𝔅𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔐𝔢𓆰𓆪

ᴍᴇʀᴄᴜʀʏ. can this bitch ever shut up about tom cruise ?

[coquette-c0rpsie]

"ℑ𝔱'𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔦𝔫, 𝔪𝔶 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢. 𝔈𝔫𝔧𝔬𝔶 𝔦𝔱."

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[satan-offical]

got bit by a bat, become bat man? nope

rabies

hopinal

[sebsketchs]

sticker design for pride this year! 💞🏳️‍⚧️

[bbyg4rlhelps]

Hi there! Your themes and dividers are so gorgeous! Could I plz request a vampire theme pack or dividers (whichever you have time/energy for :3)

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[miloeatstoothpaste2]

Vampire themed resources (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

I hope u like these ones! i've been very very drained and tired recently so i may create a queue of posts so i can focus on other things...

10 reblogs and 10 likes for a part 2 <3

creds ---->

https://www.tumblr.com/3poolboyatthevampiremansion/814225328295837696/blinkies-33

https://everskies.com/club/mochi-resources/forums/graphics/vampire-blinkies-1058275

https://lupinus.neocities.org/blinkies

https://blinkie-net.neocities.org/blinkies

https://adriansblinkiecollection.neocities.org/

https://dividers.crd.co/#hii

[fawnindawn]

ON THE SAME PAGE

summary: jason has no weaknesses. especially not that one bookstore keeper he visits every week. he merely needs new book recommendations, and you're the only person he's willing to trust. about the books, obviously. or jason todd falls miserably, pathetically in love with a bookstore keeper who insults him on first recommendation.

pairing: jason todd x fem! reader

You don't expect any customers tonight, not when Friday's are usually associated with activities more enthralling than a shabby bookstore that smells faintly of over-stewed tea. Your fingers itch to flip the signboard around to 'Closed', but they squeeze habitually around your mug instead. A brown rim has formed around the interior from the untouched tea left hours ago when sunlight still graced the shelves near the window seat.

Three minutes to closing, you decide to give the store the respectful grace of being a decent employee and waiting for the clock to strike eleven. At least, that's the excuse you give yourself. Your fingers tap lightly against the solid wood of the make-shift counter, a haphazardly placed desk shoved between shelves and boxes that are to be sent to the recycling center tomorrow. Your life is almost perfectly mundane.

The bell rings.

Almost, except for one sole factor. Your gaze shifts, your neck craning towards the door. Here, you thought your last visitor would finally break the pattern. It's certainly not Margery, a lady who thinks herself the most important customer to this small establishment, always inventing new cons in a skewed attempt to bargain for more free books as gifts for her many nieces and nephews.

This visitor carries a scent of smoke, broad shoulders stretching out a worn, leather jacket. Even from your skewed view, half his back turned towards you, he's gorgeous as he always is. Almost out of place, body stiff as his gaze glances past the stained glass stickers pasted onto the windows, shading the jagged line over his cheek in reds and blues. A familiar, brute tension stuffed into his posture, shadows striking his skin. Smaller, faint scars litter his jawline, and one prominent jagged line is carved into his cheek.

Your secret visitor, who brings in the scent of iron, faint bruises across his cheek on some nights, that goes by the name, Jason.

"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."

Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."

Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.

"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.

"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."

"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."

He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.

Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."

"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.

"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.

It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.

This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.

"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.

He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.

His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.

"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."

His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.

"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"

"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"

“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”

You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.

“Jason, you’re joking.”

“I never joke about closing hours.” He muses.

You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”

"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."

"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”

His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.

Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.

"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."

You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.

His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.

His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."

Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"

His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."

The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.

"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"

"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."

Great, now he's holding you hostage too.

"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"

He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."

"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.

"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.

"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."

That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.

A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."

Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."

His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.

"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.

"Dorian Gray?"

"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.

He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.

“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.

You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"

"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."

"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."

His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."

"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"

"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."

"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"

"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."

Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."

"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"

You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."

"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"

Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."

He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."

Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.

"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.

There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.

Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.

Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.

“Hey—”

He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.

“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”

His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.

A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.

Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.

“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."

The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.

Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."

Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."

"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"

Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.

"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."

His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.

"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."

He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.

“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”

“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”

Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”

His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.

You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”

He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”

He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.

The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.

Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.

You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.

Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.

“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."

“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”

“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”

She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”

Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”

Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.

“There a problem?”

Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"

“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”

“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”

"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.

The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”

You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”

“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."

“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.

You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”

His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."

"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."

"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."

His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.

"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."

It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.

Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.

"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.

"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."

You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.

You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.

Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.

His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.

He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.

"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.

You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"

He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.

In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.

"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"

His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.

"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.

His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.

"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.

Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.

"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.

When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.

Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.

I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."

Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.

He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.

“Jason.”

“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."

"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."

His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."

"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.

"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."

Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.

"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."

"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.

“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.

His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”

You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."

"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"

Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."

When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.

"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.

His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> jason + other dc works

jason taglist: @bloomfaery @koibleufish @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @revesephemeres @caterppillar @living-that-chronic-life @nxx-jordiepord @elysian-groves @pearly-pebble @ninareads25 @grace-loves-to-read @jarofstarsxx @favorite-fan-fics @radheadphones @freakkay09 @fea-tastic @starr-jazz @bearhug120 @devilslittlehelper @izumi0708 @prettysweet02 @spideyskywalker @outpostsworld @leovaldez0924 @jaydennicole @iloveyou3000morgan @fireriyu

[bunbunbl0gs]

Mal 💜

Masterlist

[anitalenia]

belladonna. credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3

[nyree2712]

Top Gun - Incorrect Quote 216

Maverick: Viper, I know you're not a hugger. But if you were, I would wrap myself around you like a leather jacket made of love

Viper: Anesthesia?

Goose: So much anesthesia

[vamplvs]

I WANT SOMEONE BADLY

INCLUDES -> bradley "rooster" bradshaw x fem!reader WARNINGS -> jealousy, pining, alcohol, bradley is an idiot (lovingly) WORD COUNT -> 4.7k SUMMARY -> bradley has long since been the designated performer for the daggers, and that's no different when he's jealous, pining, and well past tipsy.

