been. Meet me there.
I don’t want to write the name down, for fear that someone else will find this jacket and this note, but I’m going to assume you remember.
I remembered. The place where we had the picnic. I remembered. And I always knew that you were winding me up about Rothko, but I liked arguing with you. It’s why I never told you that I like Hank Williams. At least, I learned to.
Harriet”.
[click, static]
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all of me
part three of the bad idea series - part two
boyfriend! chris sturniolo x reader
summary: reader loses her cat and chris is with her always and then they go out on a date to distract her from the grief.
warnings: swearing, mentions of death, loss of a pet, pet names (baby, mama, sweetheart).
a/n: this song is so fucking good dude 👩🍳🤌💋
READERS POV
i drove to chris’ house in tears. my cat, annie had passed away. she had been my birthday present when i was 5 and i loved her unconditionally.
after i pulled into his driveway i practically ran to the door, knocking on it.
“hi ma- woah what’s wrong?” chris asks when he sees the state i’m in.
“annie passed a-away.” i hiccup, tears still falling down my cheeks.
“oh baby.” chris says, his face softening. he grabs my hand to pull me inside and he brings me down to his room. he quickly pulls me into him. my arms go around his torso and i hide my face in his chest.
after calming down i sit up. we had moved to sit on his bed so we could be more comfortable.
“i’m sorry i meant to shower before i came over here but i needed to see you.” i tell him, apologizing for my appearance.
“don’t apologize. even when you’re crying you’re beautiful too.” he comforts, pulling me back into him. my cheeks flush red, but luckily since my face was now in his neck he couldn’t tell.
2 weeks later
it’s been two weeks and i’ve been slowly feeling better. chris had been with me every step of the way. grief is always hard, even for animals.
me and chris we’re currently sitting on his bed. we were both silently scrolling on our phones, the sound of tangled playing in the background.
“mama?” he says, grabbing my attention.
“hm?” i hum, letting him know that i’m listening.
“i planned something for us later.” he tells me. i furrow my brows and turn off my phone.
“what’d you plan?” i ask, tilting my head to the side to show my confusion.
“it’s a surprise but you should be ready by 5:00.” he says, attempting to hide his smirk but he wasn’t doing a very good job.
“okay i will be.” i smiled softly.
i started getting ready at 5:00. it didn’t take too long since i had showered this morning so all i had to do was my makeup and get dressed. at 5:25 i walked out of chris’ bathroom to see him sitting on the edge of his bed.
“you ready?” i ask, putting my makeup bag on his gaming desk.
“woah, you look gorgeous.” chris compliments and i smile.
“thank you chris.” i blush.
“let’s go then, yeah?” he asks and i nod. “okay i’m gonna put the directions in your gps.”
“okay good because i don’t trust you to give directions.” i giggle softly as chris playfully looks offended.
“the beach?” i ask softly, putting my car in park.
“yeah come on.” chris said, getting out of the car. i quickly follow him and we walk down the beach.
“so i had matt, nick and madi all help me with this.” he says as we walk up to madi sitting on a blanket with snacks.
“hi madi baby. what’s happening?” i ask as madi stands up.
“someone had to sit with the blanket.” she smiles, hugging me.
“goodluck.” she whispers as she walks away. chris motions for me to sit down, as he sits down himself.
“me and matt went to the store yesterday and got all your favorites. him, nick and madi set it up earlier.” he explains, answering my questions before i could answer them.
“this is adorable. i want to cry.” i giggle softly.
“don’t cry. this is to make sure you don’t cry.” chris tells me, kissing my head.
“this is beautiful, chris. thank you.” i smile at him, grabbing the bag of watermelon sour patch kids.
“anything for you.” he says softly.
“okay so i do want to talk real quick.” chris tells me, causing me to sit up.
“i’m all ears.” i say, crossing my legs.
“i’ve liked you for a long time. like years. it feels very unreal that you’re mine.” he spoke, pausing and thinking for a second.
“not mine yet.” he corrects. i knew where he was going with this, and i already had my answer.
