bellarkeselection

[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.

[bellarkeselection]

Would you write a Tyrion x reader where they're betrothed and he can tell she's unhappy about it which upsets him because he really likes her and he confronts her about it thinking it's about his dwarfism but she tells him it's because she's heard he drinks a lot and sleeps with whores

Fearing his Reputation

The news arrived like a raven with wings of lead, dropping its heavy message directly into my lap. I remember the parchment, thick and creamy, embossed with the snarling lion of House Lannister. My father, Lord L/n, had read it aloud in the austere quiet of our solar, his voice devoid of all inflection save for a faint, unreadable triumph.

“His Grace, King Joffrey, in his infinite wisdom and benevolence,” Father had intoned, "has seen fit to grant a union between our houses. My daughter, Y/n, will be wed to Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, son of the Hand of the King.”

The world, for a moment, had tilted on its axis. My hand, resting casually on the armrest of my chair, tightened into a white-knuckled fist. The Imp. The whispers echoed in my mind, hushed and malicious, painting a picture of a man I knew only through tavern songs and the cruel jests of court. Drunkeness, whoremongering, the debauched life of a dwarf shunned by his own family. It was a common tale in Westeros, a man of his stature often finding solace in the bottom of a goblet and the arms of women who asked no questions. My future, it seemed, was to be shackled to this repute.

I had managed a brittle smile, a murmured acceptance, but inside, a cold dread had begun to seep into my bones. It wasn't his dwarfism that gave me pause. I had seen men of all shapes and sizes, and a man’s stature rarely dictated the content of his heart. No, it was the other things they said. The constant, unending revelry. The parade of women. I was a lady, raised on duty and decorum. The thought of bearing children with a man whose essence was steeped in wine and women of the street, whose affections were paid for, whose nights were spent in a stupor… it chilled me to the marrow.

We were summoned to King’s Landing not a fortnight later, our small retinue swallowed by the grandeur and grime of the capital. The Red Keep loomed, a monstrous presence against the sky, promising a gilded cage. My first meeting with Lord Tyrion was, by all accounts, cordial. He was seated at a council meeting when I was presented, his sharp mind evident even from across the room. Later, he sought me out in the castle gardens.

He was smaller than I had imagined, but his presence was anything but diminished. His eyes, one green, one black, sparkled with an unnerving intelligence, and his tongue was quick, weaving witty remarks that startled laughter from those around him. He spoke to me with a surprising deference, asking about my journey, my home, my interests. He was charming, yes, and disarmingly direct, but every pleasantry felt like a delicate dance, and I, a reluctant partner.

I found myself politeness itself, answering his questions with appropriate grace, never too effusive, never too cold. My replies were measured, my smiles small and fleeting, my gaze often drifting beyond him, to the crimson walls or the distant shimmering Blackwater. I watched him, wary and distant, searching for the tell-tale signs of the man I had heard so much about. Did his eyes linger too long on my serving girls? Did his hand stray towards the wine goblet with undue haste? The very suspicion seemed to taint every interaction.

Days bled into a fortnight, then a month. The wedding date was set. Tyrion made a concerted effort to court me, as much as one could within the confines of the Red Keep. He sent me books from his vast library, stories of history and adventure, knowing I enjoyed reading. He would seek me out for walks in the godswood, or invite me to accompany him to observe the Small Council meetings – a rare privilege for a woman. He even tried to teach me Cyvasse, a game I found frustratingly complex but which he played with a mischievous delight.

Through it all, my mask remained firmly in place. I was civil, appreciative even, but my heart remained a stone in my chest. Each time he spoke of our future, of our shared home, a knot tightened in my stomach. The thought of his touch, his breath against my skin, was not one of anticipation, but of quiet dread. I could not shake the image of him stumbling home drunk, reeking of cheap perfume, his mind hazy with wine. It was a visceral revulsion, and it was becoming harder to conceal.

He noticed. Of course, he did. Tyrion Lannister was nothing if not perceptive. I saw the shadows deepen in his mismatched eyes when my forced smile didn't quite reach them, or when I subtly shifted away from his gaze. I caught him watching me from across the Great Hall, a pensive, almost wounded expression on his face. He’d offer a jest, and my polite chuckle would fall flat, leaving a strained silence in its wake. There was a vulnerability in his eyes I hadn't expected, a genuine hurt that chipped away at my resolve, but couldn’t quite break through the fear.