NOTES -> i've been sitting on this for so long but here she finally is <3 it's a little corny, and a little trope-y, but i had a blast writing it. the songs are "layla" by derek & the dominos and "i want someone badly" by jeff buckley! originally the first song was going to be "slow hand" by the pointer sisters if anyone wants to give that one a listen, too. as always: comments & rbs are much appreciated, and my asks are open!

it's been a year now since the mission from hell, and everyone is scattered across the continent. hangman and coyote are stationed out in the midwest, bob and phoenix are in south carolina, and everyone else has found a new crew.

you and bradley have been lucky enough to stay stationed in san diego. bradley, of course, is still flying with the navy, while you spend your days teaching at top gun. safe to say, the two of you have stayed close between the occasional movie night, brunches with mav, and beach days—when you have a day off anyways. when you don't, bradley finds a way to visit you at top gun despite it.

it isn't easy to coordinate yearly leave among the rest of the crew, but when they finally manage it during the dead of summer, the hard deck is already full of life. people crowd around the bar and the tables, chatting and laughing over the music.

bradley catches the wide grins on mav and penny's faces when they see the daggers walking in, ready to wreak havoc. their smiles only grow wider when the group pulls mav into a group hug, bradley leading the charge.

it's the first time in a long time that they're all in the same place at the same time, and hell if it isn't making people nostalgic. there's some classic rock song from mav's old piloting days ringing through the jukebox. hangman has, predictably, started up a betting pool around the billiards table, dragging mickey, javy, and a reluctant bob with him. the others hover in their own circles, leaving you, natasha, and bradley to catch up at one of the high tops.

it's been exciting talking to her again after so many months have passed. she and bob have been stationed out in south carolina, and it comes with story after story about the antics that the two of them get up to—well, more like the ones natasha pulls bob into.

by the time you decide to get more drinks for the three of you, your stomach is aching from laughter.

bradley just watches as you wander up to the bar. he takes in the sway of your hips, your easy confidence, all of it.

"still haven't done anything about that, then?" natasha asks, leveling a deeply accusatory look at him.

"about what?"

"rooster, you can't be serious." when he looks at her incredulously, she bursts into laughter. "oh, come on, you two have been dancing around each other for a year now! we all see it."

his ears go pink. "that's not-"

"oh, don't you deny it. i have eyes."

"i am serious!" bradley is sure you have no interest. it's been a year—more than that if you include your time at top gun together and a few sparse meetings between that and the big reunion last year—and he's been quietly pining all the while. if there was even a chance with you, he would have taken it by now.

"whatever you say," she replies, her head turning to you.

and when bradley follows suit, he sees you standing all-too close to a man at the bar. he's tall, classically handsome—all in all, the kind of guy you'd expect to see in a rom-com—and he stands so close that his arm is nearly brushing yours. you laugh and smile at something he says, and the hand he puts on your arm sends a chill through bradley. it sinks like a pit in his stomach, churning through the several beers he's had and their subsequent buzz.

the chill turns into a sickening haze when he sees the man pass you a napkin that surely has his number on it.

"told you so," bradley mutters, turning away to face the game of eight-ball that jake is still running. the clattering of the balls and the cheers are more than enough to drown out the pulse roaring in his ears.

he entirely misses your polite rejection, the way you nod your head back to the team, and the hop in your step when you finally turn to bring the drinks back.

"ugh, sorry i took so long. poor penny is still teaching mav to make cocktails," you say with a laugh when you return. you hand them their beers with little ceremony, before following bradley's eye line. "bagman still running the betting pool?"

"you know it," bradley replies, keeping his eyes locked ahead of him. the thought of seeing that man's number in your hand makes his palms sweat.

"you'd think he'd learn that bob kicks his ass every time." that makes bradley and natasha laugh. "his entire job is aiming a laser at a tiny pinprick, pool is no big deal."

"and yet, he insists on betting against him," nat sighs.

the night continues with more drinks, more pool, and more stories from their deployments. jake tells some story about his greatest exploits—which javy quickly interrupts by informing the entire team just how spectacularly jake fumbled only a week later. the team laughs, and it's back to business as usual.

eventually, javy and jake push bradley to the piano, insisting he play something good—citing the first time they were all at the hard deck together. nostalgia is one hell of a drug after a few beers. he warms up, hammering down a few notes and a glissando into an opening chord.

the bar's attention is caught on him and the piano. a handful of older couples immediately recognize the song, standing to dance—which would include penny and mav if they weren't manning the bar. but they sway to the song, mav against penny's back with his arms around her waist. he whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh.

"what'll you do when you get lonely and nobody's waiting by your side?"

your eyes are stuck on bradley, too. his glasses sit comfortably on the end of his nose, his standard patterned button up is open, and he bleeds a confidence so easy that it's impossible to take your eyes off him. he looks good doing what he loves, and he knows it. and maybe there's some self-satisfied part of him deep down that's pleased to see how he's stolen you're attention.

"you've been running and hiding much too long you know it's just your foolish pride."

as he ramps up to the chorus, the bar is ready to sing along with him. "layla," they all cheer, you included.

"you've got me on my knees"

his eyes drift over to yours for just a fraction of a second, his wide grin splitting even wider before he flits his gaze away to where natasha, bob, and mickey are all shouting the lyrics. well, natasha and mickey shout the lyrics at bob, while he sort of mumbles them quietly, embarrassed by the attention.

it's only a few minutes of bradley performing, but with the pressure of your eyes on him, it feels like an eternity. he's not sure he's ever been more aware of who he's looking at when he sings. there's a woman who has sidled up to the piano, singing every lyric with tequila on her breath, and it takes everything in him not to roll his eyes at her and find yours in the crowd.

he finishes the song with one final, dramatic chord, and the bar erupts into cheers. his eyes lock onto yours and you tip your drink toward him like a salute, whooping along with the rest of the bar. you gesture to the space next to him with a raised brow, and he turns to see the same woman from before leaning against the piano with a nearly empty cocktail glass in her hand.

she introduces herself, but bradley's mind is elsewhere. his eyes scan the space you were just in to find you gone. were you really playing wingman just now? the woman is saying something about his hands, but bradley can't care less, not with your apparent disappearing act. he excuses himself politely, ignoring her pout and the way her friends urge her to find another guy to hit on.

people are packed tightly around him, patting him on the back and clapping for him. he smiles politely in return. the longer he searches for you the more concerned he gets. you aren't by the bar or with the rest of the team by the pool table. hell, he doesn't even find you by the jukebox despite the ever changing cycle of music it goes through.

when he finally takes a step outside, he sees you sitting at the stairs leading down to the beach. it's a lot quieter outside, with the chaos and noise of the hard deck trapped within its walls. you're mindlessly twirling your drink in your glass.