“okay let me get to the point. i really like you and i think you like me. so i was wondering if i could be your boyfriend?” he asks hesitantly. i knew he was nervous.
“yeah but only if it means i can be your girlfriend.” i giggle softly. he lets out a breath of relief.
“oh thank god. you have no idea how nervous i was.” he admits. i quickly pull him closer to me and kiss his lips.
“no more nervousness. come on, let’s have fun.” i tell him, standing up and running towards the water.
“wait you don’t have a bathing suit!” chris calls.
“who cares!!” i shout, running into the water and diving in once it was deep enough. when i resurface i see chris staring at me.
“you gonna join me or just stand there?” i ask, laughing. he shrugs and jumps into the water. me and chris playfully splash each other, nothing but smiles on our face.
a/n: i hope this lives up to the expectation because i know a few people wanted multiple parts. here’s the last one and i hope you love ittt 🫶🫶
#chris sturniolo#matt sturniolo#nick sturniolo#sturniolo triplets#sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo fandom#sturniolo x reader#spotify#chris sturniolo x reader#christopher sturniolo#matthew sturniolo#matt sturniolo x reader#nicolas sturniolo
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Gratia. (An As Above, So Below Story)
Gratia. Charitas. Solamen.
Grace. Charity. Peace.
The oath of the Knights of the Holy Order.
Summary: You and Eddie-- separated by time and endless suffering--don't realize how many strings keep you connected on the web of fate. What players are there trying to cut those strings? And when will you both find out that they are unbreakable?
Word Count: 2.1k
Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!OC (The Knight - Written in 2nd Person POV - You/Your - No Use of Names of Physical Descriptors)
Warnings/Themes: Soulmates, Kas!Eddie, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Minor Character Deaths, Manipulation, Transformation, Corruption, Supernatural Encounters, Religious Elements, Criticism of Religion, Biblical and Other Literary and Pop Culture References
Note: So...originally this was going to be one long thing. A tale about the Knight and Eddie and their unbreakable bond. And I wavered about how relevant it would be to the larger story. How relevant are any of these blurbs to the larger story?
But if there's anything I've learned writing AASB, it's that I'm really writing the whole thing for myself. And after finding myself in an odd state of grief that kind of just keeps getting worse over the weekend, I know that this little fic...and the two that follow...really are only going to just be for me to help me get through it, so I need to be true to myself and write them anyway.
**So if you do read this, please know it can be read in tandem with As Above, So Below. And you should have at least read the Prequels, with maybe some bonus points for Genesis. Iif you've read the Hymns, this is set before Nachzehrer.**
You can find my masterlist here.
Please do not interact if you are not 18+.
“God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh.”
― Voltaire
November 10, 1986
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
"She's not suffering anymore. Tranquilla."
"Thank you, I know. She's been sick for a long time. She's at rest now."
"Mom brought mostaccioli. And chicken cutlets. She's setting it up in the other room then she'll be over. You should get some, you need to eat."
"I'll be alright, thank you for coming."
Today was the final day that you would spend with your Nonna.
Well, a more accurate description was that they let you have it.
Let you.
Let you have one day to sit on that stiff funeral home sofa. To stare at her, unrecognizably still in her casket, as friends and neighbors swarmed to offer their condolences. To mourn with you.
But somehow also separately from you.
And tomorrow, after she was behind a cold slab of marble, you'd be off again. Creeping closer to your own death until one day you might be placed in a plot adjacent to her.
Together.
But not really.
If there was anything left of you.
It wouldn't do to think of that today though.
Today, you would sit here. Enjoy your break and bask in the remnants of her soul that still lingered in and around her body.
It brought you some comfort to feel it move the way she did.
It danced like she danced around the kitchen, the boundaries of it crinkling like the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. A phantasmic remnant of her lovingly worried gaze was on you every now and again, creating the urge to say "I'm ok Nonnie." To lie to her, like you always did. And whenever one of her friends knelt their own aging bodies to pray at her side, you could practically see the softness of her cushion their jagged edges, comforting them.
