bellarkeselection

[bellarkeselection]

3 - Daisy and Jake

Part 4

Talk Me Down, Hotshot

- Please don’t be a silent reader on this story, I’d greatly appreciate comments or reblogs with your thoughts ❤️ Tag list - just ask to be added @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @frost-queen @elenavampire21 @lover-of-books-and-tea

The fluorescent glow of the TACRON-4 console usually felt like a second skin, a familiar hum that soothed the restless energy I'd carried since birth. Today, though, it felt… itchy. Maybe it was the static electricity in the air, or maybe it was just the persistent ache in my lungs that flared up whenever the pressure dropped. I popped another handful of sunflower seeds into my mouth, crunching them methodically as my eyes scanned the intricate web of air traffic. My fingers danced over the holographic display, adjusting, filtering, predicting. Radar, comms, air defense – it was all a symphony I conducted, even if my instrument was a beat-up pickup truck of a brain and a body that sometimes forgot how to breathe right.

“Casey, my office. Now.” Commander Miller’s voice, sharp and clipped, cut through the comms. My left eyebrow twitched. Now? I was right in the middle of routing a particularly stubborn cargo plane through a knot of civilian airliners.

“On it, Commander,” I grumbled, hitting a final sequence of commands that would put the system on autopilot for a few minutes. I wiped my hands on the worn denim of my flannel shirt, pushing myself back from the console. My boots, bless their scuffed, dependable hearts, hit the polished floor with a satisfying thud. I hated being pulled away from a live board. It felt like leaving my baby with a stranger.

Miller’s office was a glass box overlooking the main operations floor, all sleek lines and muted tones. Too fancy for my taste. I preferred the organized chaos of the backroads, where you knew where you stood because the mud was either on your boots or it wasn’t. I pushed open the door without knocking, my usual Southern charm momentarily forgotten in the face of an unexpected interruption. And then I saw him.

Leaning against Commander Miller’s pristine desk, all casual grace and tailored flight suit, was Lieutenant Jake Seresin. Hangman. The very sight of him made my teeth ache. His smirk, sharp and confident, was already in place, like he’d been practicing it in a mirror all morning. He glanced at me, his eyes—that particular shade of blue that reminded me of a clear summer sky before a tornado hits—sweeping over me from my perpetually messy bun to my combat boots.

“Casey. Good of you to join us,” Miller said, totally ignoring the fact that I’d just been yanked from a critical phase of operations. He gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk. I took it, sitting up straight, though every instinct in my body wanted to slouch and hide my face behind a cloud of sunflower seed shells.

Jake pushed off the desk, crossing his arms and settling his weight on one hip. He looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, not in a functional office. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin,” he drawled, extending a hand. Like I didn’t know who he was. Like every single person on this base hadn’t heard of ‘Hangman,’ the self-proclaimed ‘savior’ of the fleet or that we hadn’t already met two days ago at Shorty’s Den. I ignored his outstretched hand. Too much effort.

“Y/n Casey,” I replied, my voice a little rougher than usual. My lungs felt tight. Probably the stress of being in a room with him. “I’m aware of who you are, Hotshot. Heard a lot about you.” Most of it involved overly confident remarks and reckless maneuvers.

He chuckled, a low, smooth sound that probably made half the women on base swoon. It just made me want to chew my seeds louder. “All good things, I hope?”

“Depends on who’s tellin’ the tale,” I shot back, meeting his gaze head-on. No way was I letting him get under my skin this early in the day.

Miller cleared his throat, clearly annoyed by our immediate sparring. “Alright, gentlemen, settle down.” He paused, realizing. “And lady.” He sighed. “Casey, Lieutenant Seresin is here under a special directive. He recently returned from a… highly sensitive mission. His superior officer, Captain Pete Mitchell, callsign Maverick, needs to be informed of his safe landing. Our usual comms channels are… tied up. And given the nature of the mission, we need absolute certainty of the transmission.”

My eyes narrowed. Maverick. That explained the ‘sensitive mission’ part. The man was a legend, and a mystery. “And you need me for this because…?”

“Because, Casey,” Miller said, leaning forward, “you’re the best we have at establishing secure, long-range links under… less than ideal circumstances. Your work with those satellite arrays, your ability to cut through the noise… it’s unparalleled. Lieutenant Seresin needs to make contact. You’ll be his comms specialist.”

I stared at Miller, then at Jake. Jake was still smirking, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes now – not cockiness, but perhaps a hint of genuine need. It was unsettling. “You want me to get this…Hotshot… to his Captain?” I shook my head slowly. “With all due respect, Commander, I’m busy.”

“It’s a direct order, Casey,” Miller stated, his voice devoid of humor. “This isn’t a request. This is top priority. And Lieutenant Seresin’s brief stint here is only for three more weeks, so we need to get this done efficiently.”

Three weeks. The thought was both a relief and, strangely, a minor annoyance. Three weeks of this man’s radiating confidence filling up my airspace.

I sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that felt a little thin on the exhale. “Fine. But if he so much as breathes wrong on my console, he’s payin’ for a new one.” I pushed myself up. “Let’s go, Hotshot. You got a Captain to call.”

Jake’s smirk widened. “Lead the way, Casey.”

We walked down the long corridor, the polished floors reflecting the overhead lights like a runway at night. I led him to one of the more isolated comms stations, tucked away in a corner of the facility. It was an older rig, but I’d personally rebuilt parts of it, tweaking its antenna arrays and processors until it hummed with a fierce, quiet power.

“Alright, Hotshot,” I said, pulling out the chair and settling in. I gestured to the screen. “Tell me what kind of signal you’re expecting, what encryption, the works. And don’t touch anything that ain’t glowing at you.”

He leaned against the console, close enough that I could smell a faint hint of something clean and masculine – not cologne, just… him. “Relax, Casey. Just tell me what you need.” His voice was low, almost conversational.

“I need you to tell me what I need to know, is what I need,” I retorted, already typing. “Look, a secure long-range comm with Maverick ain’t exactly like calling your mama on a landline. He moves, he’s probably under strict radio silence. We’re gonna be lucky if we get a two-second burst of static.” I ran a diagnostic, the screen spitting out lines of green code. “Give me the coordinates of his last known position, the window, and any protocols he might be using to establish contact.”

“You got it.” Jake recited the information, his voice professional now. Gone was the playful lilt, replaced by a focused tone that surprised me. My fingers flew over the keyboard, configuring the satellite dishes, adjusting frequencies, cross-referencing known patterns.

“Alright, initiating sequence,” I muttered, my brow furrowed in concentration. The hum of the console intensified. “This is gonna be a long shot, Hotshot. You might want to mentally prepare for disappointment.”

“I’m never disappointed, Casey,” he replied, his voice a low rumble beside my ear. “And I sure as hell ain’t unprepared.”

I ignored the subtle flirtation, focusing on the blinking lights and the fluctuating waveforms on the screen. “Easy for you to say. You just gotta talk. I gotta make the magic happen.” I chewed my sunflower seeds, the soft crunch a counterpoint to the electronic whirring. “You got a specific message?”

“Just confirmation of safe return,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “He needs to know we made it.” There was a genuine note of care in his tone, a crack in the arrogant facade. It momentarily disarmed me.

“Right. Standby.” I pushed a button, and the comm line went live, a faint hiss of static filling the air. I adjusted a dial, listened intently, then tweaked another. My weaker lungs often meant I paid more attention to the subtle shifts in sound, picking up nuances others missed. “There. Weak signal, but it’s there. Encrypted. Give me a second to decypher.”

The next few minutes were a blur of intense concentration. My mind raced, sifting through algorithms, trying to break the temporary code. Jake stood silently beside me, a rare display of patience from him. I could feel his gaze, but I didn’t look up. This was my moment, my domain.

“Got it!” I breathed out, the word a little strained. “Okay, Hotshot, you got maybe thirty seconds. Go.”

Jake leaned into the microphone. “Maverick, this is Hangman. Seresin. Alpha mission complete. All ground personnel recovered. We are home. Repeat, we are home. Confirmed safe landing.”

He pulled back, his eyes fixed on the screen. The signal was fading fast, but then, a faint crackle. A voice, barely audible, filtered through the speakers. “—copy that, Hangman. Good work. Break. Out.” That was it. Brief, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. The signal died.

I slumped back in my chair, exhaling slowly. “Well, I’ll be. He got it. You got your call, Hotshot.”

Jake was staring at the blank screen, then he slowly turned to me. The smirk was gone. Replaced by an expression I hadn’t seen on him before – relief, pure and unadulterated. “You… you got through. Casey, you’re an absolute wizard.”

He slapped the console panel next to me, a little too hard for my liking. “Don’t break my toys, Hotshot,” I grumbled, but there was less venom in my voice than usual. My chest felt a little lighter.

“No, seriously,” he said, his eyes still holding that genuine look. “That was… damn impressive. Most people would’ve given up after the first twenty seconds. You just kept at it.”

“I grew up in southern Indiana, Hotshot. We don’t give up easy there. Stubborn hearts are a way of life,” I said, shrugging, trying to brush off the compliment, but a small spark of pride ignited in my chest. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go log this and get back to my actual job.”

He nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “Right. Thanks, Casey. Seriously.” He gave me a quick, almost imperceptible nod before turning and striding out of the comms station.

I watched him go, then shook my head, a small, wry smile tugging at the corner of my lips. Hotshot. He was a piece of work, alright. A frustrating, cocky, unexpectedly grateful piece of work.

The end of my shift couldn’t come soon enough. The air in the facility felt stale, and my lungs were ready for a dose of fresh, outdoor air, even if it was just the recycled air of the base parking lot. I packed up my console, tidied my workspace, and grabbed my worn backpack. Daisy, one of my best friends and a fellow radar tech, was already waiting for me by the exit. Daisy was all sunshine and immediate friendships, the kind of person who could make friends with a brick wall.

“Finally, Casey! I thought you were gonna marry that console tonight,” she chirped, linking her arm through mine. “Long day?”

“You know it,” I muttered, stretching my shoulders. “Had to play personal assistant to Lieutenant Hotshot Seresin for half the afternoon.”

Daisy’s eyes widened. “No way! Hangman? The one who looks like he walked off a movie poster? What’d he need you for?”

“Special comms detail. Apparently, only I can get him through to his Captain,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s got three weeks here, you know. Three weeks of that ego.”

As we pushed through the double doors leading outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, painting the sky in warm oranges and purples. And there, leaning against a pillar just outside the entrance, was Jake Seresin. He had swapped his flight suit for a casual polo shirt and jeans, looking even more annoyingly handsome than he had inside. He was scrolling on his phone, but looked up as soon as he heard the doors open. His gaze immediately found mine.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Daisy whispered, nudging me. Before I could react, she broke free and practically skipped over to him. “Lieutenant Seresin!” she chirped, her smile dazzling. “Hi! I’m Daisy O’Connell, I work with Y/n here. You were amazing at that Top Gun stuff, everyone’s talking about it!”

