#SeaBags

[sacredwhores]

Dirk Yates - Try Anything Once (1987)

[library-whale]

…That’s a new one.

[ltwilliammowett]

Seabag with coloured embroidery and elaborate knot decorations, american, c. 1844 

[boobachu]

uh-huh..................................

A dream I had... he didn't know the counterplay

[abenjaminbutton]

Do you still wet the bed?

Actually yes! I’ve been wearing diapers 24/7 for so many long stretches over the past 7 years that now I wear at least a pair of goodnites every night. I don’t always have nighttime accidents, but my bladder has gotten so small that it’s frequent enough to make staying diapered worth it. Luggage is limited when I’m working at sea but keeping a steady supply of pull-ups in my seabag isn’t too hard.

[sometimesanalice]

Leave a Light On {vol. ii}

Summary: Of all the sounds you would have expected to hear in the hazy, quiet small hours of the morning, the gentle rasp of Bradley’s voice wasn’t one that you ever could have anticipated. After three months away, he is finally home.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Warnings: lots of pining and yearning (Minors DNI)

(read vol. i here)

“Can you play it from the beginning this time, sweetheart?"

That voice. His voice.

You’d been running your fingertips over the smooth keys of his piano, just about to settle them back into the starting position of the part of the song that had tripped you up in the first place. One breath away from launching into that tricky portion yet again, when you were nearly startled out of your skin. Surprise and shock shooting up your spine, the pencil in your hand sent flying.

Of all the sounds you would have expected to hear in the hazy, quiet small hours of the morning, the gentle rasp of Bradley’s voice wasn’t one that you ever could have anticipated.

Your pulse is pounding wildly, in your chest, in your throat, in your ears, as you swiftly spin around towards his front door.

And there leaning against the wooden doorframe of his house, wearing his green flight suit with a canvas seabag still clutched in hand, is Bradley.

Healthy, whole, and here.

“Bradley!” You’re up and off his creaky piano bench in less than half a heartbeat.

You had wanted to be the one to surprise him, but here he was surprising you. His arms wide and welcoming.

If his body was any less solid you might have knocked him over in the way you collide as you throw yourself at him. His bag hitting the floor with a thud as he drops it to hold you properly for the first time in three months.

I’ve missed you.I’ve missed you.I’ve missed you. your heart taps out against your ribcage.

I’m here.I’m home.I’m yours. you feel his beat in reply.

He has you so tightly pressed against his chest, holding you so close within the safe cocoon of his sturdy arms. Your face is buried in the side of his neck, breathing him in. He doesn’t smell like the sandalwood scent you’re used to, but rather some sharp astringent smell from whatever taxpayer funded soap they provided on the carrier. But underneath that, there’s something that’s just so Bradley.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says almost incredulously into your hair, his arms tightening around your waist. “I thought about you all the time. I missed you so much.”

Still in too much shock to speak, still too overwhelmed by him, you just rapidly nod your head in agreement and burrow yourself closer into his warmth. Your fingers combing through the fine hairs at the base of his head in that soothing way that you know makes him sigh. Smiling to yourself when you get the reaction you were hoping for, when his exhale ghosts down the side of your face as you hold each other.

Your perfect Bradley. Your Golden Boy.

You’ve thought about your reunion with him so many times over the last few months.

Visions of you picking him up, waiting for him by the Bronco wearing that sundress that drives him wild. Of him surprising you at work after some meeting that could have been an email, standing head and shoulders above the gray drab cubicle walls of your office. Of him lingering outside the door of your apartment with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, just like he had after that comically bad third date, but this time without the bug bites littering his thick forearms.

And even though your hair is probably a mess and you’re in an oversize threadbare shirt and wearing slippers that had seen better days, this is better than anything you’d imagined. Because this wasn’t some delicate daydream spun together in your mind to keep ache of missing him at bay.

In the early hours of the morning, it’s not a lyrical vibrato and swell of strings that serves as the soundtrack to his homecoming like it would be in the movies. It’s the percussion of the drip from the kitchen faucet, the low hum and rattle of his refrigerator, the melody of your mingled breathing. These were the sounds of the score to your reunion with Bradley, a domestic symphony.