You didn’t dare go up yourself though.
Not yet.
Not unless you wanted the Funeral Director to haul you out of the casket because somewhere deep down you just wanted to crawl into it with her and scream,
“Take me with you. Don’t leave me like I left you.”
Because you were not ok.
You closed your eyes as a phantom hand touched your shoulder, as it attempted to soothe the pain deep inside you but only managed to stir up another kind of pain. Another kind of mourning.
If only he was really there, you could ask him to take you with him too. Take you away from here to wherever he and Nonna would wait for you.
An impossible request.
The weight of the sofa shifted beside you and you opened your eyes. You expected to find Fortunata or Antoinette—two of Nonna’s closest friends who could claim a spot beside you if they truly wanted—but instead you found Gabriel’s stiff inhuman posture and expressionless face staring ahead of him at the casket.
“You could have helped her,” you said instead of a greeting. What good would a greeting do? “Healed her.”
You briefly wondered if you'd imagined the corner of his mouth quirking before he spoke.
“And if I told you I had? If I spared her a worse fate? Lessened her pain? Lessened yours?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.”
“Then I won’t tell you.”
You turned back to watch the casket with an unsatisfied hum.
Time passed and you sat silently together as you fought to keep your emotions in check with Gabriel's presence. You weren't nervous, per se; more annoyed. Angry, even. Questioning why he was here on this day out of all days.
All your life, you explained away his presence as a guardian. Unseen and unknown to everyone but you. He used to protect you or so you could recall, but as you got older that seemed to stop.
And he was more of a harbinger of doom than a deterrent of it.
Well, not doom.
Fate.
Or God's will or some shit like that. You didn't know anymore. Didn't care. You only cared about getting to the finish line. Freeing your soul of this curse. Getting your prize.
Heaven. Home. Peace with the ones you loved.
With Nonna.
With Eddie.
So if Gabriel was here, it meant something was about to happen. Something unsavory. Something...
You blinked and he disappeared from your peripheral vision suddenly, and just beyond the space he had previously occupied, stood a man in a black cassock.
Jinette approached you but you didn't give him the satisfaction of your attention until he said your name and offered his condolences.
"May I sit?" he gestured beside you.
"Seat's taken," you responded coldly.
"Ah, your mother, yes," he nodded in realization, and you watched him pull a chair up from one of the rows behind you.
You wouldn't be the one to tell him that your mother hadn't shown her face since you arrived back in Chicago late last night. She had done her duty, arranged the funeral and called you home. Beyond that her obligation was almost over; she could be free.
There had been a brief moment between the two of you when you let yourself into Nonna's flat and found her at the table surrounded by paperwork and old pictures, and you thought for the briefest second that this might be a turning point. That she might exhume whatever love she used to have for you, buried so deep in her heart, so you wouldn't have to mourn alone.
Instead she said she was sorry, then kissed your cheek and left.
And really you only had yourself to blame at the disappointment that punctuated the interaction. How could you have expected anything more than that when the bar was already set so low?
"California is a long way to come just for funeral rites," you said once Jinette was settled.
"I'm afraid that's not what I'm here for."
"Then to attend a funeral of a very devout woman," you amended.
"I'm not here for that either." You would give it to him, the remorse plastered on his features almost looked sincere. "Unfortunately, there is a very dire situation and the Order is in need of your experti--"
"No," you cut him off swiftly. "Tomorrow. You can ask me to go tomorrow. Not today."
The usual coldness of his gaze returned and he addressed you stiffly.
"You cannot refuse. Must not. This is your duty."
You turned to him, hand shooting from your lap of its own volition to grab his robe and pull him close enough that your noses practically touched.
The funeral goers around you began to murmur--your Nonna's friends whispering in fear and shame, saying a prayer to spare them of whatever wrath would befall you for defying and possibly harming his eminence--but you ignored them.
You knew you might pay for it later, but for now your rage was warranted.
