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leezlelatch · 1 year ago

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Two Star Crossed Lovers

Copia x F!Reader - Forget about this? I hope not! Welcome back. I finally managed to pull up my britches and finish this. This was my first foray into Ghost fanfiction, and not only did it introduce me to a lovely community of writers, but helped me connect with and inspire many of you. I hope this is a worthy finish. And I hope you stick around to see what I do in the future. Thank you. Enjoy.

The wood of your bedroom desk is hard as you rest your chin against it. A sigh escapes your lips known only to aching hearts. You almost kissed Copia. Cardinal Copia. There, so brazenly upon his desk, his biretta on your head. And you think, perhaps, he was going to kiss you too. His utterance to be gentle with his heart echoes through your mind, and you want nothing more than to race back to his office and tell him yes! Yes, you will cradle his heart in the space next to your own because he deserves to be so sweetly and tenderly loved; your silly, beautiful Cardinal.

“What am I supposed to do, Portobello?” You ask your rat companion.

Portobello looks up from his very special pillow resting on the desktop and squeaks in your direction as if the answer is right in front of you. You roll your eyes and rest your cheek on a fist, grabbing a delicate morsel for your favorite boy to nibble on. Portobello rubs his little head against your fingers before snatching the small nut as if it were his first meal in hours, devouring it quickly before huffing in your direction for another.

“You’re right after all,” you say, handing him another. “I can’t just…stay away, and I can’t pretend like nothing happened either.”

Portobello rolls off his pillow to perch before you, standing back on his little legs in a T-Rex pose that makes you giggle. His little hands work to clean off his face, needing to look presentable for the grand speech cooking within his small mind about love, and loss, and birth, and death, and joy, and sorrow. An incredible feat of rodent thinking to get his beloved mother to confess her undying devotion to his father. Here it comes, Portobello Mephistopheles Cosimo Copia is ready.

“Squeak!”

You smile at your baby and scratch his little head. You wonder what it would sound like if rat noises were detectable to the human ear. Either way, there is a level of communication between you that you think is special.

“I know, I know. I already told him that I would come see him today.”

You pick up your phone and click on your most recent text with Copia, smiling softly in amusement:

You glance out the window at the dreary winter day, the tree which stands so proudly outside devoid of life as its branches flutter in the chill. Copia is going on tour soon, you think with a despondent sigh. You need to talk about what happened, you promised him you would, and yet a part of you fears that the heated moment in his office was just that...a moment. Nothing in his text betrays that he is nervous to see you, or is thinking about your almost kiss. You get up and begin to pace, Portobello's little head swiveling left and right as he watches you move.

You know your Copia better than anyone. It's the mantra in your head. You imagine him in his office, picking up his phone and then sitting it back down, the wood of his chair creaking as he fidgets, a hand coming up to run trembling fingers through his hair before falling into his customary nervous tick, forefinger and thumb rubbing anxiously together, the leather of his glove worn and discolored at the tips as he awaits your reply. And then the sigh of relief, the tension leaving his shoulders as he drops his head to the desk surface once you have agreed to lunch.

You stop your pacing to giggle softly, hand to your mouth as you grin around your knuckles. What would it be like? To be Copia's. You do not crave the light, you yearn for the cool, and gentle darkness found in the depths of his eyes. You ache for his embrace, all encompassing, like a blanket of stars across the night sky. His kiss that can snuff out any candle and drive out the hypocrisy of a false God. Darkness is not frightening, or bad...it is a companion. The Dark says you are not lost. You are found. Copia found you.

Resolved, you throw on a sweater and some warm socks, sufficient for walking across the courtyard from the residency to the offices. Portobello is tucked into the neck of your sweater, his head peeking out as you close and lock your door behind you. You live on the third floor in the northwest corner of the building which not only holds the dormitories, but also a recreational facility remodeled on the whim that Papa Emeritus III needed to maintain his "strong physique." But the add-on turned out to be beneficial for everyone not wanting to be caught outside in the Swedish cold.

The kitchens and mess hall are also found within the residency hall, convenient for anyone - Copia and yourself - to sneak out of bed for a midnight snack. But your personal favorite is the library, more specifically, the plush chair in front of the sprawling granite fireplace. The mantle is often decorated with a garland of herbs picked from the gardens to promote a cleansed space for study, thought, and escape into the fantasy realm of books.

The building which houses the clergy offices and classrooms is but a short distance away from the residency hall, their rooves nearly touching. Overall, the grounds form an unfinished rectangle with the church completing the furthest side. The abbey looks like it's falling apart on a good day although it maintains a quaint and reverential charm. Gardens full of vegetables, herbs, and the sweetest flowers pepper the landscape, affording a beautiful and tranquil walk between buildings. The church looms over it all with grotesques of Lucifer and his princes gazing out on the horizon, not the congregation; a reminder of their infernal presence, and deference to free will.

"Off we go, baby boy," you whisper to your rat as you make your way down the mustard runner which stretches down the expanse of the corridor.

The walls haven't been painted in years, and you're almost sure they were white once. A potted plant that is probably fake sits on a chipped console table splattered with pop culture magazines. A couple feet down, a green rotary phone lays off the hook on a wooden desk next to a phone book and a chair that has seen its fair share of booty calls. Slowly, things around the Ministry are improving the more money is made by the Ghost Project, like the recreational facility. Right now, there are just...more important things to attend to first before tackling the quite outdated Sibling dormitories. You find a warmth to the off-70s look, like a home that has been well-lived in, and well-loved.

The trip downstairs is quick, polite hellos not usually required once people see the very large rat poking out of your striped sweater, and you quickly make it to the bottom floor, pushing open the creaking doors to the crisp air outside. It's a little chillier than you anticipate, goosebumps erupting across your skin, the wind whipping through your hair. You hold Portobello a little closer. Your eyes are on the prize, the door to the offices opening and closing as Siblings and Clergy alike walk in and out bundled in coats and scarves. You weave around sleeping hedges and soil thirsty for spring, the fountain which captivated your attention the previous day looking just as chilled as you feel.

"Hej!" A voice calls to you as you pass one of the moving puffy coats.

Spinning around, you shiver, squinting a little as you are slow to recognize the Brother that greets you by name. Sandy hair hidden under a toboggan, grey eyes looking you over behind black framed glasses. Oh, he's from my Latin class, you think down at Portobello, sure your child can read your thoughts. It is your bond.

"Hi. What's up?" It sounds as awkward as you feel saying it. Lucifer, it's cold. Did you make a face? He's looking at you funny.

"Aren't you cold?" He asks, his eyes narrowing in on the lump that is Portobello, now hiding his face into the warmth of your skin.

"I'm good." I'm suffering.

"Okay...well, I was just wondering..."

****

Copia takes a sip of his coffee, a startled “Ai!” jumping from his throat as the scalding liquid coats his lips and mustache. He blots his mouth with a napkin, grumbling about shaving the damnable thing off before staring distastefully down at the brown liquid in his mug, Portobello’s little face printed onto the side of the white porcelain.

“Still hot…” he mutters, pushing back from his chair to move over to the little coffee station he keeps on a small table in the corner.

He has a pot, a couple mugs (although he hasn’t used any except this one you bought for him since), and his favorite dark roast placed next to little packets of hot chocolate he keeps especially for you. Kneeling with a groan, Copia opens the mini fridge under the table to pull out a container of milk, generously pouring it into his coffee. He tests the now pale liquid with a tentative sip, smacking his lips in satisfaction before rising.

Copia slowly steps through his office, patting his belly in a soothing gesture as he walks past the front of his desk, his eyes glancing over the many ledgers which require his attention this morning. He moves close to the window which overlooks the courtyard of the abbey. Frost lingers on the old panes, poor insulation allowing freezing cold air to hit his skin. He shivers a little and takes a sip of his coffee, sighing softly while watching the movement of the unholy congregation as they chat and scurry between buildings.

He holds the cup of coffee with both hands in an attempt to warm them with what little heat the drink has left. Copia hasn't stopped thinking about you, and to be perfectly honest, you are the only thing his mind is able to conjure these days. Every night he lays his weary body into bed, wondering what it would be like to draw you close to him, whispering sweet nothings as you fall asleep in each other's embrace. Perhaps sometimes he wakes from a blissful dream, his arms wrapped around a pillow, to face the painful realization that you are not there with him.

Last night was particularly difficult.

Your almost-kiss. Copia could strangle Terzo for interrupting the very moment he has yearned for since your midnight meeting in the kitchens some months ago. You felt so right in his arms, so entirely his as a blush crossed your cheeks and you smiled at him, that special smile which told him that you were willing to carry the burden of his old heart. Copia touches his fingertips to his lips, closing his eyes as if he can still feel your breath against them. He smiles sweetly, humming with the thought of you.

His eyes snap over to find the clock, and they inadvertently follow a trail from the wall to his desk to his cellphone sitting atop it, the black brick of a thing silent, but carrying your messages from this morning. How Copia agonized over texting you for lunch today, unsure of your response after the previous night. Should he have mentioned it? No, that's a conversation best held face-to-face. Copia wants you to feel safe and comfortable in his presence, and whether or not you choose to pursue a conversation about last night's activities is entirely up to you. He can wait. He will wait. And if you never return his affections, he will be glad to hold even a modicum of your attention.

As his gaze returns to the window, Copia makes a small harumph while taking in the frost on the ground. It’s supposed to be a cold winter, more so than usual, and the annual fight to keep the fireplaces going in these drafty corridors will begin anew. Copia leans a little closer to the window, his breath fogging the glass as he tries to make out a figure below near the fountain. He swipes at the glass with his sleeve, grumbling in annoyance, his eyebrow arching.

“Who in Lucifer’s name isn’t wearing a coat in this weather?” He murmurs to himself, trying to squint. It’s with a sickening drop of his heart into his gut as he realizes it’s you. You turn just enough that he can make out your features as you speak to…who is that? Copia leans so far into the window, his nose smashes into it, the cold shocking him back. Your image is blurred by the outline of his nose, and entirely fed up, Copia opens the window, practically hanging out of it as he peers down at you and the boy with narrowed eyes, his pupil nearly nonexistent in the expanse of white.

The boy stands close to you, too close, head tilted down to speak to you as you gaze up at him with that perfect innocence, that - well, actually you look fairly annoyed. The Cardinal huffs out a laugh as he watches your brow furrow, your feet shifting as you scoot a little farther away. Ah, my precious, The Cardinal thinks. What he does not like, at all, is how you’re shivering. He can practically see how red your sweet nose is from here.

Copia is gone from the window and out of his office door in the span of a few moments once he has gathered his thoughts, has reigned in the raging jealousy burning in his heart and lungs. There were more important things to attend to. That being, dragging his piccolina inside and getting her warm. Oh, you’ll hear it. The last thing he was going to do was let your health be disregarded so. Also, the Cardinal scowls, the boy should know better than to keep you out in the cold for an insipid conversation.

Siblings quickly move out of the way as the Cardinal, red cassock like a slash of blood against a winter’s day, glides through the doors to the courtyard. His eyes are on you like a hawk, his step firm as he approaches you from behind. His lips twist in satisfaction as the boy’s expression drops when his eyes find the advancing Cardinal, even going so far as to take a very big step away from you.

****

You watch with burgeoning fascination as fear flickers across your classmate’s face, and he moves swiftly away from you, throwing out a quick goodbye as he heads toward the residency. You tilt your head to the side, momentarily thrown off, watching his retreating back with barely contained relief.

