Micaela's December Recs

— micaela's december recs

ty to all these amazing writers who have left me with butterflies in my stomach and/or tears rolling down my face, much appreciated <3

THE HUNGER GAMES

— finnick odair.

wildest dreams by @mediocre-daydreams

the only thing that matters by @s1ater

out of the woods by @blondedmuse

make belief by @t-horn-n

↳ unspoken

↳ deathbed

↳ it's your voice

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

— aemond targaryen.

bane of my existence, object of my desire by @jasonsmirrorball

dragons bane by @house-strong

not a child anymore by @sansaorgana

— jacaerys velaryon.

go as a dream by @aphroditesmoon

bruising kisses by @house-strong

thus always to tyrants by @echnated

HARRY POTTER

— george weasley.

an exhibition of muggle dueling by @theweasleysredhair

— cedric diggory.

midnight feasts and evening strolls by @mentally-in-northern-italy

MARAUDERS

— james potter.

april fool's by @theweasleysredhair

wrong idea by @mentally-in-northern-italy

— sirius black.

the way you look at her by @theweasleysredhair

↳ if you love me let me know

— remus lupin.

full moon by @theweasleysredhair

PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS

— ethan nakamura.

(don't) go. by @honigmilch

GRISHAVERSE

— kaz brekker.

not letting go by @honigmilch

sociopath by @magpiencrow

three taps by @happyyyandcrazyyy

bloody hands by @anthonysharmaa

THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY

— conrad fisher.

finally by @mentally-in-northern-italy

STRANGER THINGS

— steve harrington.

cardigan by @marwritesgood

nine facts, one lie by @stevebabey

↳ so full of love

— eddie munson.

grand gesture by @appocalipse

TOP GUN

— bradley "rooster" bradshaw.

you said you'd grow old with me by @blue-aconite

— nick "goose" bradshaw.

heat waves, inflatable pools, you by @duchesstypewriter

WEDNESDAY

— ajax petropolus.

she can't know by @loveharlow

bane of my existence, object of my desire (4)

aemond targaryen x reader, male!oc x reader

summary: you were not made for the games of court. you would play no longer.

tags: historical inaccuracy re: behaviour (most of this shit would probably not fly lmao), a mr darcy requires the presence of a mr wickham - for equality, scheming helaena, i've taken SO many liberties lol

note: you guys. i actually don't know jack shit about the houses of the north so i picked one and if they don't actually have a son around reader/aemond's age pls ignore that because they do now lol this is MY playground! also hello?? this is double the length of the last chapter i had a LOT to cover i guess

If the Prince had been something of a ghost in the last weeks, you disguise yourself entirely from him. Though he does not come to seek you out – why would he? After all, to him, you were nothing but a liability – you avoid the places you know he spends his time anyway, throwing yourself into the duties you've been so sharply reminded of having shirked.

In a way, you suppose you are glad for having overheard the harsh words Prince Aemond had for you. Though unnecessarily cruel, they had given you the wake up call you needed, dispelling the delusions of romance you had fancied. Perhaps there were no heroes, and your fate remained the same, but if you acted now, it could still be spun to your advantage.

So you ignore your injured pride – there will be time to soothe it later, when you are far, far away from King's Landing – and insert yourself quite firmly into the array of suitors that your father has fielded. The envoy you had dined with first had returned back home and with him his offer, but your sudden obedience had mollified your father's irritation and kept him from scolding you, satisfied that you had seen sense at last.

You had only smiled thinly at him, keeping the real reason for your complacence to yourself. It would not do for him to find out that it was spite that drove you, too fickle of an emotion for your father to trust in. He would believe it to last only a while before you returned to your resistance.

Your only regret now is that you will be parted from Helaena, and the disappointment in her eyes when you inform her over lunch, running an affectionate hand over Jaehaera's head, of your renewed commitment to your impending marriage.

"I do not wish to be so far from you," you say, not for the first time since your father has begun to seek suitors, "but I cannot remain unwed forever."

She sighs, quiet and withdrawn today. There is something like anger – pale and weak, but anger nonetheless – that lines her features. Her rosy mouth turns downward at the corners, and you feel the stirrings of grief in your chest, doing your best to tamp it down.

"I'm sorry," you whisper regretfully, and she looks away to hide the glimmer in her eyes. For a moment, you stand by her side, wanting to reach out for her, beg her forgiveness for leaving her and explain, but in the end, you kiss the children and take your leave.