"Don't lecture me about duty," you hissed at Jinette. "My entire life has been about duty. Her life too. If you want me to go? You'll beg me. Not guilt me. But I promise that the answer will still be no."
Something wicked flickered inside of you, and you wondered if you could smite Jinette. Just a little bit. If you could channel the deep-rooted grudge against your plight and let him feel the consequences that waited to befall someone who had nurtured it.
Then you felt a slight disturbance in the room.
The calm of Nonna's soul was shaken from its bliss, and you could practically hear the sharp, punishing clicks of her tongue as you fisted Jinette's robe tighter and tighter. The flame of the candles beside her casket flickered, the leaves on the flower arrangements that filled the room began to wilt, and the whispers around you got louder until they roared in your ears.
Your eyes burned with unshed tears as the feeling of Nonna's disappointment surrounded you--filled you--and you fought it for as long as you could.
But if anyone here was going to reprimand you in this room, in this world, it would be her.
You let Jinette go and fell back into the couch with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. He heaved several heavy breaths and patted his chest pathetically.
"Tomorrow," you told him as Nonna's soul and the murmurs of the people around you settled back down into a serene silence.
The tears finally fell after he left, and you closed your eyes as Eddie's ghostly touch softly wiped them away.
"Tomorrow..."
November 6, 1983
Twang.
He enjoyed it.
Twang.
Enjoyed plucking the guitar strings and letting the reverberation travel along his fingertips and into the very core of him.
Twang.
Deep down in that dark pit where you seemed to hide, every note was like a starburst of brightness and good feelings. Things so foreign and forgotten to him now, yet still so integral to Eddie Munson.
He wasn't Eddie anymore though.
So he resented the fact that he enjoyed it so much.
"Play something," you would whisper in those hidden depths, like a devil on his shoulder, and he constantly fought the temptation to follow that urge. "Play me a song, I know you know how."
He never gave in though.
Could never give in.
It was bad enough that he hid you from Henry, that he even listened to you at all. But feeling something--doing something--was better than feeling nothing in the boring, timeless eternal void of the Upside Down. So he would allow himself these brief visits to the trailer, he would tolerate your soft words and the ever-present softness of the ghost that seemed to haunt him here, so he could pluck a few twangs of the guitar strings and bask in the sparks of euphoria they would bring.
And it was enough. It had to be enough.
Then, when he got bored or hungry or irritated by you, away he would go again.
"I would argue that me being annoying is the reason you still keep me around."
He hissed at you and pulled his hands away from the guitar spitefully.
Twang.
He watched as one of the strings seemed to pluck itself and debated whether he could reach out and take a swipe at you, but there was a sudden pain beneath his sternum. Odd, seeing as he barely felt pain in this body now. He clicked his claws together contemplatively, then hesitantly rubbed at it to soothe the ache, and as he did, he felt the echoes of your soft sigh somewhere deep inside him.
He faltered for a moment, unsure if he should feel some sort of satisfaction that he had comforted you, or resentment that he had fallen for it.
He hated you. Hated your presence there. Hated that you were somehow here when you left him to this fate. Hated that you made him weak again when Henry had remade him to be strong. Infallible.
You might very well be his downfall one day.
And still he couldn't fathom being without you again.
He growled deeply and, unexpectedly, the trailer shook around him, walls clattering, remnants of knick knacks falling.
For a moment, he watched it in awe. Believed that he was the cause of it. That the power Henry had helped him unlock had been activated with his spite.
Until everything started to shake.
The Upside Down became unsettled, the very ground beneath him shifting with some seismic agitation. Roiling and churning, changing.
There was a cacophony of restlessness through the collective consciousness as all of the creatures of the Upside Down felt the disturbance. As Henry felt the disturbance and questioned its origin, because it had not been of his design.
Almost immediately, he was singled out amongst the masses, ordered to his Master's side.
Who else could find the cause of this turmoil than Henry's right hand? His loyal servant? The Beast he created to strike on his behalf, to herald in the end?
Eddie didn't hesitate.
He left the trailer and took flight swiftly and dutifully, beating his wings powerfully to get to Henry as quickly as he could.