“Sibling.”

Copia’s voice has you whipping around so fast, you feel Portobello slip down your sweater. Your hands come up to instinctually cup the lump underneath, and you watch Copia’s eyes flicker down to it with amusement before sharpening as they return to your face. You’re wracked with shivers from head to toe, eyes widening at the Cardinal’s rapidly hardening features.

“I believe we had an appointment,” the Cardinal continues, motioning with his head to follow him before he turns and heads back inside, not even looking to see if you’re following. You know better than not to, and make your way after his rapidly retreating figure. The warmth of the office building is a relief to your chilled skin, however your hands begin to burn, red and dry from the cold. You adjust Portobello, returning him to the neck of your sweater, his little feet resting under the lip of your bra. Copia doesn’t stop until he reaches his office, opening the door and gesturing inside with cool politeness as clergy members alike walk back and forth down the corridor.

You enter with trepidation, unsure of what to expect, your eyes falling on his half-filled cup of coffee sitting on the desk next to your Cardinal’s mountains of paperwork. You feel bad that he had to run all the way outside to fetch you, but your brow furrows with mirth when you notice the nose shaped smudge on the window. Was Copia watching you? Your cheeks heat. Was he jealous you were speaking to the guy from your class? Your heart gives a little pitter patter at the thought, and you have to school your features as you turn on your heel to face Copia. He closes his office door behind him, and then his hard expression drops in an instant.

The man is on you in a second, his gloved hands gripping your shoulders as he practically lifts you from the floor to deposit you by the fireplace. “Mio tesoro prezioso, dov'è la tua giacca!?” He frets. Copia falters for a moment, his hands out and fingers wiggling as he looks about the room for something, anything to wrap around your shoulders. With a determined frown, Copia hastily begins to remove his cassock, ripping the fascia off his waist to tangle on the floor in order to reach the buttons.

“Copia, this isn’t necessary,” you try to say, looking slightly alarmed with the ferocity in which he pulls the blood red material from his back to wrap around you.

“What isn’t necessary, amore mio, is your insistence to walk around outside without any coverings! You could freeze. Oh, your povere mani,” he groans, voice cracking as he reaches out to cradle your hands in his own, thumbs trying to work at your red skin to create friction. “What if you get frostbite, eh? What will your Cardinal do then?”

“...I’d imagine you wouldn’t be happy,” you murmur, eyes fixated on your hands.

“Certo.”

Copia pulls off his gloves, the leather looking stretched and wrinkled when not tight against his large, beautiful hands. You admire the dark hair on the backs of them, a small smile flitting over your features that broadens as he slides the gloves onto your own. The leather is so warm, wrapped around your hands like a hug, albeit a loose one that makes the both of you smile. Your eyes meet Copia’s and his expression is soft, freckled cheeks tinted pink as he gazes down at your hands, a slow smile creeping across his lips. He appears almost entranced by the sight of his gloves on you, his own fingers squeezing the material and trying to ensure they are on as tight as possible.

Copia catches your eye and blushes harder, clearing his throat, although he doesn’t let go of your hands. “Why were you outside, huh?” He murmurs, angling you a little closer to the fire. His eyes take in your entire form as if looking for any injuries brought on by the frigid weather. You can’t help but admire him in his black slacks and clergy collar, a sight you’re not very used to seeing. Copia is very rarely not pristinely dressed in his vestments when working, and when he isn’t, he prefers soft lounge clothes. Out of the hundred things you imagined was under his cassock, the black business casual outfit was farthest down the list. Although the hint of suspenders underneath is doing more for you than the fire.

“I was coming to see you, like we planned, but then that guy from my Latin class-,”

“Ah, he is a classmate? What eh…what did he want?” Copia interrupts you, his eyes falling to the crackling flames as his lips twist in displeasure. It makes you smirk, an eyebrow raising as you take in the tense set of his shoulders.

“He was asking me out,” you say as casually as possible.

“Che cosa!?” Copia’s head snaps back to attention so fast you’re worried it’ll fall off his neck, and you even put your hands up in surprise. His eyes are wide, the white nearly narrowing into a slit. This all happens in a matter of a moment before his expression melts, the circles under his eyes deepening as all color drains from his face and his gaze drops to the floor. “Forgive me. I…shouldn’t question what you do in your personal life. That is…eh, not cool.”

“Copia, I’m joking. He asked for class notes. That’s all,” you soothe, fingers coming up to gently touch his cheek. His lips part in a small gasp and his eyes flick to your fingers and then to your face.

“Hmm, not a nice joke,” he says softly, although there’s a small smile playing on his lips.

“No, it isn’t,” you agree.

There’s a beat of a moment between the two of you, your gloved fingers gently sliding across his cheek, rough with age and very warm. You notice a few flyaway hairs and brush them back behind his ear. Copia closes his eyes, blowing out a long breath through his nose. His hands cup yours and bring them to his chest, his fingers squeezing the leather wrapped so lovingly around them.

“We need to talk,” he whispers, his eyes opening, reflecting a heady desperation within the green and white depths. “But I am afraid, topolino.”

“What are you afraid of?” Your voice is equally quiet, your body gravitating closer to his. You reflect on the past several months. From meeting Copia in the Ministry kitchens to saving the rat who chooses this moment to climb from your shirt and settle on your shoulder. Copia chuckles softly, scratching Portobello fondly behind the ears.

“I’m afraid of losing this. I’m afraid of being alone again. I’m afraid of another decade roaming these halls at night like a wraith because I can’t be alone with my thoughts. I’m afraid of being cold again,” Copia sucks in a breath, blinking away the tears that are rapidly filling his eyes. “I’m afraid of losing my love.”

“Hmm,” you let out a small laugh, feeling the burn of tears behind your own eyes. “So all those ‘amores’ were real.” You give him a wobbly smile as he laughs a little, tears finally dropping and sliding down his cheeks.

“Sì, sì. I am not too subtle, eh?”

You take a steadying breath, your fingers gently wiping away his tears which sit on his gloves like rain droplets. “Copia, you could never lose me.” Your voice breaks slightly. “Knowing you has been the most beautiful experience of my life. And I want more of it. I want…,” you trail off, and turn to look at the rat on your shoulder, a smile brightening your features. “What do you say, ��Bello? Should I kiss your daddy?” You hear Copia make a noise between a gasp and a squeak as Portobello’s little paws come up to clean his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You turn and wrap your arms around Copia’s neck, drawing very close to him. His hands flail at your sides for a moment before settling at your waist, his eyes as wide as dinner plates as he blinks down at you. “What do you say?” You whisper to him, your lips inches apart, breaths intermingling. “Amore?”

Copia smiles. Wide and crooked and radiant. He’s practically shaking in your grasp, and laughs a little incredulously before his eyes flutter closed, long lashes kissing his cheeks. “I say,” he murmurs, accent heavy and deep. “Ti amo cosi tanto.” And then his lips descend on yours.

His hands slide around your back and he crushes you to him, chests flush as he thoroughly kisses you with deep, long strokes of his tongue. He explores your mouth as if he is trying to imprint your taste onto his tongue. Months of pent up frustration breaking in a moment of unbridled passion on a cold winter’s day. Copia whimpers softly into your mouth, and at this point you can’t tell if the tears on your cheeks are his or yours.

You break away with a gasp, but Copia needs you close, unable to truly pull away just yet and cradles you against his body, his hand along your jaw as he presses little kisses to your cheeks, your chin, your neck. Anywhere his wandering lips can reach. He whispers sweet things to you, words you can’t understand but know all the same. Copia smooths your hair from your face and just gazes down at you with complete adoration, his head tilting to kiss your lips softly again - once, twice, a third time.

You giggle softly in a dreamy state that makes him smile that smile again, the one that reaches his paints. “Have something to say, piccolina?” He says softly.

“I’m pretty speechless…”

“That would be a first, hmm?”

He kisses you again as you begin to roll your eyes, and you sigh into the bliss of it all. His thumbs rub circles into your cheeks, his kiss unhurried and lingering. You press a hand to his chest and push lightly, and you pull away with a smacking noise as a confused frown crosses his features.

“I nearly forgot!” You say, smiling up at him. You take a deep breath, the next words from your mouth feeling so easy and so right, and something you should have done a long time ago. “Copia, I love you too.”

Copia’s arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you with him as he brings the both of you to the floor, his arms and legs locking you into a hug. His nose nuzzles at your cheek as he holds you so incredibly close, a boyishness to the older man as he radiates joy and warmth. “Ti amo, ti amo, I love you,” he whispers over and over again into your ear, his mustache tickling you. “You have given me everything. Oh, my world is so bright. Ah, my heart.”

Your fingers slide up his back, and you lean into his embrace, closing your eyes and enjoying the glory of your newfound love. Everything, finally, is going to be okay. Your life is going to be okay…no, it’s going to be more than that. It is going to be glorious. Happy. Full of love. Full of Copia.

There’s a sliding sound and Copia’s paperwork goes crashing to the floor in a small explosion of paper. You both look up, Portobello having at some point during the last few minutes left your shoulder and made his way to Copia’s desk. He sits in the center of the desk, looking innocent as can be.

“We should have another one,” you say, smirking as you look at your outraged Cardinal. He gives you a withering glare. “I’m just saying, he might-...” Copia cuts you off with a kiss.

And you definitely recommend co-parenting a rat.

#the band ghost #the band ghost fanfiction #Cardinal Copia #cardinal copia x female reader #cardinal copia fanfiction #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iv fanfic #ghost #ghost bc #copia #papa iv #poorly translated italian #portobello the rat #cardinal copia x reader #copia x reader

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blurredcolour · 1 year ago

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You Left Your Name On My Lips

“It's Not The Prompt. It's The Creator." Challenge

Prompt: "Last summer was one no one could ever forget. Now, a year later, character(s) still feel(s) the effects of that time.”

Summary: A rare professional opportunity reignites painful memories of what seems was never meant to be.

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Angst, Major Character Death in Retrospect, Discussion of Loss and Grief, Discussion of Graves, Military Inaccuracies, Political Inaccuracies, Several References to January 6 Capitol Riots, Minor Reader Injury, Blood, Hospital Setting, Brief Discussion of Prosthetics, References to Sad Maverick, Medal Ceremony, Surprise Ending. Rating - T.

Credit: Paramount Pictures

Author's Note: Reader has no gender or physical descriptions. Pronouns are used a few times as they/them. All images contain image descriptions for accessibility. Thank you very much for reading and happy one year anniversary to Top Gun Maverick!

Word Count: 7505

“You left your name on my lips, everyone I meet knows I loved you…” – Katherine Perez (@s.h.e.ispoetry)

The late afternoon thunderstorm broke over West Executive Avenue just as you left the safety of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, hastening your steps into a run while you darted across the street toward the West Wing. As a member of the speech writing staff, you found yourself traversing this route often throughout the workday, but rarely at the direct request of the Deputy Communications Director.

Pressing the notebook in your hand into service as a make-shift umbrella, you hitched your laptop bag higher onto your shoulder and dashed into the building. You took a moment to ensure you looked presentable before signing in with security and heading towards the Communications bullpen. You paused at the corner of Ben Simkin’s desk, waiting for the Assistant to the Deputy Communications Director to finish his phone call so he could tell you how many minutes late your meeting would be.