One crisp afternoon, as the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and violet, he found me in the castle’s less-frequented garden, by a fountain whose waters had long since ceased to flow. I was sketching a lone, gnarled tree, lost in the quiet solitude.

"A pensive mood, Lady Y/n?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, devoid of its customary sharp wit. He approached slowly, not intruding on my space but making his presence known.

I startled, closing my sketchpad. "Lord Tyrion. Forgive me, I did not hear you approach."

He settled onto a stone bench near me, his gaze fixed not on me, but on the silent fountain. His face was uncharacteristically serious, the usual humor lines around his eyes smoothed out by a deeper concern. "You avoid me."

It wasn't a question, but an observation, blunt and direct. My breath hitched. "I do not, my lord. I merely… value my solitude."

"Your solitude," he echoed, turning his head to look at me, his eyes piercing. "Or your escape from our company?"

I stiffened. "I assure you, I find your company quite… stimulating." It was a lie, of course. Stimulating, yes, but also filled with a constant, simmering anxiety.

He let out a sigh, a sound heavy with weariness. "Y/n," he began, and the use of my given name, unadorned by title, made me flinch inwardly. "We are to be wed. Our lives are to be entwined, for better or worse, for all time. And yet, you look at me as if I were a particularly unpleasant duty. Do you think I haven't noticed your aversion? Your polite distance? Your carefully constructed smiles that never quite reach your eyes?"

My cheeks flushed, hot with a mixture of indignation and shame. I couldn't deny it.

He finally met my gaze, and I saw a raw pain there, a deep-seated hurt that resonated with the many times he must have felt judged. "I understand, Lady Y/n," he continued, his voice low, a tremor of emotion barely controlled. "I am not blind to myself. I know what I am. A dwarf, a monstrous aberration in the eyes of many. An object of ridicule and scorn. I am well accustomed to the disdain, to the way people recoil, to the whispers that follow me like a shadow."

He paused, taking a slow, shaky breath. "Tell me truly, Y/n. Is it… is it my height that offends you so profoundly? Is it the sight of me that makes you dread this union?" His voice was barely a whisper, laced with a vulnerability that surprised me. "If it is, then say it. Say it plainly. Do not let me delude myself into believing there is hope for us, when all you feel is disgust for the man who will be your husband."

His words struck me like a physical blow. The shame I felt earlier intensified, but it was now mixed with a sudden, unexpected pity. He thought… he thought I hated him for his dwarfism. He thought I was like all the others. And in that moment, seeing the true depth of his pain, something within me snapped. The carefully constructed wall I had built around myself began to crumble.

"No," I said, the word coming out sharp and strangled. My voice shook, but the truth, once unleashed, gained strength. "No, Lord Tyrion, it is not your height. It never was."

He blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes, quickly replaced by confusion. "Then what is it?"

I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. This was it. The moment of truth. I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "It is… the whispers, my lord. The things they say. The tales that precede you."

His brow furrowed. "What tales?" The look on his face was genuine bewilderment.

"They say," I continued, finding my voice, my gaze now unwavering, "that you drink excessively. That you spend your nights in taverns and brothels. That you live a dissolute life, mired in wine and… and women of ill repute." My voice grew stronger with each word, the hurt and fear I had bottled up for weeks now pouring out. "They say you are never sober, that you spend your coin and your nights on whores, that you are a man entirely without restraint or temperance."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant cawing of a raven. His expression transformed, first into a mask of stunned disbelief, then a flicker of annoyance, and finally, a profound sadness I had not thought him capable of. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on the darkening sky, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping his lips.

"Ah," he finally said, the single syllable thick with a sarcasm that was entirely new to me, yet achingly familiar in its pain. "So that's it. The 'Imp' is not so bad, but the 'Whoremonger' is beyond the pale." He turned back to me, his gaze now intense, assessing. "And you believe these tales?"

"I… I have heard them from many sources," I admitted, my eyes dropping to my hands clasped tightly in my lap. "From court ladies, from servants, from the merchants who travel from King's Landing to our lands. They speak of your… proclivities… as if they were common knowledge."

He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of years of misjudgment. "Lady Y/n," he began, his voice softer now, devoid of mockery, tinged with a weariness that went beyond simple fatigue. "Let me assure you, the tales are often exaggerated. But," he added, his honesty stark, "they are not entirely untrue."