The quiet, steady ticking of the clock mounted on his wall is the only acknowledgement of time passing as the two of you stay wrapped up in each other. The only indication that this moment isn’t suspended in time like the way it feels it is. A sign that while the sky is still inky and dark outside his living room window, that soon enough the birds will be chirping and the sun will be rising. And for the first time in a long time you will not be waking up in a bed alone.

Because he is here, he is here.

“Your heart is still beating so fast,” Rooster whispers lowly. His thumb is skimming the side of your throat as he cradles the back of your head with his big, warm hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.”

You place a gentle kiss to longest scar that decorates the skin of his throat before pulling away to get a good look at him. He’s wearing the softest smile for you as you take his face between your hands. His hair looks a shade darker than his usual sunkissed bronze and his skin a bit paler than it was before he’d left. And your heart squeezes in sympathy as you note the deep, dark purple circles beneath his eyes and the weariness he carries around the edges of him.

The little lamp with its soft glow was the only source of light in the room, but his exhaustion clear as day.

You could feel the worry creeping up on you, making your eyebrows pull together with unease, “Is everyone-”

“Everyone’s fine, baby,” he hushes you reassuringly. His family in San Diego had become yours as well. You care about them all. “Everyone’s home. Safe and sound.” The relief you feel drifts over you like a gentle breeze.

“I’m so happy to see you,” you say as you pull his face to yours. “I missed you too, Bradley. So much.”

His lips are a little dry, a little chapped, but the way he kisses you still takes your breath away.

You can taste the burnt coffee he must have had after landing, the perpetually scalded kind from base that’s terrible regardless of who makes it. He’s told you about how he always waits to cool just enough so he can throw it back in one go, not wanting to draw it out. You’ve never had it yourself, but you don’t mind the bitterness when it’s off his tongue.

There is nothing hurried or desperate about the way you reconnect with one another, nothing like how you imagined it might be after being apart for so long. Not the hungry mouths or frenzied touches you’d thought about late at night while looking at the pictures and videos on your phone that he had so generously left for you, with only your own hands and imagination to keep you company.

It’s easy to lose yourself in him, making up for lost time and lost kisses. Normally his attentions set your pulse racing, but the longer he kisses you the steadier the beating in your chest becomes as he pulls soft sighs from you. He kisses you slow and deep, like he is savoring the slide of your lips against his. His hands smoothing up and down your back and along your waist, as if he is luxuriating in the feel of your body under his warm palms.

“Bradley,” you breathe contentedly.

“I’m here,” he says.

The simple statement has your mouth breaking out in a wide grin, you can feel the matching one he’s wearing against your lips as he pulls away.

“You’re back.”

“I know,” he says teasingly, running his finger down the bridge of your nose.

You huff a laugh, “No, you’re back early.”

“Mhm,” he hums happily, “And you were playing something really pretty on my piano.” He drops a sweet, lingering kiss on your lips again. “And here I thought”- a kiss on your right cheek- “you said you couldn’t”- a kiss on the left one- “play anymore,” he murmurs as he kisses your forehead. The coarse hair of his mustache feeling rougher than you remember against your skin after so many days without it. “You’ve been holding out on me, sweetheart.”

Your hands slides down from around his neck to rest on his chest. “I’ve been taking lessons,” you tell him. Feeling a bit shy now as you glance up at him from beneath your eyelashes.

“Yeah?” He pulls his head back to look at you, there’s surprise there in his eyes but also pride, “For how long? When did you start?”

If Bradley hadn’t been gazing at you with such genuine affection in those brown eyes of his, you might have been much more nervous to admit just how long you’ve been keeping this secret from him. Even so, you still feel like you’re holding your breath as you reply, “Since you got back from that first deployment.”

You can tell he’s trying to school his features, but his eyebrow still jumps up a bit as he does the math. And as he blinks at you, you can’t help but feel like for all your good intentions that you’ve let him down.

Six months was a long time to keep something like that to yourself.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to tell him, it had been on the tip of your tongue on more than one occasion. He was the only person you’d been wanting to tell, but waiting for the right time had turned into a three-month deployment.