Jake straightened up, his signature smirk back in place. “O’Connell. Always a pleasure to meet a fan,” he drawled, his eyes flicking to me, an amused glint in them.

I trudged over, feeling an impending sense of doom. “Daisy, come on. We gotta go.”

“Hold on, Y/n!” Daisy waved me off. She turned back to Jake. “So, are you heading out? Me and Y/n were just about to grab a drink. You should totally come! It’s a great bar, really chill, good music, you’d love it.”

My jaw dropped. “Daisy! No! He’s… he’s busy.” I elbowed her, hard.

Jake’s smirk grew. “Actually, O’Connell, I’m not busy at all. Sounds like a fantastic idea.” He met my furious glare head-on. “Unless, of course, Casey here has other plans for me?”

“I have plans to not have plans with you, Hotshot,” I retorted, crossing my arms. “Daisy, he’s got… uh… important… pilot stuff to do.”

“Pilot stuff can wait for a cold beer, Casey,” Jake said smoothly. “Besides, I hear you’re quite the expert on the local watering holes, given your… roots.”

He was referring to my Southern Indiana upbringing in the most condescending way possible. My temper flared. “My roots involve knowing a good time when I see one, and it sure as heck ain’t gonna be with a hotshot like you trying to pick up every single waitress in the joint.”

Daisy giggled. “Oh, come on, Y/n! Don’t be a buzzkill! It’ll be fun! He’s only here for three more weeks, remember? We gotta show him the local hospitality!”

“That’s exactly why we don’t need to show him anything, Daisy!” I hissed through gritted teeth. “Three weeks is barely enough time for him to stop bragging about himself!”

Jake just chuckled, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Don’t worry, Casey. I promise to behave. Mostly. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, meant just for my ears, “I already found the most interesting person on base today.” He gave me a pointed look.

I felt a flush creep up my neck. Damn him. He knew exactly how to needle me.

“See, Y/n? He’s charming!” Daisy beamed. “So, seriously, Jake? You in?”

He pushed off the pillar, a confident sway in his step. “Lead the way, ladies. Just point me towards the coldest beer and the loudest music. And maybe a place where a man can find some good, honest conversation.” He winked at me, clearly implying I was anything but.

I wanted to groan. Or maybe scream. Or maybe just kick him in the shins. “Lord have mercy,” I muttered under my breath, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

Daisy, oblivious to my internal turmoil, clapped her hands together. “Awesome! Okay, so, The Rusty Anchor it is! Their wings are amazing.” She started walking, completely confident in her decision.

Jake fell into step beside her, glancing back at me with that infuriating smirk. “Something wrong, Casey? You look like you just swallowed a lemon.”

“I’m just picturing the next three weeks,” I said, starting to follow them, resigned. “And frankly, Hotshot, it looks like a long, painful eternity.”

He laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that somehow grated on my nerves and, in spite of myself, sparkled a little. “Oh, it’s going to be a blast, Casey. Trust me. You might even learn to like me.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Hotshot,” I shot back, quickening my pace to catch up with Daisy, who was already chattering excitedly about the bar.

Three weeks. Three weeks of Jake Seresin. My lungs already felt tired just thinking about it. This was going to be a very, very long three weeks.

[bellarkeselection]

Hi there! I noticed on your OUAT Master list you haven't written for Sheriff Gharam. I was wondering if I could make the first request for him?

Y/N, Emma Swan's twin sister, finds Gharam's heart and puts it back; Gharam says something along the lines "My chest has been silent for so long I forgot how it feels. You're the reason it beats now" or "In fact, I find myself thinking about you even at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link exists between your heart and mine, and should that link be broken, either by distance or by time, then my heart would cease to beat and I would die."

You’re the Reason

Here is your request for Graham, I hope you like it 🤗

The air in Storybrooke always felt thick, like a forgotten dream lingering on the edge of waking. It was a peculiar kind of static, a hum of unlived moments that vibrated beneath my skin. Unlike Emma, who initially saw it as just another small town to escape, I felt it differently. I felt the absence. As her twin sister, I often thought of myself as the quiet observer, the one who picked up on the nuances Emma sometimes bulldozed over. And in Storybrooke, those nuances screamed.

My name is Y/N Swan, and frankly, Storybrooke was a nightmare dressed as a postcard.

My suspicions, fueled by Henry’s outlandish tales, crystallized around two people: Regina Mills and Graham Humbert. Regina, with her meticulously manicured facade, was the obvious villain of Henry’s story, the Evil Queen. But Graham, the stoic Sheriff, was the more unsettling enigma. He moved with a peculiar emptiness, a quiet deference to Regina that struck me as unnatural, even for a small-town chief. His eyes, when they met mine, held a distant sorrow, like a landscape seen through a perpetually fogged window. He was handsome, in a rugged, melancholic way, but it was his profound lack of presence that drew my attention. He was a shell, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something vital was missing from him.

I'd catch him sometimes looking at me, or Emma, with a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, a phantom longing. He seemed to be searching for something he couldn't name, a sound he couldn't quite hear. Henry’s mentions of the Huntsman, a man forced to do the Evil Queen’s bidding, resonated deeply within me every time I saw Graham. He was a puppet, and the strings, I was certain, led straight to Regina.

One evening, after another tense dinner at Granny’s where Graham had been unusually unresponsive, even for him, a cold dread settled over me. He’d seemed paler than usual, his movements almost sluggish. I watched Regina dismiss him with barely a glance, and something in his slump shoulders tightened a coil of certainty in my gut. He wasn't just under her thumb; he was broken. And if Henry’s book was to be believed, hearts could be stolen.

That night, my mind buzzed. I couldn't sleep. The static in the air felt suffocating. I needed to know. I needed to see. Driven by an impulse I couldn’t articulate, a burgeoning empathy for the broken man, I slipped out of the motel.

The Mayor’s office was dark, silent, and imposing. It felt like walking into a mausoleum. I knew Regina was usually here late, but I’d checked – her car was gone. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs, echoing the unspoken fear that I was perhaps going insane. But the thought of Graham’s empty eyes spurred me on.

I tried the door; of course, it was locked. But Emma had taught me a thing or two about lock-picking, and a bobby pin from my hair quickly became my most valuable tool. The click, when it came, was shockingly loud in the silence.

Inside, the office was meticulously ordered. Nothing seemed out of place. I paced, my gaze sweeping over every shelf, every ornate piece of furniture, searching for anything that screamed 'evil queen' or 'hidden secret'. Henry’s book had talked about hearts kept in vaults, in boxes. Logic dictated Regina wouldn't keep something so crucial in plain sight.

I ran my hand along the heavy oak desk, then the wall behind it. Nothing. My fingers brushed against a large, framed portrait of Regina and Henry, saccharine and unsettling. I paused. The frame felt unusually thick. My fingers probed the edge, and I felt a faint seam. My breath hitched. With a surge of adrenaline, I pushed. The painting swung inwards with a soft click, revealing not a wall, but a dark, narrow alcove.

Within the alcove, illuminated faintly by the moonlight filtering through the window, sat a small wooden box. It was intricately carved, dark wood, with silver filigree twisting across its surface, depicting vines and thorns. It was exactly as Henry had described – a heart box.

My hand trembled as I reached for it. The wood felt cool, almost unnervingly still. I lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, lay a single, pulsating object. It was undeniably a heart, not the anatomical kind you’d see in a diagram, but something that glowed with a faint, otherworldly luminescence, beating with a slow, agonizing throb, a rhythm that was too weak, too fragile. It pulsed with a pain that was palpable, even from where I stood. It was Graham's. I knew it with an absolute certainty that transcended logic. It was his missing piece, his very essence, held captive.

A cold rage, unlike anything I’d ever known, surged through me. How dare she? How dare she steal a living being’s core? I carefully, almost reverently, lifted the heart from its velvet prison. It felt surprisingly light, yet carried an immense weight, a reservoir of suppressed emotion.

My next move was instinctual. Graham. I had to get it back to him. Now.

I found him in his apartment, the address a simple matter of looking him up in the Storybrooke phone book. The lights were off, save for a dim lamp in the corner. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, staring blankly at the wall. He hadn't bothered to undress, as if he simply ceased to function when not needed. He looked utterly desolate, empty.

"Graham?" I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.

He didn't startle, didn't even flinch. He just slowly turned his head, his eyes devoid of recognition, like a doll’s. It broke my heart to see him like this.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice flat. "What are you doing here?"

I kneltbefore him, the heart clutched to my chest, its faint warmth seeping through my shirt. "I found this," I said, my voice thick with emotion, holding it out to him.

He looked at the pulsating organ, then back at me, a flicker of something, perhaps confusion, in his eyes. He reached out a hand, hesitant, as if unsure what he was seeing.

"It's yours," I murmured, my voice cracking. "She took it. Regina."

His eyes widened, ever so slightly. A shiver ran through him, a ghost of a memory stirring. He looked from the heart to my face, then back again, a growing realization dawning, chasing away the fog.

"I don't... I don't..." he stammered, his hand going to his chest, where a painful void seemed to reside.

"Let me," I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. I gently took his hand, guiding it to his own chest, directly over his heart space. "Place it here."

With my other hand, I carefully, with a profound sense of purpose, brought the glowing heart towards his chest. It felt almost magnetic, drawn to its rightful place. As it hovered an inch from his skin, it pulsed faster, brighter, throbbing with an urgency that mirrored the beat of my own heart.

Then, I pressed it gently against him.

It didn't just merge; it surged.

A gasp tore from Graham’s throat, raw and sudden. His body convulsed, a violent shiver racking him from head to toe. His eyes, fixed on mine, snapped into focus, clarity flooding them like a dam breaking. Color rushed back into his face, startlingly vibrant against his previous pallor. He inhaled sharply, a deep, shuddering breath, as if tasting air for the very first time.

His hand, which I’d guided, pressed instinctively against the spot where his heart had just returned. His fingers clenched, knuckles white, as if trying to physically hold onto the new, overwhelming sensation.

His eyes, now alive with a thousand emotions, burned into mine. They were no longer distant, but piercing, wide with a mixture of shock, terror, and an indescribable gratitude. He blinked rapidly, as if clearing away years of dust.

His gaze never left mine. His lips parted, and a low, resonant voice, filled with an emotion I’d never heard from him before, broke the silence.

"My chest has been silent for so long, I forgot how it feels," he murmured, his voice thick, heavy with the weight of forgotten pain and sudden, overwhelming life. His eyes, still locked with mine, glistened. "You’re the reason it beats now."

The words hung in the air, potent and staggering. He moved, his hands reaching out, not to touch me, but to steady himself, grasping the edge of the bed. He was reeling, a storm of sensation and memory awakening within him.