My head snapped up, my eyes wide. I hadn’t expected him to admit it.

He met my gaze directly. "Yes, I drink. More than is perhaps advisable. And yes, I have sought… companionship… in places not fit for ladies of your station." He paused, a wry, self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. "But tell me, Lady Y/n, what else was I to do? All my life, I have been judged, scorned, and hated for the simple misfortune of my birth. My own family, my own father, despises me. I am a Lannister in name, but never truly in their hearts. They look at me and see only a grotesque mockery. What solace was there to be found in the halls of the Red Keep, where every glance was a judgment, every whisper a condemnation?"

His voice dropped, becoming almost a confession. "The wine, it dulls the edges of the disdain. And the women… the women in those establishments, they see a man who pays, yes, but they also see a man who listens, who speaks, who can laugh without judgment. They don't look at my height and then dismiss my words. They don’t sneer at my very existence. For a few hours, I am simply Tyrion, capable of wit, capable of kindness, capable of… being heard."

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped, his gaze fixed on mine, earnest and raw. "It has been my way of coping, Lady Y/n. A poor one, perhaps, but a coping nonetheless. I sought escape from a world that had no place for me. I never intended to bring that world to your doorstep. I never intended to inflict it upon a woman I… a woman who deserves better."

His honesty was disarming, devastating in its simplicity. I had expected defiance, excuses, perhaps even anger. Not this raw, unvarnished truth. The image of the debauched whoremonger began to recede, replaced by a picture of a man wounded, lonely, seeking solace where he could find it. The weight on my chest lessened, replaced by a strange ache in my heart. Pity, yes, but also a dawning understanding.

"I… I didn't know," I whispered, feeling the guilt of my assumptions wash over me. "I only heard the rumors. I didn't consider… the reasons."

He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Few do. It is easier to believe the worst, is it not? Especially of a Lannister dwarf." He paused, searching my face. "Does this change anything, Lady Y/n? Or does it merely confirm your worst fears?"

I looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time without the veil of prejudice I had unknowingly worn. I saw a man scarred not by his body, but by the world's cruelty. A man intelligent, witty, yes, but also deeply vulnerable. And, in that vulnerable state, surprisingly candid.

"It changes things, Lord Tyrion," I admitted, my voice a little stronger now, imbued with a newfound clarity. "It… it paints a different picture. A more… human one." I reached out, hesitantly, and placed my hand on his arm, a gesture of comfort I hadn't thought myself capable of moments before. His skin felt warm beneath my palm, a stark contrast to the chill in the air.

He looked down at my hand on his arm, then back up at me, a flicker of hope, fragile and tentative, in his mismatched eyes. "So," he murmured, his voice soft, "the Whoremonger might not be entirely irredeemable?"

I managed a small, genuine smile this time, a real one that reached my eyes. "Perhaps," I said, a lightness entering my tone. "Perhaps the Imp has been misunderstood. Perhaps… we could try. We could try to know each other, Lord Tyrion. Not the rumors, not the titles, but the people we truly are."

He held my gaze, and a slow, reciprocal smile spread across his face, far more genuine than any I had seen him wear before. "Lady Y/n," he said, his voice regaining a touch of its familiar wit, yet infused with an unexpected tenderness, "I believe that is the most hopeful thing anyone has said to me in a very long time. And I would very much like to try."

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a final, fiery flourish. The air grew colder, but a new, tentative warmth had begun to bloom between us, chasing away the shadows of prejudice and whispered lies. Our betrothal was still a political maneuver, our future still uncertain in this cruel game of thrones. But for the first time, I felt a flicker of something akin to curiosity, even anticipation. Perhaps this forced union would not be merely a gilded cage, but a pathway to a different kind of life, built on honesty and understanding, rather than the poisoned whispers of the court.

[bellarkeselection]

Glen Powell Imagines Masterlist

Contains SMUT*

Holidays marked with Emojis: Imagines Christmas-🎄 Valentine’s-❤️ New Year’s-🎉 Fourth of July-🇺🇸 Spicy (SMUT)-🌶

Requests are open. Message me on here or Wattpad.