"nice playing in there," you say with a glance over your shoulder.

"thanks," he says simply, taking a seat next to you. his glasses hang from the neckline of his old, white tank. the silence between you is thick, and right when he's going to break it by saying something that'll probably be stupid, you interrupt.

"no luck with that girl?" bradley is taken aback.

"what?" your eyes stay focused on the beach in front of you. the crash of every wave is steady and familiar.

"she spent the entire song singing at you, rooster," you tap your shoulder against his in what's supposed to be a playful gesture, but it falls flat.

"oh, yeah," he responds dumbly, "dunno, she's not really my type." he nearly winces as he hears himself say it.

you fall silent again, and bradley joins you in it. it's not uncomfortable, necessarily, but it's heavy. there's so much more he wants to say. that she's not his type because you are, because he's spent a year looking into your eyes, laughing at your jokes, going warm when your hands touch him. that he's spent a year wishing he could say something to you without messing what you have up.

it took ages for you two to get to where you are with the easy banter and the quiet movie nights. the two of you have spent long enough laughing about your almost-rivalry back in your top gun days that he knows you care about this friendship just as much as he does. and the last thing he wants to do is lose that by running his mouth.

"i should get going," you say. "i have to prep for next week's classes."

bradley watches as you leave for a second time that night, mumbling a quiet goodbye after you.

-

on leave, the team spends time exploring san diego again. they go to wine and beer tastings, try new cafes and restaurants, and even find the time to hike through the torrey pines natural reserve—that one is bob's request, and boy, does it deliver. it has the entire team winded by the end of it—except, miraculously, for bob, who brought a camera to take pictures with. 

but bradley's favorite, of course, is the afternoon they spend at the beach in front of the hard deck. dogfight football is up and running the minute people put their bags down. jake just can’t resist the urge to goad people on, so bradley gets wrapped up in the competition, too. initially, it's shirts versus skins, but with the hot san diego sun beating down, everyone is stripped to their trunks pretty quickly, not that it does much to dissuade the heat from tearing through them.

all the while, you're trapped at top gun teaching classes until later in the day. bradley's not even sure you'll be able to make it with the way things have been going with the new class of pilots. so, he puts you out of his mind, focusing on the game at hand—and how badly he wants to knock jake down on his ass just to teach him a lesson about talking shit.

when penny brings out lemonade for everyone, the sun is still bright overhead and unbearably hot. bradley's skin is sticky with sweat, and he holds the icy glass to his cheek with a sigh. sitting on his towel with the drink in his hand is easily the best decision he’s made all day. natasha takes no time in jogging over to him with a smug grin.

"saw you chase the love of your life outside after layla the other night," she sips on her lemonade like it proves something.

"she's not the love of my life-"

"oh, yeah? then why do you follow her around like a lost puppy?" he doesn't have a response for that and clears his throat, trying to pretend that his ears aren't burning. "she totally dug it."

"nat, she tried to set me up with another girl. i got wing-manned." the memory of your raised eyebrow and the way you asked if he had any luck with her make his stomach churn.

natasha snorts. "oh, please, if she was actually wing-manning you, she wouldn't have run outside to avoid the aftermath." bradley tries to formulate some kind of intelligent response, but gets cut off by natasha perking up. "speak of the devil!"

bradley turns to see you walking over with your towel in hand. he tries not to stare, god, he tries. but you're wearing a button up you borrowed from him months ago, and it's open over your bathing suit. there's something about that and the shorts you're wearing that makes the blush spread from his ears to his cheeks and down his neck. you look unfairly good in his clothes.

"all good things i hope!" you reply with a smile so bright bradley swears you've stolen the sun for yourself. natasha is quick to pull you into a hug—one that you're ready to reciprocate.

"rooster was just telling me how much he misses you," she nudges him, and he has to fight the urge to strangle natasha.

"it's only been a week, bradshaw, missing me that bad already?" you toss down your beach towel and sit next to him, still laughing at her words.

he tries to play it off with a shrug. "what can i say? i've been spoiled." natasha gives you a cryptic look that he can't decipher. as a matter of fact, he doesn't even get the chance to try before jake is calling everyone to the shoreline for a rematch. half the beach groans, complaining about the heat, and the other half start up their goading once more.

“c’mon, rooster, afraid of getting your ass handed to you?” jake calls, tossing the football in the air in a way so cocky only he could manage it.

you laugh when natasha drags him over to jake, already placing a pair of sunglasses over your eyes to sit and watch from afar. he shrugs apologetically at you. "get his ass, bradshaw!" you cheer.

-

the game only officially ends when the sun starts to set. it's been on and off for the rest of the afternoon, with people taking breaks to swim and cool off throughout. somehow, you and bradley never quite end up in the same place at the same time. it isn't until everyone is packed back into the hard deck that you get the chance to talk properly.

the two of you sit at a high top by the end of the pool table, drinks in hand once more as the team's usual chaos unfolds around you. it’s like a do-over of the week before: the betting pool going strong around the billiards table, the same old rock songs playing through the jukebox, and you and bradley tucked into a corner of your own.

"i thought you said you weren't going to make it today," he prompts, looking at you over his beer.

"that was before the admiral interrupted with some group punishment for breaking the hard deck," you say with a laugh.

"oh, you've got a maverick, then?" he nods his head over to where mav is desperately trying to wipe down a spill on the bar top that he no doubt caused.

"something like that," you reply, "there's always some kind of rivalry at top gun, but these two..." bradley laughs at your grimace.

"no worse than us, i hope." he taps his bottle against your glass in a mock toast.