“Looks like you just beat the rain.” Ben said as the phone rattled home into its cradle. “She’s only five minutes late so you can come right in.” He stood and led you through the open office door.

“Thanks, Ben. Definitely got in here at the right time…” You muttered, watching the deluge cascade against the windowpane.

“I saw you’re on holidays next week, going anywhere exciting?” He asked, leaning against the doorframe to indulge in a moment of friendly conversation.

You had always enjoyed Ben’s personable warmth. Particularly in contrast to the brusque efficiency of Faith Watson, the woman who shared administrative duties for the Communications team. It was always a good day when you got a reply from Ben rather than her.

“Just back to visit the family, they are constantly complaining they don’t see enough of me. I don’t see enough of me…” The pair of you shared a laugh before his line began to ring again and he hurried out to answer it quickly.

A flash of lightning flickered through the dimly lit office, thunder cracking and rumbling promptly in its wake as you settled into one of the chairs across the empty desk. Your thoughts turned back to the possible reasons why you had been summoned here when your eyes skidded to a halt on the file folder resting on the cluttered yet orderly desktop. The three letters scrawled in a black marker sorely in need of an ink refill sucked the moisture from your mouth, making you squirm in your chair uneasily.

MOH

“So sorry to keep you waiting.” Your boss suddenly burst into the room, and you stood quickly as she turned on a few more lights to fight off the gloom of the storm.

“N, not at all. How can I help?” You asked quickly, sitting as she assumed her seat behind the desk and gestured for you to sit as well.

You watched with trepidation as her hand stretched out to land on the very same folder that had evoked such a physical reaction within you just moments before. Shit.

“As you’re well aware, we have a Medal of Honor ceremony coming up this Friday. I’ve just gone through the latest draft of the speech and Michael has done a wonderful job, but it is missing…. something. Some sense of who the Lieutenant Commander was.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips nervously as you tried to take steady breaths, nodding to show that you were listening as you held your notebook on your lap in a ruthless grip.

“It’s my understanding that you knew him?” She tilted her head, eyeing you thoughtfully as you slowly nodded, wondering from exactly where this information had reached her.

“Yes, I did.” You somehow managed to voice.

“I know this is perhaps an impossible ask, but given your talent with words as well as your personal insight, I was hoping you might agree to take a pass at it?” She tented her fingers in front of her lips, assessing your reaction thoughtfully.

There was a reason she was sitting behind that desk. She had just made an incredibly difficult request wrapped within a compliment and tied with the bow of a professional opportunity. And while your initial, visceral reaction was to refuse, the rational and professional part of your brain interceded.

“I would be honored, ma’am.” You nodded, wishing your voice sounded more confident, but still thrilled that you had been able to speak.

“Thank you. I consider this a personal favor and will not forget it.” She glanced back at the rain pelting against the windowpane behind her and frowned. “Why don’t you get Ben to find you somewhere in the West Wing to work on this. A lot of people will have left for the day, and we need to get this finalized as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you, I will get started right away…” You gulped and reached out for the folder, tucking it close against your body as you tried to leave her office at a reasonable pace instead of the headlong flee that was burning to be released from the muscles of your legs. “Ben?” You cleared your throat as your voice came out slightly brittle and shaky. “Do you think you can find me a hole in the wall somewhere in this building?”

He raised an eyebrow before turning to his computer, clicking around. You raised your own eyes to the ceiling above you, calling upon whatever higher beings you could think of to grant you strength and patience.

“Follow me.” He said at last, though in truth it had been a sum total of forty-five seconds, before he led you through a maze of corridors and down a set of stairs into a plain office. “Usually held in reserve for the Deputy Chief of Staff’s Office…they are clearly not using it right now…You ok?” He eyed you skeptically and you swallowed tightly, offering a nod and a tight smile.

“Just in for a late night is all.” You clarified.

“Well, the kitchen is open for another two hours so maybe get some food now.” He advised. “Or you’ll be eating a hot dog on the corner, and you’ll never find this room again.”

The laugh that his comment pulled from you brought with it faint relief from the tension you had been carrying since your meeting and you nodded, setting your things on the dated wooden desk.

“Thank you, Ben. Have a good night.”

The door shut behind him with a careful click as you went about setting up your laptop, connecting to the network, and settling into the questionably supportive chair before at last you had no choice but to turn your attention to the file folder you had been dutifully ignoring. As you loaded the word processing file of the speech from your email, you tugged the packet closer. Opening it slowly revealed a copy of the medal citation and other documents pertaining to the ceremony on the left side, while the redacted Naval personnel file of Lieutenant Commander Bradley Nicholas Bradshaw lay on the right.

With unsteady fingers, you moved to lift the personnel file before suddenly losing your nerve, curling your fingers back into a fist and turning instead to read over the medal citation.

The words blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors behind the tears that flooded your eyes, refusing to be blinked away any longer. Everything had changed that day, just over a year ago, when Bradley Bradshaw had sacrificed his life to save everyone on board the aircraft carrier upon which he had been serving. You had found out a week later, along with the rest of the world, when the news broke on CNN. Truthfully, as his ex, you had not been entitled to anything more.

The cold hard truth that your relationship, ended by mutual decision in the late fall of 2020, was well over, had not made his death any easier to bear. It had, rather, clarified a fact you had been desperately trying to deny – you were still very much in love with the man and ending your relationship based on your diverging career paths and the 2,500 miles between you had been the worst mistake of your life. And now he was never going to come home.

Slumping over the back of the chair, you sealed your palm over your mouth as the sobs rose in your throat, unbidden yet unstoppable. Hot tears spilled from your eyes, scorching their way up along your temples as each exhale wracked your body with grief that remained as raw and unresolved one year on. His absence from this earth had created a jagged chasm in the pit of your stomach – one that refused to be filled or covered over no matter how hard you worked or what failed relationships you had pursued.

Grounding yourself by digging your heels into aggregate flooring and sinking the nails of your free hand into the distressed wood on the underside of the desktop, you managed to slow your breaths. To cram the agony of your grief back into its cage beneath your breastbone, leaving you an exhausted wreck in the gathering dark of your borrowed, subterranean office. You searched through your laptop bag, hoping you might have saved some napkins from that last time you’d eaten out, but you were disappointed to find nothing more than a few pens.

Seriously considering wiping your face on your shirtsleeves, you looked up startled at the knock on the door before Ben’s face appeared through the small gap as he opened it. He tutted gently as he took in your barely recovered composure.

“I thought as much.” He murmured gently before sliding into the room with a box of tissues, a tray of drinks, and two takeout containers.

“Ben…you are a saint…” You croaked and paused, not sure which of the items he set on the desk you wanted the most before ultimately settling on the tissues.

Turning slightly in your chair, you made quick work of mopping your face and blowing your nose as discreetly as possible in the small space afforded in the office. After discarding the used tissues, your next priority was a cold beverage, sighing deeply after you took your first sip.

“You even got my favourite.”

He grinned proudly, snacking on French fry from his meal, having settled into the only other chair in the room.

“I could just tell…”

“A saint, Ben.” You reaffirmed before carefully tucking into the meal he had procured for you.

A few bites in you remembered yourself and quickly fished out your phone, sending him a funds transfer for the food.

“Oh, that wasn’t…” He muttered after he checked the resulting notification on his phone. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

You sniffed thoughtfully, swallowing your bite as you shook your head.

“I’m not, but I still really appreciate this, Ben.”

“So, you didn’t…just know him did you…” He asked hesitantly and you paused with a bite of food raised to your lips before taking the food into your mouth and shaking your head again.

“No Ben,” You clarified after swallowed. “I was very much in love with Bradley Bradshaw. Still am I suppose, even though he’s…gone…” The final word of your sentence seemed to catch in your throat reluctantly, and you coughed a little to force it out.

Ben frowned deeply and looked over the folder laying open on the desk.

“I’ll talk to her, there’s no way she can ask this of you…”

“No! No, I…I agreed to do it, it’s an opportunity to touch a Presidential speech directly and independently. I don’t get those very often Ben. And I. It’s something I can do for him, one last time.” Your throat constricted again ominously so you nodded, hoping that sufficiently rounded out the thought you were trying to communicate.

Ben inhaled deeply, holding his breath in inflated cheeks, before exhaling it through pursed lips as he nodded.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” He tilted his head.

“This,” you gestured at your nearly completed meal, “has already helped more than I can say. Thank you.”

His soft smile was a balm to your aching heart – by no means a cure, but it had a soothing effect.

“Did you want to talk about him?”

“I don’t think. I don’t think that I can quite yet, Ben. Maybe someday? I’d like to…someday….”

“When you’re ready then.” He stood to collect the remnants of your meal, moving toward the door. “Are you alright if I head home?”

“Please do! You really didn’t have to stay for me. But thank you.” You nodded and he smiled warmly before stepping out, leaving you to the quiet of the office.

Taking a few deep breaths, you put some background music on your phone to help you focus on the task at hand before pulling up the speech to review what had been written thus far. The Deputy Director had not been wrong, there was a dimension missing. Typically, interviews were conducted with the honoree’s family, but Bradley had no close family left to speak for him. You knew that one of the main reasons he had chosen to stay out in California, rather than returning to Virginia, had been to reconnect with Maverick – Captain Mitchell, but he did not seem to be a man of many words.

At least he had not been that night when he showed up at your apartment door bearing a handwritten letter from Bradley. It had taken him several weeks to track you down; your personal details including phone number and address were unlisted for your safety and security. Working in politics had taken on an entirely different level of risk after January 6, 2021, but even before that you had made the choice to be as difficult to find as possible.

He had not had much to say as he stood there in his dress blues, other than to confirm your name and give you his condolences. He had delivered some prescribed line about Bradley’s bravery before disappearing down the stairs of your building, leaving you with the worn envelope, your name scrawled on the front in Bradley’s handwriting.

Shaking your head to physically clear the thoughts from your mind, you turned your focus back to the cursor in your word document, blinking at you expectantly, before beginning to type out an additional paragraph.

Words fall utterly short when we try to describe who someone was. We must look to their deeds. The words “Reckless disregard for personal safety” in his citation are striking. Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw had a history of fearless determination. He was unafraid of pursuing his goals despite any obstacles in his path, and twenty-two-months prior to the events of July 2022 was fully prepared to lay down his life for his superior officer.

“He even risked disciplinary action to call his ex from work during the Capitol Riots of January 6…” You sniffled aloud, shaking your head fondly.

You had been working for a prominent Senator during that time, doing some paperwork when the crowd infiltrated the Capitol building. Alone in the office, the rest of your colleagues in the chamber staffing the Senator, you had been frozen by panic and uncertainty. The unexpected vibration of your cellphone on your desk had been jarring, particularly when Bradley’s name accompanied it on the screen.

You had taken the call, whispering beneath the Senator’s desk, and he had talked you through barricading the door, through making the office appear unoccupied. You had heard someone begin to reprimand him on his end of the line, but he had continued to speak to you calmly, reassuringly.

“You’re going to be alright, just keep low, keep quiet, and keep that umbrella in your hands, ok?”

“O…k…ok Bradley.” You had whispered, not sounding nearly as sure as he had.

“I have to go now…” He had apologized gently.

“You’re damn right you do, Lieutenant Commander!” You had heard the sharp bark of his superior much closer this time.

“Thank you!” You had risked a little more volume to give him your emphatic gratitude before ending the call, feeling somewhat more prepared to deal with whatever might come down the hall.