Glen Powell Imagines

Unlike Anyone Else

Bother Me

Home For Christmas 🎄

All I Want

A Night On The Couch

Friendly Set-Up

Wedding Nerves

A Not-So-Lonely Valentine's Day ❤️

Big Brother's Wedding, Part 2

Not Supposed To Hear That

Easter Family Dinner 🐣

Harsh Fights and Harsher Revelations

Dancing To Break Open

Dare Me

Hypothetical

Long Time, No See

An Almost Miss, Part 2

Tyler Owens Imagines

Frozen In Time

Hypocritical Tornado Wrangler

Car Troubles, Part 2

Unlikely Hero

My Archenemy

Not The Abandoning Type

Handy Ranch Man

Nothing Left To Lose

Look At His Face

Left Behind

Not Impressed, Part 2

Jake "Hangman" Seresin – Top Gun Imagines

Not Hangman To Her

Baby Mav, Part 2

Familiar Faces, Part 2

Hey, Bartender, Part 2

Furiously Passionate

Over-Protective Wingman

Hangman's Unreadable Crush

Much Needed Help

Better Than Revenge

Hitman - Gary Johnson Imagines

A Different Kind of Client, Part 2

A Little Over Protective, Part 2

Full of Surprises

Number 1 Client, Part 2

Such A Cliché

The Truth Can Be Confusing

Covers Blown

The Life We Choose

Charlie (Set It Up) Imagines

Misery Loves Company

Always Second Place

Life As Roommates

Don't Take Their Sh**

Hard To Earn

Ben (Anyone But You) Imagines

In The Past

Plan B

John Glenn (Hidden Figures) Imagines

Love At First Sight

One Last Chance

A Long Farewell

🌶 Spicy Glen Powell Imagines🌶

Neighbors With Benefits 🌶 (Glen)

About Damn Time 🌶 (Jake Seresin)

Little Bit of Help 🌶 (Glen)

Sexy Assistants 🌶 (Charlie)

In Need of A Little Guidance 🌶 (Glen)

*Breaking The Manwhore 🌶 (Glen)

No More Secrets 🌶 (Tyler Owens)

Full Novels

Along For The Ride

[bellarkeselection]

I want to use Brianne Howey from Ginny & Georgia as an OC face claim, but I don't know for which character ( who should be her love interest ) or for what Fandom.

What fandom or character do you want me to write about with her. It can be for any fandom even if it's not already been written for by me.

Let me know your thoughts

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[bellarkeselection]

[bellarkeselection]

[bellarkeselection]

Sweet Tea & Sunsets

Summary: When Jake “Hangman” Seresin brings his girlfriend home to Texas for the first time, she steps into a world of wide open skies, loud sibling laughter, and a deck that holds more stories than the family photo albums. Between grilled dinners under string lights, sweet tea on the deck, and the kind of teasing that only comes from real love, she begins to see a softer side of the Navy pilot.

Warnings: Light alcohol use.

Word Count: 2,831

Author's Note: This is my first of 4 entries for the Summer Writing challenge I signed up for as part of @echoingbirdsofprey 's Discord! If you are a fanfic writer (or writer of any kind or just enjoy talking to really cool people like myself) feel free to shoot her a message to get the link to join! Hope you guys enjoy!

Prompt: Eating Outside

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

The sun hung low in the sky, casting everything in gold as Jake eased the truck up the long gravel driveway. You could smell the dry earth, the faint sweetness of freshly mowed grass. Beyond the windshield, a white farmhouse came into view. It was modest but charming with a wide porch wrapped around it.

Jake shifted the truck into park, then exhaled.

“This is it” he said, smiling softly as he looked over at you.

There was something different about him in that moment. The lines on his face had seemed to soften. Here he wasn’t Hangman. He was just Jake.

You stepped out into the warm evening air, the cicadas already buzzing in the trees on the edge of the property. You made your way to the front of the truck, and Jake met you there. He reached for your hand, and once your fingers laced together, he didn’t let go.

“You ready?” He asked as he walked you up toward the porch.

Laughter drifted out through the screen door. You took a deep breath, feeling some nerves start to bubble inside you.

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice low and certain. “They’re gonna love you.”

Before you even realized what was happening the front screen door subpoenaed.

“Jakey!” A little voice squealed, and then a blur of pink launched off the porch steps.

Jake let go of your hand as he laughed, and reached down to scoop up the tiny little body mid-run.