It is difficult to explain your reasons for wanting to leave King's Landing. How could you describe the injury her brother had inflicted on you, unknowingly and yet deliberately. You thought yourself to be reasonable, and somewhat clear-headed. Resilient, even, in the face of adversity – you had to be, in the Red Keep, among the vultures of the small council and courtiers who only sought to better their standing. But Prince Aemond had worn you down, just as he had cut down all those before you with his sharp tongue.

He had not only sabotaged your father's attempts at securing you a marriage – successively turning his ire on you, another thing in itself – but had expressed just how inferior he believed you to be. What else was the return of his hostility at dinner but a clear indication of his belief that in addition to being below him, you were an inadequate companion for his sister?

You were not made for the games of court. You would play no longer. Cowardly, perhaps, but it was not Lannister blood that ran through your veins. You did not seek the glory in a victorious battle, as Targaryens might. And if love, too, was not in your fate, you would settle for peace. That would not be found in King's Landing.

The heir of house Cerwyn is, for lack of a better word, roguishly attractive. He sits across from you on the private terrace, your father and his on either side of you around the circle table. As the men talk, he catches your eye, mouth set in a conspiring smile. It makes you feel warm, as though the both of you are in on a secret, unified through meddlesome fathers. You smile back.

Umber cropped hair curls around his temples and neck boyishly, but his brow is severe, dark eyes holding hidden depths. Still, the tilt of his mouth upward lightens his countenance, less brutish and instead someone you think could perhaps be a friend.

Your father is pleased, you think, hazarding a look sideways. The ease with which he smiles confirms it, the satisfaction of finally getting his way. Privately, you feel he credits himself for this potential success too much, when it had been your engineering that would finally give you a chance to field your suitors without interference from a certain Prince.

"I will do as you wish," you had announced, entering your father's chambers, the man in question looking up from the document in his hand, a letter of some sort. "But I have terms I wish to be fulfilled regarding the manner with which we proceed."

"You are in no position to be making demands," he'd reminded you, but curiosity had won over and you had paced the length of the fireplace, laying out the simple condition on which your complacence depended.

"I recognise the privilege I hold in being able to select a suitor for myself," you had started, lacing your words with the due gratitude you knew would soften your father, "and I am grateful for it, though I have not shown it in the weeks past."

It had worked, your father grunting and nodding his head as if to say, damn right, allowing you to continue.

"If we are to proceed, I wish for it to be kept private," you say firmly. "No one outside of the prospective courtier's family is to know, until the wedding, should the Seven be so willing, is confirmed."

He hadn't pressed for the reason, thinking the resulting gossip had injured your standing in court and embarrassed you. It was a preferable explanation to telling your father you had somehow angered the Prince and in turn had suffered his wrath. That might have finally driven him to wash his hands of you.

Now, he looks lighter than he has in an age. And though there is a part of you that still burns – quiet and low but burns all the same – with the injustice of it all, you feel that ease slip around your shoulders too, a soothing caress that quells the tempest you've been carrying for the last month.

Erick Cerwyn, eldest of his father's sons, does not mind that your courtship needs to be shrouded in secrecy. That you are only really able to get to know each other under the watchful eye of your fathers – a safe distance away, but still imposing all the same – and that there are certain hours you refuse to be seen anywhere near him in the halls of the Red Keep.

When you ask him why, over a game of chess one afternoon, he grins at you.

"My father was hesitant to pursue this," he tells you easily, and you find yourself appreciative that he doesn't mince his words, fearful of your sensitivities. Still, his tone is not unkind. "He had heard that many before me had run away, and feared that I would do the same. Better to avoid it altogether then, he thought."

"That doesn't answer my question, my lord," you point out, capturing his rook. He hisses through his teeth and you grin at the small victory.

"I was curious, about the lady that had run off so many suitors despite what they spoke of her beauty." You feel your face heat at his words, and look down. "When we met, and you informed us of your conditions, at first I had thought you were merely avoiding any more hearsay, should this fail as well."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You say at first. Is that no longer the case?"

His mouth turns up. "You wish to hear what I think?"

"I would not ask if I didn't," you reply archly.

"What I believe now," he says, making a move across the board, "is that perhaps all those men before and your misfortune was out of your hands. You have discovered the source, and these lengths are simply to prevent its recurrence. I believe it is your turn."

