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“ . . . we should go back to arkansas”

⟢ MG. she her. 19. bisexual. multifandom.

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Watch Anya Live on Cam

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gothicgaycowboy

accidentally breaking aegon’s nose by riding his face too hard

I was finally able to write something short and sweet aren’t you proud of me 🤭? as always this is my modern aegon who’s parents are rhaenyra and alicent, hope you enjoy it<3 (1.2k words)

rosies

I don't know. I feel like I should just stop... You know, just stop thinking about it, but I can't. Maybe I've seen too many movies, you know, love at first sight. What do you think about love at first sight? You think you could love somebody by just looking at them? But the thing is, man, I felt like I knew her.

BLUE VALENTINE (2010) dir. Derek Cianfrance

kaizsche

GLEN POWELL as BEN ANYONE BUT YOU (2023)

bellewintersroe

Kinktober - Day 2

Lewis Nixon x JealousReader! Smut.

I've been meaning to write a Lewis Nixon smut for the longest time!! Credit goes to these two requests (1) (2) who kindly asked for Nixon smut. I haven't written BoB smut, especially for Nixon in a while so I hope this is okay, apologies as the ending kinda sucks and I don't think it's the best work!

When you see two army nurses hitting on your boyfriend, Captain Lewis Nixon, jealousy get's the better of you and you blank Lew in response. Fed up with your silent treatment, Lewis get's you to talk one way or another. Minors doi, oral (f receiving), fingering, orgasms, etc.

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liebgothersheys

Welcome to 31

Don Malarkey x Reader

Malarkey finds a house number in the rubble of war, he starts a running joke, you thought it was stupid at first but then it became real. Too real.

Malarkey had found the number by the foot of a door, one hell of a thing.

It might have been Holland. It might have been Belgium.

By then, every place had started sharing the same bones: crumbling brick, roof beams split open, lace curtains breathing through shattered windows, a table still set for people who had run or died or learned not to come back.

The number had been nailed beside a door that no longer existed. And a house that was no longer a home.

White porcelain. Blue figures. Cracked through the middle.

31.

Malarkey pried it loose with the careful seriousness of a man stealing crown jewels.

You watched him do it from the other side of the ruined entryway, rifle loose in your hands, shoulders aching from the march and the cold and the weight of trying to stay funny around men who were funnier than grief had any right to be.

You looked around once, habit.

Always watching his back.

You walked over and bent next to him, your cheek brushed against his helmet.

“Look at that,” Malarkey said, turning around with the little plate held between two dirty fingers. “We got ourselves a place.”

As soon as he turned the joke whittled, his eyes snagged yours, and it was a curious little look you couldn't decipher, so you spoke instead.

"Yeah?" you smirked looking down at the number.

Skip immediately looked up.

“No roof, no windows, but hell, Don, it’s spacious.”

Penkala, sitting on a busted wall and picking plaster dust from his sleeve, added, “Rent’s murder.”

You took it from Malarkey’s hand and turned it over. His rough fingers catching your pinkie, you hesitated but he dropped his hand.

One bent screw still clung to the back like it had not been informed the house was gone.

“That’s not a house,” you said. clicking your tongue. “That’s a number.”

Malarkey grinned at you.

Not smug. Not smooth. Malarkey never looked smooth. He looked pleased with himself in the goofy, open way he got when he knew he had found something stupid enough for Skip and Penkala to carry for weeks.

“Not with that attitude.”

That was the beginning of it.

Not the war.

Not the fear.

Just 31.

A stupid little plate from a dead house.

And Malarkey, who had decided it was yours.

The first official 31 was a foxhole with water in the bottom and a view of absolutely nothing.

Skip slid into it, looked around like he was inspecting a hotel room, and said, “Welcome to 31.”

Penkala squatted beside him and nodded. “Little damp. Charming though.”

Malarkey held up the number. “We’re renovating.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, a real laugh that surprised you on the way out. Malarkey looked over, quick, like he had heard something better than the joke.

That was the first thing you started noticing about him.

He always looked up when you laughed.

Not long. Not enough for anyone to catch him. But there it was, a little flick of his eyes, that soft pull at the corner of his mouth like he had done something right and was trying not to be too proud of it.

After that, 31 followed you.

A busted barn became 31’s gone rural.

You rememeber standing at the threshold, barking at the others to catch up.

Hell you remember when Malark caught your sleeve and tugged you in.

A stolen corner in a billet with three blankets and a smell nobody wanted to identify became Company moved us uptown.

Guarnere started pointing out that they were insane. Luz tried to steal the number but Malarkey snatched it back, said you we're the owner and that's stealing property.

A shell crater with half a wagon wheel in it became 31’s got a driveway now.

A ditch became 31’s summer property.

Skip grabbing a fistful of wildflowers and sprinkling it on you and Malarkey who grabbed grass and tossed it towards Skip but fell on Penkala instead who got some in his mouth spluttering, "What the hell!"

A room with only one wall left became open floor plan.