Then, as if a dam of memories had truly burst, his eyes narrowed, a different kind of intensity entering them. He looked at me, truly looked at me, as if seeing me for the very first time, yet also recognizing me from every moment of his unlived life.

"No," he corrected himself, his voice deepening, resonating with a power that shook me to my core. He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering, magnetic. "In fact, I find myself thinking about you even at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link exists between your heart and mine, and should that link be broken, either by distance or by time, then my heart would cease to beat and I would die."

The intensity of his words, the raw, unbridled emotion in his eyes, rendered me speechless. I could feel it too, a sudden, undeniable tether between our souls, a connection forged in the moment I’d returned his life to him. It was a dizzying, terrifying, exhilarating feeling.

He was Graham, the Huntsman, now whole again. And in that moment, he was seeing Storybrooke, and me, with a clarity that threatened to shatter everything. The curse, I realized with a jolt, had just taken its first real hit. And I, Emma Swan's quiet twin, had just sparked a revolution within a man whose heart now beat for the first time in decades, a beat inseparably linked to mine.

The static in the air hadn't vanished, but now, it felt alive, charged with magic, danger, and a connection I never could have foreseen. My very existence in Storybrooke had just gotten infinitely more complicated.

Comments and reblogs really appreciated ❤️

[bellarkeselection]

Send me a prompt or prompts with which character you’d like and I’ll write something up 😉 hint anything with Glen Powell or his characters Hangman or Tyler Owens is where my inspiration is currently at the moment

"SOOOOO... WHAT IF WE KISSED...?" PROMPTS * assorted dialogue for tossing out the idea of being in a relationship or just kissing and seeing what happens after, adjust as necessary

i hear you're a good kisser.

are you staring at my lips?

how about a kiss for old time's sake?

maybe we could experiment a little.

have you ever thought about kissing me?

is there even an "us?"

a little bird told me you're a really good kisser.

could you see me as... more than just a friend?

what's a little fooling around between friends?

i'll admit, i have thought about you like that.

kissing you sounds like a very good idea.

i've been meaning to ask you out for ages.

maybe we could... see what happens.

there's no harm in a little experimentation.

did you want to kiss me back then?

for what it's worth, i really enjoyed the kiss and i wouldn't mind doing that again sometime.

could we pretend this is our first kiss?

maybe we could go on a date sometime.

you could start by coming closer.

just wondering what you taste like.

i saw you looking at me earlier.

could we talk about... us?

i'm not interested in anyone but you.

i bet if we tried, we could make it work.

a kiss won't kill us.

wanna makeout?

quick, kiss me before they walk over here.

i've wanted to kiss you for a long time now.

i never had the courage to ask you if you'd kiss me.

could i keep seeing you after this?

i really enjoyed it, by the way.

you're a much better kisser than i expected.

well, that got out of hand quickly.

maybe we should redo our first kiss.

next time, we should make it a date.

can i kiss you?

kissing sounds really fun right now.

have you been kissed before?

i never liked kissing until you.

you are... unbelievably good at that.

give me a minute to catch my breath.

your heart is racing.

are you okay? you look very flustered.

are my cheeks burning?

figured we're both about to die, so what the hell.

[bellarkeselection]

Send me a prompt or prompts with which character you’d like and I’ll write something up 😉 hint anything with Glen Powell or his characters Hangman or Tyler Owens is where my inspiration is currently at the moment

🐝  *  ―  𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑭𝑬𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺.

❛  but i do care about you ... a lot.  ❜ ❛  do you really need me to say it? fine, i love you. happy now?  ❜ ❛  i didn't think you'd feel the same way.  ❜ ❛  the truth is, i don't want just anyone. i want you.  ❜ ❛  you know i love you, right?  ❜ ❛  i want to spend the rest of my life with you.  ❜ ❛  you're the only person who has ever made me feel this way.  ❜ ❛  can't you see how much i care about you?  ❜ ❛  i did all of this for you. because ... because i love you.  ❜ ❛  please don't make me say it. saying it is gonna make it real and i'm not sure i'm ready for that yet.  ❜ ❛  somewhere along the way, you became more than just a friend.  ❜ ❛  i can't keep pretending like i don't love you.  ❜ ❛  well, i like you. i really, really like you.  ❜ ❛  i like you a lot more than i ever thought i would.  ❜ ❛  you're an idiot ... but you are my idiot and i wouldn't have it any other way.  ❜ ❛  when we first met, i didn't think you'd ever mean so much to me.  ❜ ❛  i could do this on my own but i don't want to. i want you right by my side every step of the way.  ❜ ❛  for once, i'm gonna make the selfish choice and be with whoever i want to be. and that person is you.  ❜ ❛  you've made me so incredibly happy.  ❜ ❛  i wasn't planning on telling you like this but now is better than never.  ❜ ❛  believe it or not, i do enjoy spending time with you.  ❜ ❛  i still don't understand what i ever did to deserve someone like you in my life.  ❜ ❛  i love you. i'm in love with you.  ❜ ❛  just being with you is enough ... you are enough.  ❜ ❛  i love everything about you. even the things i don't like, i love.  ❜ ❛  i have been trying so hard not to say anything, to just ignore it, but i cannot do that any longer.  ❜ ❛  when i wake up, you're the first person i think about.  ❜ ❛  i've never felt a connection like this with anyone else ever before.  ❜ ❛  there's something i've been meaning to tell you for a while ... i love you.  ❜ ❛  don't ever do something like this again! i thought i'd lost you ... and i can't ever lose you.  ❜ ❛  i don't hate you. i actually like you. a lot.  ❜ ❛  you don't have to say anything, i understand. and i want you to know that i feel the same way.  ❜ ❛  what's not to love about you? you're beautiful and kind and you're overall the most amazing person i have ever met.  ❜ ❛  i have no idea how i ever managed to fall in love with someone as infuriating as you.  ❜ ❛  i just want you to know how i feel ... in case one of us won't make it.  ❜ ❛  i can't believe it's taken me this long to realize but i love you.  ❜ ❛  whenever you're around, i can feel the butterflies in my stomach.  ❜ ❛  but most of all, i hate how much i don't hate you.  ❜ ❛  you are the most important person in my life.  ❜ ❛  i love you more than words can express.  ❜

[bellarkeselection]

2 - Shorty’s Den

( just picture Hangman in the gif instead of Tyler Owens )

Part 3

Talk Me Down, Hotshot

- Please don’t be a silent reader on this story, I’d greatly appreciate comments or reblogs with your thoughts ❤️ Tag list - just ask to be added @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @frost-queen @elenavampire21 @lover-of-books-and-tea

The smell of stale beer and fried everything was practically my perfume these days, and Shorty’s Den was my second home. Most nights, it was just me, a cold bottle of Miller Lite, and the hushed drone of the regulars talking hunting and crop yields. Tonight, though, the air practically crackled, and it wasn’t because Shorty had forgotten to clean the deep fryer again. I was hunched over my usual table in the back, nursing my beer and spitting sunflower seed shells into a crumpled napkin. The hum of the jukebox was a familiar comfort, a classic rock anthem wailing about something or someone. My shift at the Bedford Air Traffic Control tower had been a blur of routine, thankfully free of the kind of high-stakes drama that had graced my radar yesterday. A high-flying, hotshot pilot, who apparently thought Indiana airspace was his personal playground, making a landing that was less by-the-book and more, 'let's see how close I can get to that old barn.’ My lungs, always a little weaker than most thanks to my premature birth, had felt the strain yesterday, not from exertion, but from the sheer volume of breath I’d held trying not to cuss out the cocky bastard. And speak of the devil.

The door creaked open, letting in a blast of the humid Indiana night, and there he was. Jake Seresin. Hangman. Or, as I’d taken to calling him, Hotshot. He strolled in like he owned the place, a smirk already plastered on his face, eyes scanning the room as if searching for his next conquest. His uniform was gone, replaced by a dark t-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders and a pair of jeans that looked custom-made. He was taller than I remembered, or maybe it was just the way he carried himself, all easy confidence and swagger.

Our eyes met across the smoky room, and that smirk of his widened into a full-blown, I-know-exactly-who-you-are grin. My jaw tightened, a handful of sunflower seeds cracking under my molars. Of course, he’d find me. Bedford wasn’t exactly a metropolis.

He cut a path straight for my table, weaving through the scattering of locals with an effortless grace that was almost annoying. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, coming to a stop opposite me, hands tucked into his pockets, “if it isn’t the voice of angelic reason who tried to save me from myself yesterday.”

I took a slow swig of beer, letting him stand there. “Angel?” I scoffed, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Pretty sure what you heard was the sound of me trying not to rip out my hair and screaming into the comms. You came in like a bat out of hell, Hotshot. Bedford Airfield isn’t exactly a carrier deck.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made a couple of heads turn. “And I always appreciate a good challenge, ma’am. Kept you on your toes, didn’t I?” He pulled out the chair opposite me, not waiting for an invitation, and sat down. His eyes, a striking blue, crinkled at the corners as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Jake Seresin, in the flesh. Though I suspect you already knew that.”

“Y/n Casey,” I replied, mimicking his lean. “And yeah, hotshot pilots tend to make a lasting impression when they nearly re-arrange local topography. Word travels fast in these parts, Seresin.” I paused, then added, “What are you doing here anyway? I figured you’d be back to your big fancy base, polishing your medals.”

He leaned back, a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Duty calls. Solo training op for a few weeks. Wanted to make sure I got enough time in the air to perfect my… unconventional landings.” He winked, and I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “So, this is your stomping ground, huh? Shorty’s Den. It’s… rustic.”

“It’s home,” I retorted, spitting a stream of shells into my napkin. “Unlike you, I actually belong here.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he purred, his gaze sweeping over me, from my worn flannel shirt to my boots. “You look like you belong anywhere you damn well please. That kind of grit isn’t something you pick up in a city.”

I narrowed my eyes. Jake Seresin, trying to butter me up. It was almost endearing in its transparency. Almost. “Cut the crap, Seresin. What do you want?”

He grinned, the ‘cat that ate the canary’ kind of grin. “Straight to it, I like that. No dilly-dallying. Alright, Y/n Casey from the backroads of Indiana, I was hoping to apologize properly for yesterday’s… kerfuffle. And maybe get to know the woman behind the voice that was simultaneously exasperated and incredibly captivating.”

“Captivating?” I snorted. “I was threatening to call the FAA. You got some warped definitions, Hotshot.”

“It’s all in the delivery,” he insisted, undeterred. “So, how about it? Let me buy you dinner. My treat. As a peace offering. And a thanks for not actually calling the FAA.”

I picked up another handful of sunflower seeds, popping a few into my mouth. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got plans.” Which consisted of finishing my beer, heading home, and watching a rerun of an old baseball game.

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow. “Anything exciting? Or is it just another thrilling evening of… whatever it is you do out here?”