To get away from you as quickly as he could.
You and your comfortable constant presence in the respite of the trailer.
“Do not be afraid. Our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.”
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno
#aasb#as above so below#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#Eddie Munson x oc#Eddie Munson fic#stranger things fic
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I-
hum.
#That 21 one questions meme#I don’t know if I should feel sorry yet.#Maybe there are several reasons why the people tried to discourage me to play this-#Have I ruined the thing for you ?#If so ; I’m moderately sorry ; also it’s never too late to unfollow -you know that right ?#I have forgotten many many things. But a few - probably meaningless or barely relevant - things seem a little clearer to me.#I hope this year will go ok. I don’t want to completely lose my mind. That’s my single wish right now.#these tags make less and less sense.#Don’t you find it easier to organise ur thoughts this way tho ? Little entries of words.#disco elysium#I need to say; I’m only day2 but if something ANYTHING happens to Kim ..#I’ll gun everyone down in this hellhole
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Please understand that, more often than not, works of fiction are a fictional exploration of concepts and ideas rather than a declaration of morality
#there’s a difference between fiction that condones disgusting things and one that’s breaking them apart and analyzing them through fiction#reading comprehension and understanding context is important YALL#please I beg learn how to separate fiction from reality folks#every so often I’ll see people making WILD claims about a person because they wrote a complex and flawed character#most of the people I know who enjoy exploring dark and questionable themes in their work are the kindest and most selfless people I know#while the people who sit atop a pedestal and judge every aspect of a stranger that they don’t know turn out to be the most selfish and vile#i should not be scared to write a story about morally questionable characters finding humanity#but yet here we are#Ive seen this kinda stuff do more harm than good too many times#sorry to post a hot take#just good lord I’m old I’ve seen this shit too many times#stop eating each other#you will see conflict and dark themes in my stories#if you cant handle messy themes in fiction please feel free to unfollow or block me for your own mental well-being#I’m sure I’ll regret posting this later but just putting it out there#hate being reminded that as a creator strangers are staring at you and making horrifying assumptions about who you are as a person
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what’s so funny is this spirituality drama was started by a person that basically posted “i don’t understand why some radical feminists don’t believe in witchcraft or don’t even show an interest in it” on the website of literalist blunt skeptical women who read the words “i don’t understand” and go “ok let me explain.” and then upon receiving a bunch of answers explaining exactly why many of us are critical of spirituality, was like “wow they’re attacking my beliefs, they don’t get what spirituality means to ME” when yall are the ones saying you literally think it is sad and closed-minded for us to not entertain spirituality in our OWN feminism and personal belief systems, and making all of these masturbatory posts about how uniquely enlightened you are because of your spirituality. and then you go on wondering why so many of us hate “woo woo” shit
#really should never have said “i don’t understand” which implies opening a dialogue#should’ve instead said “i believe that radfems who won’t entertain spirituality are closed-minded”#if that’s already your stance#and it’s like okay you think i’m close minded for my atheism#you and literally every christian i’ve met#‘why won’t you entertain belief in god? can’t you admit that you at least don’t know?’#okay but then you ALSO don’t know and yet you choose to believe….#i’m sorry that i’m incapable of manifesting even an ounce of genuine feeling or questioning about the existence of a spiritual realm#you can go on thinking it’s sad but i will also go on thinking it’s sad (and stupid) that you feel you NEED spirituality#to experience wonder or connection with nature or to think deeply about our purpose in this world
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I bring to you, actual art but it’s me trying to replicate my friend @spaceshmuck’s art style
✧ reblogs are appreciated ✧ | ♡ buy me a kofi ♡ | ☾ commission info ☽