There’s already an apology about to work its way out of your mouth when he cups your cheeks in his hands, “Why didn’t you tell me? You could have been practicing here the whole time. That piano is basically fifty percent yours anyways, since you were the one who found it.”

“I just- It needed to be mine, just for a little bit,” you say quietly, hoping he understands. Your fingertip anxiously traces around the edges of the patch that rests over his heart. “And I wanted to surprise you. But, then…” You nod your head to the green seabag forgotten on the floor.

The kiss he presses to your lips makes your knees weak with its softness. With its acceptance. With its understanding. 

“Well, consider me surprised. You play so lovely,” he says with a gentle smile to put you at ease. And you feel instantly lighter, the pressure that had been building in your chest now just a memory. “I swear, that’s the best thing I’ve heard in months. What were you using to practice with before? The piano at the Hard Deck?”

That he was so invested in this because it was something that mattered to you soothed that tender part of your heart.

His enthusiasm made you want to tell him more, to tell him everything, “I bought an electric keyboard for my place.”

“Wait, really? Where?” he asks, looking adorably confused. You can see him trying to search his memory, as if he’d somehow missed a big rectangular black and white thing pressed against a wall in your tiny apartment. “I swear I’ve never seen one there. That’s something I definitely would have noticed.”

“I would hide it under my bed whenever you were coming over.” Saying it out loud makes you feel a bit sheepish about the lengths you took to keep it a secret until you were ready.

“Under the bed, she says,” Rooster repeats with a shake of his head, clearly amused.

“Well, we’re usually busy on top of it, so it seemed like a good place to keep it hidden,” you say with a little shrug, biting back the smile at the memory of the one time he’d shown up unannounced catching you off guard. And how flustered you been trying to shove it under your mattress as he recovered from the blowjob you’d given him on the couch as an attempt to keep him from going into your bedroom before you could put it away, but also because he really had such a nice cock.

He throws his head back to laugh, the deep sound of it fills the living room. Hearing it for the first time since he’s been away makes your smile grow wider until your cheeks hurt. You love that sound. You love being the one to make him laugh.

But something still tugs at you, something you need to know, something you need to hear.

“Bradley- You’re not…” you trail off.

Mad. Disappointed. Or worse, hurt.

“No. No, I’m not,” he says earnestly, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone softly. “I mean, yeah, I wish I’d known sooner. But only because I would have loved to be the one turning the pages for you and supporting you. I know what this means to you.” He pauses for a moment, that thumb still caressing the curve of your face, “But will you do me a favor?”

ofcourseofcourseofcourse

“Anything.”

That soft smile of his gets bigger and brighter, “Will you play a song for me, sweetheart?”

Some winged thing inside of you takes flight at the sweet sincerity laced between the syllables and the consonants his question.

He’s asked you to play for him so many times. And it had always hurt to deny him what should have been such an easy yes to such a simple request.

But now it didn’t have to be some lonesome dream. Because you’re there and he’s here and it’s all you’ve been wanting.

“Yes, Bradley,” you beam, “I can play something for you.”

You take his hand and pull him further inside the house from where you had been standing in the open doorway. He kicks his duffle bag out of the way, so that he can close the door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world.

It’s just you and him. Together.

In the comfort of his cozy living room, the light from the lamp on top of his piano wrapping you both up in its warm, golden glow.

His piano is no longer daunting the way it used to be. Instead, it welcomes you as you approach it with him in tow. Familiar and friendly.

He lets go of your hand and crouches down next to you. When he stands back up, he shows you the pencil in his hand that he’d picked up for you before tucking it behind your ear, back to where it had been earlier. And you’re dying to know just how long he had been standing in that doorway listening with you completely oblivious to his presence.

You watch with your heart in your throat as he straightens out the previously askewed bench and motions for you to take a seat, dropping a kiss to your cheek.

The creak of the bench not cold and mocking as you sit down, but rather a cheery acknowledgement of your return and of the hours you’ve spent there sitting and practicing together.

You close the open booklet in front of you, to clear up space on the shelf to swap it out for the other sheet music to the song you were planning to play for him, the one you had wanted to welcome him back with. Just as you’re reaching for it, Rooster stops you with a gentle touch to your wrist.