"bradley, they are so much worse." he watches you launch into some story about your students, your smile echoed on his face.

and so conversation flows along with the drinks, the two of you wrapped up in your own world until jake—being the bastard he is—interrupts to drag bradley away to the billiards table. for a second time that day, bradley is pulled away from you against his will.

he is going to tear jake to shreds for this, beers be damned.

he relishes in your cheers whenever he knocks the stripes into the pockets. until your attention is taken from him, that is.

somehow, between his turn and the next, the same man from the weekend before has found his way to the table bradley left you at. he's taken up bradley's seat and is apparently content to just chat you up without any care for the rest of the crew observing this newcomer to their night out. even bob is prickling at his presence.

and if bradley breaks when the next game starts with a little more force than strictly necessary, no one says anything about it. if he plays a little harder, if he's a little snappier, every time he looks over and that man is closer to you, then quite frankly, it isn't anyone's business but his.

he drops his cue on the table and marches off to get another drink when he sees you lean in to hear the guy better. he hears jake call after him, but he pays him no heed. god, he needs another beer if he's going to put up with this tonight, too.

mav gets bradley a drink with a raised eyebrow. "trouble with the girl?" mav asks, nodding over to where you're sitting.

"how'd you-"

"bradley, i've known you since you were a kid," he responds like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "just say something."

"it's not that simple, mav, she's..." bradley trails off. perfect? is that what he means? unattainable? uninterested? he takes a long swig from his beer, a comfortable buzz settling in his chest. whether that's the beer or the thought of you, he's not sure.

"if you want to keep pining, that's on you." mav shrugs. "but take it from me, doing something about it is better than nothing."

"now you're playing wingman?" mav scoffs at that, but it doesn't have any heat.

"i'm trying to play dad, but whatever works for you, kid."

bradley goes quiet and lets mav get to the other patrons asking for drinks—which he is almost certainly going to ask penny for help with. he watches as they dance around each other gracefully, like despite mav's inexperience behind a bar, he knows exactly where penny's going to move. he watches the gentle hand that mav puts on her waist, and christ, he's in deep. all he can think about is you.

he thinks back to that movie night you had a few months ago. the two of you maneuvered around your small kitchen making popcorn and hot chocolate. he had pulled the same stunt—a hand on your waist to guide you out of his way. a hand that you hadn't pulled away from. he remembers the warmth of you next to him and your smile when you finally got to curl up on the couch with a warm mug and an oversized bowl of popcorn between you.

he thinks about the brunches you've had with mav and penny, and how they almost felt like dates. you had made a joke about getting introduced to the parents so soon, and the tips of bradley's ears had gone warm. if he were introducing you as his girlfriend, it would have gone spectacularly. you hit it off with mav immediately, somehow. even though you technically had met him before at top gun, there was a difference between captain pete “maverick” mitchell and mav, the closest thing bradley has to a father—even if he’d never outright say it to mav’s face. but getting that man friendly outside of a plane-related situation was a feat he could have kissed you for.

he thinks to last week. the grin on your face when he looked at you while he was playing, while he sang at you—no, sang to you.

and that's precisely where the too-loud, too-tipsy, only slightly jealous part of bradley's mind kicks straight into overdrive. he slams back the rest of his beer and takes a glance over his shoulder to where you're sitting. the man still sits across from you, but like you sense him looking, your eyes meet his with a concerned furrow to your brow. he's not sure how long he's been standing at the bar, but based on the look you give him, it's been long enough.

he turns and marches over to the jukebox, unplugging it unceremoniously. the bar lurches into a chorus of groans until bradley takes a seat at the piano.

"now i-" he starts, his voice ringing into the near silent bar.

"i want someone badly"

the first chord he strikes on the piano summons a round of whoops from the pool table.

"got a girl here tonight, want someone new"

he pretends not to notice the way your attention is focused on him again, pretends that the heat on his face is from beer and beer alone. his head is down, intent on staring holes into the piano keys. couples around the bar are starting to sway together, and he dreads the thought of you getting up with the guy you've found. he's sure that the man is offering you a hand right about now, that you'll take it, and bradley will have to walk off to drown his wounds with another drink.

"'cause i, i cry all over madly don't do anything, do it for me."

the daggers have found themselves by the piano, arms thrown over shoulders and swaying. they sing along and it's a small comfort in a sea of strangers. he hears natasha's voice above all, singing the lyrics with a passion that she always carries with her when he does this.

"i wanna know am i sure that i have your love?"

and that's when bradley figures it's a good idea to look out into the crowd that's around him. it's cruel how easily he can find your eyes amongst the throng. you stand a ways away from him, alone and glowing under the warm lights of the hard deck. your mouth is slightly parted, but he can't figure out if its shock or something else. and then there's that look in your eye. he'd almost believe you're in love with him.

or maybe bradley's just drunk.

"if you're leaving, just make sure it's right now i want someone badly"

the crowd cheers when he hits a high note, but his eyes are locked on the way your jaw clamps shut.

"could it be true that someone is you?"

the final chord rings out along with varied forms of praise from those around him. natasha asks him a question, but he's already on his way outside before he can hear it properly. adrenaline is crackling through him viciously, bringing a shake to his hand that he hasn't felt since he first started training in the flight sims.

he sits on the steps of the hard deck with a thud. the porch is blessedly empty, leaving him to process exactly what he just did. the cool ocean breeze is doing wonders to sober him up. or maybe that's the dread pooling in his stomach. he can't tell anymore.

did he seriously just fucking serenade you? what kind of rom-com bullshit-

"you um, you played really well in there." your voice, gentle and soothing, pulls him from his spiral, and his head whips around to face you.

"thanks," he replies shortly, and his tone makes himself wince. there’s a distinct sense of deja-vu that hits bradley suddenly, like he’s entered some fucked up kind of parallel universe. the two of you stand awkwardly on opposite ends of the deck. your hands fidget, and tomorrow, bradley will surely blame the beers on the way his eyes linger on them.

it takes you another moment to move toward him, taking a seat by his side. you're so close that he can smell your perfume over the breeze, and isn't that just the cruelest trick yet? that he can't reach over to you and kiss you breathless, that he can't hold your hand in his. instead, he just sits miserably next to you, reliving his own stupid idea to play jeff buckley in the hard deck.

man, if he's thinking like this, he must really be gone.

"was that-" your voice cracks, "nat said i should come out and talk to you."

"of course she did." he picks at the corners of his nails.