#whimsy whispers#crystalart.png#others ocs#strand von zarovich#curse of strand#space tag#GOD this was so difficult and I don’t even feel like I did that good a job but it was also fun#also hi I’m not gonna shut up about my art program crashing and this corrupting right as I was almost finished with it I need people to know#that the universe tried to stop this from existing >:| I did not spend hours going ‘is this how it would draw hands’ and cursing myself for#the damn art to not see the light of day#anyways please look at my friends art it’s SO good like god I’m jealous of its art style and character designs >:’)#like literally such lovely art y’all will check it out because I said so and my word is like law or whatever#I’m like writing these at 4:25zm on a Monday and like this won’t even be posted for another week or so but like#sorry if I’m especially stupid rn I didn’t wanna go to sleep yet so I’m saving drafts and listening to off the wall magical! on loop#y’all should also check out junie & thehutfriends because I find their music fun#just listen to me when I tell you to look at ppls art because I have good taste okay? you can trust me I’m holding your hand and we’re going#to have fun I prommy#also please do not talk about the background it was one of the things I was gonna work on when the art program crashed#the only thing I fixed after that was minor mistakes like not colouring in buttons#anyways ily pretty vampire man and ily my dear friend who’s art style vexes me 💖
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more and more it makes me kind of uncomfortable (for lack of a better/softer word) to call my own characters ‘ocs’. because like. they’re from a completely original universe and from completely original intertwined stories and all that. so why would i have to specify they’re original in the same way someone would when referring to a character they made for a pre-existing non-original universe/franchise/whatever? by that logic every fiction author ever would be referring to their characters as ocs rather than just. their characters. you know.
#i guess you could say it’s different or something because I haven’t published any one Solid Official Work yet or anything but.#I don’t think that particularly matters? cause then you just get into policing what does and doesn’t count as Real and Official and that#inevitably doesn’t do anything good#idk man I know the term Original Character isn’t technically incorrect in my case but. I just feel like that term was created to separate#fandom creations from their source’s canon. or maybe to describe characters that don’t come from any particular established universe#or story at all (fandom or otherwise).#cause otherwise. why shouldn’t I just be calling them my characters. the characters from my universe and my works. which are#established and incorporated. it’s definitely not properly organized or set up for true publication (at least not yet. definitely possible#I’ll publish something as a consumable structured thing someday)#you just don’t hear established authors calling their characters ocs. because why should they? the original part is sort of a given.#hopefully anyway#anywayyuyyyyyyeuyyyhh sorry this is not important just has been on my mind the last few weeks or few months or more#kibumblabs#I guess there’s also a difference maybe between making characters for the sake of making characters- and those being ocs- versus#characters that are developed as part of a larger work/story#I definitely feel like there’s a difference between the two and how they should be labelled (but im not saying one is more valid than the#other or anything like that.)#like when I see a poll that’s like ‘how many ocs do you have’ I just kinda sit there cause that question. doesn’t make sense in#my situation at all. because it’s the same as asking the author of a fiction novel that question. what do I count as my ‘oc’#would that mean my primary characters? or vaguely my primary and secondaryish ones? or do you mean every single character mentioned#regardless of importance or prevalence? every single named parent or grandparent or boss or childhood friend or one night stand or etc etc#I feel like it’s weird to call those characters ‘ocs’ in the way the question is implying. but then what DOES count? it just doesn’t make#sense for something like this. right? it irks me a little
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hey! seeing your post about iceman and hamilton reminded me of the 1812 au that you had posted about previously - do you mind sharing any of your thoughts on that, specifically Ice & Mav's reactions to the politics of war back then, before the US military and Navy were such huge institutions (in today's standards)? EDTS Ice & Mav are decidedly anti-war (more Ice than Mav I think), but would that same sentiment be true for them back then & how would Ice feel about war hawks like Calhoun & Clay? there's obviously a pretty big role that war plays in forming national identity, especially in early US history, and with external forces like impressment & embargoes & all of the international relations nightmares that came w/ early state building, I'm really interested in how that may have an impact on how Ice and Mav view military service and duty.
I would love to read this fic if you're still planning on writing it (really I love to read everything that you write tbh) - also hope you are doing well!! 😊😊
hiya!! i hope you are also doing well!! I am not sure if im ever going to post the 1812 au to be honest—i would really love to but i think it would be so long it would have to be my first priority for a few months, and I’m not sure when I’d have time to do that. but i have it all planned out at least, so maybe we can compare notes.
