Latest Posts by chrrywvea - Page 9

oh hot DAMN this is so good! i'm not the one getting berated but boi i did get scared for moment there•○• no one fucks with admiral kazansky, not even bradley... would love to read the whole thing!♡

I wrote another lil tidbit for my IceMav and Bradley fic, so i shall share because I love spoiling myself :3

It also just gives me motivation to write it cause like, my ass THRIVES off positive feedback. May have to start spoiling my Exes!Hangster fic so I can force myself to write the next chapter lol

Ice can still talk (like how val kilmer can still talk) but his voice is rough and he has to pause to get air through his trach (like val kilmer)

“No.”

Ice’s voice was sharp like a whip crack, the rasp still present but unable to stop the spine straightening authority his tone held.

“You do not get to do this Bradley Bradshaw- you do not get to throw yourself a pity party. You are here because of your actions.”

Ice paused to draw breathe, his finger hovering over his trach before plugging it back up

“You are a grown man. Take responsibility for your actions. Do not come crying to anyone else when you have to deal with the consequences of your actions.”

Another pause

“Frankly Lieutenant Bradshaw, I think most everyone ran out of Pity for you years ago. Around the time when you started using grief to excuse cruelty.”

Bradley hated him, in this moment he fucking hated Ice-

“So you will do everyone a favour, and you will turn around and walk out of this house until you can return and act civilized. Until then, get the fuck out of my home.”

“Is that an order?”

“Not yet, but test me one more time lieutenant, and it will be.”

oh my god i would love to write this... if it's okay i woul def try to & credit you if it works but since my writer's block hits so randomly i cannot promise anything:-D this is such a good idea!♡ otherwise i would 100000% read this if anyone wants to have a go at it

I had an idea for a sereshaw (+icemav) story that I probably won't write, but it's like

After the suicide mission Maverick invites the entire squad to a barbecue in his house to celebrate the mission's success. And on the day of the barbecue, the squad finds out that Maverick is married to Ice (who obviously didn't die), and is surprised.

At the same time, hangman was trying to figure out how to tell rooster that he is in love with him and decides to do it after the barbecue

But during the barbecue, hangman notices that rooster looks disgusted whenever Maverick and Ice show a lot of affection or are kissing and then he thinks that rooster is homophobic 😂

Which causes a big misunderstanding until rooster clarifies that he's not homophobic (because he's gay), and he's just uncomfortable with his parents acting like two teenagers in love

And hangman (and the rest of the squad) goes "parents????", and only then rooster realize that he hadn't told them his real relationship with Maverick (and Ice), but then everything is clarified and Hangman tell how he feel as he planned, but what he hadn't planned was to do it in front of rooster's parents, and he didn't imagine that he would have to ask their permission, to take their son to go out

fuck off I'M IN TEARS this is SO sweet:'-) mavdad & icedad are my yam♡

icemav are absolute little shits so one day when they’re sifting through storage, maverick finds a bunch of stuff from bradley’s childhood. there’s stuff like a paper bradley wrote about his hero, uncle mav, and an ornament with bradley’s tiny seven year old handprint painted on. and after theyre done old man crying about it, a lightbulb goes off in their heads.

the daggers get invited over for a game/movie/bonding night, which isnt unusual but what is unusual is the new decor. the walls are lined with crayon drawings, macaroni art, sheets of paper with gold stars in the corner, little league participation certificates. one of bradley’s honest to go report cards is hanging on the fridge.

(he gets roasted to filth by the other daggers for his grades. “a b- in calculus?? they let you fly planes???” “you took ceramics?? you failed ceramics???” “they let you fly planes???”)

and look, when icemav commit to a bit. they commit. that means the decorations do not come down, even when they have important company over.

some admiral at a dinner meeting: “so how old is your kid?”

ice: “35″

maverick: “hes sitting across from you”

bradley: waves

the other daggers start making stuff for icemav to put up too. finger paintings from fritz, a book report on whales from bob, a paper mache f/18 from the ivyleagers–those over achievers. it’s a joke, of course, because they think this bit is hilarious aww guys look over here, baby bradley failed his spelling test. it’s a joke at first, but then icemav actually hang their shit up “are we really doing this?” “of course we are, mickey worked so hard on his watercolor, now hand me the tape.”