"she said that was for me." your voice is indecipherable, and bradley's not sure he can stomach looking you in the eye right now.

he sighs, running a hand down his face. it's too hot out, now. the cool breeze from before has been sucked away by your presence.

"i just didn't want to see you with him, anymore," he mutters. there's another horrible, tense silence between you, and it's not one that he's in any rush to break.

"was that what this was? jealousy?" your voice is impossibly small.

"no, i-" jealousy made it sound like he had any kind of claim over you. jealousy sounded like he thought he had a chance at keeping the careful balance of his sanity and your friendship.

"so you sing that for all the girls in there, then?" you press, and in a world where he isn't head over heels for you, it would have been infuriating.

it still is infuriating, and bradley can't help but laugh.

"no, god, no." his laugh is shaky and a little dejected. he finally turns to face you, trying his damnedest to suck in every anxiety he has about this. he thinks, quite possibly, that this is the only time tonight he's been grateful for the alcohol.

that same heavy silence fills the air between you.

your eyes are wide when he looks at you, filled with something unreadable and maybe a bit of hope. his eyes flit between yours, and maybe, just for a moment, they linger on how your lips are upturned ever so slightly.

"just kiss me already, bradley."

and he does. by god, he does, and it's like a breath of fresh air. your lips are soft against his, and if it's a little clumsy, he doesn't mind. not when his hand is on your cheek, and yours is in his hair, and you taste like heaven on earth. the kiss lasts a lifetime, or it feels that way to bradley, anyways. it's the entire year he's spent wishing to be by your side wrapped into one small moment.

when you finally pull away from him, the two of you are panting. your foreheads rest against each other, and bradley can't seem to get his hands off you. the same one stays on your cheek and rubs small circles while the other is tentative against your waist. he's nearly giddy at holding you so close.

"you have any idea how long i've been waiting for you to do that?" you ask.

"probably about as long as i have," he replies with a hoarse voice.

"didn't think you were interested." you give him an incredulous look when he starts laughing, but that only makes him laugh harder.

"i should've listened to natasha so long ago." at that, you join him, head tilted back, and laugh into the sky. it's a long moment where the two of you giggle like schoolgirls outside the hard deck, and bradley wouldn't change it for the world. "think anyone will notice if we leave?"

you think for a moment and reply, "nat definitely will."

"she'll consider it a win." and that sends another round of laughs through you both.

the next morning, the team makes a plan to get brunch at a little cafe nearby, and if they notice that you and bradley arrive together and sit just a bit too close, no one says anything about it.

no one except for natasha, that is.

she finally catches a moment with bradley alone when people are saying their goodbyes.

"you finally did something about your pining?" she asks, a grin already spreading across her face.

bradley shrugs, but the smile he dons is telling, and the gentle kiss he places against your temple when you walk over to him, even more so.

[radiashen]

i entered the "have a huge massive incurable crush on tom iceman kazansky" competition but pete maverick mitchell was already there and he kicked me out? he also said he owns the building and he's been living here for 40 years?

[paxdracona]

I'm confined to my house since 38 celcius is several orders of magnitude too much for me. Perfect moment to experiment a bit more with the new tablet!

IceMav Wing!au, I'll never get enough of you <3

[romerona]

https://www.tumblr.com/romerona/779775449552371712/ethera-operation?source=share

Omgg do you have the charlie angels reader draft?!?! If so, could you post it someday? I LOVE charlies angels ✨️✨️.

Heyyy, so, yessss I do have a small one shot I think? I never thought would see the light of day, so I polished it a bit because I am more than happy to share itttt, actually thank you for asking lol <3<3<3

Only Angels fly this high!

Bradley Bradshaw x Charlie's Angel reader!

You were never just Maverick’s daughter.

You were the girl who swept your district's science fair four years straight, the one who could solve a Rubik's cube in under sixty seconds without even looking flustered. You knew every Avenger’s and DC's origin story by heart, had an unshakable love for Aragorn and your textbooks, and could quote Star Wars like scripture.

With your braces gleaming, frizzy ponytails bouncing, and socks that never once matched, you were a walking storm of heart, brilliance, and sunshine. A true geek with a gymnast's poise, a mind too quick to sit still, and a laugh that could fill a room before you even entered it. You were fire and fizz and full of wonder— Pete Maverick Mitchell's daughter, sure, but unmistakably, undeniably you.

When your dad disappeared on those long, classified missions—off saving the world in ways you weren’t allowed to know, you just packed your bag like clockwork and headed to one of two places. Sometimes, it was to your godfather, Uncle Ice, who’d ruffle your hair and tell you, with that steady calm of his, that even though you hardly looked like your dad, you had the same fire in your eyes. The same stubborn spark. The same refusal to back down. He said it like a compliment, like a promise. You loved him deeply, truly. He was a quiet sort of anchor, a man who never needed many words to make you feel seen.

But most of the time, you went to the Bradshaws’.

Carol always welcomed you like one of her own, with a warm smile, a hug that smelled like fresh laundry and vanilla, and a plate of something home-cooked waiting on the table. Over time, their house became your second home, the place where you memorized the sound of their old floorboards and where you felt safest when the sky felt just a little too big.

And then there was Bradley.

Older. Cooler. Already growing into the kind of person you could only dream of becoming. He had this effortless way about him—music in his ears, sun in his smile, the kind of person that made rooms quieter and your heart louder. You followed him around with books hugged to your chest, spilling facts about superheroes and black holes, always hoping he'd listen—and he did.

He never rolled his eyes. Never made you feel silly for talking too much or knowing too many things. He let you tag along, called you “kid” with a grin that somehow didn’t sting, and made you feel like being exactly who you were, loud laugh, wild ideas, frizzy hair and all, was something worth being proud of.

You adored him.

Not in a way that needed anything in return, but in that pure, clumsy way that only happens when someone older and kinder and just out of reach shows you what it feels like to be seen.

When Bradley left for college, you told yourself not to miss him. You tried to tuck the ache away somewhere quiet, somewhere small, behind schoolwork, hobbies, competitions and all the things you used to ramble about to him when he’d pretend not to listen but always did. It wasn’t just that he left; it was that things changed.

You only saw him once after that. At Carol’s funeral. The air that day was thick with loss, the kind you could feel in your throat. You spotted him across the room—older, more tired, a stranger in the shape of someone you used to adore. You exchanged a look. Maybe a nod. Nothing more. Heavy. Wordless.