So here are my notes.
IF i were to complete my 1812 AU… It would not be about Ice at all. Which is how I’d be able to stomach writing about Ice’s death. AND the characters would be very very different from the characters i wrote about in EDTS (i.e. confessed their love for each other way back in the 1770s). And what I want to tackle in this AU is exactly what your ask is about—duty to your fledgling country! Im interested in a version of TGM maverick who had to be away from the love of his life, on his deathbed, to serve the national interests of his country. *questionable* national interests, in TGM’s case, or *forgettable* national interests in the War of 1812’s case. The War of 1812 is sort of America’s forgotten war—its causes were nebulous & hard to rally around/understand today, and there were no real heroes until the end, unless if you count Andrew Jackson as a hero (i really try not to). So this would be a direct attack on the heroism we are presented with in TGM: what is mavericks mission really accomplishing in the grand scheme of things? Using the 1812 war, itself forgotten and largely irrelevant, as a meta backdrop for that question of heroism.
So—this version of Ice & Mav are: actual factual war heroes. Revolutionary war heroes who were genuinely educated & truly believed in the American experiment of representation & freedom from tyranny. Fighting the British 36 years apart. (Something i really really like & will take advantage of… the 36 years between 1776 and 1812 exactly equaling the 36 years between 1986 and 2022… it was meant to be.) They’ve spent their whole lives together in the romantic sense, in a world where they couldn’t live openly together but at a time when sexuality was also understood completely differently. But they have to be apart when Ice is dying because Maverick has been handed a mission, a duty, by the USG that he has to take care of. (Part of the reason I’m stalling on this project is because I don’t really know what that mission would be… something something naval warfare, something something Captain of the “USS Dagger…” but im a better romance writer than an action writer… idk how to come up with those plots at all. And I’m not super well-versed in EARLY naval warfare [I prefer wwii navy stuff] so idk how ships like sailed clippers & schooners etc actually work. That’s a completely different wheelhouse for me & is integral to a story like this, and fundamentally im kind of a lazy person who doesn’t put a lot of effort into research if I don’t have to)
the AU would be written in two parts—the warm summer of youth vs cold winter of old age. Confronting my own fear as an author of getting old & dying, tbh. What does it mean to be a hero and die of old age? Shouldn’t you want to die WHILE being a hero? Part one: 1776-1782 is… ice & maverick falling in love and dealing with goose’s death together and cementing their hero status in American naval history (like they do in the original top gun). Then part 2; 1812/1813… ice is retired from being the first USN commodore/secretary, but he’s dying and maverick has to choose between being with his de facto husband in his last days VERSUS being out at sea, serving his country, but for a war that he (a bit metaphysically, to serve my metaphorical aims) knows will be forgotten. He can be a hero or he can be there for the love of his life but he can’t do both. Duty & sacrifice. Ice persuades him it’s time to let go, maverick goes out to sea, and then ice dies while he’s at sea. & the 1812 war was kind of forgotten, and their love will never be known by history because they were two men, so what was that sacrifice really for? Shouldn’t he have been home with ice?
Which leads me to: I am also slightly interested in an interpretation of the TGM mission as a possible su*cide attempt on mav’s part, post-ice’s death. Trying to die a hero. So, there’s that. That would be in it as well.