“It’s none of your business,” I shot back, a spark of annoyance in my voice. “And even if it was, it sure as hell wouldn’t involve you.”

He laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that surprisingly didn’t annoy me as much as it should have. “Feisty. I like it. Tell you what, if dinner’s too formal, what about a drink? Right here. I’ll even let you pick the next song on the jukebox.”

“Hard pass,” I said, shaking my head. “Wouldn’t want to bore a hotshot like you with my small-town charm. You’d probably start looking for an ejection seat after five minutes.”

“You think I’d be bored, huh?” he challenged, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’m a pilot, Casey. I thrive on challenges. And I’ve got a feeling you’re a challenge I’d enjoy taking on.”

“I’m not a challenge, Seresin. I’m a person. And I’m just not interested.” I leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re here for a few weeks, right? Do your training, fly your fancy plane, and leave the locals alone. We don’t need your kind of excitement around here.”

He leaned forward again, his voice dropping slightly, a hint of something deeper in his tone. “My kind, huh? What ‘kind’ is that, Casey?”

“The kind that thinks they’re God’s gift to women and can charm their way into anything,” I said, blunt as a shovel. “The kind that thinks breaking a few rules makes them interesting. The kind that’s usually more trouble than they’re worth.”

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he just studied me, his gaze intense. “And what makes you so sure you know my kind so well, Y/n Casey?”

“I grew up here, Hotshot,” I drawled, gesturing around the bar. “We got a pretty good nose for BS in these parts. And you’re practically dripping in it.”

He chuckled again, a deep, rumbling sound. “Alright, fair enough. But give me a chance to surprise you. Just one drink. One conversation. No strings, no expectations. If you’re bored, you can kick me to the curb. I promise to take it like a man.”

“You’re really persistent, aren’t you?” I sighed, taking a long swig of beer.

“It’s a quality that serves me well,” he said, a proud glint in his eyes. “In the air, and apparently, on the ground.”

“Well, it’s not serving you well right now,” I replied, setting my bottle down with a decisive thud. “My answer is still no. I got a long day tomorrow, and I ain’t wasting my evening on some temporary hotshot passing through.”

His smile didn’t falter, if anything, it seemed to grow more determined. “Temporary, maybe. Memorable? Absolutely.” He paused, then leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You know, I’ve heard Indiana has some incredible hiking trails. Maybe a sunrise hike? I could use a good guide.”

“I’m not a tour guide, Seresin. And my lungs ain’t built for traipsing up hills at dawn,” I snapped, a slight wheeze escaping me that I quickly tried to cover with a cough. Damn my body.

He picked up on it, of course, his eyes narrowing slightly in concern, but he quickly masked it with another easy smile. “Ah, so you admit you have a weakness! Good to know. But I’m sure you’re tougher than you let on. You certainly sounded tough enough yesterday.”

“You haven’t seen tough until you’ve seen a Southern Indiana woman with a broken heart or a flat tire,” I retorted, trying to steer the conversation away from my lungs. “Now, are you gonna keep trying to pick me up, or are you gonna go bother someone else?”

“Just trying to be friendly,” he said, holding up his hands in a mock surrender. “And I’m not bothering anyone. I’m simply appreciating the local scenery. You’re quite the view, Y/n Casey.”

I felt a flush creep up my neck, which only irritated me more. I hated when people got under my skin. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” he said with a wink. “Comes with the territory of being exceptional, I guess.”

“Exceptional at being annoying, maybe,” I muttered, crushing my napkin full of shells and tossing it onto the table. “Look, I’m done here. You gonna move, or do I gotta climb over you?”

He didn’t move. Instead, he just watched me, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “You know, Y/n, you’re the first woman who’s turned down a drink offer from me since… well, since I started flying.”

“There’s a first time for everything, Hotshot,” I said, pushing my chair back. “Consider yourself lucky. You’re meeting all sorts of new experiences here in the wild, wild Midwest.”

I stood up, adjusting my flannel, and he finally rose too, matching my height. He was closer than I expected, and I caught the faint scent of something clean and masculine, like soap and a hint of jet fuel. Irritatingly, it wasn’t unpleasant.

“So, no dinner, no drinks, no hikes,” he mused, his eyes twinkling. “What’s left? A casual cup of coffee? Early morning, before your shift? You can tell me all about the nuances of air traffic control in the cornfields.”

“Not interested,” I repeated firmly, already taking a step backward. “You’re wasting your time, Seresin.”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice low, almost a challenge. “Or maybe I’m just getting started. I’m here for a few weeks, Y/n. That’s plenty of time to wear down even the most stubborn of Hoosier hearts.”

“My heart ain’t stubborn, it’s just discerning,” I shot back, turning to walk away. “And it ain’t interested in hotshots who think they own the sky.”

As I made my way to the door, I heard his voice, clear and confident, follow me. “We’ll see about that, Casey! You think you can resist this charm for three whole weeks?”

I didn't turn around. I just pushed open the door, letting the cool night air wash over my face, and muttered to myself, "He's got another thing coming." But as I walked towards my beat-up pickup, a small, unbidden part of me wondered just how long it would take him to give up. And another even smaller part, the one I ruthlessly kept buried, was almost curious to find out. Damn that pilot and his persistent grin. This was gonna be a long few weeks.

[bellarkeselection]

1 - The Call Begins

Part 2

Talk Me Down, Hotshot

- Tag list - just ask to be added @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @frost-queen @elenavampire21 @lover-of-books-and-tea

Please don’t be a silent reader on this story, I’d greatly appreciate comments or reblogs with your thoughts ❤️

The drone of the radar unit was a familiar lullaby, a constant hum beneath the crackle of comms in my headset. My fingers danced across the console, adjusting frequencies, tracking squawks, my focus a finely tuned laser beam in the dimly lit control tower. Outside, the Indiana sky was a wide, cerulean expanse, dotted with the occasional fluffy cloud. From up here, the Hoosier National Forest looked like a rumpled green blanket, stretching out to the horizon. It was a good view, but I wasn't here for the scenery. I was here to wrangle steel birds and the hotshot pilots who flew them.

A fresh pouch of sunflower seeds was already open on my console, the salty crunch a quiet rhythm to the symphony of controlled chaos I conducted. Another new pilot was inbound, a solo training op, the kind that usually meant more ego than skill. I’d seen a thousand of ‘em come through these gates, all swagger and aerodynamics, thinking they could charm an airspace clear. Bless their hearts.

Then the voice hit my comms, smooth as aged bourbon, with just enough of a competitive edge to make my teeth ache. “Echo Zero-One, inbound for approach, requesting clearance.” 

I chewed my seeds, letting the static settle before I replied, my voice crisp, dry, and flat as a Hoosier cornfield in July. “Echo Zero-One, you’re coming in hot. Ease that throttle down unless you wanna kiss my control tower with your afterburner.” 

A chuckle, low and confident, filled my headset. The kind that made you instantly know the type. Jake Seresin. The name had come across the manifest earlier. Figured. “Now, darlin’,” he purred, the word lingering, a physical thing in the air, “you sound a whole lot more dangerous than my bird right now.”

I didn’t even blink. My eyes stayed glued to the green blip on my screen, tracking his descent. He was pushing the envelope, just slightly, testing. Always testing. “Keep flappin’ your mouth like that and I’ll land you sideways, Seresin,” I shot back, my tone even, unruffled. I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d even registered a blip on my emotional radar. Maybe a tiny, annoying one, like a gnat buzzing around your ear.

Another laugh, louder this time, genuinely amused. “You know my name already? I’m flattered. Usually takes folks a couple of touchdowns before they remember me.” There was a click, probably him flipping a switch, settling into his approach, but the smirk was practically audible in his voice. 

“We remember the ones who fly crooked. And flirt worse,” I retorted, my fingers already adjusting settings for his landing vector, ignoring the slight tremor of his approach that suggested he was still playing around. My job was precision. His job was to follow instructions. And right now, he was failing at the latter.

“Crooked? Darlin’, my flight path is a work of art. And my flirting? That’s just a public service to brighten up your day.”

“My day’s bright enough without any extra glare from your ego, Hotshot,” I countered, the nickname slipping out, a habit from years of dealing with his ilk. It was half insult, half grudging acknowledgement of something. “You’re cleared for runway two-seven. Maintain three thousand, descend and hold. Got traffic on final. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Roger that, Tower. Just making sure you’re paying attention. Wouldn’t want a pretty voice like yours to drift off.”

“My attention is fine. It’s your attitude that needs realignment,” I snapped, my voice still steady, but a little more clipped. He wasn’t just flirting; he was pushing the boundaries of my air space, metaphorically and literally. “Echo Zero-One, maintain your current speed. You’re coming in too fast, I’m seeing an anomaly on my radar.”

“Anomaly? Must be your equipment, sweetheart. My speed is optimal. Pure poetry in motion.” I rolled my eyes so hard, I swear I felt my brain slosh. “Listen here, Hotshot, my equipment is calibrated to the nanometer. Your ‘poetry’ is about to get you a violation. Slow it down by five knots, or I’m putting you in a holding pattern until Tuesday.” 

There was a soft, almost imperceptible sigh in my comms, then, “Fine, fine. Five knots it is. You drive a hard bargain, Tower.”

“It’s called safety, Seresin. Something you might want to look into.” I watched his blip on the screen, seeing the slight adjustment, the speed drop. He was good. Annoyingly good. He pushed, but he listened, eventually. That was always the kicker with pilots like him. They knew their stuff, even if they acted like they were above it all. 

“So, what’s your name, really? I feel like we’ve established a… connection here. Seems only fair I get to put a name to the voice.”

“My name is Ensign Casey. And the only connection we have is me keeping your oversized jet from becoming a very expensive paper airplane.” I wasn’t giving him an inch. Not on my watch. Not on my frequency.

“Ensign Casey, huh? Sounds official. Too official for a voice that’s got me reconsidering my career choices.”

“Save the dramatics for your debrief. You’re cleared to land. Watch your approach angle, you’re still a hair high.” I toggled a switch, directing another outbound jet, my mind already three steps ahead, orchestrating the ballet of metal in the sky. It was a constant mental chess match, anticipating, reacting, commanding. And dealing with Hotshots like him just added another layer of distraction I didn’t need.

“Understood, Ensign Casey. Looking forward to our next… conversation.” His tone was laced with that same smirking confidence.

“Just land the plane, Seresin,” I muttered, more to myself than to him, as I watched his jet finally align perfectly, a shadow against the late afternoon sun, banking gracefully. He did good work, I had to begrudgingly admit. When he wasn’t busy trying to set a new record for most obnoxious pilot on record.

Jake landed smooth as silk, the F/A-18 Super Hornet kissing the asphalt with barely a whisper, a testament to his undeniable skill. He taxied off the runway, the roar of the engines fading to a low growl as he guided the jet towards the designated parking area. I watched him go from the tower, then rose, stretching the stiffness from my neck. My shift was over, but I had one more thing to do before heading home. My beat-up, rust-speckled base truck, affectionately named 'Old Blue,' was parked near the tarmac, practically vibrating awaiting my arrival.