If it had mud, you had a mortgage. If it had rats, you had tenants. If it had a ceiling, Skip declared you were getting soft.

Malarkey would not let the bit die if somebody had handed him a shovel.

“Careful with the front door,” he’d say, crawling into a hole in the ground.

“There is no front door,” you’d answer.

“Exactly. Open concept.”

Malarkey carried the number in his pack, wrapped in a sock with a hole in the heel. He claimed it was for protection. Skip said wrapping real estate in footwear was disrespectful. Penkala said the property should be grateful for insulation.

You pretended not to care.

But you started looking for it.

On marches, you’d catch the corner of the porcelain plate when Malarkey shifted his pack. In billets, you’d see him set it against a wall before he sat down, as if the number had to face outward to count. Once, during a lull, he cleaned mud from the blue paint with the edge of his thumbnail, gentle as anything.

That was another thing you noticed.

Malarkey’s hands never stayed still after a fight.

He joked first. Always. He came out of fire with his mouth moving, tripping over some crack meant to make Skip snort or Penkala roll his eyes. But once the noise died, once men stopped counting heads out loud, his fingers went searching for something to do.

Checking his straps.

Rubbing dirt off his rifle sight.

Folding and refolding a scrap of paper.

Turning 31 over in his palm.

Like if his hands stopped moving, the war might catch up to him.

You noticed that before you noticed the rest.

The way his grin came quickest when things were worst.

The way he listened for Skip’s voice before relaxing.

The way he and Penkala could argue over nothing with the seriousness of diplomats while shells landed somewhere close enough to make the ground remember.

The way Malarkey looked younger when he was tired.

The way he looked at you when he thought you were busy looking at anything else.

Once billeted in a town, you found him trying to prop the plate on a half fallen off shelf.

“You hanging a sign?” you asked.

He glanced down at you from a broken crate. “People oughta know where they are.”

“We’re in a building.”

“Yeah, but now we’re in a classy building.”

Skip, from the ground, lifted one hand. “Put it higher. Makes the place look taller.”

Penkala opened one eye. “We got vaulted ceilings.”

“There’s a hole in the roof,” you said.

Malarkey looked up through it. Snow or ash drifted down through the dark.

“Skylight,” he said.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then you both laughed, but his laugh changed halfway through. Softer. Almost private.

You felt it then, quick and inconvenient under your ribs.

Something catching.

Something you did not have time for.

So you looked away first.

By Bastogne, the joke should have died.

A lot of things should have.

The snow swallowed sound, swallowed color, swallowed the parts of men that had made them easy to recognize. Everybody looked the same under white frost and gray wool. Everybody moved slower. Everybody’s mouth cracked. Everybody’s eyes got older.

Even 31 looked different in Bastogne.

Malarkey had tucked it inside his jacket once his pack froze too stiff to open without swearing. The little porcelain plate sat against his chest, absurd and useless and important for no reason anyone could afford to explain.

Your foxhole was a mean little scrape in the earth, too narrow for comfort Skip and Penkala were wedged in another hole opposite you, shoulders bumping, rifles close, helmets low. Snow had gathered along the rim like the whole forest was trying to bury you politely.

You sat beside Malarkey with your knees drawn up, numb from the hips down.

He had been quiet too long.

That was how you knew he was cold in a way that scared him.

Not because he complained. Malarkey would complain about food, officers, socks, holes, marches, and Skip’s breath like a man born with a constitutional right to object. But real fear made him quieter. It put his humor somewhere deeper, somewhere he had to dig for it.

You leaned into him just enough for your sleeves to touch.

He looked over.

“You stealing body heat?”

“Yes.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“You got any?”

“Not much.” His breath fogged white. “But 31’s got central heating.”

Skip lifted his head from across the hole. “No it doesn’t.”

Penkala’s teeth clicked once before he answered. “Management’s been informed.”

You reached inside Malarkey’s jacket without warning.

He jolted. “Hey!”

“Relax.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You got very cold hands.”

You found the plate tucked in the inner fold and pulled it free like a magician producing proof of bad decisions.

The 31 caught what little moonlight made it through the trees.

You held it up between you, cracked porcelain and blue numbers and all, and burst out laughing.

Not pretty.

Not delicate.

Cackling, really, because the whole idea of it, a house number in a frozen foxhole in Bastogne, four idiots pretending they had property rights in hell ,was so stupid it looped around into holy.

“Gentlemen,” you announced, waving it toward Skip and Penkala, “welcome home.”

Skip’s face split into a grin.

“Oh, thank God. I was worried we were lost.”

Penkala squinted at the plate. “Place has gone downhill.”

“Excuse you,” Malarkey said, taking it from you and wiping snow off the edge with his thumb. “This is prime Ardennes real estate.”

“Prime?” Skip said. “I can’t feel my ass.”

“That’s because you’re sittin’ in the foyer,” Malarkey told him.

Penkala nodded solemnly. “Common mistake.”

You laughed again, and Malarkey looked at you.