His eyes twinkle when you stare at him, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Am I wrong?

"You are far more perceptive than I expected of you," is all you can say. The hiss of your name by an attending who reports to your father does little to rebuke you, and the lordling only laughs when they apologise on your behalf, shaking his head.

"I am many things, my lady, and I look forward to your discovering them."

It is only through coincidence that you happen upon Aemond in the hallway, making your way in from the gardens to meet with your father, Lord Cerwyn and his son. Your heart picks up for a brief moment, hands fisting your skirts at the steps as you spot him walking down the hall. It squeezes in your chest when you meet his eye, painfully reminded of the last words you'd heard him speak.

It's what drives you to brush past him even as his lips part to presumably greet you, blatantly ignoring him with your nose raised in the air, lips pursed, unimpressed. You don't see his expression, but you sniff all the same, imagining something like disbelief across his features, pulling his brows together in confusion.

Still, you find that the small victory does little to quell the anger you're itching to let out. Maybe the best outcome for all involved would be for you to let it go, and rise above the occasion to be better, but your injured pride demands for blood or at least some semblance of satisfaction – though, you couldn't very well go and challenge the Prince to a duel.

For reasons unknown and to your dismay, the Prince emerges from whatever hiatus he had taken. At any given moment, you can no longer rely on the safety of his schedule to roam the Keep with Lord Erick, fearful of the silver haired menace ruining yet another match.

You keep to your rooms, regretfully avoiding even Helaena after he intrudes on your visit one morning (you had made yourself scarce not a minute later, not even bothering to fumble for an excuse). Getting to know Lord Erick becomes restricted to games of chess on the private terrace, not wanting to hazard a chance meeting in the gardens.

Sometimes these games are abandoned for stories of his home – you figure you might as well be well informed about the place you may potentially call home soon. He is a good storyteller, and often you're drawn in by the animated manner he tells you stories of his childhood, amusement at his tales and longing for the freedom of boys mixing to create a bittersweet feeling that leaves you silent, sometimes.

One cannot remain locked away forever, however. It is Helaena that invites you to dine with her one night, asking you so sweetly you cannot deny her, feeling guilty for avoiding her and missing her terribly, even as reluctant as you are to attend.

Dinner goes well. You feel as though you can breathe, laughing over a meal with your closest friend. For the first time in a long time, you feel as though nothing has changed, that the both of you are as you always have been, and that when you wake up in the morning it isn't a courtship that you're returning to, but maybe a walk in the gardens with Helaena by your side.

"Have you made a decision?" she asks, when the lighter conversation falls into a lull. You have the sensation of being doused in cold water, sighing and pushing away your plate, no longer hungry.

"Marriage!" you exclaim, falling back against your chair as she laughs. "That is all anyone ever wants to speak about!"

"Well?" she presses, only slightly sympathetic to your plight.

Guilt gnaws at you when you shake your head, avoiding her eyes. "Father and I have met with several suitors-" True. "-but I am yet to come to a verdict." Less true. The only thing left to do was to let your father know. Upon pain of death, you couldn't say why, or what, held you back.

Later, you'll marvel at his intuition for knowing when the topic of marriage is brought up. Now, you are only taken aback when the door opens and Helaena looks at you with a hint of apology in her eyes as her brother walks in, as if she has any sort of idea that you are cross with him. You wouldn't put it past her.

Aemond stops short when he spots the both of you sat at at the table, and you fix your eyes determinedly on the silverware.

"My apologies, sister," he says in a low, smooth voice. "I wasn't aware you were keeping company."

Your mouth tightens, nail scratching lightly against a dent in the wood.

"I'm sure I must have mentioned it," Helaena disagrees, and you raise your eyes, brows pulling together. Something in her tone is off, slightly stilted and stiff, almost as if she's reciting from a script. She glances at you momentarily, and smiles, looking back at her brother. "No matter. Would you care to join us, brother?"

You remain silent, willing him to go away. But it seems that luck is not on your side tonight, because he makes a weak excuse that Helaena brushes aside – once again, delivered awkwardly – and a few moments later he sits next to you.

"My lady."

You say nothing when he greets you, only offering a slight bow of your head that acknowledges him. Barely.

A beat passes, both Targaryen siblings silent, presumably sharing glances over your bent head. You can feel the silent exchange, even without seeing it. Any interest you had vested in this dinner had slipped out the door with the Prince's entrance, and now you sit stiff backed, stare fixed on the drink in your cup.