By the time Jake Seresin had powered down his jet, wrestled off his helmet, and swung his long legs out of the cockpit, I was already there. Boots propped casually on the worn bumper of Old Blue, radio clipped to my cargo pants, arms crossed over my worn flannel shirt. I chewed on a sunflower seed, spitting the shell neatly into the dusty ground beside the truck. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, glinting off the polished canopy of his fighter jet.

He saw me then, pulling off his flight gloves, his eyes, concealed by his visor only moments ago, now a piercing blue, crinkling at the corners as a slow smirk spread across his face. He walked towards me, tall and confident, a towel draped over his shoulder, the picture of a Top Gun pilot straight out of a movie. 

“Well, well, well,” he began, his voice deeper now without the comms distortion, a hint of genuine surprise in his tone. He stopped a few feet from me, looking me up and down, his gaze lingering just a little too long. “You’re even prettier than your radio voice. That feels illegal.” 

My eyebrow arched high, a silent challenge. “You fly like you flirt—risky and a little too fast.”

He chuckled, a rich, full sound that seemed to reverberate in the open air. “But it’s got your attention, hasn’t it?” He gestured vaguely at my position, still leaning against my truck, still there.

“Barely,” I drawled, pushing off the bumper. I reached into the cooler tucked behind my seat, pulling out a chilled bottle of water. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed it to him. It sailed through the air, and he caught it with practiced ease, his fingers wrapping around the cold plastic.

“Thought you might be thirsty after all that hot air you were blowing.” I didn’t wait for a response. I turned, already taking a step back towards the tower, my work, my domain.

“Wait a second, Ensign Casey,” he called after me, his voice still holding that easygoing confidence that masked a deeper intensity. “Aren’t you going to stick around? Offer a poor, tired pilot a friendly word?”

I glanced back over my shoulder, my eyes narrowed, my lips quirked in what might have been a smile, if you squinted and had a very vivid imagination. “You keep flyin’ like that, Hangman, and I’ll keep talkin’.” I let the nickname hang in the air, a reciprocal jab. It was a familiar one to pilots of his type, a testament to his daring, sometimes reckless, style. “But if you want a compliment? You’ll have to earn it.”

I didn’t wait for his reaction, just turned and walked away, my boots crunching on the loose gravel. I knew he was watching me, could feel the weight of his gaze on my back even as I headed towards the entrance of the control tower. He was probably standing there, helmet in hand, the towel still slung over his shoulder, a new challenge etched onto his handsome, cocky face. Jake “Hangman” Seresin. He’d just met his match in the heart of Hoosier country. And somewhere, deep down, I had a feeling this wasn’t the last I’d be hearing from him. The man looked like he knew it too, and the thought was almost… interesting. 

[bellarkeselection]

Y/n Casey grew up in the backroads of southern Indiana, where mud-splattered boots and stubborn hearts are a way of life. Born premature and raised rough, she’s built tough—outspoken, sharp, and as skilled behind a radar console as she is behind the wheel of a beat-up pickup. Her lungs may be a little weaker than most, but her grit’s unmatched. She worked her way into the control tower with sheer determination and a voice calm enough to reroute fighter jets during lightning storms.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin never expected to get wrangled mid-flight by a woman who chews sunflower seeds between comms and casually calls him “Hotshot” like it’s a curse and a compliment. She’s all attitude, flannel, and Southern sass—and he’s equal parts infuriated and fascinated.

What starts as banter over headset interference and storm delays turns into something far deeper. Jake’s bound to classified orders and a polished reputation; Y/n’s grounded in spitfire resilience and hometown roots. They shouldn’t mix��regulation says so, and so does her shotgun-toting older brother—but some skies are clearer when you fly straight into trouble.

1 - The Call Begins

2 - Shorty’s Den

3 - Daisy and Jake

4 -

Author’s Note - I don’t know much about Naval Aviation so if there are some inaccuracies I apologize. Also please don’t be a silent reader on this story, I’d greatly appreciate comments or reblogs with your thoughts ❤️

Tag list - just ask to be added @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @frost-queen @elenavampire21 @lover-of-books-and-tea

[bellarkeselection]

— 𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐓

PAIRING: jake seresin x f!reader

PROMPT: prompt list used

33. “you are such a nerd”

TAGS: FLUFF, established relationship, self-indulgent fic tbh

A/N: omg i wrote this sooo long long ago because i just needed a little comfort blurb and was fixated on both top gun and obi-wan at the same time so i combined the two. it’s pretty short, but i hope you like it <3

masterlist

Have you ever been afraid of the dark? How does it feel when you turn on the light?

I feel safe.

Yes, it feels like that.

Out of everyone who was in The Hard Deck, you were the only person who was fixated entirely on their phone. You sat in the corner with both headphones in your ears near the pool tables as Jake and the rest of the pilots drank, talked, and played pool. You hadn’t intended to accompany your boyfriend out, but he insisted you come along. Something about loving your presence even if you were busy doing your cute nerdy shit, which made you laugh.

It was nearing the end of the episode when Bradley sat next to you and looked over at the screen of your phone. Being so invested in what you had been watching, you didn’t even notice he had sat down. “Whatcha watching,” he asked.

Startled by his sudden presence next to you, you flinched and quickly paused the show. “Jesus Christ, Roost. When did you get here?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m watching the new episode of Obi-Wan Kenobi,” you answered.

“Obi-Wan… Like Star Wars?”

“Yes, like Star Wars.”

“God, you are such a nerd,” he remarked as he bumped his shoulder into yours.

From across the pool table, Jake called out. “Babe! Come here really quick!” Walking up to your boyfriend, you quickly pocketed your phone and headphones. As soon as you were in arm's reach, he pulled you into his arms and swayed as gave you a kiss to the top of your head.

“How’s the game with Javy going?”

When he replied, you could feel the smile that grew on his face. “Kicking his ass, as usual. How’s your show?”

“Good. It was really good. I’m surprised you didn’t catch me crying for a couple minutes. You know someday I’m gonna make you watch every Star Wars movie and show. Then before you know it, you’re just like me!”

Suddenly, Phoenix yelled out. “I’ll be waiting to see the day where our beloved Hangman turns into a Star Wars nerd as big as his girl!”

Jake groaned and sarcastically complained, “Do I have to see all of them?”

“It is a requirement if we are to continue dating, Lieutenant,” you said with a cheeky grin on your face.

“You got yourself a deal, darlin’,” he returned, his eyes filled with so much love. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” you whisper back, blood rushing through your face at his gaze. Tonight’s outing may have been out of your comfort zone, but with Jake by your side, you didn’t have to worry about a thing. He loved you, nerd and all.

[bellarkeselection]

[bellarkeselection]

Small Town Girl vs LA

Glen dates a country girl who enjoys deer and turkey hunting. Y/n gets worried about their relationship when she tries to fit into his Hollywood lifestyle which is much different than the small town lifestyle she has known.

Tags - @rootedinrevisions @kmc1989 @elenavampire21 @frost-queen - let me know your thoughts below in the comments below ❤️ and also reblog

The crisp Indiana air always smelled the same to me: a mix of damp earth, pine needles, and the faint, woodsy scent of something wild. It was a smell that grounded me, a comfort as familiar as the worn flannel shirt I usually wore or the weight of my grandpa’s old shotgun in my hands. My name’s Y/N L/N, and I’m a country girl, plain and simple. 

I spent my mornings tracking deer prints through the forest behind my family’s farm, and my evenings sharing stories over a crackling bonfire. Hunting wasn't just a hobby; it was a way of life, a connection to the land and to generations of my family who’d lived off it.

So, how I ended up here, perched on a plush velvet couch in a sprawling Los Angeles mansion, a glass of something bubbly I couldn’t quite name in my hand, was still a mystery to me. The answer, of course, was Glen Powell.

I’d met him back home, of all places. He was visiting a small film festival in a neighboring town, doing a Q&A for some indie flick he’d done. My cousin, a huge fan, practically dragged me along. I went, mostly for the free popcorn and the chance to escape chores for a few hours. He was exactly as he appeared on screen and in interviews: charming, effortlessly witty, and with a smile that could disarm a grizzly bear. I, meanwhile, was wearing muddy boots and a t-shirt that advertised a local feed store.

During the Q&A, someone asked him what he did to unwind. He talked about flying, about working out, about reading scripts. Then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned how much he appreciated the quiet of small towns, how he’d love to experience something truly authentic. 

On a whim, when the lines for autographs were practically out the door, I blurted out, “If you ever wanna see real quiet, and maybe learn to track a turkey, let me know.”

He’d laughed, a genuine, booming laugh that turned heads. He signed my cousin’s poster, then looked me dead in the eye, that famous smirk playing on his lips. “You serious?” 

“As a heart attack,” I’d replied, holding his gaze. 

He scribbled something on a napkin and handed it to me. “This is my agent’s number. Tell them I said you can have my personal contact. And if you actually teach me to track a turkey, Y/N from Indiana, you’ll be a legend.”

And that was it. A napkin, a joke about turkey hunting, and suddenly, my life was turned upside down.

Our first date wasn't a fancy Hollywood restaurant, but a picnic by the creek near my farm. He came, much to my surprise, in a regular pickup truck he’d rented, dressed in jeans and a simple t-shirt. He watched, fascinated, as I cleaned a fish I’d caught, asking humble questions about bait and fishing lines. I taught him to skip stones, and he taught me about the complex physics of throwing a football just right. He was captivated by the simplicity of my world, and I, in turn, found myself utterly charmed by his down-to-earth nature, so unexpected from a movie star. He wasn't pretentious, not even a little bit. He was just... Glen. And he made me laugh until my sides ached.

We dated for months, mostly long-distance. He’d fly into Indiana whenever he had a break, trading red carpets for dusty backroads. I’d show him how to identify different bird calls, how to set up a deer stand, the best spots for Morel mushrooms. He loved the stories of my family, the way my grandpa still woke up with the sun, the close-knit community. 

He even tried venison chili, and to my surprise, genuinely loved it. "This is real food, Y/N," he'd said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "So much better than those tiny, fancy plates in L.A."

I, on the other hand, made a couple of trips to L.A. too. He’d introduce me to his friends, actors and producers, and they were all surprisingly nice, though I mostly just smiled politely and tried to follow their conversations about upcoming projects and box office numbers. It was interesting, a whole different planet, but it always felt like a temporary visit. Like I was a tourist.

Then came the conversation. "Y/N," he'd said, pulling me close one evening after a particularly wonderful day of tracking deer in the autumn woods, "I think… I think I’m falling in love with you. And I hate this distance. Would you… would you consider moving to L.A.? Even just for a few months? See how it feels to be closer?"