There it was.

That quick upward glance. That pleased little look he tried to hide by fussing with the number. His thumb rubbed over the crack in the porcelain, slow and careful.

The foxhole seemed smaller suddenly.

The snow quieter.

Skip and Penkala kept going, because of course they did.

“We got a kitchen?” Skip asked.

“Yeah,” Penkala said. “It’s the part where we imagine food.”

“Dining room’s over there,” Malarkey said, pointing at a mound of snow. “Dress code required.”

You looked down at your filthy jacket. “Am I underdressed?”

Malarkey’s eyes moved over your face.

Only for a second.

Mud on your cheek. Frost on your lashes. Lips chapped from cold. Nothing worth looking at, not really. Nothing soft left in any of you.

But he looked like he had forgotten the punchline.

“No,” he said, quieter than the joke needed. “You’re all right.”

The words landed badly.

Or maybe too well.

Skip stopped talking for half a breath.

Penkala, mercifully or cruelly, looked away with the expression of a man pretending he had gone blind for the public good.

You felt your face warm despite the cold.

Malarkey noticed that too.

Of course he did.

He cleared his throat and immediately ruined it.

“Wouldn’t pass inspection, but who the hell would?”

You shoved his shoulder.

He rocked into the frozen wall, grinning now, and held the number protectively against his chest.

“Careful with the house.”

“That’s not a house,” you said, but softer this time.

Malarkey looked at you across the tiny space between your sleeves.

“Not with that attitude,” he said again.

It should have been nothing.

A reused joke. A cracked number. Skip snickering into his glove. Penkala muttering something about rent control. Trees creaking overhead. Artillery grumbling far enough away to pretend it might stay there.

But you looked at Malarkey, at his red nose, tired eyes, the grin he kept offering the world like a dare, the porcelain number pressed against his jacket over his heart and something inside you gave up fighting.

Not loudly.

Not bravely.

Just gave.

Because 31 had never been a place.

It was Malarkey’s hands cleaning mud off a broken thing.

It was his voice making a foxhole sound less like a grave.

It was Skip laughing. Penkala groaning. Your own shoulder against Malarkey’s in the snow.

It was the stupid, impossible little home you carried from ruin to ruin because Malarkey had found a number and decided the war did not get to have everything.

He caught you looking again.

“What?” he asked.

You smiled, helpless and cold and gone.

“Nothing.”

Malarkey’s mouth twitched.

“That’s a very specific nothing.”

Skip groaned. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

Penkala pulled his helmet lower. “Wake me when they get married or when the roof comes in.”

“There’s no roof,” you said.

And when night had come, the fires putout, the food that tasted like shit had gone, you settled next to Malark.

Your knee bumping his, he looked over at you.

That night, 31 moved again.

Not far.

Just from Malarkey’s jacket to the wall of your foxhole, where he had wedged it between two roots and a clump of frozen dirt like a man hanging a proper address beside a front door.

There was no front door.

There was barely a wall.

There was only the dark, the snow, the smell of damp wool, and Malarkey lying too close beside you because the foxhole had been dug by men who apparently believed shoulders were optional.

You stared at the little porcelain number until your chest started to shake.

Malarkey heard it.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking the whole damn property.”

That made it worse.

You pressed your glove hard against your mouth, trying to swallow the laugh before it got you both yelled at or killed. Across the line, somebody coughed. Somewhere beyond the trees, artillery rolled low and mean, like thunder that had learned everybody’s names.

Malarkey reached up and tapped the sign once.

“Quiet hours at 31.”

You nearly choked.

He turned his face into his sleeve, shoulders shaking now too, both of you trying to make no sound and failing in small, helpless bursts. The foxhole was freezing. Your toes were numb. There was death packed into every acre of forest around you.

And still, Malarkey had hung up a house number.

Still, you were laughing.

“Don,” you whispered, breathless, “that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

His grin flashed faintly in the dark. “Top five, maybe.”

“You’re proud of it.”

“Property ownership’s a big step.”

“You stole it off a dead house.”

“Liberated it.”

“You’re a criminal.”

“Homeowner,” he corrected.

You ducked your head before another laugh could escape, and he ducked his too, both of you folding toward the same small pocket of dark between your collars and helmets.

When you lifted your eyes, his were already there.

The laugh went first.

Not all at once. It just faded out of both of you, leaving the cold behind, and the silence, and that awful knowledge that morning was never guaranteed. His face was close enough that you could see the frost gathered on his lashes. Close enough to see his smile soften into something he could not joke his way around.

For once, Malarkey did not look away.

“You know,” he whispered, “if we ever get a roof, hell if we get the damn house, y'know a real one.."

He trailed off waiting for you to reject the whole fool idea of it but your heart had raced, did something stupid.

Your mouth twitched. “Yeah?"

“Yeah.” His eyes dropped, just once, to your mouth. “With that attitude, yeah.”

The ache of it hit you then.

Not like fear. Not like shellfire.