“Wait.” He’s looking down at you with his head tilted and a slight pinch of confusion between his eyebrows, “Why are you putting that one away?”

The song you’d been playing when he’d arrived wasn’t as rehearsed as the other one you’d been reaching for. It wasn’t something you’d ever meant for anyone else to hear, that is other than your piano instructor as she helped to guide you through the tricky parts.

“Oh, um, that one’s not ready,” you falter over the words just a bit as you try to hedge the question. “I have a different piece I wanted to play for you.”

You hold up the sheet music to him and his eyes soften when he sees the title of the song you purchased and practiced with only him in mind. It was polished, it was ready.

You’d had three months to get it ready for him, and you’d made sure to play it through at least once a day. You had wanted it to be perfect, he’d waited so long. He deserved the best and you wanted to be the one to give it to him.

He holds your gaze for a few moments. There’s a questioning look in his eyes, but he must find whatever answer he was looking for written on your face. Because instead of asking you the question seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, he just clears his throat with a little shake of his head.

“You learned this just for me?” he asks, his voice thick and raspy.

And when you bob your head yes, there’s a brief moment where it almost looks like he is struggling with himself. His eyes bouncing from you to the sheet music in his hands to the piano.

“I can’t wait to hear this. Truly, sweetheart. It’s just- the other one is the first thing I’ve ever heard you play...”

It’s not even a real question, but there’s a gentle request ripping in the wake of the way he trails off. There’s no pressure behind the ask that’s not an ask.

But still, there are butterflies fluttering around in your stomach now.

“Ok, Bradley. If that’s what you want to hear, then I’ll play that one for you.” You would do anything this man asked of you, you would do anything for him.

“Yeah?” The grin on his face could power the whole city when you nod your agreement.  

He takes a few long strides around you as you work on reopening and flattening out the sheet music to the song he asked you to play for him. Out of the corner of your eye you see him grab and turn the wooden spindle framed arm chair, bringing it closer and situating it in just the right spot next to the piano.

“Look,” he says gesturing to it, pleased with himself as he settles into the chair, “A front row seat.” He is close enough that his knees are hugging either side of the piano bench.

The genuine excitement in his voice makes your heart stutter and skip a beat.

That the anticipation of fingers on keys and hammers striking strings is better to him than any jackpot or trophy could ever be. He makes you feel like this moment is his lucky lottery ticket. That this is his winning championship game.

You.

You seated at his piano bench with sheet music stretched across it and hands that can make music again.

And you would learn all every song ever composed just as long as he keeps looking at you like the way he is now, eyes bright and with a boyish grin on his face.

“Will you turn the pages for me?” you ask him, even though you already know what is answer will be.

“I would be happy to,” he says with satisfaction. And you know he means it.

You’re nervous now seated on the bench with a different song waiting to be played with the black and white keys under your fingers. As you feeling the warmth of Bradley’s presence next to you and the intensity of his gaze on you.

And with shaky fingers, you begin.

All Bradley had craved when he was on that carrier was for some silence.

Just for a moment where he could hear the sound of his own breathing, where his thoughts weren’t overwhelmed by all the other commotion.

And the closer he got to his house, seated in the back seat of the white Prius that had picked him up from base, the more he wished he was headed somewhere else. To someone else.

It had been three months of endless noise.

Three months of the relentless humming and buzzing and rattling and shaking of the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Of planes taking off for night hops and the explosions of jet fuel and machines banging on deck and the clang of metal on metal.

Three months of endless voices. In his ear from over the radio. Bouncing off the walls of the dull gray passageways. Layered and loud on top of the clatter of forks and spoons on plates and bowls in the mess hall.

Three months of sharing a room with Payback, who was considerate and tidy, but snored louder than anyone he’s ever bunked with. In such tight quarters it was hard to get a moment to himself, let alone a sliver of some peace and quiet.

With over a decade of service under his belt, Rooster would have thought it was something he’d get used to. And while it got more bearable over time, it never seems to get any better.

Sleep ‘til you’re hungry. Eat ‘til you’re tired.

That was the motto most of them lived by when they were aboard the ship.