“There’s my Lilah bug!” He said, spinning her once before settling her on his hip. 

From the porch, a hound dog howled once before bounding down the steps, ears flapping. Another set of little feet followed, trying and failing to corral the redbone puppy at his heels.

“Duke! No! Don’t jump! DUKE!”

Jake reached for your hand just as the pup came skidding across the gravel. You gripped his fingers tightly, caught between laughing and dodging paws.

“Easy, buddy,” Jake said, dropping a hand to scratch behind the puppy’s ears. “He’s bigger than last time.”

“So’s your ego,” called a voice from the porch. A woman stood with one hand on her hip and a glass of sweet tea in the other.  You assumed from her appearance that it was Hallie, Jake’s older sister. “Took you long enough to come home.”

Behind her, a flurry of voices rose as the screen door banged again. A small army emerged: Dustin, Hallie’s husband, smiling shyly behind her. Brooks, Jake’s nephew, panting from chasing the dog.  Linda, Jake’s mom, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she stepped forward, eyes locked on her son.

Jake’s grip on your hand didn’t loosen, not even as the chaos swirled around you.

“Hi, Mama,” he said, voice softening.

Linda didn’t speak right away. She just wrapped her arms around him and held tight for a moment too long. Then she stepped back and looked you over with kind, curious eyes.

“So this must be the girl we’ve heard about,” she said. “I’m Linda. Come here, sugar, give me a hug.”

Before you could blink, you were swept into a warm hug. Linda pulled back with a smile full of genuine welcome. “You hungry? We’ve got lots of food and cold beer, and Cheryl made her famous potato salad.”

“Aunt Cheryl?” Jake asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Inside already,” Hallie said. “Trying to keep Pops from sneaking peach cobbler before dinner.”

As if on cue, the screen door creaked open again.

“Look what the wind blew in.” A tall, broad shouldered man stepped out from behind the screen door, a cane in one hand and a beer in the other. His white hair curled around his ears, and his eyes, green just like Jake’s, twinkled with something both sharp and soft.

“Pops,” Jake said, releasing your hand long enough to hug him tight. “Still kickin’, huh?”

“Still drinkin’, too,” Hank replied. “Though I’d trade this beer for five minutes in that plane of yours.”

Jake’s face softened, and he nodded. “One day, Pops.”

Just then, the screen door banged again.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a woman with bright pink lipstick and wild curls said, stepping out and adjusting her sunglasses. “If it isn’t my favorite nephew.”

“You only have one,” Jake shot back.

She grinned. “Exactly.”

The porch burst into laughter. A dog barked. Someone yelled from the kitchen about sweet tea. And in the midst of it all, Jake looked at you like he’d never been more at home.

* * * * *

The back deck looked like something out of a southern summer postcard. String lights crisscrossed overhead, glowing golden against the slowly darkening sky. The sun had dipped just low enough to cut the heat, leaving behind the kind of warmth that clung to bare shoulders and made cold drinks taste colder.

The long wooden table was already half covered in mismatched dishes—bowls of baked beans, coleslaw, someone’s famous mac and cheese, and a tray of deviled eggs that were down to their final four. Mason jars full of sweet tea and lemonade sweated in the center, right next to a six-pack of Lone Star that had clearly been raided more than once.

Jake stood at the grill like he owned the place, spatula in hand and a beer tucked into the crook of his arm. You sat at the table, angled to watch him work, but also to take in the symphony of chaos happening around you.

Brooks and Lilah were weaving between legs, still hyped up from Jake’s arrival, and Duke the puppy was following behind with his nose to the ground like a bloodhound on a mission. Pops sat in a rocking chair near the edge of the deck, plate already in hand because “ain’t no reason to wait when you’re damn near ninety,” and Maggie curled at his feet like she hadn’t moved in hours.

Linda floated in and out of the sliding door, replenishing drinks, giving the kids warnings they completely ignored, and somehow still managing to get the napkins folded just right.

“Food’s up!” Jake called a few minutes later, and chairs scraped back from the table like a starting pistol had gone off.

Plates were passed, burgers stacked high with tomato slices and onions, and the scent of grilled meat mixed with the warm honey-butter rolls Aunt Cheryl brought in foil-covered baskets. You didn’t even realize how hungry you were until your first bite, and suddenly everything tasted like comfort.