Softer, and somehow worse.

You looked past him at the little cracked 31 in the dirt wall, barely visible in the dark, absurd and brave and doomed as anything else men carried through war.

Then you looked back at him.

“Don?”

“Yeah?”

“If we move again, if we're sepearted…”

His expression changed before you finished. Like he understood the joke, and the part under it. Like he heard the thing you were too afraid to say plainly.

He swallowed.

“I go where you go.” he said.

Your breath caught.

It was not a promise. Not exactly.

Promises were too clean for Bastogne.

But it was close enough.

You leaned in first, or maybe he did. It was hard to tell in a foxhole that small, in a war that had been pushing you toward him for weeks with dirty hands.

His mouth was cold.

Then not.

The kiss was careful for half a second, startled and quiet, as if both of you were waiting for the other to pull away.

Then his gloved hand found the front of your jacket, not pulling, just holding on, and your fingers curled against his sleeve.

And for one snow-choked minute, before the forest remembered you, before the war came looking again, 31 was real.

No roof.

No windows.

Rent’s murder.

But hell you were home.

Because it stopped being about a house or a number.

You looked at Malarkey, who's mouth had gone soft from the kiss, from laughter and something that hurts sweet.

liebgothersheys

In Case I Die With Your Last Name

"You havin my last name a bad thing?"

Joseph Liebgott x Reader

~ Tangled up with Lieb and his dogtags in the middle of Carentan. (that's it thats the description)

HAPPY VE DAY!!!

(🪖 BoB Masterlist here ♤ )

tw: firefight, blood, war, aggressiveness

gifbytragicsiblings

You didn't plan to be tangled up with Joseph Liebgott.

Your first impression of him was running his mouth how you didn't know what you were doin' then him throwing hands with Guarnere.

That was enough for you to avoid him, save for a few back talk when Lieb was getting under your skin (which was always) and duck your head when his eyes find yours.

You brush shoulders with him, wind back in the same damn spot where he was but hell that was war right?

You're either here nor there just in the middle of hell and the men you trained with since Toccoa.

And well here you we're and your grand plan to avoid Joseph Liebgott.

You were struck dumb, rifle in hand, looking at the pharmacy across the street , you didn't know why you stopped running then he hauled you off. Barking about something, his usual 'Are you stupid?' 'Goddamn fuck!' or whatever it was 'cause your ears rang.

A shell cracked somewhere too close, throwing brick dust off the side of the building, and before you could decide whether to drop or run, his hand was already fisted in the front of your jacket.

Dragging you like the whole damn world depended on it.

You felt your heart smash against your chest.

“Move, move, move!” he snapped.

“I am moving!”

“You’re standin’ there like a goddamn signpost!”

He yanked you down behind the wall with him just as the street spat dirt and stone where your boots had been.

You hit the ground half on top of him. The breath nearly knocked out of you as you held your helmet down.

The ground rattled and you panted.

His helmet knocked yours as both of you half stumbled your rifle jammed between your ribs. His dog tags swung out in the middle of half failing; trying to get up and half both of you tryna avoid each other, your dog tags came loose at the same time where he grabbed you, and somehow the two chains caught together in a shining, stupid knot between both your throats.

For one hot, panicked second, neither of you could move.

You we're reeling from the fact that one, you we're nearly hit and two, it was Liebgott that pulled you back.

He was over you, half shielding you from the street, one hand on the wall behind your head.

Liebgott stared down at the tangled chains.

Then at you.

Then back down. His fingers already yanking at the chains.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You grabbed me.”

“Yeah, because you were about to be blown to bits, you're welcome!"

“I had it handled.” No, actually you didn't.

“You had shit handled.”

Another burst of fire snapped across the street.

Both of you ducked lower. You tried moving away from his chest.

The tags jerked tight.

“Jesus, take ’em off,” Joe hissed as you swatted his hand away panicked as you tried to work the knot free but your hands shook.

You both knew you had to get moving or your both getting blasted next.

“You take yours off!" She shouted over the noise.

“I’m trying!” he barked, your hands moving in a frantic tandem.

“You’re pulling mine.”

“Because you’re in the way!"

“You’re always saying that.”

“Yeah, and you keep proving me right.” He looked at you then, his fingers still half around the chain half on yours.

Your fingers shook while you dragged the chain over your head. Not from fear. That was what you told yourself. Just adrenaline. Just noise. Just the street splitting apart around you and Joe Liebgott’s breath too close to your cheek as you moved towards him as he took off his dogtags.

And not because every time he got near, something sick and twisted opened low in your stomach.

Not because his hand was still braced near your waist, keeping you tucked behind cover like he meant it.

He became painfully aware how close you both we're his eyes snapping up to yours, searching.

You shoved the feeling down hard.

For two seconds, you were both crouched there, hunched over like idiots in the middle of a firefight, trying to untangle government-issued metal while France blew itself to hell around you.

“Quit yanking,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“How 'bout you stop yapping.”

“Try being useful.”