His schedule shifting depending on the day, at the will of whatever commanding officer was in charge. Lunch became breakfast, the leftovers from previous dinner service that they ate during Midrats gave him just enough energy to make it to dawn. He often had stretches where he’d go days without seeing the sun, it was just another reminder that his time didn’t belong to him. There were moments when it felt like he wasn’t even his own person, but he’d known what he was signing up for when he inked his name on those papers.

Those first few weeks on a carrier were always the worst, when sleep would escape him just when he needed it the most.

He was either doing the midnight hops or being woken up by them. Trying to sneak in naps whenever he had more than twenty minutes of free time. More often than not he’d be right on the precipice of falling asleep when his alarm would go off and he’d have to rush off to the Ready Room for tactics trainings or the flight deck for practicing inflight refueling and aerial combat maneuvers.

Bradley loved flying.

He loved that moment when he climbs in the cockpit of his F/A-18 and everything just clicks into place. When the edges of the world around him sharpen, when the contrast is increased and the clarity heightened. That feeling of surety that washes over him every time from knowing that his actions matter, that what he does matters, that he mattered.

It was the way he could honor the man who made him and to solidify his bond with the one who raised him.

He understands his place in the world the best when he is thirty thousand feet in the air.

In the past, it had been easy to put his head down and get through his deployments because his career gave him purpose. His temporary discomforts and the high-stakes risks he took were worth it for the sake of the greater good.

But things were different for him now because he had you. You were always on his mind.

The two of you have been together for a little less than a year, but it feels like he’s known you forever. You make him feel seen and understood in a way that he’s never experienced before.

Bradley knew how lucky he was to have you, he’d almost blown it one too many times for his comfort in the early days of your relationship. His anxiety nearly derailing one of the best things that’s ever happened to him.

But luckily for him, you wanted him.

Even with all his flaws and scars and baggage.

And for you, he wanted to be a man worth waiting for.

That first deployment was harder than he could have ever anticipated. Not only because he’d never had anyone to miss before, but also because he’d never had to carry the weight that came from knowing someone else was missing him just as much in return.

The way he felt as he held you and danced with you in his living room, with that record you’d found spinning in the background, was a moment he wasn’t ever going to forget. It had felt just as special then as it does now. It’s the memory he replays in his mind over and over again on the nights he can’t sleep.

He’d ordered the sheet music to “Make Love to Me” during those final few hours he had left with you the night before he was due to leave. The screen brightness on his phone turned down all the way so that he didn’t wake you up as you slept soundly, soft and naked, next to him in his bed.

The anticipation getting home to you and learning it for you was the only thing that helped to get him through those six weeks when he felt like the walls were closing in on him from the way he missed and wanted you. 

And once he was back, in between the hours he spent at work and the hours he spent tangled in bed with you, he’d go to the Hard Deck before it opened to use Penny’s old upright to practice. Thinking about how nice it would be to have one that he had a place to call his own. Then flipping off Hangman every chance he got when he’d groan about having to hear the song again.

Rooster had been able to bribe his team with the promise of free beer for a month in exchange for their participation when the song was finally ready for you. He’d known that their over the top antics would make you laugh. And the smile on your face when he’d serenaded you with it for the first time had been worth every penny of the hefty credit card bill he’d received the next month.

It was just as hard this time.

It had taken him a while to realize what exactly that feeling was that had settled heavy on his chest.

Homesick.

He’d never known he could be homesick for a person until he met you.

Time seemed to move faster when the two of you were together. And when he was away from you, the hours and days felt long.

It was harder to let the little things roll off his back because he couldn’t look forward to seeing your smile after a long day when he was thousands of miles away. He couldn’t decompress the way he was used to, the burn he worked up at the weight bench in the gym wasn’t nearly as effective as sitting at the bench in front of his piano. Even if his biceps were reaping the benefits.  

On more than one occasion, he’d caught himself absentmindedly tapping out unheard tunes on the sides of his thighs.

Bradley hadn’t realized how much tension he was carrying in his shoulders until he’d felt it release at the sound of your laugh on one of the rare instances he’d been able to call you over the satellite phone on board.

“Have you been wearing the sunscreen I sent with you, Golden Boy?” you’d asked him.