jake gives out his first fathers day card when he’s 30. it goes on the fridge.

ice having to listen to yet another admiral yelling about some shit mav did:

30 ways to... discipline your husband (but not really we all know that......👀)

them. themmmm! THEMMM!♡♡♡♡♡♡

gif found at @ne0n-grav3stones 's post, i hope you don't mind me posting this!♡

ice looks 100% done with EVERYTHING. love him♡

this is the sweetest thing i've ever read oh my god♡_♡ i love

[Mavdad and Jake]

Looks like a winter bear, You sleep so happily

Jake didn’t mean to fall asleep. It’s just that the sofa was a massive, soft thing that sinks like a dream the moment you sit down, let alone when you snuggle deep into the cushions and especially when you’re halfway dead from a long ass day trip.

He can feel the coolness of the supple leather under the skin of his exposed arm as he lies on his side, feel the way it gives when he pulls his knees up closer to his belly and the tiny little squeak of skin on leather as he moves his right arm under his warm firm throw pillow. 

Jake settles with a small inaudible sigh, finally happy with his new position. 

“Well he’s sure is comfy.” 

Jake stills. His brain is still foggy from sleep, but he’s waking up fast. His fingers, the ones gripping his throw pillow, flex reflexively around the - what the fuck the pillow flexed back?

“He’s tired, Bradley.” There’s the sound of a chuckle right above him and a hand in his hair - well. Shit. He’s been sleeping with his head in Mav’s lap. There’s a pause and the sound of someone unlocking their phone and the telltale sound of a camera app.

“I’m sending this to the group - it’s just too cute.” The humor is evident in Rooster’s voice and Jake scowls. “Holy shit Mav look - his face’s all scrunched up– fuck that’s adorable.” 

Mav’s hand in Jake’s hair begins to brush through the fluffy blond mess. He remembers now that he came straight to Mav and Ice’s house from Lemoore on his first day of shoreleave, an unholy long drive that he would only ever put himself through for a very very select few people in his life. It used to be just the Machado family, but now Jake is proud (and a little bewildered) to say that he’s running out of fingers when he counts the members of “Jake Gives A Shit About You” club. 

Wild how half a year ago his only definition of home is a room in the barracks or a bunk on his assigned carrier. Jake was just used to living out of his bags when every place he lands on is only temporary - too used to leaving before he can put down roots because he learned early on in life that putting down roots means risking having your roots yanked out of the ground and losing a few parts of yourself that you can’t get back.  

But now his duffle bag is unpacked and his clothes (as little as they are given the short shoreleave) are neatly folded and put away in a nice mahogany wardrobe that Ice dragged out of storage for him, in a room with a bed covered in Kazansky family heirloom quilt, two doors down from the master bedroom.

His sneakers are in the cabinet in the foyer, his keys - the car and to this house- is in a little bowl on the foyer’s side table, his jacket hanging beside Mav’s letterman with a massive emblem of a winged dagger on its back (a gag gift from their special detachment - the emblem something that Fan drunkenly sketched out on a napkin that he pinched from Penny’s bar, declaring magnanimously that its now “Our coat of arms, chiquitas and chiquitos”). 

Mav’s fingers shift lazily through Jake’s hair and tugs a little at the end before starting back from the roots. His thigh under Jake’s cheek is perfectly still even as his stomach quivers in his silent laughter at something that Rooster said. The savory scent of dinner earlier still wafts in the den, intermingling oddly with the scent of the reed diffuser on the small circular table by the window.

Jake can hear the sounds of the dishwasher closing and cutleries being put away, Ice’s and aunt Sarah’s voice a low murmur with the occasional peal of laughter from the Admiral’s sister. From outside, Jake can just hear the metallic sounds the basketball hoop makes as someone scores, excited yells from the kids just barely muffled by the house.  

“RooRoo, I wanna play,” Little Jack’s voice carries over to their little hide-away, one of Rooster’s many sort-of cousins no doubt making grabby hands at his phone, judging by Rooster’s quiet laughter. 