My heart did a complicated dance of joy and immediate panic. Love him? Absolutely. Move to L.A.? My stomach clenched. But the thought of not being with him was worse. So, I packed my bags, leaving my hunting boots by the door with a promise to myself that I’d be back soon.

Life with Glen in L.A. was, in a word, a whirlwind. His house was stunning, all modern lines and glass, with a pool that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. My little Indiana farmhouse could have fit into his living room. He was incredibly sweet, always making sure I was comfortable, taking me to all his favorite spots. We had incredible date nights, sometimes at swanky restaurants where the waiters knew him by name, sometimes just ordering pizza and watching movies on his giant screen. He loved to cook for me, surprisingly good at grilling, and we'd spend hours just talking, laughing, planning. The love was definitely there, abundant and heartwarming. He’d kiss my forehead when I woke up, bring me coffee, tell me I was beautiful even when I was in my pajamas with bedhead. He was everything I could have dreamed of in a partner.

But then there was the other part. The Hollywood part.

It started subtly. A casual mention of a charity gala. "You have to come, Y/N, everyone will be there!" I’d gone, dressed in a borrowed gown that felt like a costume, my feet aching in heels I wasn't used to. Everyone was stunning, air-kissing and talking about things I only vaguely understood. "Oh, darling, you simply must see the new director’s cut of 'Crimson Tide'—the pacing is revolutionary!" I’d nod, smile, and search for Glen’s reassuring hand. He was always there, introducing me, pulling me into conversations, but I could feel myself shrinking.

Then came the paparazzi. The first time they swarmed us outside a restaurant, flashes blinding, voices shouting questions, I froze. Glen, ever the pro, simply put an arm around me, smiled, and guided me quickly into the car. "Just ignore them, sweetheart," he'd said, but my heart was hammering. Back home, the only people taking pictures were Aunt Carol at Thanksgiving.

I started to try harder. I bought clothes I thought L.A. girls wore, clothes that were tighter, shinier, more expensive. I tried to follow the gossip about who was dating whom, who was cast in what. I even attempted to understand the nuances of a script Glen was reading, but my eyes just glazed over. When his friends talked about their latest trips to exotic locales or their intricate workout routines, I’d offer a quiet, "That sounds nice," and think about the simple joy of an afternoon spent walking my dog through the fields.

My hunting stories, once a source of fascination for Glen, felt out of place here. I remember trying to tell a funny anecdote about a particularly stubborn turkey once at a dinner party. The silence that followed was palpable. A famous actress politely said, "Oh, how… rustic." Glen jumped in, "Y/N's an incredible shot, she's practically a frontierswoman!" He meant it as a compliment, a boast even, but I felt like an exhibit. A quirky, country curiosity.

I started to miss the quiet. I missed the smell of the woods, the sound of crickets, the feeling of mud on my boots. I missed my family, who communicated not through texts and emails, but through shared meals and knowing glances. I missed the purposeful silence of waiting in a deer blind, the thrill of the hunt, the primal satisfaction of providing. Here, everything felt loud and busy and… empty.

The worst part was the worry that started to gnaw at me. Glen was so good, so kind, so genuinely in love with me. But was I enough for him? He was a star, a man whose life moved at a breakneck pace, surrounded by people who understood his world. I was a girl who knew more about tracking than acting, more about shotguns than red carpets. Was I holding him back? Was I dulling his shine? Would he eventually realize that the "authentic country girl" he was so charmed by was actually just… boring… when taken out of her element?

One evening, after a particularly draining week of premieres and events, I found myself sitting on his expansive patio, staring out at the city lights stretched out like a glittering blanket below. It was beautiful, undeniably. But it wasn’t home. A tear traced a path down my cheek. I missed the stars back in Indiana – so much clearer, so much closer.

Glen found me there, his hand warm on my back. "Hey. Everything okay?" 

I shook my head, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. He sat beside me, pulling me into his side. "What's wrong, sweetheart? You've been quiet all week. Is it�� too much?"

I finally choked out, "I just… I don't belong here, Glen. I try, I really do. I try to understand the jokes, to care about who's wearing what, to pretend I know what a 'greenlight' is. But I don't. I miss home. I miss the dirt, and the quiet, and actually doing things instead of just… being seen." My voice cracked. "And I feel like I'm not enough for you. You deserve someone who fits into this world, someone who understands it, who shines right alongside you."

He pulled me tighter, his chin resting on my head. "Y/N," he said, his voice soft but firm, "look at me." I lifted my head, my eyes blurry. "Do you know why I fell for you?" he asked, looking intently into my eyes. "It wasn't because you knew what a greenlight was. It wasn't because you could walk a red carpet without tripping. It was because you were real. You're grounded. You're authentic. You don't play games. You know how to live, Y/N. You know what truly matters. You feel like a breath of fresh air in a world that can feel… suffocatingly fake sometimes."

He paused, stroking my hair. "This isn't your world, not entirely, and I never expected it to be. I just wanted you close. I wanted to wake up next to you. I wanted to share my life with you. And if my life gets too much for you, then we'll find a way to balance it. We'll go to Indiana more often. We'll find a quiet spot here, away from the madness. We'll create our own little piece of Indiana right here if we have to."

He gently wiped away my tears. "You being 'enough' has never been a question. You're more than enough. You're everything. And if you think I want you to change who you are to fit into my world, then you haven't been paying attention. I love you, the girl who can track a turkey, not some version of you who pretends to care about box office numbers."

His words were a balm to my aching heart. He saw me, truly saw me, beyond the borrowed dresses and the forced smiles. He loved the Y/N who lived for the woods, the girl with dirt under her nails, not the one trying to fit into his glittering, confusing life.

The next morning, he had a surprise for me. He’d cleared a space in his sprawling backyard, away from the manicured lawns. There was a small, raised garden bed, some shovels, and a stack of seed packets. "It's not a forest," he said, a hopeful smile on his face, "but maybe we can grow some tomatoes? And herbs? And… maybe teach me about soil composition?"

I laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that echoed in the California air. "I'd love that, Glen. I'd absolutely love that."

Life in L.A. didn't suddenly become perfect. The paparazzi were still there, the galas still happened, and I still sometimes felt out of my depth. But Glen became my anchor. He learned to appreciate the quiet moments, the slow mornings, the simple joys I brought into his fast-paced life. We found a small, hidden trail in the hills where we could hike and pretend, just for a little while, that we were back in the Indiana woods. He even started asking me to tell him stories from my hunting trips, genuinely interested, not just politely tolerating.

He never stopped being the charming, confident movie star, but with me, he was always just Glen, the man who loved me for who I authentically was. And in return, I learned that my strength wasn't in trying to change myself, but in staying true to the country girl I was, even under the bright lights of Hollywood. Our different worlds didn't have to clash; they could blend, creating something unique and beautiful, something rooted in love, no matter where we were.

[bellarkeselection]

Hi.

Are you still taking requests for the stories you write?

I followed you with my old, now deleted, account and I liked your stories, and I have a "Young Sheldon" One Shot idea I think you would write well.

Hi! Yes I still take requests. Just send me your request to my ask box.

Thank you for the feedback on my writing ❤️

[bellarkeselection]

(young sheldon) girl, i loved what you wrote for georgie! it was so good, i already want to request something else.

i imagined something like georgie and fem!reader live together after their first baby was born, but a rude male!neighbor always complains about the baby crying, plays loud music when the baby sleeps and is also mean to reader without georgie knowing. one day he finds out, and reader cries and says they can just move out, but georgie fights with the neighbor to defend his wife... idk

Protective Texan Husband

Comments / reblogs really appreciated ❤️

A baby’s cry is what woke me up from the bed that morning. My daughter's familiar crying had done this for the last couple of months since Georgie and I had moved into our new house. Getting out of the bed I rummaged through my dresser drawers finding some gym shorts and sliding them on before rushing down the hallway to my daughters bedroom. I suppose I should explain what has been going on for the past few months, specifically with our neighbor.

The Texas summer pressed down on our little rental house, thick and humid, a constant, sticky embrace that clung to everything. Inside, it was a different kind of heat – the warmth of a new family. Our baby girl, Raegan, was only a few months old, and every coo, every gurgle, every tiny hiccup was a masterpiece in my eyes. Georgie, bless his heart, felt the same. He might not be the kind of guy who’d ace a college exam, but when it came to changing diapers or calming a fussy baby, he was a natural. He’d hold Raegan , rocking her gently, singing off-key lullabies he’d surely made up on the spot, and she’d just melt into him.

We’d found this place quickly after Raegan was born, a modest little house with a small yard, just enough for us to start our family without breaking the bank. Georgie was working hard, running the tire shop, long hours but steady pay, and he was so proud of every dollar he brought home. He’d come home smelling of rubber and sweat, but his eyes would light up the second he saw Raegan . He was everything to me, and he tried to be everything for us, even when he was bone-tired.

Life with a newborn, though, was a rollercoaster. One minute you were floating on cloud nine, the next you were in the trenches, sleep-deprived and questioning every decision. And then there was our next-door neighbor, Mr. Henderson.

He was a man who seemed to exist solely to suck the joy out of the world. From the moment we moved in, he’d watched us with narrow, suspicious eyes. The first time Raegan cried for more than a few minutes, he’d actually come over, rapping sharply on our door.

“Everything alright over here?” he’d grumbled, peering past me into the dimly lit living room where I was trying to soothe a colicky Raegan . “Sounds like a banshee in there. Some of us got to work in the morning.”

I’d stammered an apology, pulling Raegan closer. “She’s just a baby, Mr. Henderson. She’s not feeling well.”

He’d snorted. “Well, keep it down. This ain’t a nursery.” And then he’d just walked away, leaving me standing there, my cheeks hot, my heart sinking.

That was the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

Georgie, being Georgie, was usually oblivious. He’d be at work, or if he was home, he’d be so focused on helping me or on the baby that he wouldn’t notice the subtle jabs. When I mentioned Mr. Henderson’s first complaint, Georgie just shrugged it off. “Ah, he’s an old crank. Don’t worry about him, darlin’. Babies cry. It’s what they do.” His easygoing attitude was usually a comfort, but sometimes, I wished he’d see the nastier side of things.

As the weeks turned into months, Mr. Henderson’s complaints escalated. He’d complain about the baby crying, sure, but then he’d start playing his music, loud, thumping classic rock, precisely when Raegan was finally drifting off for her afternoon nap. It was like he had a sixth sense for when things were quiet. I’d try to shush her, burp her, rock her, only for a burst of Led Zeppelin or AC/DC to rattle through the wall, startling her awake again, her tiny face crumpling into another cry.

I’d tried going over there, knocking on his door politely. “Mr. Henderson, would you mind turning your music down? Raegan ’s just fallen asleep.”