His mouth twitched, even there.

Even with the bullets.

It made you furious.

It made your stomach twist again.

The knot finally gave. Two chains fell apart into your palms, slick with sweat and dust.

“Here,” you said, shoving one at him.

Joe snatched it, already looking over the wall instead of at the tags. “About time.”

“You’re welcome.”

“For almost hanging me?”

“For not leaving you tied to me.”

“Would’ve been the worst death in the company.”

He slipped the chain over his head without looking.

You did the same.

There was no time to check.

Somebody yelled up the line. Liebgott was already moving, crouched low, rifle in hand, mean as anything, like his hands hadn’t just been tangled with yours.

Like his face hadn’t been inches away. Like he hadn’t looked scared for half a second when he pulled you down.

“Come on!” he barked. “Unless you wanna write the Krauts a thank-you note!”

You hated him.

You followed.

The mistake did not matter until later.

Not to you, anyway.

Not while Carentan was still spitting smoke and men were stumbling out from behind walls with their ears ringing, their mouths dry, their hands still locked around rifles they had forgotten how to lower.

Not while someone was yelling for ammo. Not while somebody else was cursing about a jam.

It felt like forever and no time at all.

Then you were sitting against a low wall, dirt in your teeth, hands shaking now because everything was over and your body had decided it was allowed.

Joe was across the road with Luz and Malarkey, cigarette between his lips, face filthy, jaw tight. Alive. Loud. Annoyed. His usual mean, restless self.

You hadn’t noticed.

He hadn’t noticed either.

Talbert did.

Of course he did.

Floyd Talbert had the kind of eyes that caught things people didn’t mean to show. He was wiping grime off the side of his face with the back of his sleeve when his gaze snagged on Liebgott’s chest.

He frowned.

Then his eyes cut to you.

Then back to Joe.

A slow, terrible grin started at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey Joe.”

Joe didn’t look over, shifting his weight, his fingers fidgeting with the cigarette. “What?”

Talbert pointed with two fingers. “That your new name?”

Joe finally turned, his eyebrows furrowed. "What. Wait huh?"

Talbert’s grin widened. “Your tags.”

Joe looked down.

Your name sat against his dirty jacket.

Plain as day.

For once, Joseph Liebgott had nothing ready.

The cigarette stayed pinched between his lips, unlit and forgotten.

You looked down because everyone else did.

And there it was.

LIEBGOTT JR. JOSEPH D.

Resting against your chest.

Your stomach dropped.

Not fear this time.

Worse.

Your fingers closed around his tags.

The metal was warm from your skin now.

That feeling came back, deep and awful.

You shoved it aside.

No.

Absolutely not.

Not him.

Not the guy who called you dead weight when you ducked too slow. Not the guy who smoked too much and was always judging from the corner. Not the guy who had grabbed you out of the street before the blast took you apart.

Not him.

But he looked up, eyes caught yours and you just scowled.

Easier that way.

Talbert laughed under his breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Luz’s head snapped up. “What?”

Malarkey leaned over, saw the tags, and immediately made a noise like he’d been handed a gift from God.

“Oh, that’s rich.”

Joe’s eyes cut to them. “Shut up.”

Luz was already grinning. “Hold on. Hold on. You two exchanging souvenirs now?”

“We got tangled,” you snapped.

Well, that didn't sound right.

Talbert’s brows lifted, gesturing his hands between the two of you. “Did you?”

“With the tags,” you argued, yanking his dogtags. You tried not to look at Lieb who watched you, his eyes dragging from your fingers sliding across the chain then back to your eyes.

“Sure.”

Joe pointed at him. “Tab.”

Talbert raised both hands, still smiling. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were gonna.”

“Was I?”

“You got that stupid face.”

Luz leaned closer to read the tags on Joe’s chest and nearly lost it. “Jesus Christ, Liebgott, you’re wearin’ her name.”

Joe ripped the tags off his chest and shoved them under his shirt so fast he nearly strangled himself.

“Problem solved,”

“Not really,” Malarkey said, nodding at you. “She’s still got yours.”

You looked down again.

Joe’s name lay under your fingers.

His eyes went there too.

The whole street seemed too loud and too quiet at once.

His name sat under your fingers.

For a second, nobody said anything. Not even Luz.

Then Joe got up, Tab watched him, crossed the few steps toward you, boots crunching over brick and glass.

“Take ’em off,” he demanded, looking down at you.

You lifted your chin. “You first.”

It was always like this with both of you, daring each other, not backing down, you thinkin' it was his pride, him thinkin' it was your ego.

No one relented.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting.”

“You are. You got that look.”

“You always say I have a look.”

“Because you always do.”

He reached for the chain at his own neck, then stopped when a sharp whistle cut through the street.

“Easy! On your feet! Move it out!”

The order snapped through everyone at once.

Men started shifting, grabbing rifles, hauling each other up, dragging ammo, checking wounds with shaking hands.

Joe looked down the street, then back at you.