“No, Jack, hold on, I'm texting my friends– here, look you wanna say hi to Bobby?”

The steady sound of his phone’s notification from the coffee table tells Jake that there’s a lot of replies from their group chat - most likely in response to whatever picture of Jake napping in Mav’s lap that Rooster shared in the group. Jake doesn’t even feel the slightest bit annoyed by that. He’s in a house with two parents, little cousins, an aunt, and whatever Rooster is - nothing short of wild horses dragging him out of this house can upset him. 

Rooster’s quiet laughter builds up to a cackle as Mav’s hand moves from his head to tuck his shoulders further into the couch, illogically worried that Jake was gonna roll off the furniture. Warmth spreads through Jake’s chest at that. 

“Jack,” the cackle grows louder accompanied by the sounds of Jack’s high pitched laughter, “No no no don’t text that– ”

“Jackie, why don’t you and Bradley take this outside?” Mav hums and Jake feels the older man shift to bring him closer, his head snug in the cradle of Mav’s hips with his forearm across Jake’s chest. “I think the rest of the kids are playing a game or two on the court - you wanna show Bradley what Rueben taught you? Hey, Bradley, can you pass me the– yeah.” 

“Pay was here?” Jake hears the surprise in Bradley’s tone. He hears the sound of soft fabric being moved off slippery leather and Mav’s whispered thanks as he feels softness and warmth drape over his legs to his waist. “When was that?”

“About a month ago, I think?” Mav’s voice is contemplative and his hand falls back on Jake’s shoulder, squeezing a little. “Just for dinner, he wasn’t around for long.” The hand rubs up and down his arm, massaging his sore muscles. “God, the drive must’ve really worn him out - poor kid.”

“RooRoo.” Jake hides his smile in Mav’s jeans. “Let’s goooooo.”

“Alright, alright - calm down, short stack.” 

Jake hears the sounds of feet scrambling on carpet, the frantic footfall of little feet running out of the den and a calmer set following. His phone continues to ping with notifications on the coffee table, the only sound in the comfortable silence of the den. Jake opens his eyes slowly, pupils adjusting to the slightly dim golden light of the room- signs that the golden hour is coming to its tail-end . Jake takes a moment to just breathe, taking in lungfuls of the reed diffusers, the fabric softener Mav uses, faint scent of his own cologne, the smell of home.

He rolls his shoulder, dislodging Mav’s hand to fall to the dip of his waist as he shifts his body to lay flat on the sofa. 

“Knew you were awake.” Mav jostles his thigh and Jake’s head shakes, drawing a short bark of laughter. “Don’t feel like socializing?”

“Nah,” Jake hums. He looks up at Mav and smiles. “Wanna spend time with my old man.”

Mav smiles back at him, green eyes as soft as the first time they really looked at Jake in that emergency room months ago. Pulling up the throw blanket, Jake turns to lie on his side, his face buried in Mav’s stomach and Mav’s hand caressing the back of his head.

He falls asleep.

my nb pals, you're all welcome here❤

Please Reblog is Your Blog is Safe for Non-Binary People.

If my mutuals can’t rb this then we can’t be mutuals

YES MR. BLUE SKY IS AMAZING AGH

Me everytime I read a icemav fic tagged tom iceman kazansky & bradley rooster bradshaw and parental tom iceman kazansky:

this caught me so off guard, i started laughing in a full-to-the-brim classroom😂

(Maverick's in bed, Ice is in the shower, and Ice's phone is in his pants pocket, while his clothes are on the floor)

Maverick(answering Iceman's phone):...Admiral Kazansky's pants - he's not in them right now.

no because them🥺♡

Top Gun: Maverick (2022)

SOBBING SCREAMING CRYING I LOVE THEMMMM

Then | Now

he's so gender

Gender Vibes:

Val Kilmer as Chris Knight Real Genius (1985)

MOTHER GOOSE I'M CRYING HAHAHA

[top gun + incorrect quotes ft. disappointed goose]

HE WAS CRYING?! NOOO BABE HE SLAYED THE WHOLE HOUSE

bisexuality lost tonight

The Avengers Aesthetics

Tony Stark: freshly brewed black coffee. desks filled with miscellaneous papers strewn everywhere. harsh winters. tinkering at 2 am. records of different rock bands. a drawer filled with treasured gifts from loved ones. nibbling on fingernails. the pungent scent of alcohol. ostentatious colors of red and gold. roughed up worker boots. a mind saturated with intuitive thoughts. sarcastic quips and half smirks. tired eyes. aching bones. the feeling of being lost.