“I promised you I would, didn’t I?” he’d replied, even as he rubbed at his sternum in discomfort at the not quite lie. When the reality was he didn’t need it when he was on such good terms with the moon. But he didn’t tell you that, didn’t want you to worry about him more than he already knew you were.

“That’s good. Because Lobster Boy just doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.” He could hear the smile in your tone, could feel it as it traveled over the electrical currents.

All the sounds and noise that seemed to follow him around, all the thoughts that circled and spiraled in his head, they faded when he got to listen to your sweet voice. As you told him how much you missed him and how proud you were of him and how much you loved him. Everything he’d never had before. The one thing he’d never let himself hope for.

Someone who cared. Someone who loved him. Someone who was waiting for him.

It was the first time in weeks that things had felt quieter. That he could finally breathe a little easier.

Until they’d told Bradley and his team that the mission they had spent the better part of two and a half months preparing for was getting moved up. And then the sound of the pounding of his heart was drown out by the ringing in his ears.

And on the night, during those pivotal moments where the minutes stretched on like hours, they’d flown it as damn near perfect as could be.

The feeling of sweat dripping down his back as his team had made their way back to the carrier an uncomfortable, but welcomed, reminder that he’d made it. That they’d all made it. That he would be headed back to you soon.

They did the fly-off two days before the carrier was due to dock back at base. Unlike usual, there wasn’t a fanfare of family and friends ready to greet them at the hanger. Normally, their return was a big event. Their formations immaculate as ever as they showed off for all of the important people in their lives before landing.

With all his other deployments, it was the moment that Bradley did is best to avoid thinking about, as he tried and failed to ignore the dread that would settle deep in the pit of his stomach.

Knowing that he’d have to watch as members of his squadron were met with a cheerful homecoming of handmade signs and smiles and laughter and hugs. Watching their tearful and happy reunions, watching as some of his teammates met the newest members of their families for the very first time. All while he’d gather his things and shake the occasional hand, only leave alone.

With this one, it was something he’d been looking forward to for the first time in his career. The idea of you being there to greet him, that big beautiful smile on your face just for him. Of getting to hold you in his arms for the first time in months in the bright golden California sunshine.

But he didn’t mind missing out since it meant he could be home early. He’d trade all the hoopla and hubbub for any extra minute he could have with you.

After all, there was always next time.

Because there would be a next time.

They’d gotten in sometime after midnight, the flashing lights on the runway guiding them in. The diet of stale coffee and adrenaline that he’d been living off of for the last few days finally catching up with him as he worked his way through the final check list of things needing to be done. The brief wrap-up that Cyclone wanted to have ended up going longer than originally planned.

And the longer he had sat there, the more the bone-deep weariness had set in.

His boots felt heavy on his feet as they’d all shuffled out the door to collect the rest of their belongings to head out. Everyone eager to get back to their own homes, back to their own beds. And for the lucky ones, back to the people in those homes and in those beds, who would be excited to see them.

Reuben had offered to give him a ride. He’d snuck a call to his wife the moment they’d gotten service to let her know he was coming home, and she had been there in the parking lot waiting for him. But Payback’s classy condo was on the other side of town from his own Craftsman bungalow, and Rooster wasn’t going to have his now former roommate drive out of his way when he had an app on his phone that could drop him off without inconveniencing anyone else.

So he’d bluffed and said that you were on you way, and then lingered in the break room with another cup of terrible coffee for an additional twenty minutes until everyone cleared out before ordering his ride.

He had been so close to putting in your address for the drop off when he’d booked the Lyft. He really wanted to see you, he’d missed you so much over the last three months. But had decided against it at the last minute, when he realized just how late it was. Thinking that maybe he could surprise you at work and take you out for lunch after some much-needed sleep, when he wasn’t so dead on his feet.

He wanted to be at his best for you.

But the longer he sits in the back of the white Prius, with his knees crushed against the back of the seat in front of him, sipping on the little eight-ounce water bottle the man had blindly tossed in his direction when he’d climbed in, the more he was realizing just how big of a mistake it was to give the driver his own address instead of yours.

The roads were mostly empty, only a few cars here and there.