“So,” Linda started, eyeing you across the table, “You’ve seen Jake in a flight suit, but have you seen him in a batting helmet with braces and a black eye?”

You choked on your sweet tea and looked at Jake, who just shook his head.

“No, but now I want to.”

“Please tell her the story, mom,” Hallie begged. “This one’s my favorite.”

Jake groaned and leaned back in his chair, beer in hand. “Y’all don’t have to scare her off on day one.”

“Oh, this won’t scare her. This’ll just make her smarter,” Hallie replied.

Jake’s mom leaned forward. “Picture it: high school playoff game. Jake’s up to bat. Girl he’s been flirting with is watching from the bleachers, right? He’s showboating.”

“She smiled first,” Jake muttered under his breath.

“Anyway,” Linda continued, “he hits the ball, and sends it sailing over the fence. Starts running bases like he’s already in the major leagues. But the catcher? Mad. He thinks Jake showed him up. So he ‘accidentally’ elbows Jake in the jaw as he’s rounding home.”

Jake pointed his beer bottle at her. “He got benched for that, by the way.”

“Jake falls flat on his ass, and gets a black eye,” Hallie added. “Still got the girl, though.”

“He did,” Linda said. “Took her to prom even.”

“Did she dump you the next day?” Hallie asked sweetly.

“No,” Jake said, nudging your knee under the table. “She dumped me two days later.”

You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh, but it was impossible. The mental image was too good.

Jake leaned toward you a moment later, his voice low so only you could hear. “Wanna know the real story?”

You turned, chin resting on your hand. “Obviously.”

“I hit that homer. Did the whole smug jog, sure. But the catcher and I had beef. I’d been talking trash all season. That elbow wasn’t an accident.”

You grinned. “So you earned the black eye.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But she kissed me after, and said it made me look rugged.”

You snorted into your drink. “Of course she did.”

Jake’s hand slid over your knee under the table, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles. He looked more relaxed here than anywhere you’d ever seen him.

Pops cleared his throat from the other side of the deck. “Don’t let ‘em fool you,” he said. “That boy’s always been a little too proud, but he’s got a good heart. He used to carry his grandma’s groceries three blocks in July heat just to keep her from walkin’. And he fixed Linda’s car when he was fifteen with a manual and a prayer.”

Jake groaned again. “Pops—”

“You hush,” Pops said, waving a fork. “She deserves to know what she’s getting into.”

Aunt Cheryl added, “What she’s getting into is a whole lotta trouble with that grin of his. But the boy shows up. Always has.”

You looked over at Jake then, and reached under the table to take his hand. He gave yours a light squeeze, and for a second the noise seemed to fade around you. For that second it felt like you and Jake were alone in the middle of it all.

Then Duke yelped, having discovered that one of the kiddos left a hot dog unattended, and had helped himself to it.

As the evening stretched on and plates emptied, the conversation turned loose and lazy, winding like the breeze through the oak trees. Someone cracked open another beer, and Linda disappeared inside for the peach cobbler. 

Jake leaned close and murmured, “C’mon, before they rope us into dishes,” with a conspiratorial grin. 

You didn’t hesitate. With fingers still laced through his, he led you through the back door and down the quiet hallway, his thumb brushing gently over yours. The moment you stepped onto the front porch, the air shifted. It was softer, quieter, just the two of you.

Jake took your hand and led you over to the old porch swing. As you sat, it creaked softly beneath you and Jake, swaying in slow rhythm as the evening cooled around your bare shoulders.

Jake leaned back, one arm stretched along the swing behind you. The other held a dripping bowl of vanilla ice cream, two spoons wedged inside.

You took one, scooping a bite of creamy sweetness and groaning softly at how cold and perfect it tasted.

Jake smiled. “Thought you might need dessert after surviving dinner interrogation.”

“You mean the roast of Jake Seresin?” you teased, nudging his knee with yours. “Honestly, it was the best show I’ve seen in months.”

He chuckled, spooning a bite for himself. “They’re relentless.”

“They love you.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, looking out at the driveway where the heat shimmer had finally faded. “They do.”

The porch swing rocked again. Crickets sang in the distance, and the stars blinked down through a haze of warm summer air. Jake went quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful as he scraped his spoon along the bowl.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “You okay?”

Jake glanced over, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah.”

You waited.