"We were just discussing her courtship," Helaena says, as Aemond reaches for the wine.

"Ah. How goes the search?"

Your mouth twists into a smile at that, a soft snicker escaping your lips. It's the first sound you've made since Aemond has entered – Prince Aemond, you correct yourself – and it draws both his and Helaena's attention.

"Disastrous, if you must know. My Prince." you bite out the last two words, smiling tightly.

He looks a little taken aback at your tone, and you wonder that he expects you to be cordial, the disastrous dinner clearly swept from his mind. To him, you seem unreasonable. Or at least, more than usual.

"I see," he says slowly, darting a look to his sister. Helaena shrugs delicately. You pretend not to notice. "Well. Is that not good news? Last I'd heard, you were loath to leave at all."

"Yes," you agree, nodding, taking a sip of your drink. The sweetness of it is suddenly cloying against your tongue, "I have since been reminded of what is expected of a young lady of my position. It has been made known that I have not been acting in line. So, I endeavour now to correct my wild ways. I will not burden my father or your hospitality much longer, should the Seven be willing."

You set the goblet back on the table firmly. A look at Aemond finds his eye already on you, and you smile back fakely, barely bothering to disguise it. Helaena's eyebrows raise, but she doesn't say anything.

"I think I had better retire for the night, my Princess," you exhale, standing up and offering Helaena a tight smile. You round the table to lean down and press your cheek to hers affectionately, squeezing her shoulder.

Helaena's soft nature often discredits her to the others at court, deeming her more prey than predator, something to be guarded rather than feared. On occasion, however, in the year you have spent by her side you've been witness to the emergence of something in her, a clarity outside of her usual obscurity that unnerves you. It reminds you all too much of Aemond, reminds you that through the layers of sweet smiles and flushed cheeks, she is still at heart a Targaryen.

That something rears its head now. There's a subtle glint in her eyes when her eyes widen, ever the picture of concern, hands clasping yours and turning in her chair to gaze imploringly at you.

"You mustn't go alone, it is late. I shall ask one of the servants to escort you."

Once more, you note how rather stilted her speech becomes, and how once more, it is Aemond that follows it up.

"No need, sister. I shall escort her. I had not intended to stay long, as it was."

Ever the hero.

"That is quite unnecessary, your Grace," you say firmly, but he shakes his head.

"It is decided," Helaena declares, clapping her hands, and you look at her sharply. You're reminded of those weeks ago when it had been Aemond giving her such a look, and you that had giggled along with her. It isn't as amusing now to be on the receiving end of the innocent smile she gives you. "Aemond will walk you back."

"Goodnight, Princess," you say, exasperated, retrieving your hands from her shoulders.

By the open door, Aemond waits, eye intently fixed on you. You restrain yourself from rolling your eyes as you walk past him and into the corridor. His long legs catch up with you, and though you try to walk quickly, he remains steadily at your side.

When you round the corner and are out of the earshot of any guards, you try once more.

"Your Grace, I assure you. I am more than capable of seeing myself to my room. In fact, I must insist–"

He ignores you, interjecting so bluntly you're taken aback when he rounds on you and demands tersely, "What is the matter with you?"

You splutter. For having vowed to never appear otherwise in front of him ever again, it is utterly unladylike and uncomposed.

"What is the matter with me?"

"I believe that is what I said, yes," he says impatiently.

Your lips part indignantly. "Nothing is the matter with me."

"Really?" he huffs out a laugh, and you ignore how the lit sconces in the otherwise darkened hallway reflect in his eye, making him look slightly crazed. He steps closer, and you stiffen, leaning away. "Then explain to me why, for the love of the Seven, I have seen neither hide nor hair of you in the last few weeks, yet the moment I do, I am met with such hostility? With so little endeavour at civility?"

"Civility!" you gasp, incensed at the hypocrisy of it all, and surge forward. The tips of your shoes brush against his boots and you glare up into his face. "What would you know of civility?"

He glowers – downright glowers at you, transforming his usually handsome face into something so intimidating your breath catches in your throat. The air around the both of you thickens and you stare at him with bated breath, waiting for his response. He takes a shaky breath, shutting his eyes, seemingly trying to compose himself.

"What," he says slowly, in a dangerously low voice, "is that meant to mean?"