“Later,” he said.

Your breath caught. “Later?”

“We’re not doin’ it here.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re in the middle of the street.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, sharper now.

“No, I mean it.” His voice dropped so only you could hear. “You wanna stand here with your helmet strap caught, your rifle hangin’ off you, both hands busy playing with chains while some Kraut decides he ain’t finished? Be my guest. I ain’t watchin’ you get shot over tags.”

You went still. Startled.

His eyes flicked over your face, fast and angry and worried. His lips parted once, his eyes shadowed by the helmet and the grit.

Your eyes narrowed trying to read his face.

Then he looked away, like he hated that you’d seen it.

“We switch when we’re off the road,” he muttered. “When we ain’t being watched by half the company.”

Talbert who heard some softened and stepped back. Still alert but Luz wasn't done yet.

“So romantic,” Luz said. “Safety first.”

Joe turned on him. “That makes no sense."

“Not particularly.”

“Then shut up.”

You should have taken the tags off anyway.

You didn’t.

Joe looked back at you. His name was still caught in your hand, your thumb pressed over the stamped letters.

“Temporary,” he said.

“Obviously.” you bit back.

“Don’t get attached.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

And before you could hold back or stop your damn mouth you said, "Don't want them on in case I die with your last name."

And hell you almost said something to take it back, to not make it weird but he said something that made you balk.

"You havin my last name a bad thing?" He snapped too quick, like he meant it, you couldn't tell.

Your gaze softened, turning the words in your head. Shit, you thought, your fingers absentmindedly finding its way to the stamp of his name against his dog tags.

You didn't even know anymore, whatever this hell of a tangle of feelings was about.

He looked down at his boots then, his jaw ticking, like he was irritated with what he said. He tucked his cigarette in his pocket. fidgeting with the flap once.

Neither of you moved.

Then he blinked once fast, then slowly, like he was thinkin' about it, but then he noticed.

His eyes saw your fingers against his last name, his shoulders drooped a little. His eyes shifted from your smart mouth to your eyes, slow, he tilted his head.

He didn't say anything, didn't take what he said back and you didn't know if that was worse, because the feelings in your chest started getting bothersome.

You felt your heart skip a few beats, you looked away but then you see a hand in front of you, knuckles split near to the bone, bruised, fingers caked with asphalt and blood.

You stared at it.

“I can get up.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Sometime before Christmas.” He urged you with his fingers, curling once, beckoning you to shut up and take it.

You took his hand.

He hauled you up too fast, too close. Your eyes locking with his. Like both of your stubborn will only led you both closer. Your shoulder hit his chest, and for half a second, the tags hidden under his shirt pressed between you.

Your name.

His heartbeat.

Your ruined common sense.

Joe looked down at you.

The hard line of his mouth cracked just a little.

Then it was gone.

“Watch your ass next time,” he muttered dropping your hand.

“You watch yours.”

“I always do.”

“You don’t. That’s why I keep ending up near you.”

His mouth twitched.

“Yeah, right.” he scoffed, "Last I recall, I hauled your ass outta there."

You let out a scoff back tearing your eyes off his. Every smart retort you had died in your throat.

The words still ringing in your head, you can't seem to forget what he said or that look on his face.

When the line started moving again, he stayed close enough that his sleeve brushed yours twice.

And all the way out of Carentan, his name kept tapping against your chest like a second pulse.

harrisonforded

Matthew Settle as Captain Ronald Speirs Band of Brothers (2001) | Episode 10: Points

se7entyrell

i'll show you good, restore your faith 🎥

(bradley bradshaw x reader)

Your relationship with Bradley is new. Really new. Like, 'haven't let him smell your morning breath yet' new. But when he gets a call telling him that his mom is dying, you find yourself driving him to San Diego in the middle of the night, preparing to meet his entire extended family during the worst period of their lives. Nick and Carole live AU.

Warnings: discussions of cancer, parental death, it's very sad but also quite sweet

This fic is for the @elixirfromthestars cinema challenge! I've taken inspiration mainly from About Time (2013) - but also Elizabethtown (2005). I think they both have such beautiful depictions of grief and love persevering, so I've tried to channel that a little! Songs that offered some inspiration: Hold My Hand by Lady Gaga, Orpheus by Sara Bareilles, Rainbow by Kacey Musgraves + 🍟 for realising they're in love!

Come by the fire // Lay down your head // My love I see you're growing tired // So set the bad day by the bed // And rest a while

You consider yourself an expert on looks. First looks, last looks, and all the ones in between. They made up a relationship. Stolen glances full of longing when the other isn’t looking, anger burning during a fight when you don’t recognise the person across from you.

Whoever said the eyes were a window into the soul had it right.

First looks were easy. Almost all of them were entirely inconsequential, not meant to be remembered. The very act of remembering the first moment you lock eyes with someone was special. A sign, that for better or worse, they were going to become an important part of your life.