It was sometime when night met astronomical twilight. The sun hovering somewhere between twelve to eighteen degrees from the horizon. Some stars visible in the night sky even with all the light pollution from the city.

Too late for the people from the bars to still be out and too early for the stirrings of the early commuters who had a long journey into work ahead of them.

Bradley had spent months wishing for the quiet. And he finally had it.

It was silent in the car.

His driver has his AirPods in- which he knows is illegal in California, but he wasn’t going to press it when the roads were this deserted- and the man hadn’t bothered to turn the radio on, so he was left on his own with his worn and well-used duffle bag, an empty water bottle that looked comically small in his hand, and his thoughts.

That quiet he had been so eager for wasn’t the peaceful kind he had hoped for. It is a lonely kind of quiet. It was one that pointedly reminded him that no one would be waiting for him at the end of his destination, when he finally reached that dot at the end of the purple road on his app.

The white static in his ears gets louder with every passing mile. As he watches the minutes tick down until the end of his ride. Where he would get out, and the driver would move on with his night, and he would still be on his own.

He was so tired of coming back from deployments to an empty space. Just like it had been at the barracks. Just like it had been at the minimally furnished apartments he’d rented before he’d been relocated.

This felt too close to those hollow, lonely homecomings of his past.

And while he liked his house, with its wooden shingles and original windows and warm charm, it was just building with four walls and a roof. The rooms held his things, but they didn’t hold anyone.

His dark, empty, quiet house.

It wasn’t a home if he was there alone.

He’d be so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he’d missed the fact that the driver had turned up his street. He’d missed the tree lined suburban blocks leading up to his small Craftsman, until the car slowed down and came to a stop in front of it.

Bradley can feel the guy’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror as he waits for him to grab his things and get out. That homesick feeling in his chest that he’d carried with him for the last ninety days, now back in tenfold. The weight of it keeps him sitting where he is.

He is so much closer to where he wanted to be when he was out in the middle of the ocean, but still too far from who he needed to be with.

As he is opening his mouth to give the driver the address to your apartment, his eyes catch on a light that’s been left on in his house.

That gentle, warm glow of the small lamp above his piano illuminating his living room against the shadows. The curtains still pushed to either side, so he can see in from the outside. Where he can see his piano and a figure curved over it.

And then he’s out of the car and standing on the cracked sidewalk with his bag in hand and taillights rounding a corner before he can fully even process it.

He almost doesn’t want to believe his eyes, the dried out and tired things that they are. Not trusting that in his sleep deprived state that they aren’t playing tricks on him, conjuring the one person he wanted to see the most.

It’s not until he hears the faint sound of his piano calling for him to come closer that it hits him in the chest with as much force as it does when he’s pulling G’s.

That his favorite daydream was now his reality.

His pretty girlfriend, the one who said she couldn’t play, was the one who was sitting at his piano making the music that was welcoming him home.

But as his feet carried him up the walkway, up the stairs, and across his porch to the front door, the music had only gotten louder and clearer. Fishing out the key from his pocket, he slips it into the lock as quietly as possible, opening the door ever… so… slowly… and with more patience than he knew he had in him.

He is too captivated by the curve and shape of you sitting there to try and figure out what that familiar tune is that you’re playing. There’s a cup of tea resting on top of the piano, sitting on one of the coasters you’d got for him when you realized he didn’t have any. You look so soft and perfect wearing a t-shirt of his that he thought he’d lost, a pencil adorably tucked behind your ear.

The picture in front of him is easily the best thing he has seen in months.

Bradley loves that piano. You were the one to find it for him.

It’s his favorite thing that he owns, because when he looks at his piano he thinks of you and the fact you were thinking of him.

It was always something he’d meant to find the time to research, to look into. He knew he wanted one, but he’d never taken the initiative to actually shop around for one.

It had been a dream of his for years, but he’d never had the opportunity to even consider it until after the Uranium Mission when they’d all been permanently relocated to San Diego. And even after he’d bought his house, it was something that sat in the corner of his mind rather than in the corner of his living room.

Instead of putting roots down, he felt like he was waiting for the rug to get pulled out from underneath him. Yet again.