"You know what it means," you sneer, fingers tightening into fists as you recall his words. "Regardless, it matters not. Soon I will leave King's Landing and you will be rid of me. My only regret is that it has not happened sooner."

You turn, intending to make the journey to your chambers, but firm fingers wrap around your elbow, jerking you back around and startling a grunt from you.

"Get off me, you scoundrel!"

"My, my," he murmurs, pale eye near black in the dim light. "We have been keeping secrets, haven't we?"

You dig your nails into the back of his hand in an effort to loosen his grip, but to his credit he does not flinch.

"So the search for a suitor has not been fruitless," he remarks, searching your gaze, your arm still in his grasp. You think he might burn you from his touch alone. "Correct me, but I was under the impression, the impression you led me to believe, that it had been in vain."

"Whether I am to be married or not is quite frankly, Your Grace, none of your business."

His eye flashes and you attempt once more to rip out of his clutch. He lets you go, and you stand in front of him, chest heaving as your anger gets the best of you.

"I would've thought you'd be satisfied," you add, uncaring of the growing displeasure in his expression. "To wash your hands of my imposition here."

"Why on earth would I want that?" he snaps, anger and disbelief etched across his features. You stare at him in amazement, an incredulous laugh falling from your lips. It only serves to irritate him further, jaw clenching as he looms over you.

"I cannot believe you," you scoff. "Are you so accustomed to treating others the way you want and expecting to be revered, still?"

"I haven't the faintest clue what it is that you're talking about," he denies, and it's the final straw for you, the band of patience you had been exercising ever since that fateful morning in the library – poorly exercising, but exercising still – stretches taut and snaps.

"I heard you! That morning, in the library when you spoke to the envoy from the north, I heard you," you cry. "You speak of civility and hostility and yet absolve yourself of sabotaging every single match that might've married me off! Is that not the very antithesis of civility? A direct and personal attack on my future?"

Even in the orange firelight, you see him pale, all the blood in his already white visage draining. Caught.

"Do you deny it?" you demand. "You think me 'wayward' and 'a liability', and scold me at dinner to prove as much, that I have no care for rules and propriety. You run away every single suitor yet you expect me to return to whatever semblance of kinship we might've shared?"

He remains silent. You let out a ragged exhale, eyes burning with the weight of unshed tears, your passions finally catching up to you.

"You may be the prince," you say in a reedy voice, forcing the words past the lump in your throat, "but that does not make what you have done justified. Still. Rest assured that you have succeeded in your endeavour to remind me of my station. You intended to relieve me from your sister's side, once all was said and done, and I was left alone. I am only thankful you gave yourself away, so that I might stand a chance at security in marriage, if I could not ask for my happiness."

His face contorts, blanching. Had this been a different conversation, you might marvel at his breaking composure. "That is n–"

"I will not stay someplace I am not welcome," you talk over him, loudly. "You may reserve your explanation for the Princess."

"If you would just let me–"

It is in that moment that both Lord Cerwyn and Erick choose to turn the corner, their discussion dying as they spot you. Beside you, Aemond stiffens, but you breathe a sigh of relief that it isn't anyone else.

"Lord Cerwyn," you greet. "Ser Erick."

"Your Grace," Lord Cerwyn says, head bowed and his son echoes him.

"My lady," Erick murmurs, brows drawing together in concern and you hear Aemond scoff lightly. It's a quiet noise, meant only for your ears and his. "Are you well? You look...well, a little impassioned."

"Him?" Aemond mutters, like he is scarcely able to believe it. You dart a look at him, heart constricting as you realise he knows. How, exactly, is beyond you but his eye narrows dangerously, almost murderous as he looks at Ser Erick.

"I was just on my way to my chambers," you explain, smiling tightly. Lord Cerwyn's stare unnerves you, scrutinising where his son's is gentle.

"Let us escort you," he offers easily. "The hour is growing late, it would not do well to wander around unaccompanied."

"She had an escort," Aemond grits out. Erick is not so easily intimidated, looking to you instead.

You step forward, ignoring Aemond's scornful exhale. "Thank you, ser."

Your fingers wrap around his proffered arm, and Lord Cerwyn appraises you once more, nodding his head. You bend your own in response.

"Goodnight, Prince Aemond," you murmur as you pass him. He doesn't reply, jaw working as he watches Ser Erick escort you away.