Your first look with Bradley had been outside a church, when your friend Hannah had married Bob Floyd. You'd been fixing your heel, having twisted the strap as you got out of the car, and looked up to find his eyes locked on you. His lips had been parted ever so slightly, shoulders broad as he stands in a perfectly tailored suit. You'd known Bob was in the Navy - you just hadn't realised his friends would look like that.

Polite smiles and introductions are exchanged before you find yourself walking down the aisle, arm laced through his.

He was a retired pilot, you learned at the party afterwards. He'd retired and moved to Los Angeles with the intention of settling down and having kids, before his girlfriend had left him for her boss. He was an instructor now, teaching the next generation to fly.

“God, I'm so sorry, you definitely don't want to be hearing about this right now-”

“No, no don't worry, it's totally okay - my last boyfriend left me for his highschool sweetheart. So I guess neither of us are really good at this.”

You don't know why you're telling him that. It was something you were normally embarrassed about, instead opting to just shrug and go ‘it wasn't meant to be’. But something about Bradley made you think he'd understand.

"He's an idiot," Bradley replies.

"Maybe I'm a complete and utter nightmare. Maybe it was totally deserved."

"I find that hard to believe." He's leaning in, and the scent of his cologne fills your atmosphere.

You smile, resting your chin on the palm of your hand. "You don't even know me."

"I'm hoping that's going to change."

You'd danced and laughed, trading stories and swapping anecdotes as the night went on, totally oblivious to the knowing looks passed between Hannah and Bob. It was no mistake that the two of you had been paired up to walk together. Everything was working out exactly as they expected it to.

The night had ended out on the patio, his jacket draped over your shoulders and his lips on yours.

Most of the sex you'd had in your life wasn't as personal as that single kiss.

i knew it, i knew you

pairing: jake seresin x fem! kazansky! reader

word count: 2k maybe 3k

warnings: mentions of cancer, death, light angst, she’s crushing hard, age gap (22&26), secret/forbidden relationship, patriotism rawr 🦅, reader had glasses & braces, long enough hair to curl, sweetheart is HORNY!, past underage drinking, implied drunk driving (nothing happens), navy inaccuracies, maturity gap, slight angst, making out, unprotected sex, slut shaming, cumming inside, fingering, aftercare

summary: in which… some summer bliss & some summer ignorance with jake seresin.

m’s notes: written in the app, bad smut! not proofread universe link

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅　

#m’s work ৻ꪆ #jake seresin smut #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin fic #jake seresin fic #jake seresin #jake seresin masterlist #jake seresin drabble #jake seresin fluff #jake hangman seresin #hangman x reader #hangman #top gun maverick x reader #top gun x reader #top gun maverick #top gun 1986

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

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jordiemeow

bobby franklin x reader [mdni] — your boyfriend splashes out on a new camcorder and insists on testing it out on you.

“State your name for the record.”

“You know my name, Bobby.”

“The camera doesn’t.”

Said camera has barely left Bobby’s hands since he’d brought it home two days ago, much to your chagrin. It had taken the entirety of those two days—when you weren’t at work, anyway—for him to convince you to be his muse on your day off. You weren’t even sure what you were signing up for.

dearcruise

in honour of pride month

hxbbit

Crossing Lines (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader)

Summary: Bartending at The Hard Deck was fun. The difficult part? Trying to resist Hangman's continuous attempts at flirting and getting you into bed with him. Because you wanted more than just a one night stand and you weren't sure he did.

Warnings: idiots in love, pretty slow burn, slight miscommunication, smut, unprotected sex, oral f!receiving, oral m!receiving, very slight dom/sub undertones, praise kink, swearing, alcohol use, afab!reader, no use of y/n, not really proofread.

Words: 7k

A/N: Stayed up wayyy past my bedtime to finish this cause I was so excited, but I'm quite happy with how it turned out! First time writing for TGM/Hangman so let me know what you think :)

It was Friday, the sun was scorching, the waves were crashing and you were stocking the bar at The Hard Deck before it opened.

You were expecting the usual weekend crowd so you made sure everything was ready. It was second nature by now, the work here. After almost six months you knew all of the regulars, their orders and who would show up when.

That’s also how you knew that today, the Dagger Squad would be showing up. For two weeks they were on a mission and if the rumors were to be believed, it was successful. Which meant a celebration was in order.

obsessedromancereader

ᯓ ✈︎ Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

Welcome to my Jake Seresin directory, full of all the stories I love! Each work is credited to their amazing author, and if you enjoy a story as much as I do don’t hesitate to reblog or comment to encourage and show them some love.

masterlist ● top gun

⋆˚⟡˖ ࣪ rec list

༘⋆ ten years later ┃@geminiwritten

you've known jake your whole life—and loved him just as long. but it's always been complicated. jake was pretty and popular. you weren't. he loved you in private but looked straight through you in public. then everything changed one night in college when you crossed that line...