It was the last time you had spoken to him.

You realized now that you should have called him back, but at that the time life had been moving so fast. As soon as the building was made safe, the voting had resumed. And then the transition team had called offering a position on the speech writing staff in the White House. The whirlwind of activity had been shifted into a higher gear of intensity at that point until the next time you looked up was to watch the report of his death on CNN.

Filled with a sudden curiosity, you turned to his personnel file, gnawing on your lower lip as you leafed through the papers contained within. You let out a gasp when you came across the notation that a nonpunitive letter of caution was delivered to him on January 7, 2021. While the contents of these letters were typically private, it was not hard to guess just what message Bradley’s superior officer had delivered to him.

“Oh Bradley…” You sighed fondly, shaking your head before turning back to your keyboard with renewed inspiration.

After two hours of writing, shaping, and polishing, you felt confident enough to submit your version of the speech to the Deputy Director. Sending the email, you carefully packed up your laptop before tucking the contents of the Bradley’s personnel file and citation back into the ceremony folder with a quiet reverence.

Stopping by her office, you were not surprised to see her still there working away. You dropped off the folder and wished her a good night. The rain had let up during your time working underground, leaving a blissfully cool evening, free of the usual summer humidity. Due to the late hour, public transit was quieter on your commute home, and your street almost tranquil. Dropping your keys and bills from your mailbox on the kitchen counter, you found your steps leading you to your bedside table of their own volition, filled with a desire to reread Bradley’s last words to you.

You sat on the edge of you bed, turning on the lamp there, and fished the worn envelope out from the bottom of the drawer. Carefully unfolding the familiar creases, you traced your eyes along his slanting penmanship.

Tilting your head back to prevent any stray tears from soiling the paper, the idea to laminate the pages to preserve them flitted through your mind once again. And yet the idea of putting a barrier between you and his words remained so off-putting that you shook you head. You carefully tucked it away for next time, dragging your tired mind and body to the shower.

The final draft of the speech was presented at the Communications team meeting the next afternoon, accompanied by your heart hammering beneath your ribs and a knowing grin from the Deputy Director. It was your version, untouched from the night before. There was no formal announcement, no by-line, but the people who needed to know, knew the authors of that speech. And you were indisputably one of them. As you were making your way out of the room, your boss stopped you, extending an invitation to the ceremony on Friday.

“I recognize it might be difficult…” She stated, giving you an out, but you took a breath to steel your resolve and shook your head.

“I’d be honored to attend, thank you.”

“Wonderful, I’ll have Ben set it up in your calendar.” She smiled before excusing herself to answer a call on her cell.

The building was a flurry of activity the day of the ceremony. The sheer extent of it – uniformed personnel and staff rushing through the lobby, the buzz of conversation – set your teeth on edge as you stepped into the West Wing that morning. Rather than making your way directly to your meeting, you decided to stop by Ben’s desk as he had an innate talent for picking up on the root cause of chaos as this seemed far beyond the usual for this type of occasion.

As you entered the Communications bullpen, his eyes widened when they met yours and he hardly seemed aware of the phone receiver pressed to his ear, belatedly uttering an apology before ending the call. He glanced around before lurching to his feet and grasping your elbow, pulling you into the notably empty Deputy Director’s office.

“You should sit.” He said with no preamble.

“Good morning, Ben, it’s lovely to see you too. I had a good sleep thank you for asking.” You greeted him with plenty of sass and a raised eyebrow.

You were already feeling snappish this morning, nerves frayed by excess emotion, and whatever sudden onslaught of chivalry he was experiencing was unwelcome.

“I’m sorry. The ceremony today has been postponed indefinitely.” He frowned, gesturing at one of the empty chairs hopefully but you shook your head as your stomach sank.

“Indefinitely? I don’t understand. These things don’t get postponed, they are thoroughly researched and perfected and…what on earth happened?!” You realized your volume had gradually increased to reach something akin to a shout as he winced, and you frowned. “Sorry…”

“You’re not going to sit, are you…” He sighed and you shook your head impatiently.

“Ben…” You said warningly.

“Lieutenant Commander Bradley Nicholas Bradshaw has been located alive in Kuwait and was air lifted to hospital in Germany during the night.”

You realized that Ben’s lips continued moving after the word ‘alive’, but your ears were filled with a dull buzzing. All of the blood in your body felt as though it seeped out of the soles of your feet into the plush office carpet, and you crumpled to the floor.

The bright glare of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling and Ben’s frantic face greeted your return to consciousness and you hissed at the pain in your right cheek, reaching a hand up to find a tender spot. Your fingers came away smeared faintly with blood.

“You clipped the corner of the desk on the way down…are you ok?!” He looked you over quickly, finding a tissue to press against your cut.

“I think…I think so. Ben. Repeat what you said…” You looked to him, terrified to be optimistic.

“He’s alive.” He could barely contain his grin, squeezing your shoulders as he punctuated the statement with your name. “He’s alive, after all this time, he was hiding somewhere and…I don’t have all the details yet, but…they obviously want to put the medal around his neck once they get him home.” He looked around suddenly. “But you! You should call in sick right now and buy a ticket to Germany. Go. Go to him.”

Your eyes whirled around the room, trying to find something to focus on to help you process the fact that man you had just help eulogize in a Presidential speech had in fact survived his act of reckless disregard for personal safety. Ben pulled the tissue away from your cheek and your eyes were drawn to the bright red contrasting sharply against the white between his fingers. Everything seemed to crystalize in your mind, and you looked to him quickly.

“I have to go.”

“Yeah, you do.” He grinned wider. “I’ll start texting you flights, get out of here.” He quickly slapped a bandage onto your cheek from the nearby first aid kit before shooing you out of the office.

You darted back to your desk, leaving your sick message on the Deputy Director’s voicemail and texting Ben that you had done so. He replied that it was duly entered into the attendance log and then spammed your phone with flight deals. You got home, throwing together a suitcase and grabbing your passport within an hour, flight booked to leave in three hours. Turning around quickly, you changed out of your suit into something more appropriate for a long-haul flight, before heading to the airport.

Six hours later, you found yourself pushing long-cooled airplane food around its sectioned tray as your eyes stared unseeing at the movie on the screen in the back of the headrest in front of you. Your mind was too busy mulling over the improbability, the impossibility, of it all to focus on the film you had chosen to distract yourself, the meal you had chosen from the options on the flight attendant’s cart.

How, in this era of hyper-interconnectedness, had a Bradley gone unfound for over a year? You knew from his citation that his was the only American plane in the air at the time, from the investigation records that they only had radar and radio communications to rely upon to detail the events before his plane crashed. Courtesy of those same records, you knew a covert operation had been undertaken to examine the crash site in enemy territory. That some form of remains had been recovered, identified, and buried in Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego.

Yet the postponement of a Medal of Honor ceremony was unprecedented. It would not have occurred on the basis of mere speculation or rumor. Ben’s report that Bradley was alive must be true, but how it was possible was entirely beyond your comprehension.

Landing in Frankfurt at five thirty in the morning local time, you were then faced with nearly three hours of public transportation before you finally arrived at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. You had barely slept or eaten, but Ben’s bandage was still securely in place on your cheek. At least that was something in your favour.

After all you had overcome to arrive at the nursing station in Germany, you had not expected to be thwarted by a dour-faced Army sergeant.

“Are you family?”

“Well, no, not exactly but I…”

“Authorized personnel and family only.” He replied firmly, looking down his hawkish nose at you and you frowned down at the flecked pattern on the worn laminate countertop.

“Add them to the list, they are family.” A voice interceded from the other side of the l-shaped desk, and you lifted your eyes quickly to see Captain Mitchell standing there. “Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw will want to see them.”

He looked younger than the last time you had seen him. As though the weight of the entire Navy had been lifted off his shoulders. There was, perhaps, even the trace of a smile in his eyes as he nodded for you to hand over your passport so the long-suffering sergeant could add you to the list of approved visitors.

“His room is this way, come on.” He tilted his head toward the wide, sterile hallway and you found your feet rooted to the spot, unable to take another step after flying thousands of miles on the word of your colleague. “Truly. He will want to see you.” Captain Mitchell assured you and, swallowing roughly, you found the will to propel your body into motion once more.

Captain Mitchell stepped into the room first and you carefully set your luggage in one of the chairs by the door, inhaling sharply as you heard a voice you thought had been silenced forever.

“Heya Mav, thought you were going for coffee…” Bradley rasped.

“Found something better on the way…” He turned to the side to reveal you, standing there like a deer in headlights, staring at a very alive Bradley Nicholas Bradshaw.

He was thinner than the last time you had seen him, having endured who knows what hardships in the name of survival over the past twelve months. His normally tan skin had lost its glow too, most likely from the necessity of hiding, and his customarily trimmed moustache had expanded down his cheeks and jaw into a full beard. Lack of sunlight had kept his chestnut hair dark as well, grown long in luscious waves. Yet he was still unmistakably the man that kept a firm hold over your heart, long frame barely fitting on the bed, propped up in a sitting position beneath a white and blue flannel hospital sheet.

Your name fell from his lips in a whisper, and he looked quickly between you and Captain Mitchell.

“You sure I’m not dead?”

Blinking rapidly as tears threatened to flood your vision, you and Captain Mitchell shook your heads at the same time.

“No Rooster, you’re definitely alive, they’re definitely here, and I’m definitely going for that coffee now.” Captain Mitchell excused himself and you walked over to the hospital bed slowly, trying to remember how to breathe. In and then out.

You did not need to faint again, especially not in front of Bradley.

“Hi…” You said quietly, feeling suddenly shy. Even draped over a hospital bed after a year of being declared dead Bradley was still the most attractive man you had ever laid eyes upon. Even with a full beard. Perhaps especially…

He held out his hand to you and you quickly took it between both of yours, sighing softly at the reassuring warmth of his skin as he guided you even closer to his bedside. With his free hand, he reached up to run his fingers along the bandage across your cheek.

“What happened?” He frowned.

You huffed a self-deprecating laugh and shook your head.

“Close encounter with a desk while fainting.” You muttered. “Are you ok?”

“You fainted? When?” He looked you over, concern knitting his brows tighter.

Typical Bradley, ignoring any concern you might have for him. Unchanged in the least.

“About…fourteen hours ago, I suppose?” You grimaced.

“Because of me.” He said flatly and you conceded with a nod. “I’m sorry…”

“Please…Don’t apologize, it was the best news. I…I just happened to fold like a deck chair.”

His lips twitched into a grin which you echoed happily.

“Such a softie.” He teased.

“I’ll have you know I fought off the QAnon Shaman with that umbrella, thank you.” You boasted playfully.

He squinted at you quizzically and you registered that perhaps he was not quite well enough for that level of humor.

“Not really, I was removed to a safe room shortly after our call. Thank you again Bradley. Thank you for taking the time to write me that letter, as well. For asking Captain Mitchell to bring it to me. It meant a lot.” Your voice trembled, betraying your heightened emotions.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry I was such a moron and never said any of those things to you until I thought I was going to die.”

Shaking your head quickly you lifted his hand, still clasped between yours, and kissed the tips of his fingers.

“I’m just as guilty…I mean I technically haven’t even apologized to you in return. I wrote you a letter in reply, but I left it in San Diego...at…” You trailed off not wanting to discuss the gravesite you had visited. “I love you. I never stopped and I’m sorry I was also so stupid…” Your voice wavered with emotion as you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I love you, too.” He murmured and shifted his hand between yours to lace your fingers together tightly. “There was never a pair of idiots better suited for each other.”