Calls stopped. Messages faded. And after the falling-out between him and your dad, whatever thread had quietly tied the two of you together just… vanished.

But even as time tugged Bradley further away, you never drifted from your dad. If anything, you clung to him tighter. You sent him everything—snapshots of you mid-flip in your gymnastics uniform, shaky videos of your band performing at school, newspaper articles of your victories, long, rambling letters from chess tournaments detailing every single move like it was a mission report. When you got your college acceptance letter, you didn’t just call him, you sent a copy with a doodle you’d drawn of the two of you in matching aviator sunglasses, grinning like dorks.

Because he wasn’t just your dad. He was your rock. Your anchor. Your hero in a flight suit. And no matter how many people came and went, how many versions of yourself you outgrew, he was always the one constant, the voice on the other end of the line who never once stopped believing in you.

And then… you became something more.

Charlie's Angel.

Not long after you started college out in California, with wide eyes and ambition for your future, you were approached by a curious agency. The Townsend Agency. It wasn’t like anything you expected. There were no job postings or open interviews. Just a whisper, a test, and then a door you didn’t even know was there opened right in front of you.

What followed was a whirlwind training that pushed your body to its limits, missions that tested your mind and your morals, and partnerships that carved something fierce and beautiful into your soul. You weren’t alone in it, either. There were two other girls—no, women—who became your teammates, your family, your sisters in everything but blood. Together, the three of you tackled the impossible. Missions took you all over the world—scaling rooftops, decoding encrypted files on the fly, surviving car chases, shootouts, betrayal. It was thrilling. Dangerous. Meaningful. Just the kind of beautiful chaos you lived for. Like a good Mitchell. You always did love flying close to the sun.

That being said… you still haven’t told your dad.

Not because you didn’t want to. You did… do. You’ve come close a dozen times, standing at the edge of the truth with your phone in hand or your heart in your throat, thinking this is it. But it never felt quite right.

Because how do you tell Maverick, the legendary naval aviator, your fighter pilot of a father, that his little girl became a spy?

Not a doctor or a lawyer or a quiet observer behind a desk. No, you became an Angel, a full-blown, off-the-books, world-saving, chaos-wrangling secret agent. You jump out of planes sometimes without a parachute, trusting only your timing and a teammate’s hand to catch you. You've fought trained mercenaries twice your size in the back alleys of foreign cities. You’ve disarmed bombs with ten seconds left on the clock. Posed as arms dealers, infiltrated corrupt corporations, survived car crashes, scaled a glass building in Dubai with nothing but suction grips and nerves, hotwired a moving car in Paris while dodging sniper fire.

And somehow still walked away—bloody, bruised, but grinning with your sisters.

How do you sit your dad down and say, “Hey, remember how you used to panic when I scraped my knee on the monkey bars? Well, now I carry lockpicks in my heels and can kill a man with a paperclip.”

Your friends tell you to just do it. “He’ll understand,” they say. “He’s military. He gets it, he's done dangerous things all his life."

But you know better.

He was a father first. He always had been, even when he wasn’t physically there, even when he was halfway around the world, flying high above everything. His heart was always anchored to you. You were his little girl, his sunshine, his soft spot in a hard-edged world, who checked your helmet twice before you could ride a bike, who made you text the second you got somewhere, worried when you scraped your knee, when you stayed up too late studying.

He was Maverick. Top Gun. Hero to most. But to you, he was just Dad.

So no, it’s not easy. Not when you know the truth will make his pulse spike and his mind race to every worst-case scenario. Not when you can still picture his face the day you fell off the beam at your gymnastics meet and he looked like the world had ended.

But still… there’s a part of you that hopes—when the moment comes, when you do tell him—he won’t just see the danger. He’ll see the strength, the purpose, the pride.

That somewhere deep down, the Maverick in him will recognize the Angel in you... Today is not that day, though.

Not when you’ve finally managed to visit after months apart—not because you didn’t want to come sooner, but because life had a funny way of keeping you both busy. His schedule was packed with flights and trainings and whatever top-secret projects still pulled at the edges of his life. Yours… well, yours was classified. Let’s just say saving the world tends to mess with your calendar.

But now, with a rare stretch of time off, you showed up at his hangar-home like no time had passed at all. He met you at the door with that familiar squint and slow-building smile, arms pulling you into one of those hugs that made you feel twelve again, like the universe could shrink down to just the two of you and still be enough.

You showed off your latest toy—a vintage, growling Mercedes-Benz Heritage, sleek and silver, like something out of a Bond film. He gave it an approving nod, muttered something about it being too pretty to trust you behind the wheel, and you both laughed like no time had passed.

At some point, after he proudly showed you the new project he was working on—an old plane with more history than metal—you insisted on cooking. Said you wanted to treat him. He looked skeptical but stepped aside, letting you take over the tiny kitchen.

The thing is… you might know how to hack into secure government servers blindfolded. You can decode encrypted files while hanging out of a moving vehicle and disarm a bomb with nothing but a bobby pin, chewing gum, and sheer nerve.

But apparently, you still don’t know how long garlic bread is supposed to stay in the oven.

Smoke curled out of the toaster oven like a signal flare, thick and dramatic, as if announcing your failure to the whole Mojave. You stood there, spatula in hand, staring at what used to be garlic bread—but now looked more like a charred fossil.

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, coughing as you fanned the smoke with a dishtowel, trying to open a window that didn’t want to budge.

So, you stumbled out of the silver trailer—smoke still trailing behind you like you were escaping a failed op—waving the towel above your head, hoping to clear the air.

"Everything is fine, just give me a vacuum and a YouTube tutorial," you coughed, still fanning the smoky air like your life depended on it. The kitchen now smelled less like garlic and more like defeat.

Then you heard it—your name, called out in a voice that was both familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Warm but deeper. Steady. Older. You froze mid-wave of the dish towel, eyes narrowing as you turned around.

And there he was.

Bradley Bradshaw.

Holy. Shit.

"Bradley!" you gasped, the breath catching somewhere between shock and joy.