༘⋆ callsign cupid┃@pullmecloseman

When Jake Seresin realizes he’s in love with his best friend—you—he does what any emotionally repressed Navy pilot might do: sets you up with other guys instead. But after three bad dates, a paper airplane, and one squad-intervention later, Jake finally stops playing Cupid—and starts being honest.

༘⋆ wheels up pt2┃ @all-my-love-for-harry

Jake is completely bewitched by the calmest four-year-old and her single mother in a four hour flight from New York to Texas.

༘⋆ the truce will set you free ┃ @hauntedhowlett-writes

when javy “coyote” machado goes on paternity leave, the brass decide to bring in a marine corps aviator, call sign houdini, as a temporary assignment to the dagger squad. jake “hangman” seresin just can’t help himself when it comes to you.

༘⋆ perfect storm┃ @geminiwritten

you and jake have a messy history and have been comfortably hating each other for the past few years, until all hell breaks loose when you're brought in as the newest member of maverick's special detachment

༘⋆ flight risk┃ @shortnspidey

Jake "Hangman" Seresin had a reputation for flirting with anything that breathed, which is exactly why you never paid him much attention whenever the Dagger Squad rolled into the Hard Deck. But the more time you spend around him, the more you realize he’s not the arrogant jerk you assumed he was. Against all odds, you fall for him, hard. So when you suddenly start pulling away, Jake can't help but wonder what he did wrong.

༘⋆ this thing we started ┃@hxbbit

After losing your job and getting caught in a messy on-again/off-again situationship with your ex, your sister Natasha offers to let you stay with her, hoping the distance will help you move on for good. And it does - especially when you meet a charismatic stranger at a bar who’s supposed to be a simple fling. No strings attached. But things get complicated when you run into him again… and find out your sister knows him, too.

༘⋆ manchild ┃ @the-shedevil-writes

After too many heartbreaks and enough horrible dates, you’ve sworn off love completely. But it's hard to resist when every Friday, like clockwork, Jake Seresin shows up flirting like it's his full-time job. So when you say yes, you expect the worst, only to be surprised when he treats you better than any man has before.

༘⋆ at least we were electrified ┃ @avengxrz

you’re the only pilot who ever beat hangman in the air—and he’s been obsessed with you ever since. now you're stuck training together, sparring with every word, and pretending you're not seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off.

༘⋆ dirty laundry pt2 ┃@geminiwritten

after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things

༘⋆ freefall into you┃ @all-my-love-for-harry

When a broken leg lands you in the hospital, the last person you expect to see is Jake Seresin - the man you loved and lost. What starts as an awkward favor turns into something tender as he insists on taking care of you.

jake seresin x fem! kazansky! reader universe

intro (part one), part two

#m’s work ৻ꪆ #jake seresin drabble #jake seresin fluff #jake seresin smut #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin fic #jake seresin fic #jake seresin #jake seresin masterlist

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

all-my-love-for-harry

When Did You Get So Hot?

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; You’ve known Jake Seresin forever, so you can’t explain when he suddenly became this— grown-man confidence, and unfairly hot. Suddenly you’re pressed against your bedroom wall, breathless and wrapped up in every dream he’s ever had about you.

word count; 14.7k

warnings; fluff!!, smut, oral (fem receiving), fingering, squirting, overstimulation, jake in glasses, he's a little bit of a nerd, got my sex facts from google so don't judge

a/n; sorry for the delayyy, i went to see bad bunny last night 😛 happy reading, hope you love it!! (this a one-part fic, i won't be making a part two:) )

masterlist

If anyone had told you that over a decade could pass without you crossing paths with Jake Seresin, you would’ve laughed.

His house was practically a second home throughout your adolescence, not because of him but because of Jannette, his older sister and the person you considered your closest friend. The two of you had been inseparable— matching bracelets, matching moods, matching teenage delusions that you were far more grown than you really were.

If you weren’t at your place, you were at hers, sprawled on her bedroom floor with homework you both pretended to do, whispering secrets about boys you’d never talk to and futures you couldn’t begin to imagine.

#jake seresin x reader

wet hot american nights

pairing: jake seresin x fem! kazansky! reader

word count: around 2k(?)

warnings: pre-TGM, slight age gap reader is 22 & jake is 26, reader is a nursing student, misogynistic undertones, not quite enemies to lovers, she just doesn’t like him much @ first, dry humping kind of, making out, groping, interrupted makeout, forbidden relationship

summary: in which… being ice man’s youngest daughter— and secretly dating one blonde aviator.

m’s notes: while no looks are described, both ice man & his wife in the movie are white! not proofread! i luv them so i hope u do too <3 i would also love to write more for these two! written in the app!

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅　

as the youngest of four, you’d always gotten away with more than your sisters— and a great deal more than your brother. north island was small, but the majority of your neighbors were elderly— a nosy bunch of retired navy men and their snooty wives.

#m’s work ৻ꪆ #top gun maverick #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fluff #jake seresin smut #jake seresin drabble #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin fic #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin fic #bradley bradshaw #tom kazansky #top gun maverick x reader #top gun x reader

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