You laughed tearfully, wiping at your eyes with the cuff of your sleeve and shaking your head.

“Never.” You agreed. “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?” You asked, looking around the anonymous, off-white room filled with the typical hospital equipment. It could have been located anywhere in the world, for how similar it looked to every hospital room you had ever had the misfortune to see.

“Yeah…come here…” He crooked the index and middle fingers of his free hand, gesturing you closer.

You immediately leaned over the railing of his bed, shifting closer.

“What is it?” You asked, wanting to be of assistance.

“A kiss.” He grinned, slipping his fingers around the back of your neck as soon as you were within his reach.

“Oh.” You murmured, eyes flicking up to meet his warm, whisky-colored gaze, before assisting him in closing the distance.

It was tentative at first, a gentle brush of mouths that sent a familiar rush of warmth through your veins and had your breath shuddering against his damp lips. His breath caught audibly in his throat before he tugged you closer, pulling your lips to his firmly as you pressed your still-entwined hands into the mattress beside his head to brace yourself. The fingers of your other hand delved greedily into his longer-than-usual curls, relishing in their silky feel as he rumbled happily against your lips.

Finding your synchronized rhythm after all these years, both of your lips parted to deepen the kiss. You sighed deeply at the familiar taste that was unmistakably his, mixed with the salty tang of tears as one or both of you were crying. A deliberate knock and polite cough had you tensing before pulling back quickly, untangling your fingers from his hair carefully before stepping back to allow what looked like a team of doctors to enter the room.

You slipped out into the hall when they initiated their exam, wanting to give him his full privacy, and sank into one of the chairs near the desk where the unpleasant sergeant offered you a glare before turning back to his work. The output of energy, and ebb of adrenaline, caught up to you then and you found your eyelids sinking heavily as you rested your chin on your palm, elbow balanced on the arm rest, dozing until one of the medical team gently shook you awake.

“Sorry. Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw is asking for you…” She apologized as you blinked up at her sleepily, but you smiled quickly and shook your head, heading back into the room again, noting that Bradley’s countenance was more serious than when you had parted.

An empty food tray sat on the bedside table – you had apparently slept through meal delivery.

“Everything ok?” You asked quietly, carrying one of the empty chairs over to sit beside his bed as he looked you over, sighing softly. You noticed the team had dropped the side rail on his bed and left it lowered, making him more easily accessible to you.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation of where I’ve been. Of what happened.”

“Bradley, you owe me absolutely nothing. You can share with me whatever you wish whenever you are ready but there is no obligation involved.” You frowned, reaching for his hand, which he squeezed softly as he stroked his beard thoughtfully with the other.

“Let me start with the fact that I am not unscathed? I…You went to my grave, you all but said as much.” You nodded guiltily in reply, and he squeezed your hand against reassuringly. “I left a piece of myself behind in that plane, after the missile hit, before I could eject.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion, looking him over as he looked pretty whole to you, until your eyes trailed lower, and you noticed only one peak at the end of the bed when there ought to be two. Your eyes widened as your heart rate picked up, but you did your best to take a steady breath and assume a neutral expression before turning back to him.

“Your leg?” You asked gently.

“My left foot.” He confirmed with a nod, voice tight. “I assume that’s what they found and used as confirmation of my death. There’s not an awful lot left usually when we burn in. That’s what is probably buried in San Diego.”

“I’m so sorry, Bradley…” You shifted to stand, sliding your arms around him in a careful hug, pressing your cheek against the top of his hair as he buried his face in your neck.

You held him reassuringly, hands pressing into his back soothingly as his arms wrapped around your waist, clinging to you until his heavy breaths evened out and he leaned back to look up at you.

“They have to do more surgery, to properly fit a prosthetic. A sympathetic family found me, cauterized it, kept me alive, moved me around to other like-minded people until they could smuggle me to Kuwait…It’s never stopped hurting…” He whispered and you frowned softly, kissing his forehead.

“Oh Bradley…” You whispered in reply, arms tightening around him protectively, wishing you could bear just a little of his burden, ease even a fraction of his pain.

He lay his head against your chest, and you lifted a hand to stroke his hair soothingly.

“They want me to get stronger and then they’ll send me state side for surgery and rehab…they’re thinking Walter Reed…”

You hummed thoughtfully, trying not to take too much pleasure in the thought of him being in Maryland.

“It’s a good hospital.”

“Close to you.”

“I’d come as much as possible. You’d be welcome to come stay with me if you need a place.” You murmured, noting how his torso was growing heavier against you. “Why don’t we lay you down, hmmm?” You suggested softly and he nodded, complying sleepily.

You rearranged his blankets carefully to tuck him in, settling into the chair at his bedside and taking his hand, watching as he fought with his heavy eyelids.

“Shhh rest, Bradley, it’s ok.”

“Stay…?” He asked, eyes flashing open one last time to lock onto yours pleadingly.

“Of course I’ll stay.” You nodded and squeezed his hand, smiling as he nodded back, surrendering to his exhaustion and falling asleep.

You were not far behind, laying your head on the bed beside your clasped hands, letting sleep overtake you as well.

You awoke to the feel of warm, calloused fingertips stroking down your jaw, your lips curling up at the corners at the pleasant sensation before you forced your eyes open in the low light of the hospital room. Any sense of time had abandoned you somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, but it was still dark outside the windows and a glance around the room revealed a sleeping Captain Mitchell, slumped back in the other chair near the door.

Looking back to Bradley, who’s touch had roused you, he mouthed a soft sorry, to which you shook your head in reply.

“You ok?” You whispered.

“Hungry.” He confessed and you smirked a little.

“I’ll find something ok?”

He nodded gratefully and you pressed a soft kiss to his lips before easing your stiff body from its less-than-ergonomic position in your chair. You both shared a wide-eyed look at the crack your neck emitted, glancing over at Maverick, who thankfully slept through it all. You stopped by the nursing station, grateful to find a friendly lieutenant on duty who directed you to a vending machine with sandwiches at the end of the hall.

Suddenly inspired to hunger of your own, you procured a few from the machine that thankfully accepted American currency before returning to the room to partake in your feast with Bradley. Once you’d cleared away the wrappers and the crumbs, he leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“You said you wrote me a reply…did you save a copy?”

You swallowed and eyed him for a moment, wondering how it was possible for someone to know you so very well. While you had written the letter to him on compostable paper, hoping to leave as little an environmental footprint as possible, a part of you had needed to keep of a record of your words to him. Thus, you had taken a photo of your handwritten letter and saved it on your phone.

You pulled the device out of your pocket, ignoring the knowing grin on his features as you pulled it up, squinting a little at the intrusive brightness before holding it out for him to read in the dimly lit silence.

He raised his eyes as he came to the end, the glow of the screen causing the unshed tears in his eyes to shimmer. You leaned up to kiss his temple before whispering.

“I’d like to amend the ending…. You’re home now, thanks to every power in the universe, and whatever comes next, we get to figure it out together.”

He licked his lips slowly, setting your phone down on the worn flannel, before cupping your face to guide your mouth to meet his warmly.

When at last, nearly a year later, the President delivered his rewritten speech and secured the blue ribbon of the Medal of Honor around Lieutenant Commander Bradley Nicholas Bradshaw’s neck, you watched from the front row with a raised mark on your cheek. Bradley fondly referred to it as your ‘rescue mission battle scar’ and pressed his lips to it with delightful frequency, letting the whiskers of his once again neatly trimmed moustache tickle your cheek.

The seat you occupied was that of his beloved partner, rather than standing in the corner as an anonymous White House staffer. It was the seat that you had always been meant to occupy and one that would never willingly vacate again.

Top Gun Masterlist

@tgm-all4one

#tgm all4one #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw angst #rooster x you #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster imagine #rooster fanfic #top gun fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw #tw angst #tw death

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lovelytsunoda · 2 years ago

Text

she keeps me up // pierre gasly

summary: driving in the storm was a bad idea. when she gets stranded at a rest stop, what's the harm in having a little bit of casual fun with the hot stranger that's also stuck there?

warnings: smut, inappropriate use of a rest stop bathroom counter

she was stupid for attempting the drive in this weather

the news anchors were calling it 'snowmageddon'

when she found that she could no longer see three feet in front of her, she pulls into a local rest stop

and that's when she sees him

in a car that's definitely not built for the snow, he's pulling a tarpaulin over the car to protect it from the snow, but it's not working very well

"do you need a hand?" she asked, pulling her fur lined parka hood over her head. "it would be a shame to ruin such a nice car."

"that would be great, actually. can you grab the other end?"

once the car is all covered, they head inside

like the gentleman he is, he holds the door open for her

there are three other people inside the rest stop, a small desktop radio playing in the background

a married couple in their mid thirties

and an older man who's probably in his late forties

that's when they learn that they're probably going to be stuck there for eight to ten hours

"so, it sounds like we'll be stuck here all night. anybody have any ideas how to spend it?"

the group find themselves sitting around a table, uno cards in hand.

introductions had been done five minutes earlier, and she had been turning his name around in her mind ever since she heard it spoken in his smooth french tongue

pierre, god he was so french

they were halfway through a round of uno when her phone buzzed with an airdrop notification

it was a screenshot of a note from pierre

meet me in the bathroom in ten minutes

with a little winky face at the end

"hi, handsome". she says simply, leaning against the bathroom door

"bonojour, cherie." he grins and thats all that it takes for her to pull him in by the loose collar of his linen shirt, lips devouring his

he backs her up against the subway tiled wall, his cold hands roaming all over her body

under her hoodie, over her jeans, cradling her face

the kiss is all teeth and tongue, the wet, hungry, sloppy kind

her leg hooking around his, hands buried in his frosted tips

the cold metal of his cross necklace cold against her skin as it falls down the collar of her sweater, pierre's lips nipping at her neck

her hands sliding up his shirt, playfully toying with his belt as she moans his name

making out had been fun, but now she needs him inside of her

"bend over the counter, cherie. i want you to look at yourself in a mirror and see how good i make you feel."

and that's how they end up with their jeans around their ankles, gold granite against skin

pierre's cock smacking against her ass before he starts teasing it along her entrance

“so wet for me, mon cher”

“pierre, please.”

it’s rough and it’s messy

her hair grasped in his fist as he thrusts in and out of her

the sounds of skin hitting skin

her lips parted in an unholy moan

she’s even more turned on watching it happen in the mirror

pierre panting above her, struggling to keep his composure as he meets her eyes in the dirty bathroom mirror

“that’s it, take it like a good girl.” he manages to grunt out. “should I give you my cum, cherie?”

“yes, god yes!”

he spills inside of her, and she follows shortly after

fixing their clothes before they head out

but everybody else in the rest stop knows exactly what they did in that bathroom

the rest of those eight hours just got so much more awkward

#pierre gasly #pierre gasly x reader #f1 imagine #f1 headcanons #f1 smut #pierre gasly smut #Spotify

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birgittesilverbae · 2 years ago

Note

Bealith: piercing

The buzz of Lilith's contraband phone skittering across her desktop sets Beatrice's teeth on edge. The discordant noise drives right through the whispered monotone of Beatrice's voice as she reads her notes back to herself.

"Can you turn that off, please?" she asks sharply after the third interruption.