Before you could think, you dropped the towel, launched forward, and threw your arms around him. It wasn’t graceful—your elbow clipped his sunglasses, you nearly tripped over your own feet, and there was definitely still flour smeared across your shirt—but none of it mattered. The hug was tight, warm, all the things unsaid wrapped into a single, breathless squeeze.

“Oh, it’s been forever,” you said breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at him.

You were grinning wildly, eyes dancing, completely caught up in the joy of the moment. What you didn’t notice—not at first—was how stunned he looked.

He blinked, almost like he wasn’t sure how to catch up.

“Look at you!” you said, poking his chest with mock offense. “You grew a mustache!!!”

Bradley let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head as if trying to make sense of it all.

“And you… grew up,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud—like the realization had just hit him and slipped past his guard.

“Barely,” your dad chimed in from across the hangar, where he was wiping his hands clean with an old rag, smudged with grease from the plane’s engine. His voice cut through the moment like a well-timed punchline.

You turned just in time to see him eyeing the thin trail of smoke still drifting from the open trailer door.

“Please tell me you did not burn down my kitchen,” he said, eyebrows raised, half-exasperated, half-amused.

You held up your hands in surrender, cheeks flushed. “Not entirely! It’s still standing. Just… maybe don’t open the toaster for a while.”

“Great…” Your dad shot you a long-suffering look, then sighed like a man who’d seen combat but still wasn’t prepared for you in the kitchen. Then he turned to Bradley, wiping the last of the grease from his palms. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Yeah… uh, just happened to be nearby,” Bradley said, almost too casually. Then he lifted the takeout bag in his hand. “And—looks like I showed up just in time.”

He gave you a small smile, the kind that was soft around the edges and held a hint of something else—something unreadable and warm.

,You grinned at the bag like it was the Holy Grail. “Ohh, like a psychic… or maybe Lady Fate herself. What you brought and please tell me you brought enough for an unexpected mouth?”

“I did,” Bradley smirked, giving the bag a little shake for dramatic flair. “Thai. From a little spot near the base—place looks like a shack but cooks like heaven. One of those joints where they always forget the utensils, but never mess up the order.”

You gasped like he’d just told you he found buried treasure. “My kind of place. Who needs forks when destiny delivers Pad Thai?”

Bradley chuckled, handing you the bag with a knowing grin. “Hope you still like spicy, because I told them to go easy—and they still said ‘mild’ was more of a suggestion than a promise.”

You peeked inside the bag, the smell already making your mouth water. “Perfect. I like my food with a little danger. Keeps me humble.”

Your dad chimed in from behind you, grabbing plates “You say that now, but let’s see you talk tough after the first bite.”

You shot him a look. “Says the man who thinks pepper is a bold seasoning choice.”

The three of you settled in around the small table—plates spread out, drinks poured, laughter drifting lazily through the warm air. Conversation flowed easily, the kind that bounced between memories, light teasing, and just enough catch-up to fill in the gaps years apart had left.

You asked Bradley about his life, his job—nudging him gently with curiosity, dancing around certain topics with the kind of practiced grace that would’ve made Bosley proud. You didn’t lie—you just knew how to steer. How to let a story breathe without giving away the details underneath.

While delicately munching on a spring roll, you hummed quietly, savoring the flavor, then murmured without thinking, “I’ve been craving them like crazy since I came back from Thailand.”

Bradley, mid-bite, paused and looked up with a mild tilt of his head. “You’ve been to Thailand?”

You froze—not visibly, just a flicker of hesitation behind your eyes. The kind of pause most wouldn’t notice. But Bradley had always paid attention.

Still, your smile was easy as you nodded, grabbing your drink for cover. “Yeah. Work keeps me traveling.”

Bradley leaned back slightly, chopsticks in hand, eyeing you with playful suspicion. “Yeah? What do you do, exactly? Something fancy, I imagine, if that car outside is any indication. Since when do you have that kind of taste, huh?”

You raised a brow, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I’ve always had taste.”

He snorted. “Right. Last time I saw you drooling over a car, it was that busted-up ‘Back to the Future’ knockoff you swore was the coolest thing ever. What was it? That rusty little hatchback with spray-painted flames and a bumper sticker that said ‘Flux This’?”

You laughed, nearly choking on your spring roll. “Hey, that car had personality. It was vintage.”

“It was a safety hazard.”

“It was charming!”

Bradley grinned, shaking his head. “You’ve upgraded. I’ll give you that. So, seriously—what do you do now?”

You smiled sweetly, taking another bite of your spring roll with practiced nonchalance.

“I’m a private art conservator,” you said, repeating the same polished line you’d fed your dad years ago—the one you’d carefully crafted to sound just vague and boring enough to kill curiosity.

Bradley blinked. “A what?”

“Art conservator,” you repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I restore paintings and sculptures—help private collectors preserve rare pieces. Lots of travel, lots of delicate work, very serious,”

Bradley glanced at your dad, who didn’t even flinch, too busy digging into his pad see ew like this was Tuesday.

Then he looked back at you, eyes narrowing slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Seriously?”

You met his gaze, unblinking. “Dead serious.”

He leaned back in his chair, skeptical. “You? Art conservator? The same girl who once glued googly eyes onto her dad’s Elvis poster because—and I quote—‘It improved the emotional depth’?”

You shrugged, all cool confidence. “Every great artist starts somewhere.”

Bradley laughed, shaking his head. “Unreal.”

“Hey,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him. “Don’t knock the hustle. Art is very fragile. Almost as fragile as, say… classified intel of the worlds economy on a microchip hidden in the frame of a nineteenth-century oil painting inside the vaults of the luvre.”

Both Bradley and your dad raised their eyebrows in perfect unison, like a synchronized team of disbelief.

You blinked, then raised your hands. “Kidding, pass the rice please."

Bradley chuckled and reached for the plate, shaking his head as he handed it over.

“See, that’s what I find unreal,” he said, his voice laced with something halfway between nostalgia and awe. “You were always… I don’t know. Too clever and smart for your own good.”

Your dad grunted in agreement, still chewing.

You tilted your head, scooping rice onto your plate with a lazy grin. “Is that your way of saying I was annoying?”

He smirked. “Terribly. But also kind of a genius. I always figured you’d end up running some multibillion-dollar tech company or… I don’t know, sending astronauts to Mars.”

You snorted. “Wow, aim high, why don’t you?”