He’d open the door a crack, his eyes cold. “This is my house, ain’t it? I’ll play what I want, when I want. Maybe your kid needs to learn to sleep through a little noise.” He’d smirked then, a cruel twist of his lips, before slamming the door.

That was the first time he’d been mean to me without Georgie knowing. It wasn’t just the music or the complaints; it was the way he looked at me, like I was a burden, an inconvenience. He’d make comments if I was outside, watering the scraggly patch of grass that passed for a lawn, Raegan sleeping in her stroller next to me.

“Looks like you got your hands full, kid,” he’d sneer, not in a helpful way, but in a way that suggested I’d made a poor life choice. “Sleepin’ all day and screamin’ all night, huh? Must be a real joy.”

I’d just stare at him, my throat tight, unable to retort, my focus always on protecting Raegan. I didn’t want to cause trouble, didn’t want to upset Georgie, who was already working so hard. What was I going to say? “Honey, our neighbor thinks I’m a terrible mother and is actively trying to disrupt our baby’s sleep?” Georgie would worry, and he didn’t need that on top of everything else. So, I kept it to myself, trying to soothe Raegan through the noise, trying to ignore Mr. Henderson’s glares and muttered insults.

But it was wearing me down. The constant stress, the lack of sleep, the feeling of being under siege in my own home. I started dreading seeing him, dreading the afternoons. I’d walk on eggshells, trying to anticipate when Raegan might cry, when he might decide to torment us. My smile felt faker, my patience thinner. I felt trapped, and a part of me, a small, dark part, started blaming myself. Maybe Raegan was too loud. Maybe I was a bad mother.

One particularly sweltering Tuesday, everything seemed to go wrong. Raegan had been fussy all night, refusing to settle. I’d barely slept a wink. Georgie had left for work before dawn, leaving me a sweet note and a kiss on the forehead, completely oblivious to the long, tearful night I’d just endured. By mid-morning, I was a zombie. I finally got Raegan down for her nap around 11 AM, after what felt like an hour of pacing and shushing. I gently laid her in her crib, exhaling a shaky breath of relief, and tiptoed out, planning to collapse on the couch for ten minutes.

Within five minutes, the first bass-heavy thud vibrated through the wall. It was Mr. Henderson’s music. Loud. Obnoxious. And perfectly timed. My heart rate immediately spiked. I closed my eyes, counting to ten, trying to tell myself it would stop, that he was just turning it on.

It didn’t stop. It got louder. “Sweet Child O’ Mine” blared, the guitar riff piercing.

I heard a whimper, then a full-blown wail from Raegan ’s room. My exhaustion turned to a raw, burning fury. I rushed back in to find Raegan red-faced, thrashing in her crib, completely startled and awake.

“No, no, no,” I whispered, scooping her up, trying to calm her. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” But it wasn’t okay. I was so tired, so utterly defeated.

I walked into the living room, Raegan still crying, and that’s when I heard a familiar rumble. Georgie’s truck. He wasn’t due home for another two hours. Maybe he’d forgotten something? He usually called if he was coming home early.

The front door opened, and Georgie stepped in, his work shirt already stained with grease, a questioning look on his face. “Hey, darlin’, I just –” He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze sweeping from my tear-streaked face to the wailing baby in my arms, and then his eyes narrowed, picking up on the pounding music from next door.

His brow furrowed, a slow realization dawning on him. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice low, deeper than usual. He wasn’t smiling.

Before I could answer, there was a loud crash from Mr. Henderson’s yard. Something had clearly fallen or been thrown. And then, through the open window, carried on the humid air, Mr. Henderson’s voice, clear and cutting: “For God’s sake, will you shut that damn kid up?! Makes me sick to my stomach, all that caterwauling!”

Raegan , as if on cue, let out another piercing shriek.

Georgie’s eyes, which had widened slightly after the crash, now hardened into something I rarely saw. It was a cold, dangerous glint I’d only ever seen when someone had tried to shortchange him at the shop or tried to pull a fast one. He looked at me, his gaze full of a question I couldn’t answer with words.

And that was it. All the unspoken stress, all the suppressed fear, all the exhaustion and the feeling of being alone in this fight, came rushing out. Raegan was still crying, the music was still blaring, and Mr. Henderson’s words echoed in my ears. I felt a sob tear through my chest, ragged and uncontrolled. My knees felt weak, and I slumped against the wall, Raegan still clutched to me.

“He – he always does this, Georgie,” I choked out, tears streaming down my face. “He plays his music loud when she sleeps. He complains. He’s – he’s so mean to me. He said… he said it makes him sick.” I buried my face in Raegan ’s soft hair, her tiny body still trembling with sobs. “We just… we have to move, Georgie. I can’t – I can’t take it anymore. We just have to move.”

The words tumbled out, a desperate plea, a confession of my helplessness. I was sobbing uncontrollably now, all pretense of strength gone. The idea of packing up our lives, finding a new place, seemed monumental and terrifying, but the alternative – staying here, under Mr. Henderson’s constant scrutiny and malice – felt even worse.

Georgie stood there for a moment, absolutely still, absorbing every word, watching my breakdown. His hands curled into fists, then relaxed, then curled again. He strode over, gently taking Raegan from my arms. He kissed her forehead, murmuring quiet reassurances, and then he handed her back to me. His expression was grim, a storm brewing in his eyes. He didn’t say anything about moving. He didn’t say anything at all to me.

He just turned, his jaw set, and walked deliberately towards the front door.

“Georgie, no!” I cried, a fresh wave of panic washing over me. He was going to do something stupid. He was going to confront him, and Mr. Henderson was a nasty piece of work. “Don’t! Please, Georgie!”

But he wasn’t listening. He pushed the screen door open, and for the first time, I saw the raw, protective instinct in him that was beyond any immaturity. It was the instinct of a father and a husband. He walked straight across our small front yard, his boots hitting the pavement with heavy, determined steps. He didn’t bother with the gate. He just went straight for Mr. Henderson’s side door, from which the music was still assaulting our ears.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t ring the doorbell. He just threw his fist against the door, a solid, resounding thud that vibrated through the neighborhood. The music cut off abruptly. A moment of silence, then Mr. Henderson’s voice, annoyed. “What in the good Lord’s name–”

The door swung open, and Mr. Henderson stood there, looking belligerent, but his expression faltered when he saw Georgie. Georgie, who was usually smiling, easygoing, had a look on his face that was pure, unadulterated fury. His shoulders were squared, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked bigger, more imposing than I’d ever seen him.

“You got a problem, Cooper?” Mr. Henderson sneered, trying to sound tough, but there was a tremor in his voice.

“Yeah, I got a problem, Henderson,” Georgie’s voice was low, laced with an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up. It was nothing like his usual drawl. It was cold, hard, like a flint. “You’ve been harassing my wife. You’ve been terrorizing my baby. And you’re gonna stop.”

Mr. Henderson scoffed, trying to regain his composure. “Harassing? I just asked her to keep that brat quiet. It’s loud. Some of us got ears, son.”

“That ‘brat’ is my daughter,” Georgie’s voice hardened further, a vein throbbing in his neck. “And my wife is a good woman. She’s a new mother, she’s exhausted, and she’s trying her best. And you, you piece of garbage, you’ve been making her life hell.”

Mr. Henderson took a step back, clearly unnerved by Georgie’s sudden intensity. “Now look here, Cooper, don’t you threaten me–”

“I’m not threatening you,” Georgie cut him off, taking a step forward, towering over the older man. “I’m making a promise. You ever bother my wife again, you ever play that damn music when my baby’s sleeping, you ever make another nasty comment to her, you’re gonna regret it. You understand me?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, but I could still hear it, even from my front porch. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing? She didn’t want to tell me, ‘cause she’s too good, too kind. But I know. And I promise you, Henderson, you won’t like what happens next. You leave my family alone. Got it?”

Mr. Henderson’s face had gone pale. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked genuinely afraid, his bravado completely gone. Georgie, for all his lack of book smarts, knew how to read people, how to exert his presence. He wasn’t a fighter in the traditional sense, but he had a quiet ferocity when pushed.

Georgie held his gaze for another long, silent moment, then slowly, deliberately, he turned and walked back towards our house. He didn’t look back. Mr. Henderson remained frozen in his doorway, watching him go, before slowly closing his door.

I was still standing on our porch, clutching Raegan , who had finally quieted, staring wide-eyed at her father. My own cries had subsided, replaced by a profound sense of awe and a surprising wave of calm.

Georgie came back to me, his features still taut, but the fury had drained from his eyes, replaced by a deep concern. He reached out and gently brushed a damp strand of hair from my face.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice back to its familiar, reassuring tone. “You okay, darlin’?”

I nodded, unable to speak, fresh tears welling up, but these were different. These were tears of relief, of gratitude. I threw my free arm around his neck, burying my face against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Y/n,” he murmured, his arms wrapping around me, Raegan sandwiched safely between us. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it. I should have paid more attention. You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” I whispered, my voice muffled. “You work so hard.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes earnest. “You’re never a bother, Y/n. You and Raegan are my whole world. My job is to take care of you. And I let that jackass make you feel like this.” He kissed my forehead, then Raegan ’s. “We’re not moving. Not because of him. He’s the one gonna be walking on eggshells from now on.”

And he was right. Mr. Henderson, true to Georgie’s promise, never bothered us again. The music stopped. The glares ceased. He’d duck his head if he saw us, scurrying inside his house like a scolded child. The peace in our home, though still punctuated by baby cries and the occasional sound of a car passing, felt profound.

That day, I saw a side of Georgie I hadn’t fully appreciated. I knew he was good-hearted, loyal, and loved us fiercely. But I saw his strength, his quiet power, his protective rage. He might not be academically brilliant, but he possessed a deep, unwavering loyalty and a shrewd understanding of how to defend what was his. And in that moment, in our small, humid house, with our baby girl finally sleeping soundly, I knew I had the best husband a woman could ask for. He was my protector, my rock, and he made our little family feel safe, no matter what the world threw at us.

[bellarkeselection]

I See You - Jake Seresin

Jake and the reader clearly have feelings for each other but Y/n refuses to admit anything to him until Jake eventually comforts her to find out why

Tags - @rootedinrevisions @kmc1989 @elenavampire21 - let me know your thoughts below in the comments below ❤️ and also reblog

The hum of the air conditioning unit was a familiar lullaby in the small, windowless office I called my sanctuary. Papers, charts, and digital readouts cluttered my desk, each one a piece of the intricate puzzle that was naval aviation. I leaned closer to the monitor, squinting slightly, and adjusted the scale of the topographical map. My eyes, they were good enough, always had been. Just not… perfect. Born premature, I’d been given a few ‘gifts’: lungs that preferred to take their sweet time, and vision that liked a challenge. But I’d never let those ‘gifts’ define me. My name is Y/N L/N, and I was an intelligence analyst at TOPGUN, which meant my job was to see what others missed.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the only person around here who actually manages to look busy without breaking a sweat.”