"Hmm?" Lilith swivels in her desk chair, attention still fixed mostly on the cue cards in her hands.

"The phone," Beatrice clarifies. As if on cue, the phone vibrates a fourth time. Lilith pins it to the desk, but that only serves to make the sound more piercing. Beatrice rocks forwards and presses the pads of her thumbs into her temples. "Please," she grits out, almost an afterthought.

"It's just Shannon."

"It's not about who you're texting, it's–" Again, sharp and jarring, sending frissons of discomfort down her spine. She hunches in on herself, sucking in a shuddering breath, and shifts her thumbs to each tragus, pressing them firmly down over her ear canals.

Lilith's voice is muted, now, drawn quiet and unsteady through her plugged ears. "Bea?" A hand lands on Beatrice's shoulder, heavy and painful as it sparks at overstimulated nerves, and she flinches away so violently her elbow smashes against the edge of her desk.

Lilith must retreat, but Beatrice pays her no heed, focusing instead on regulating her breathing, calming the rise and fall of her chest back down to a steady rhythm. She inhales deeply through her nose, allows herself to sit in the comfort of the stretch of her lungs, the firm press of her fingertips to her ears. Steady, steady, steady. Back to studying. She had to get back to studying. But the sheer noise of that phone vibration seems to have carved itself into Beatrice's bones.

There's contact again. Knee this time. Okay. Bearable. Beatrice cracks her eyes open, finds Lilith looking back at her, eyes sorrowful. Not pitying, at least. Small mercies. Lilith tentatively hefts the case she holds cradled in her lap, unzips it and tips it towards Beatrice.

Beatrice's throat constricts ever so slightly, and she swallows hard against it, wets her lips. "For me?" she asks, her voice made distant, alien, even to herself.

Lilith nods and frees the headphones from the case, unfolds them. May I?, she mouths, and Beatrice nods stiffly, letting her hands fall away from her ears.

Sound floods back in like a tidal wave in the moments before Lilith leans forward and slips the headphones over her ears and then–

Silence. Her mouth drops open and she touches a tentative hand to the shell of one earphone. Silence, blessed silence

"Active noise cancellation," Lilith explains, her cheeks gone pink in the afternoon sun. "I'd hoped it would– They were meant to be your birthday–"

"Thank you," Beatrice cuts in, and Lilith's relief at the interruption is almost palpable. Beatrice reaches up to trace a finger over the plane of Lilith's cheek, follows the bow of Lilith's lips with her thumb. "Thank you."

#ask #cowboycatd #ty davey love u davey #myfic #mywn #fic: dads #beatrice x lilith #warrior nun

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lykegenia · 2 years ago

Text

Like glitter And Gold Ch. 9

Fandom/Pairing: The Wayhaven Chronicles/ Nate Sewell x f!Detective Rating: T Warnings: None

Read on AO3

“You, uh, haven’t seen the paper yet this morning, have you?”

Leah glances up at Tina from the login screen of her desktop. “I never read it,” she says, suspicious. “The astrology column is the most accurate journalism in it. Why do you ask?”

“Oh…” Tina takes a swig from her coffee. “No reason in particular. Just –”

The desk phone starts ringing.

Still keeping a leery eye on her former partner, Leah plucks it from the cradle, but barely gets halfway through her name before the mayor starts shouting.

“This is an absolute disgrace! I gave you the benefit of the doubt last time because it was your first case, but if I’m to expect this lack of professionalism every time Wayhaven is faced with a crisis, it might be time to find a more competent replacement. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Um,” she says, eloquently.

“Yesterday you assured me that you were handling this case!” the phone line crackles as flecks of spit hit the receiver.

She learned in her first crappy job in customer service that the best way to deal with situations like these is to tune out the words and let the arsehole on the other end of the line wear down their batteries, so she waits. Deciding on sympathy, Tina creeps forward as if the mayor might realise she’s also in the room and slides a copy of the local paper into her line of sight.

And suddenly it’s very obvious what the mayor’s morning tirade is about.

Most of the front page is taken up by a photo of her and Nate sitting together on the bench outside the museum. Whoever took the picture – and she has a fairly solid guess – has caught the moment that he reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, the tender look in his eyes that even now as a distant observer makes her breath catch. They’re leaning close, intimate, smiling. She didn’t know she could look so sappy.

“Are you still there, Detective?” the mayor demands. “Detective!”

“I’m listening,” she lies. The headline below the photo reads FINDING LOVE: But where’s the murderer?

“Are you?” he shoots back. “This is unacceptable!”

She bites back her preferred retort. “I completely agree, sir. At some point I, too, would love to be able to find out about local news through some other medium than a loud phone call.”

“That is –!”

“My investigations are continuing,” she interrupts, “and they will do so without interference from my personal life, or from Bobby Marks, who – as I remember telling you only a few months ago – is not somebody I can control.”

She slams the phone back down without waiting for a response and has to draw a deep, calming breath in through her nose.

“That’ll probably come back to bite you,” Tina points out, with not a little bit of awe.

“I’m going to kill him.” It’s hard to think how else to deal with the vibrant, visceral anger locking her limbs into place. If she moves, she might fling all the stuff from her desk. “I’m actually going to wring his neck and dispose of the body in a vat of acid. I can’t believe even he’d be this – this – petty.”

“It says more about him than it does about you,” Tina soothes. “But even so… you and that agent of yours…”

“Don’t. It’s –”

“Babe, don’t you dare say ‘complicated’. He’s looking at you in that photo like he wants to eat you – which now I say it out loud feels kind of tactless.” A frown. “You know, considering.”

“It’s not relevant right now.” Leah bites it out, a poor substitute for explaining the need to keep Nate separate from work, the itch beneath her skin at having the two halves of her life crash together in such a public way. She knows why Bobby did this, knows it’s a move he calculated well because he knows her, and that galls as much as the photo itself. Nobody is meant to see her like this, exposed and doe-eyed as a tragic heroine, careless enough with her heart that a stranger could capture it on film. Even with the low res of a newspaper image, she can’t tear her gaze from Nate’s, the rich intensity of his eyes, the expression playing around his mouth – and it’s too much. Immense as the edge of a cliff.

“What new leads do we have this morning?” she asks, turning the paper over.

Tina watches her carefully for a moment before dropping her gaze to her notepad. “We have Seakirk’s phone records, finally. There’s a text from a withheld number sent very shortly before TOD, but the delightful person I spoke to at the phone company didn’t think we might want to un-withhold it, so I’ve asked for that to be chased up. In the meantime… Douglas had a strike of brilliance this morning.”

“Oh?”

“He’s decided to go back through the Swordfish’s CCTV from weeks ago to see if he can find anything while we wait, since Seakirk was a regular.”

Leah blinks. “That’s… a surprising amount of initiative.”

“I think you’re having an influence,” comes the teasing reply.

She nods, making a mental note to thank him for the good work, but it’s not something that’s going to offer immediate results. Between that and the phone company, the case is now a waiting game, dependent on other people to do their jobs. There’s nothing that makes her twitchier, especially when it means there’s going to be no distraction from how much she wants to throttle Bobby.

Except, there is one avenue that might have made progress. She’s already moving towards the door.

“Let me know if anything turns up,” she throws over her shoulder. “I’ll be –”

Nate almost collides with her, only managing to cushion the impact by slipping his hands around her waist. The unexpected wash of his scent makes the breath stutter in her lungs.

He smiles. “Careful.”

Her hands are braced instinctively against his chest, so close she has to tilt her head back to see him properly, the look in his eyes so like that in the photo that for a second it feels like she’s taken a blow to the head. There’s something more sombre in it, though, concerned, which she realises at the exact same moment that her face is flaming and that her office has filled with a heavy, dead silence.

“Sorry – didn’t see you there,” she manages. “I was just coming to see you about the journal.”

He gives her a long look. “I finished translating it this morning, but that’s… not entirely the reason I came here.”

Mortification wraps around her like a python.

Tina, sheepish, edges into her line of sight. “I’m going to go pop the kettle on. If I could…?”

They step to the side so she can squeeze through the doorway, Nate’s hands still settled on Leah’s waist as if glued to it, and once they’re alone he heaves a breath and turns his attention fully to her.

“I saw the article Bobby wrote,” he murmurs. “Are you alright?”

She drops her gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“He shouldn’t have done what he did.”

“As if that’s ever stopped him.” She snorts. “Vindictive little shit. Why are you looking at me like that?” He’s frowning like he doesn’t believe her, like she’s easier to read than Russell’s book.

“I want you to feel you can talk to me,” he urges. “You can talk to me.”

“I’m fine.”

“Leah –”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she snaps, pushing away. “All of this, it’s…”

She turns and pulls the end of her braid over her shoulder, twirling the end in nervous fingers. In the absence of words, she lets loose a frustrated snarl, and Nate stands there watching her scrabble for purchase like a dog bracing its legs against the sides of an imminent bath. How he can be so placid, she doesn’t know.

“I’m not… good at this,” she tries. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I hate feeling so out of control.”

A frown draws down over his features, though if it’s worry or hurt, she can’t tell. “What do you mean?”

She shakes head, eyes squeezed shut, keeping the words crammed in her throat so that’s the only place they can sting.

“Leah…” he says, and steps closer.

“I knew something would go wrong.” Her knuckles connect with the desk, not quite hard enough to be a punch. “I – Can we just focus on the case? I don’t want to deal with anything else right now.”

When he doesn’t reply, she looks up to find him by the window, staring through the glass with his hands shoved into his pockets and a new stiffness in his shoulders as he tries to put distance between them. The frown has worked its way to the corner of his mouth, turning it down in a way she doesn’t know how to fix.

“Nate–”

The door bursts open again before he can answer. Douglas, his cheeks tinged an embarrassed pink, doesn’t look up from the floor as he holds out the printed photo in his hand.

“I thought you’d want to see this, Detective,” he explains, an awkward, apologetic cough in his throat.

The grainy image is a still from a CCTV camera with a timestamp about three weeks old, showing Russell Seakirk in the same corner booth he was sitting in the night he was murdered, only this time he isn’t alone. A blonde woman is seated next to him, one hand on his arm as he leans close enough to whisper in her ear. Even in the bad lighting, the identity of the woman is obvious.

“Gotcha.” Leah glances up. “Good work, kid.”

“Really?” Douglas grins.

“What is it?”

Her heart seizes as Nate comes to peer over her shoulder, but she disguises the slip as best she can by holding up the evidence for him to see. “Proof that Samantha Harris knew the victim a lot better than she wanted us to think.”

The clock on the wall reads 9 am, plenty of time to tackle the winding roads to the museum before it opens.

“I’m going to go talk to her again,” she decides, grateful or the escape, eager to be on the scent again. “I’ll meet you back at base?”

Nate blinks as she pulls on her coat. “Oh. If you’re sure?”

“Someone needs to tell Adam what’s going on.” She’s a coward. “It’s just going to be a quick chat.”

“Of course.” He flashes her a smile, but his shoulders are hunched, and his hands still sit deep in his pockets.

She tries a smile. “I’ll see you there.”

An instant passes. She starts forward with half an impulse to kiss him, to reassure him that she regrets the brittleness in his expression, but Douglas is still hovering in the middle of the room and the fear that she’ll make things worse tightens in her chest like ice. So she leaves. Her feet march her to the car and the key turns in the ignition and her hands grip the steering wheel as she fights back the prickle of heat behind her eyes. As she pulls in deep breaths to collect herself, a pair of elderly ladies pass on the opposite side of the low wall that separates the station car park from the street, and when one of them glances her way, it’s clear she’s been recognised. The pair huddle into conspiratorial closeness as they walk by, giggling behind their hands.