Some issues: that’s pretty simple & i submitted a 4k short story with this exact premise (1776 war hero has to choose between one last shot at heroism in 1812 vs staying with his male lover at the end of his life) to one of my writing workshops last semester and they loved it. But, by god, does it get 10x more complicated once you add Bradley to the mix. It’s ALWAYS made it more complicated & it’s why I’ve had so much pain trying to edit EDTS over the last 8 months (as you know). Because LETS PLEASE BE REAL TGM did NOT give me much to go on there. Like the emotional turn that is I think SUPPOSED to happen in the scene where ice and mav talk in TGM—I don’t understand it & I think that scene was only written for fanservice because it serves no purpose in the story and I’m not sure what emotion we’re supposed to take away from it. Maverick says “please send me ice, don’t ask me to send someone else to die,” (is he asking ice’s permission??) and ice DOESNT actually answer that request, doesn’t even acknowledge it; he says, in a COMPLETE AND UTTER NON SEQUITUR, “It’s time to let go.” Maverick says, “yeah I know,” so what does that actually mean? Who is he letting go??? Bradley??? Goose??? ice himself??? Is ice giving mav permission to go or not???? It’s so vague it means absolutely nothing, and i have no idea what ice’s emotional/story purpose in TGM is except to bail mav out of sticky situations and nostalgia purposes, and don’t even get me STARTED on how out-of-character it was for MAVERICK (guy who hates having his papers pulled from the Academy) to pull Bradley’s papers from the Academy in TGM, both of which are why ive struggled so much trying to fit Ice into the mav/Bradley narrative of betrayal & loss etc. And in a two-shot piece where all those years in between are kind of skipped over… idk. I feel like I would sort of have to sacrifice the Bradley storyline for the overarching icemav duty-sacrifice-heroism theme. With WWGATTAI, i was KIND of able to do both, but only after MULTIPLE rounds of very very intense editing & like 50k words of rewrites and even then it’s kind of awkward so… idk. For a quick two-shot like this I’d have to pick. I don’t have the energy to write another 50-100k reinterpreting that story all over again lol
So to answer your question it would be way less about the actual weird politics of the 1812 war and more about providing a place for me to get into mav’s emotions dealing with ice’s death and the historical implications of a mission like that, kind of glossed over in the movie … though this ice & mav are veterans of the XYZ affair / battles with the Tripoli pirates, so that probably affects how they see things… but mostly, duty is still duty & orders are still orders, but sometimes following orders means sacrificing what little time left you have with your family… following the TGM timeline where ice only has about 2 weeks left to live from Mach 9.
So, pros of the 1812 au: lots of the purple prose poetic writing i shamefully really like. Icemav open and honest with each other from the very start ❤️. Dealing with the themes and emotional consequences of ice’s death finally. Focusing only on mav instead of only on ice. Penny & sarah in a lesbian relationship. Some discussion of the cyclical nature of queer history (i.e. we’ve always been here making history and we always will be). Mav finding reasons to live after ice is gone.
Cons of the 1812 au and why I’m hesitant to really get invested in writing it: don’t know much about pre-diesel naval warfare so can’t come up with the technical action elements of the plot & too lazy to do that much research. I have a sailing license, so I know like… knots and rigging and mainsail vs jib/genoa/spinnaker and sloop vs schooner etc, but i do NOT know anything about THAT kind of sailing. Warship sailing, tactics, “dogfighting” equivalents, etc. Also: would probably have to sacrifice the whole “getting Bradley kicked out of the academy-equivalent” storyline, just to make the story less complicated. Not sure how much of the original ice and maverick the story would retain as a result. Also: i know wayyy more about the early national period (1776-1800) than anything after about 1808, but even then the last time i was really into this period of history was my freshman year of high school, so i can’t necessarily claim to know what im talking about when it comes to the intricacies of the early American state (as i think is pretty obvious here). Also too lazy to do that much research.
But, here are some notes/snippets etc if you would like. they’re solidly 6 months old now & unedited & largely unresearched, just throwing words on the wall in writing phase one, but whatever
#oooo that’s a lot of words to just say ‘im lazy & self-conscious of the fact i don’t know what im talking about’#thanks for the ask ily ❤️🥺#i think you know more about This period of history than i do so honestly we should chat#OMG ice saying i love you & maverick hasn’t even died yet whoa#ice goes to yale instead of the academy. yale guy. ☹️#pete maverick mitchell#tom iceman kazansky#top gun#top gun maverick#icemav#asks#top gun fanfiction#if someone wants to pick up this idea & do it please do#not feeling very articulate with my not-fiction words today; sorry if this post is incomprehensible
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