After a beat, he sighed and looked out over the yard. “I’m good. Just…it’s been a while since I was here like this.”

“Like this?” you echoed gently.

He was quiet for a moment. “With someone.”

You didn’t push, just let the silence fill the spaces he hadn’t found the words for yet.

Finally, he glanced down at his lap, thumb rubbing along the edge of the bowl. “I haven’t brought anyone home since high school. Not since Amber.”

Your brows lifted slightly. You’d heard the name before, just a few times in passing. A chapter he didn’t talk about much. A chapter you had learned not to ask about.

“She was part of this world,” he said, voice low. “Knew the way my mom folds laundry, knew how Pops takes his coffee, knew how to talk to Hallie without getting steamrolled.” He laughed quietly. “It felt easy back then. Familiar.”

You offered another small spoonful to him, and he accepted it with a half smile.

“I didn’t think I’d bring anyone else back,” he continued. “Didn’t think it’d feel right.”

Your voice was soft. “But it does now?”

Jake looked at you then, eyes catching the low golden glow of the string lights from around the house.

“Yeah,” he said. “It feels right with you.”

Your heart fluttered. You reached for the bowl again, scooping another bite and laughing when the melted edge dribbled down your chin.

Jake leaned in before you could wipe it away, thumb brushing gently across your skin, right at the corner of your mouth.

“Can’t take you anywhere,” he said, grin tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you handed him the bowl. “This counts as a date, you know. Eating ice cream under the stars with a view of your mom’s rose bushes.”

He gave an exaggerated nod. “Romantic. Possibly award worthy.”

You leaned in closer, voice low. “It kind of is.”

Jake’s face softened as he looked at you, one hand still cradling the bowl of mostly melted ice cream between you.

You smiled and leaned your head against his shoulder, the swing rocking gently beneath you.

“I like it here,” you whispered. “I like seeing this side of you.”

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You’re still Hangman,” you said, teasing. “But you’re also just...Jake. And I really like him too.”

He squeezed your hand and leaned his cheek against your hair, and for a long moment, the two of you just rocked in the quiet, the stars above and the summer night all around you.

The porch swing had just started its lazy sway again when the screen door creaked open behind you.

Linda stepped out, a dish towel still slung over her shoulder, her expression soft in the warm glow of the porch light. She gave Jake a knowing look before turning her smile on you.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said gently, walking over. “Just wanted to let y’all know that I got Hallie’s old room made up for you, sweetheart. Fresh sheets, window open to catch the breeze.”

You sat up a little, touched by the thoughtfulness. “Thank you, that’s really sweet of you.”

Jake cleared his throat beside you. “That’s real nice, Mama. Though, you know, my room’s got a bigger bed,” he offered casually, with a faint smirk, like he was mostly joking... but maybe not completely.

Linda raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Your room also has that creaky ceiling fan. Wouldn’t want the poor girl being kept up all night.” She turned back to you with a wink. “A good night’s sleep in your own space never hurt anybody. Especially under my roof.”

You smiled, understanding exactly what she was saying, and appreciating how kindly she said it.

Jake held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes ma’am.”

Eventually, the sounds from the backyard faded, the string lights dimming as the family began to drift inside. Jake gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then stood, offering it to you.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice soft. “Let’s head up.”

You followed him through the quiet house, past half empty glasses on the counter and a dish towel still draped over the sink. The air inside was cooler, the lights low and warm. He led you up the creaky old stairs with practiced steps, slowing near the top as the hallway opened to framed memories and the soft hush of home settling in for the night.

He paused outside a door with faded stickers on the frame. Hallie’s old room.

“Here we are,” he said quietly, pushing it open.

The room was small, a little outdated, but cozy. A quilt tucked neatly over the bed. A stack of books on the dresser. A floral curtain drifting in the window’s breeze.

You turned to him, smiling. “She really did make it nice.”

Jake nodded, leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Yeah. That’s mom for you.”

A beat passed, soft and lingering.

“You sure you’ll be alright in here?” he asked.

You stepped closer, reaching for his hand. “I’ll survive one night without you.”

He tugged you in gently, his forehead resting against yours. “Didn’t say I would.”

You laughed quietly, your hands on his chest. “Goodnight, Jake.”

He kissed you once, slow and soft. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

[bellarkeselection]

Do you still write for game of thrones characters

Yes

Just check my masterlist for the specific characters