“Ah, infamy,” she gripes. “Just what I always wanted. Thank you so fucking much, Bobby Marks.”

She shakes her head and puts Nessie into gear; dwelling on it won’t help her solve the case.

She pulls up in the museum car park fifteen minutes before opening time, and catches sight of Samantha juggling keys and coffee in a to-go cup. The grumbling of the engine makes the other woman turn, and Leah’s seen enough petty vandals in her time as a beat officer to recognise the split-second reaction of someone wondering whether to run. But they’re on the headland here, with nowhere to go but the woods and a narrow strip of beach below, and despite her flat shoes Samantha’s flimsy office clothes would be no match for comfortable jeans and a pair of sturdy, heavy-soled boots. She decides to stand her ground instead of making a chase of it, offering a fawning smile as Leah steps out of the car.

“Detective! Our museum must have made quite an impression on you if you’re back again so soon.”

Leah waits until she’s within arms’ reach, just in case. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Russell Seakirk were having an affair?”

The smile falls, and with it, all colour drains from Samantha’s face. Beneath a careful mask of concealer and blush, the shadows of her eyes offer a stark contrast to the vibrant, artificial shade of her hair, and only serve to underline the delicate red threading of eyes that have gone too long without sleep. Her lip trembles as she tries to rally.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she says.

“This looks like you, don’t you think?” Leah counters, unfolding the CCTV image from her pocket. “We also found a blonde hair on his body, just about the same length as yours.”

“My hair isn’t –”

“It is on the museum website.”

Samantha twists her lips together, her gaze falling to the photo for only the briefest moment before she shoves it back into Leah’s hands.

She slips it back into her pocket. “Think carefully before you try to lie to me again.”

Heartbeats pass, with the morning gulls wheeling overhead to catch the updrafts rising from the cliff.

“We met when he was researching the Pegasus,” Samantha admits eventually, caving under the weight of Leah’s patient stare. “He wanted to know about it. He noticed my surname and we started talking.” Something sour passes over her features, like a child petulant about being caught stealing sweets.

“He can’t have been the first to come treasure hunting,” Leah prods.

Samantha rolls her eyes. “Every so often some Indiana Jones type comes waltzing through, convinced they’ll solve the big mystery, but he was… different.” She frowns, troubled. “Before I knew it, we weren’t even talking about the wreck.”

“And you didn’t mention this before because…?”

Instead of answering, Samantha clutches tighter at her coffee cup, as if the warmth it offers might act as a shield between the question and whatever it is she wants to hide. A heavier hand might threaten an interview at the station, but aside from anything else if Leah goes back there now it’s likely Tina will be lying in ambush with an earful for how badly she handled the situation with Nate. She prefers patience, and the stare people have always found a little disconcerting.

“I broke it off,” Samantha says at last.

“When?”

A shrug. “He started talking about running away, starting a new life, how he was so close to getting enough to never have to worry about money again.”

“And you didn’t want that?” Leah guesses.

“What was I supposed to do, leave my job – my life?” She draws her jacket closer against the wind. “He thought I’d just drop everything. He – it was just a fling. It didn’t mean anything.”

Leah decides to let it go. “How did he take the break-up?”

Another, more defensive shrug. “He was fine. Maybe a little upset, but he was fine. We went our separate ways.”

Old Detective Reele kept a list of questions for revelations like this, when a person of interest changed their story and the facts had to be teased out from the mess of poor memory and deliberate misdirection. There had never been much call to use it in a town where tacky lawn ornaments were considered serious crime, but he was thoughtful enough to include it in the rushed orientation Leah was given with her promotion. As she works through them all – Did you see him the day he died? What time? Where did you meet? – the answers get more agitated, until Samantha looses an angry huff and throws her arms up in frustration.

“Look, I really wish I could be more help, but I can’t,” she snaps. “We talked down in the woods beyond Hope Point, no one was around, and then we walked in separate directions. I spent the rest of the day at home. Alone, before you ask.”

“Where was your husband?”

She drops her gaze again. “He stays late at the boatyard sometimes. He drinks, he does it there so he thinks I won’t know.”

“Did he know about the affair?” Leah asks. It’s not the question she really wants to ask, but there’s no delicate way to shatter someone’s worldview, and Adam might pop a blood vessel if she tries.

In any case, the only response she gets is a sullen look, answer enough, and apparently resentful of being forced to thrust her husband into the role of prime suspect, Samantha retreats into the museum with her cup of coffee in her hand and an air of wounded dismissal haloed around her.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #nate sewell #nate sewell x detective #nate x detective #detective leah kingston

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anmolsmsblog · 22 days ago

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awaissstore · 6 months ago

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taperwolf · 2 years ago

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My collection:

The ones without dials have hand cranks; they were meant for tiny local services, and turning the crank fast would power a generator with enough power to ring the bell at the switchboard.

Oh, and see how two of the three desktop phones have that weird high back claw bit in the handset cradle? That's so you can do this:

Turn them upside down and mount them on the wall, and still have the handset stay in place.

gets a landline just so i can have one of these for real

#vintage technology #rotary phone

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bamboo6design · 1 year ago

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docrotten · 2 years ago

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ROSEMARY’S BABY (1968) – Episode 150 – Decades Of Horror: The Classic Era

“It was kind of fun in a necrophile sort of way.” Yikes! There’s so much to unpack in that statement. Join this episode’s Grue-Crew – Chad Hunt, Daphne Monary-Ernsdorff, Doc Rotten, and Jeff Mohr – as they gather around the black cradle under the inverted cross to witness Rosemary’s Baby (1968).

Decades of Horror: The Classic Era Episode 150 – Rosemary’s Baby (1968)

Join the Crew on the Gruesome Magazine YouTube channel! Subscribe today! And click the alert to get notified of new content! https://youtube.com/gruesomemagazine

ANNOUNCEMENT Decades of Horror The Classic Era is partnering with THE CLASSIC SCI-FI MOVIE CHANNEL, THE CLASSIC HORROR MOVIE CHANNEL, and WICKED HORROR TV CHANNEL Which all now include video episodes of The Classic Era! Available on Roku, AppleTV, Amazon FireTV, AndroidTV, Online Website. Across All OTT platforms, as well as mobile, tablet, and desktop. https://classicscifichannel.com/; https://classichorrorchannel.com/; https://wickedhorrortv.com/

A young couple trying for a baby moves into an aging, ornate apartment building on Central Park West, where they find themselves surrounded by peculiar neighbors.

Director: Roman Polanski

Writer: Ira Levin (from the novel by); Roman Polanski (written for the screen)

Producer: William Castle

Music by: Krzysztof Komeda (as Christopher Komeda)

Director of Photography: William A. Fraker (as William Fraker)

Film Editing by: Sam O’Steen, Bob Wyman

Production Design by: Richard Sylbert

Art Direction by: Joel Schiller

Set Decoration by: George R. Nelson

Costume Design by: Anthea Sylbert

Selected Cast:

Mia Farrow as Rosemary Woodhouse

John Cassavetes as Guy Woodhouse

Ruth Gordon as Minnie Castevet

Sidney Blackmer as Steven Marcato / Roman Castevet

Maurice Evans as Hutch

Ralph Bellamy as Dr. Abraham Sapirstein

Angela Dorian as Terry Gionoffrio

Patsy Kelly as Laura-Louise McBirney

Elisha Cook Jr. as Mr. Nicklas

Emmaline Henry as Elise Dunstan

Charles Grodin as Dr. Hill

Hanna Landy as Grace Cardiff

Philip Leeds as Dr. Shand

D’Urville Martin as Diego

Hope Summers as Mrs. Gilmore

Marianne Gordon as Rosemary’s girlfriend

Wendy Wagner as Rosemary’s girlfriend

Tony Curtis as Donald Baumgart (uncredited)

William Castle as man outside phone booth

Decades of Horror The Classic Era reaches its epic milestone of 150 episodes with a review of Rosemary’s Baby (1968). Join the Grue-Crew as they examine this iconic genre entry that lands near the top of many best-horror-films-of-all-time lists and countdowns. Will the film hold up today? Jeff, Chad, Daphne, and guest-host Doc Rotten will share their thoughts on that and much more, including controversies in making the film and those that have transpired since. The crew spends two hours exploring the cast, the locations and era, the production, the subtext, and the influences – and so much more. Truly, epic! Enjoy!

At the time of this writing, Rosemary’s Baby is available for streaming from subscription services Amazon Prime, Paramount+, MGM+, and fuboTV as well as from a variety of PPV options. The film is also available as Blu-ray formatted physical media from Paramount Pictures Home Entertainment and the Criterion Collection.

Gruesome Magazine’s Decades of Horror: The Classic Era records a new episode every two weeks. Up next in their very flexible schedule, as chosen by Jeff, is The White Reindeer (1952, Valkoinen peura), a Finnish vampire movie (or is it a Finnish witch movie?) with frequent appearances by a white reindeer. You won’t want to miss this one!

Please let them know how they’re doing! They want to hear from you – the coolest, grooviest fans: leave them a message or leave a comment on the Gruesome Magazine YouTube channel, the site, or email the Decades of Horror: The Classic Era podcast hosts at [email protected]

To each of you from each of them, “Thank you so much for watching and listening!”

Check out this episode!

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anantradingpvtltd · 2 years ago

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martinnura · 2 years ago

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METATUT CITY: A blast to the past with the Metaverse

When one thinks of the Metaverse, what comes to mind is a futuristic world driven by cutting-edge technology. We think of NFT gaming marketplaces and virtual shopping malls. But there are countless possibilities as far as the Metaverse is concerned. What if, instead of having a peek into the potential future, you could reconstruct the past? What if ancient civilizations and monuments could be rebuilt and visited with the Metaverse?

Sounds too good to be true, right? Well, this is already becoming a reality as the Cairo-based platform, TUTERA aims to bring ancient Egyptian civilization to the Metaverse. To mark the 100th anniversary of the discovery of the boy king Tutankhamun’s tomb, the creative community hub for designers recently announced METATUT CITY. So what does this mean for the Metaverse? Read on to know more.

Peek into the past

In METATUT, visitors will be able to immerse themselves in the cradle of Egyptian civilization. As of now, Valley of the Kings, Sun Chamber, Akhenaten Palace, and magical melody chamber are the open spaces, although plans to expand the city are being implemented. Visitors can experience this via virtual reality headgear through their desktops and phones. So what can one do here? Well, you can watch the Egyptian civilization’s storied history, listen to ancient tales, and even take tours around the city.

This project opens up portals that would help the Metaverse transcend time and space. Although it may not be a time machine in the strictest sense, one can still visit a time in the past of their choosing and experience it firsthand! Just imagine the possibilities. No more sitting on creaky old chairs in a classroom, looking at dreary history books and memorizing dates. Instead, you could simply don a headset and live the lesson!

Closing Thoughts

With rapid advances in technology, new applications for the Metaverse are cropping up by the day. While most of them are focussed on the future, it is important to remember that technology can help us learn more about our own history and heritage. The METATUT CITY is a huge step in bringing the past to the present with the help of futuristic tech. With far-reaching implications for how the education system, the time-travelling feature of Metaverse will do well to be explored.