He leaned his elbows on the table, studying you. “I did. You had that kind of brain, y’know? The kind that never turned off. It always felt like you were thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

You paused for just a second, fingers tightening on the chopsticks before you smiled again, softer this time. “Still am, just not in the way most people would guess.”

Bradley narrowed his eyes slightly, playful but curious. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”

You returned to your food, casually scooping rice onto your plate, but you could still feel Bradley’s eyes on you—curious, watching like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t know he’d started.

“So,” you said, changing the subject with a too-bright smile, “what about you, Lieutenant Mustache? Still flying? Still breaking hearts?”

Your dad let out a soft snort, clearly enjoying the turn of the conversation.

Bradley leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, giving you a look. “I’ll have you know the mustache has become a very powerful asset.”

You raised a brow. “Does it come with a security clearance?”

“Practically,” he said with mock pride. “Still flying, still in uniform… just with slightly more facial hair and responsibility.”

“Terrifying,” you muttered, hiding a grin behind your drink—because in all honesty, that mustache looked damn good on him. Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. At least not yet.

There was a beat of silence after that, easy and warm. The kind that settles between people who’ve shared enough history to skip over the awkward parts. Three lives woven through time, scattered and now briefly realigned. It felt like no time had passed at all—and somehow like everything had changed.

Your dad stood with a quiet groan, stretching his back as he grabbed the empty soda cans and crumpled napkins.

“I’ll grab more,” he said casually. “Napkins, too, since someone eats like she’s still thirteen.”

You shot him a look. “Rude.”

“But true,” he replied over his shoulder, disappearing inside the trailer.

And just like that, you and Bradley were alone.

The hangar fell into a soft, ambient quiet—just the hum of the overhead fan, the distant creak of the cooling engine, and the sound of Bradley’s thumb absentmindedly tapping the rim of his drink.

He looked over at you, eyes thoughtful. “So… ‘private art conservator,’ huh?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Still hung up on that?”

“Just trying to picture it,” he said, tone teasing but curious. “You, in gloves, hunched over a painting with a little brush.”

You leaned in slightly, resting your elbow on the table. “What, you don’t think I’ve got the patience for restoration?”

“I think you’ve got the precision,” he said, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m just not used to you being quiet for long.”

You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that said you’re not the only one who’s changed. “People grow up, Bradshaw.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze flicking down and then back to you again. “Apparently, they do.”

The tension between you wasn’t thick, but it was there, like static. Familiar and new, cautious and curious. It buzzed just beneath the surface, waiting- your phone began to ring.

The sudden sound made you flinch just slightly, dragging you out of the moment. You set your plate down with a reluctant clink and fished the phone from your pocket.

Bosley.

Your eyes flicked to Bradley for half a second—he was watching you, still relaxed but alert, picking up on the shift in your energy. You forced a smile, one hand already tucking the phone to your ear as you stood.

“Gimme a sec,” you said casually, stepping away from the table, from him, from that dangerous almost-moment.

You put the phone to your ear, trying to keep your voice casual. “Hello… Yeah, okay. I’ll be right in.”

You hung up, slipped the phone back into your pocket, and took a moment to school your features before turning back around. A practiced smile curved across your lips—effortless, easy. You walked back to the table like you hadn’t just been called back into a secret life.

Bradley was still seated, watching you with mild curiosity, like he knew something wasn’t adding up but didn’t know quite what.

“Everything good?” he asked, tone neutral but eyes searching.

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Work. Something I need to take care of.”

Before he could say more, your dad emerged from the trailer with two cans of soda under one arm and a bundle of napkins in the other.

“Alright, I brought backup—oh.” He paused, catching the shift in your expression, one you always wear when you need to leave impromptu. “You leaving already?”

You gave him an apologetic look. “Duty calls.”

He sighed, handing over a soda anyway. “Figures. You show up after a year, almost burn my kitchen down, steal my spring rolls, then vanish.”

You grinned and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Classic me.”

Your dad chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t be a stranger and text me ass soon as you get there.”

"Of course and don’t worry I'll come back as soon as I can."

You turned to Bradley, catching his gaze again—still curious, still trying to piece together the puzzle of who you were now.

“Guess I owe you a proper catch-up,” you said softly.

He stood, nodding slowly. “Yeah. You do.”

And just like that, you slid into your sleek silver Mercedes, the engine purring to life beneath your fingertips like it knew exactly where you were going—and why. One last glance in the rearview mirror caught the faintest reflection of your dad watching from the hangar, soda in hand, and Bradley still standing by the table, napkin clutched loosely in his fingers, brow furrowed like he wasn’t quite ready for you to disappear again.

You gave a small wave—half playful, half I’ll be back—then pulled out of the dusty lot, tires crunching against gravel as the sun dipped lower behind you.

Back to the mission.

Back to the life they didn’t know about.

Back to saving the day, as usual.

Y/N: Heyyy hope you enjoyed ittttt. There's something about Top Gun x Charlie's Angels that just scratched my brain just right, y'know? One of my favs movies ever.

[malavera]

Current obsession…

Young Maverick

thanks to reading @lovelybucky1 drabbles / fics the way they described young Maverick in every fic is just *chefs kiss* 😚🤌✨ please do more 🫣

[nonscathingbullets]

Icemav really is a peak ship because what do you mean Ice bit at him in a locker room?

What do you mean they bore holes into each other's soul for the entire film?

What do you mean Val Kilmer said yeah they gay as hell for each other?

What do you mean sexual tension so thick you can cut it with a knife?

What do you mean one actor played it super gay and the other one just went with it?

What do you mean they're always in each other's face like they're two steps away from ripping each other's clothes off?

What do you mean casual shoulder brush?

What do you mean "Playing With the Boys"?

What. Do. You. Mean. ?

[texasteaparty]

HAPPY PRIDE TO ALL Y'ALL 🏳️‍🌈

To all the gays, lesbians, bisexuals, trans, aces, aros, non-binaries, demis, queers, pans, genderfluids, agenders, intersexes, two-spirits, unlabeled and undefined and gender non conforming

I LOVE YOU

[hyperfixationalmotives]

Waiter: anyone need a drink?

4yr old Bradley: my dad needs a fucking margarita.

Maverick: *whispering* I need to stop thinking out loud.