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so full of love

this was a challenge i set for myself! i used a number generator to pick 2 prompts which were be safe and what’s wrong with your hand? and see what my brain would spin up ! this is it! (also i used a hozier lyric generator for the title and i? don’t hate it? summary: steve has a habit of getting protective and having seemingly no control over his fists.  word count: 1.8k

It was barely a scratch.

Honestly, you weren’t sure you could even call it that. It was a thin and dull scratch above your eyebrow that was given to you by Billy Hargrove by accident. Truly, this might have been one of the few times where he hadn’t meant for his fists to cause any damage. Purely accidental.

It was after class and you had been walking down the hallway, swerving closer to the lockers to evade the tangle of rowdy boys coming your way. They were yelling and they paid you or your rolling eyes no mind. 

At the same time at his locker, Billy Hargrove had been pulling on his jean jacket, arm outstretched. You hadn’t even seen it coming, not till you walked into it, one of the buttons scraping across your forehead.

“Oi!” The word came out your mouth before you realised who it was, scowling deeper when you saw it was Billy. You knew he hadn’t done it on purpose but the guy was so damn easy to hate. 

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Heat Waves, Inflatable Pools, You

PAIRING: Nick “Goose” Bradshaw x Reader

SUMMARY: When the San Diego summer becomes too unbearable, Goose has the perfect idea to cool off his wife.

CHARACTERS: Nick “Goose” Bradshaw, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell (mentioned), Bradley Bradshaw (mentioned), Rick “Hollywood” Neven (mentioned).

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

WARNINGS: Suggestive comments, Goose and Mav being work husbands, Goose invented pet names and no one can convince me otherwise, pure fluff.

A/N: Nick has been my man forever and I really want to read more about Hollywood’s greatest husband material.

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Hi bby can i request a connor stoll x fem reader blurb with the prompts n 12 and 19 <33

[𝟕:𝟏𝟓 𝐩𝐦]

“Why do you always end up under my blanket?”

pairing: connor stoll x gn reader

warning: none

category: fluff, slice of life

The summer breeze was exceptionally chill tonight. Snuggled in the blanket you brought from your bed, you listened to the happy chattering and scattered singing from your siblings and all the other campers. The fire burns bright, almost electric, doing some part in keeping you warm, but it wasn’t enough. Before you could scan the crowd for your boyfriend, a pair of hands slither under your blanket from behind you. “What are you doing?” You giggle, unable to catch sight of his face as Connor was already hidden under the cloth. “Why do you always end up under my blanket?”

Connor’s head pokes up from the top, and you grunt, fingers loosening up to make enough room for his intrusion. “Because you always bring one.”

A chuckle leaves his lips when you playfully roll your eyes. His hands wrap around your waist firmly, and you’re grateful he decided to join you anyway. At least now you’re warm. A fake groan of dread leaves your lips as he holds you flush against him, his head nuzzling into your neck before you can squirm away.

“I wish we could live together already.” The breath of his words fanning your neck makes you shiver. “The only time I really get to hold you is when we’re here at the campfire.” Your hands make their way up to his locks, tangling themselves as you feel his lips curve into a soft smile. “Just imagine. Having our own place and being able to do anything we want, whenever we want.”

The idea makes your body warmer than you thought it could be. You did think about it often. Sleepy mornings, quiet breakfasts, warm naps, breathless laughter with Connor in your joint apartment was a fantasy you revisited since the moment you knew you were in love with him. Now that the two of you are set to go to New Rome in the fall, there was an anticipation that your dream was now one step closer to becoming your reality.

A soft hum draws from your lips, and you nod. “It’ll happen, one day. I know it will.”

join in on my welcome back celebration <33

you said you’d grow old with me || b.b

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw had been in her life since she was 16 years old. Her rock, anchor in a bad storm, shoulder to cry on. Her best friend. It felt like they had known each other forever, two pieces of a puzzle. She could talk to him about everything.

Warnings: Terminal illness, angst, no happy ending

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairings: Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader

Authors Note: This is all thanks to @imjess-themess. Blame her. Thank you @imjess-themess @writercole for reading it over for me. I wrote this in less than three hours and I spent most of them crying.

Song; you said you’d grow old with me

She gets the call three weeks after her appointment. They’re quiet on the phone, asking her if this is a bad time, if she could come into the office to discuss the test results. A strange feeling settles in her gut but she cancels the coffee date she has with Bradley, telling him an emergency at work has come up. He texts her a sad emoji at first, and it brings a smile to her face. 

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