Steve Rogers: dewy mornings. bright toothy smiles. freshly baked cherry pies from Brooklyn Cafes. 40′s swing music. baby blue sweaters and light brown khakis. bruised knuckles. burtbees chapstick. a broken compass. old letters from loved ones. polaroids. melancholy. forehead kisses. notebooks and wooden pencils. fingers covered in graphite. the feeling of looking for something that cannot be found.

Natasha Romanoff: red lipstick. bubblegum. wine stains on white napkins. clint’s jackets. stilettos. hail storms. broken ballet shoes. small smirks. framed candids of the team. russian novels. rhubarb ice cream. roses with sharp thorns. goosebumps. black shiny leather. heartache. hair filled with secrets. 80s movies. the feeling of wanting to let go.

Clint Barton: ripped bandages. coffee pots brewed to the tip. cotton tee shirts. the taste of honeydew. crooked smiles. spending time with family. reading comics at night. wanting to stay in bed after waking up. loyalty. calluses. worn out bones. ripped canvases. the feeling of losing security.

Bruce Banner: yellow jumpers. classical music. sad smiles. notepads filled with theoretical discoveries. broken pencils. clean lab coats. isolation. greek mythology. wanting to be a better person. stress relief dogs. chamomile tea. learning new languages. the feeling of losing control.

Thor Odinson: belly laughs. large hands. mead. early morning walks. meeting up with friends. lumberjack boots. catching fireflies at night. braided hair. the colors of the bifrost bridge. norse poems. poptarts. a collection of different items from the nine realms. the feeling of fear when all hope is lost.

Peter Parker: frayed sweaters. bubbly laughter and shy smiles. chipped cassettes. neon city lights. greasy cheese pizza. tangled headphones. glossy eyes. spearmint gum. bed hair. torn sneakers. a notebook filled with favorite movies. earthy scents. the feeling of insecurity.

Wanda Maximoff: broken mosaics. trembling hands. timid smiles. leather gloves. ripped jeans. the scent of freshly cooked paprikash. recorded videos of loved ones. black nail polish. indie music. sci fi books. exotic candles. a bruised heart. empty glass bottles of perfume. the feeling of never being good enough.

Stephen Strange: dry wit. record players. tailored suits. cocky smirks. scarred hands. classic literature books with uneven binding. success and ambition. ballroom dancing. the scent of aftershave. collections of antique items. red and blue drapes. late sunsets. chipped coffee mugs. a broken clock. the feeling of wanting to know more but never knowing enough.

Bucky Barnes: cheeky grins. irish coffee. the solitary feeling of being alone. quiet laughter. harsh breaths and heaving chests. golden retriever puppies. Chopin’s Nocturne Op.9 No.3. local newspapers. suave pick up lines. breakfast foods. corny jokes. the feeling of not belonging anywhere. 

T’challa Udaku: royal blues and golds. the nostalgic feeling of listening to old music. family heirlooms. feeling content after a day of being productive. sunny afternoons and picnics. smiles from loved ones. a stomach filled with butterflies. banter between siblings. the feeling of being burdened with great responsibility.

Scott Lang: childish laughter. grandma scarves. deep and unconditional love. a heart of gold. the scent of homemade cinnamon twists. longing for stability. fitted black shirts. bruised fingers. pastel colors. scattered blueprints. erratic yet intellectual thoughts. the feeling of not wanting to be another disappointment. 

Love this😭😍💗

Sherlock tapping in Morse code onto Johns chest in the middle of the night while he thinks he’s asleep but John, who’s just barely still awake softly smiles into Sherlock’s hair that’s pressed just below his chin not letting him know that he’s feeling every single sweet nothing sherlock’s been too shy to verbalize just yet