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niyotech · 2 years ago

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Vlatuo Cell Phone Stand,Foldable Mobile Aluminum Desktop Phone Holder,Adjustable Phone Dock Cradle,Compatible with iPhone 14 13 12 10 Max Pro Xr Xs Plus ipad Mini Samsung Galaxy,Black

Price: (as of – Details) 4.5 This product adopts a streamlined hook design, which is more than enough for the latest large-volume mobile phone, which greatly improves the appearance and user experience, and abandons the ugly and backward right-angle hook. We are also the first in the industry. 【Leading design】: This product adopts a streamlined hook design, which is more than enough for the…

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thedroneranger · 2 years ago

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The Office

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Précis: Preface to Dine In. Jake and his wife break in their home office.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut.

Word count: 2.3k

“Are you touching yourself?”

Her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth. “Mhmm, I want you to touch me.”

“Well, baby, I’m not there, so you’re gonna have to touch yourself for both of us.”

She grumbled and leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the desk in front of her. She spent many evenings talking to Jake tucked away in their home office.

Together, they had decided the office walls should be top-to-bottom shelves to store their extensive book collection and trinkets from their travels. Jake even surprised her with an antique library ladder that was both functional and decorative. The desk faced the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked into the secluded backyard. She loved natural light—Jake sometimes teased her about being a plant.

In the evenings, she preferred soft lighting, so only the desktop lamp was glowing. The sky was nodding into darkness as the hands on the clock ticked closer to twelve.

“Where should I touch myself?” she inquired, leaning back into her chair.

“What are you wearing?” Jake asked from the other end of the line.

Her lips pulled into a seductive smile. “I had two in-home consults, so a high-waist, midi pencil skirt and v-neck t-shirt that I paired with a moto jacket.” Jake loved fashion, and Jake loved when she described fashion.

“What’s underneath?”

Her smirk tightened. “Well, I thought I was going to see my husband tonight, so I chose a lacy set.” A short gasp from the other end of the line. “It’s lavender. You always tell me it compliments my skin tone.”

“I wish I were there.” His sentiment was genuine.

“I do, too.”

“Think about me.” Jake paused. “Think about me when I return from a deployment. When I walk into the house. When you see me for the first time in weeks—sometimes months.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back into her plush leather chair. A soft moan flitted into the receiver as she envisioned Jake swaggering into their house in his service khakis. His perfectly tailored uniform, hugging his toned thighs and taught biceps.

There was no way that their tailor didn’t chuckle every time she had to stitch buttons back onto Jake’s uniform shirts. She knew how those buttons came off, and it wasn’t by accident.

Her thighs squeezed together as she thought about the last time she ripped Jake’s shirt off him.

“God, I wish I were there to peel off your skirt.” Jake disrupted her thoughts. “Unzip it for me, baby.”

The need in his voice made her smile reappear. “I’m sliding the zipper down right now,” she began the play-by-play. Cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear, she pushed back her chair to stand and tugged the structured fabric down her hips. “It’s on the floor.” Her hand slipped between her legs. “My panties are damp, thinking about you,” she told Jake. She heard Jake curse while she situated herself back in her chair.

“I’m sitting on the edge of the chair. I needed more room to spread my legs. I think I’ll leave my panties on…” Once she got into it, she was in to it. Jake loved having phone sex with her. Of course, nothing could replace his hard cock being sheathed by her warm, tight pussy, but listening to her descriptive masturbating was a nice holdover.

Jake was thankful he was about to pull into the driveway. He couldn’t remember the last time his pants were this uncomfortably tight. But he was so close. She was just rooms away.

Quietly, he let himself into the house and slipped off his shoes. Jake did his best to make responsive noises but not give away he was in the house.

“Jake.” She was panting his name. “Your fingers make me feel fuller. I wish you were here to fill me up.” His bottom lip was pinched between his teeth as he tried to slowly twist the office doorknob.

“Well, baby, your wish is my command,” he said as the door opened to reveal him.

“Holyshit!” She nearly fell out of her chair. “Are you trying to kill me instead of giving me an orgasm?” She had a hand over her heart as she waited for it to return to a normal pace.

Jake’s signature smirk painted his face. “Surprise, baby,” he said softly.

She stood, revealing her lacy lavender underwear. Jake watched as she put her laptop in the desk drawer and tidied some papers before sliding them into another drawer. She came to the desk edge nearest the door and leaned against it, spreading her legs and resting her palms behind her on the desktop.

“I need your help.” Her voice was sultry. Her eyes were hooded.

Jake’s eyebrows arched as his smirk stayed glued to his face. He began to walk toward her. “Baby, at least you were able to touch yourself.” He was standing between her legs, leaning down so his face was close to hers, their noses almost touching. His palms planted near hers on the desk.

“I was driving home the entire time we were on the phone.” His lips grazed her cheek. “My cock is so hard,” he whispered into her ear, and then pressed a light kiss to the shell. Her eyes were closed as he teased her. His lips trailed down her neck. The moans escaping her lips spurred him on.

He helped her pull her shirt over head, and then placed tiny nips along her collarbones. His name fell from her lips as she slid further onto the desk. He chased her, his lips never leaving her skin. He put a hand behind her so she couldn’t slide any further back.

Her fingers slipped into his hair and tugged at the roots. He didn’t resist, letting her bring his lips to hers. They both growled as they fought to dominate the kiss. Jake threaded his fingers in her hair and pulled her back, so her neck was fully exposed to him. He sucked and licked and bit the column of her neck while she whined and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Fuck,” he slurred. His southern drawl always came out when he was horny.

“Fuck me, Jake,” she said. He had moved on to giving her chest attention. “Your cock has to be purple by now. I’m going to leave a pool on this desk,” she added.

“I’d lick up every drop,” he replied between kisses.

She put a hand around his neck and sank her nails into it. “Jacob.” It was a warning.

Jake moved one hand to her hip and the other delved behind the flimsy fabric of her panties straight into her sopping core. Her breath caught as she sat straight up, unprepared for his sudden entry.

They kept eye contact as his fingers scissored and curled into her, catching that spongy spot every so often. “Enjoying my fingers, baby?” he asked.

“Not nearly as much as if it were your cock,” she choked out. Jake’s signature smirk stamped his face as her passive aggressive jab hit first. Then his chest puffed as the softer blow, his cock being what did it best for her, landed.

“Jacob.” Another warning. Jake thoroughly enjoyed it when her dominance began to bubble up. He trailed his fingers up her slit, then her stomach, between her breasts and then stuffed his arousal-soaked fingers in her mouth. The cool trail made her shiver as her tongue immediately swirled his digits.

He eagerly watched as she held his palm and bobbed her head while sucking his fingers. Jake thought he might come when she looked up at him through her lashes. Once she cleaned all of herself from his fingers, she placed his hand on her breast. She busied herself unbuttoning his clothing.

Impatient, she gripped the front seams of his shirt and ripped them apart. Buttons pinged off the shelves, the desk and the floor. They exchanged smirks, she moved onto his pants, and he pulled his white undershirt over his head. Jake quickly ditched his pants and underwear. She watched as his angry cock bounced against his stomach.

“Turn.” She slipped off the desk and rested her stomach on top while her hips hugged the side. A gasp escaped her lips as Jake’s hand roughly gripped the back of her neck. She kept herself up on her forearms. His body was covering her so he could whisper into her ear. “Ready for me, baby?” She let out a compliant sound that made him want to plunge right in. But, instead, he slowly pushed into her. A true feat since she was so wet, he could have quickly slipped into the hilt. “You’re soaked.”

“No thanks to you,” she shot back. His eyes widened and he snapped his hips, harshly bumping hers into the desk—she would have bruises tomorrow. She squeaked, and he smirked.

“No?” He kept shallowly, slowly thrusting. He moved his hand from her neck into her hair and pulled so her head was looking a little over her shoulder toward him.

“You heard me on the phone,” she responded. “I did all the work—I got us both ready.”

Jake leaned over to kiss her cheek, and then her shoulder. “Well, I’m here to finish.”

“You better.” God, he loved when she got mouthy. His fingers curled a little tighter in her hair and his pace quickened. Her hand was headed between her legs when Jake caught her wrist and pressed it to her back. He pushed her head down, so her cheek was against the desk. She groaned in frustration.

“I don’t want you to come yet,” he stated. “I will make you come.” His voice was stern and his pace became brutal. She grunted each time his hips snapped into her ass, which dug her hip bones deeper into the edge of the desk. She bit back a whine—it would only feed Jake’s ego.

He unwound his hand from her hair and hooked it in the crook joining her thigh and hip, scooting her back to create a little space between her body and the desk edge. Then, Jake’s hand disappeared between her legs and slipped between her slick lips. It took all her might to hold back the pleasurable moans attempting to escape her mouth.

Jake began a sweeter, slower pace with his hips as his index finger lazily circled her engorged nerves. “C’mon, baby.” His voice was soft—his drawl extra emphasized. “I want to hear you. Let me hear you, baby.” Jake added a finger, swirling the pads of both fingers over her swollen bundle of nerves. Finally, a soft moan passed her lips.

“There we go.” He kept a steady pace with both his hand and hips. She felt her body melting onto the desk while the knot low in her stomach grew tighter.

“Don’t stop,” she purred with her eyes closed and her cheek still on the desk. A long sweet sigh left her mouth as she clenched around Jake. His hips kept moving and his fingers kept circling as she enjoyed the bliss of her release. “Jake,” she sighed.

His name leaving her mouth was the cherry on top for him. His hips stuttered as he came. They both felt his warmth release inside her. Jake rode out his orgasm until he knew he was limp. Then, he leaned over her, pressing his body to hers. She moaned, keeping her eyes closed and enjoying the weight of him. A smile crept across her lips as he placed soft kisses on her shoulder and back.

A groan of displeasure left her as his weight disappeared. Jake’s hands hooked in the crux of her hips and pulled her off the desk to stand against him. She looped an arm around his neck to help steady herself and his hands rested on her hips. Jake kissed her temple from behind. “Let’s go to bed. I have an early day tomorrow.”

She grumbled and turned to face him. “Do you have to go to work tomorrow?” She pressed her hips to his and placed a quick kiss on his lips.

“Yes,” he stated. “But if you wake me up we can spend some quality time in bed together.” He bent down to capture her lips again. She accepted his advance and tugged on his bottom lip. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he warned as they separated.

“Can’t and won’t are two different things,” she retorted before stepping away from him. He watched as she slid back onto the desk and let her knees fall open, exposing her core. “I am hoping you’re willing to help clean me up before we go upstairs—I won’t make it there before you’re dripping down my legs.”

Jake watched as she dipped her fingers inside herself and teased a little cum out, letting it drip down her onto the desk. “Goddammit,” he muttered, dropping to his knees in front of her. She rested her heels on his shoulders as he laid his forearms on the desk and hooked his hands in the crease of her thighs.

Her breath hitched as he placed kisses along the insides of her thighs, headed toward her heat. He kissed each of her lips before capturing her clit. She whined his name and softly bucked her hips toward his face as he slurped his seed out of her.

She watched as he swallowed it, and then planted a lingering kiss on her lips as he stood. She put a hand on the back of his neck to prolong their kiss. “Baby.” He was trying to get her attention between kisses. She groaned and broke the lip lock. “We’ll pick this up in the morning,” he assured her.

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