I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The drawling Southern charm, the casual confidence in the voice – it belonged to one Jake “Hangman” Seresin. I straightened up, pushing my glasses further up my nose, and turned my chair. He was leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips, flight suit unzipped to reveal a crisp white t-shirt underneath. Always looking like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot.

“Seresin,” I replied, a dry smile touching my lips. “You couldn’t look busy if your life depended on it. And my secret? It’s called actual work, something you seem allergic to.”

He chuckled, a rich, pleasing sound. “Ouch, L/N. Right for the jugular. And here I thought I’d come to offer you a reprieve from all that… actual work.” He pushed off the frame, stepping into my office, making the modest space feel suddenly much smaller. He moved with an easy grace that belied the power contained within.

“A reprieve?” I raised an eyebrow. “Last time you offered a ‘reprieve,’ it involved me sorting through your laundry for your lost lucky charm.”

“Hey! That was a crucial mission!” he protested, feigning offense. “And you found it, didn’t you? Proved my point. You’ve got an eye for detail, Y/N.” He leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Which is exactly why I need your expert opinion on the mess hall’s new ‘mystery meat’ special tonight. Is it beef? Pig? Or just… a cry for help?”

I laughed, shaking my head. Jake was a master of turning mundane interactions into an entertaining performance. He had a way of charming everyone, even those who claimed to dislike him. And me? I was no exception. I enjoyed his company, his endless banter, the way his eyes crinkled when he genuinely smiled. I’d seen him tease Maverick, spar with Rooster, and still manage to be the most self-assured man in the room.

Over the next few weeks, our encounters became more frequent. Briefing room discussions extended into lingering conversations in the corridors. He’d seek me out in the mess hall, always sliding into the seat opposite me, a saucy remark ready on his tongue. He started bringing me coffee – black, two sugars, just how I liked it, a detail I hadn’t even realized he’d picked up on.

“You know, Y/N,” he drawled one afternoon, watching me methodically organize a stack of tactical intel reports. “For someone who avoids eye contact so well, you sure got a way of seeing right through me.”

I felt a blush creep up my neck, warming my cheeks. He was astute, almost unnervingly so. My low vision often made direct, prolonged eye contact uncomfortable, almost dizzying. It was easier to look at foreheads, mouths, or simply the space beside someone’s head. And the truth was, I did see through his bravado, to the sharp mind and surprisingly considerate man beneath.

“Or maybe,” I countered, not looking up from my papers, “you’re just remarkably transparent, Seresin. Like a bad piece of Plexiglas.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair, stretching his long legs out. “That’s a new one. I think I like it.” His gaze lingered on me, and I felt a familiar flicker of nerves, a tightening in my chest that had nothing to do with my lungs and everything to do with him.

He was a pilot, a formidable one. He saw the world from 30,000 feet, clear, crisp, and boundless. And me? I was tied to the ground, my world a little fuzzier around the edges, my breathing sometimes a little tighter than a normal person’s. I liked him. More than liked him. I’d caught myself fantasizing about that cocky grin being aimed solely at me, about those strong hands touching mine. But the moment those thoughts solidified, a cold dread would set in. What would he see when he truly looked? Would he see Y/N, or would he see the list of physical limitations?

One evening, after a particularly grueling simulation briefing, I was walking back to my quarters. My lungs felt a little heavy, a familiar sensation when I’d been under prolonged stress. I wasn’t out of breath, just a subtle tightness, a reminder that they were still working hard. I slowed my pace, taking a few quiet, deeper breaths.

“You alright there, L/N?” Jake’s voice startled me. He was walking beside me, having apparently caught up without me noticing.

“Yeah, fine,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Just enjoying the… brisk evening air.”

He squinted, then seemed to scan my face. “You look a little… pale. Everything good?” His voice held a note of genuine concern, stripped of its usual playful edge.

“Perfectly fine,” I insisted, forcing a bright smile. “Just a long day. Intel analysis is exhausting, you know. Unlike flying around in circles, which I’m sure is a total breeze.”

He didn’t push it, much to my relief. But I knew he’d noticed. He always noticed. And that scared me.

The flirtation intensified over the following weeks, reaching a fever pitch. Every interaction felt charged, a silent question hanging in the air. He’d touch my arm “accidentally” as he reached for a file, his fingers brushing against mine. He’d linger a moment too long when standing beside me. His eyes would hold mine for seconds longer than strictly necessary, and there was a yearning there, a vulnerability I hadn’t known he possessed.

“You know, Y/N,” he said one day, catching me by the coffee machine. “If you keep looking at my flight plans like that, I might just have to hire you as my personal co-pilot. For life.” He grinned, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

My heart hammered against my ribs. For life. But I just chuckled, my voice perhaps a little too light. “Oh, please. You’d crash a paper airplane if I wasn’t here to draw you a map. Besides, I prefer to keep my feet firmly on the ground.”

His grin faltered. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice losing some of its usual lightheartedness. “You really don’t ever want to fly?”

I shrugged. “Not really my thing, Seresin. Happy down here.” I turned, ostensibly to get my coffee, but really to escape the intensity of his gaze.

He stopped me, his hand gently but firmly on my arm. “Are you kidding me? We’ve been doing this dance for weeks, Y/N. You really gonna pretend you don’t feel anything?” His voice was low, frustrated, almost pained.

I froze, caught. I could feel his gaze on me, drilling into my very soul. My carefully constructed walls felt like they were crumbling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumbled, trying to pull away.

He didn’t let go. “Bull. You and I, we’ve got something. I feel it, you feel it. So why are you running?”

My breath caught in my throat. This was it. The moment I’d dreaded. I couldn’t articulate the words, the fear rising like bile. I just shook my head, avoiding his eyes, desperate to escape. “No.”

His voice was suddenly sharp, utterly devoid of charm. “We’re doing this. Now.”

He pulled me, not roughly, but with an undeniable purpose, guiding me out of the busy corridor and into an empty, quiet briefing room. He shut the door behind us, the click echoing in the sudden silence.

“Alright, L/N,” he said, his arms crossed, his stance wide, like a man bracing himself for a fight. But his eyes, though frustrated, held a deep sadness. “What is it? What are you so scared of? Every time I get close, you bolt. Every time I hint at something real, you throw up a joke. For God’s sake, Y/N, just tell me.”

My vision blurred, not from my eyes, but from unshed tears. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, pressing down on my chest. I felt exposed, vulnerable, naked without my usual shield of sarcasm and wit.

“You don’t understand,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

“Then make me understand!” he snapped, his patience finally worn to a thread. “I’m here. I’m listening. Tell me why you keep me at arm’s length. Tell me why you act like I’m going to run for the hills the second I actually get to know you.”

The dam broke. The words tumbled out, raw and painful, things I’d kept locked away for years. “Because I’m not like you, Jake! I’m not perfect! I’m not… flawless!” I gestured vaguely at myself. “I was born early. My lungs? They’re not great. I get tired. I sometimes have to stop and catch my breath. And my eyes…” I finally met his gaze, my own swimming. “I don’t see everything perfectly. The world’s a little blurry, a little dimmer around the edges for me. I have to lean in to read things. I miss things that are far away. I’m… I’m not normal, Jake.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to continue. “You’re Jake Seresin. Hangman. You’re top of your class. You’re a pilot, for crying out loud! You could have anyone. Someone who can keep up, someone who doesn’t have… limitations. Why would you want someone who comes with all this baggage?” My voice cracked on the last word. “I thought… I thought you’d see me, really see me, and it would change everything. That you’d see the flaws and just… walk away.”

He stared at me, his expression softening from frustration to something I couldn’t quite decipher. A moment passed, then another, the silence deafening. I braced myself for the polite rejection, the awkward apology.

Then, he moved. He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing directly in front of me. His large hands, the same ones that expertly controlled a supersonic jet, gently cupped my face. His thumbs brushed over my cheekbones, wiping away the tears I hadn’t realized were falling.

“Hold on,” he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle, all the cockiness gone, replaced by a profound tenderness. “Is that… is that what this is about?” His brow furrowed, a look of disbelief on his face. “Y/N, darlin’, bless your heart, you really think that’s what I care about?”

I just looked at him, too choked up to speak.

“Look at me, Y/N. Just look at me.” His eyes, so blue and intense, held mine. “I see you, alright? I see you, Y/N L/N. I see the smartest, most tenacious woman I’ve ever met. I see the wit that makes me laugh even when I’m pissed off. I see the quiet strength that lets you tackle a job a dozen other people would buckle under. I see the woman who makes me feel… calm, and seen, in a way no one else ever has.”

He paused, leaning a little closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And frankly, the fact that you do what you do – every single day, with that kind of precision and dedication – despite all that? Makes you even more incredible.”

He didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch. His touch was firm, reassuring. “You think I haven’t noticed? Of course I have. I noticed you take a moment when you’ve been on your feet too long. I noticed you lean a little closer to the screens. But you know what I saw when I noticed? I saw someone who doesn’t let anything stop her. Someone who just… finds another way. You don’t ask for pity, you don’t make excuses. You just do. And that, Y/N, is what drew me to you. Not something that would ever push me away.”

My breath hitched. His words, so honest and sincere, were a balm to the raw, festering wound of my insecurities. All this time, I’d been so afraid, and he’d been seeing a strength I hadn’t even realized I was projecting.

“You’re… you’re not bothered?” I whispered, the absurdity of my fear finally hitting me.

He let out a soft, exasperated sigh, a fond smile finally touching his lips. “Bothered? Darlin’, you’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met. And if your vision means you sometimes focus harder, or your lungs make you take a beat, those are just… parts of what makes you you. They don’t make you less. They make you real. And they sure as hell don’t change the way I feel when I look at you.”

His gaze dropped to my lips, and a shiver ran through me. “Which, by the way,” he added, his voice low and husky, “is entirely too much to ignore anymore.”

He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. But I didn’t. I leaned into him, my hands coming up to grasp his wrists, grounding myself. His lips, soft and warm, met mine, tasting of coffee and a hint of mint. It was a gentle kiss, hesitant at first, then deepening as I responded, pouring all the pent-up emotion, the fear, the relief, into it. It wasn’t a kiss of bravado, or playful charm. It was a kiss of deep, genuine affection, of understanding, and a promise.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. His eyes, still full of warmth, searched mine. “So,” he whispered, his thumb still stroking my cheek. “Are we still running, L/N? Or are we finally going to admit that this… us… is something worth seeing through?”

I smiled, a real, unfettered smile that reached my eyes. “Seresin,” I replied, my voice a little shaky, but firm. “I don’t run anymore. And I have a feeling, with you, this is something I want to see very, very clearly.”

[bellarkeselection]

The Longest Ride, 2015 

The lives of a young couple intertwine with a much older man, as he reflects back on a past love.