Until one night at the Hard Deck, after he’d played a few of the crowd-pleasing tunes he kept in his back pocket, you’d passed him your phone to show him something. It had been picture of a gorgeous mahogany console piano, just the right size for where he’d been imagining one would go in his house.

“You’ve been telling me you want one of your own for ages, so I set up a few alerts just see what was out there,” you’d told him a bit shyly, almost like you weren’t sure if you were overstepping. “That one just came up, it looks like it’s in really great shape. And that price is better than what I’ve been seeing from some of the other ones I’ve looked at. So I sent the seller an email- just in case- and they replied. They’re not too far away, you’d just need to move it yourself. But you’ve got first dibs on it if you want it.”

 His eyes had bounced back and forth between pictures and your beautiful face, “You did that for me?”

“It seemed like something that would make you happy,” you’d replied simply.

He can still remember the way his heart had pressed against the ribs in his chest.

“This is- It’s perfect. Thank you for finding this. Will you ask them if they want a deposit?” he’d asked, watching as that tentative, hopeful smile on your face grew bigger and brighter.  “I don’t want to lose it. This is the one for me.”

He’d been sure of it. He was still sure of it.

A couple hours later and standing in front of Penny’s jukebox, he had still been buzzing from the find. The seller had taken down the listing, the deposit had been sent, the pick-up time was set, and he’d even managed to rope Jake into helping him move it in exchange for a bottle of whiskey. And you, you were the reason for it all.

He didn’t mean to play the song, didn’t even remember selecting it.

One minute he was looking through the catalogue of songs and the next you were in his arms as he twirled and spun you around on the scuffed wooden floors of the Hard Deck. He knew you weren’t the most confident of dancers, but loved that you trusted him to lead you in a slow easy rhythm.

Enjoying the feel of you in his arms, his lips pressed against your ear as he whispered anything and everything that came to his mind, the words all honey-dipped, as the song played on in the background.

“My girl likes sweet nothings?” he had murmured teasingly at the way he’d felt another shiver dance its way down your spine.

“They’re not nothings, Bradley. They’re sweet somethings,” you’d murmured back, settling your head on his shoulder. “It’s never nothing with you.”

He took your hand and placed it on his heart and he leaned back in. Whispering more sweet somethings into the shell of your ear. He didn’t stop until the song ended, but he could have gone on for hours.

Later that night, Mav had slid up to him at the bar as he was cashing out for the night. He was having a hard time focusing on the conversation the older man was trying to have with him because his eyes kept searching out you from across the room.

And you kept catching him looking.

“You going to marry that girl?” Mav had asked him with a knowing look in his eyes.

He knew the meaning of the song Bradley had selected better than anyone else. Pete been there the night his parents had gotten married, watching on from the sidelines as they’d had their first dance to the crooning voice of Sam Cooke.

“I sure hope so,” he’d answered.

He’d been feeling it for a while, but that was the night he knew.

Now he feds Penny’s jukebox his quarters and plays that song on purpose at least once a week.

For how tired he had been in the back of the Lyft, he feels like he could stand here and watch you for hours.

You’re humming to yourself as you play. Shaking your head when your finger hits a wrong key, slowing down to repeat it, before continuing on. Nodding along when you get through a portion, like you must have practiced that part in particular and were proud of yourself to get it right.

It’s the best thing he’s ever heard. Even when your fingers slip up and play a string of wrong notes.

“Fuck me, F Sharp not F,” you huff.

And he has to bite his lip to keep from chuckling and giving himself away.

Stopping this time to pull the pencil from out behind your ear, you bend forward making some circles on the sheet music in front of you for the spot that had tripped you up. Grumbling some other expletives lowly under your breath as you work.

His studious sweetheart.

Bradley is hit was with a tidal wave of affection so fierce that he knows he can’t stay quiet anymore.

You’ve made your marks and are setting your hands back on the keys about to start over again when he decides to ask you a question in-person for the first time in three months, “Can you play it from the beginning this time, sweetheart?"

“Bradley!”

He loves the way you say his name. He loves the sound of your voice. He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.

It’s almost an out of body experience to have you in his arms.

To kiss you. To taste the hint of chamomile on your tongue. To feel your heart beating against his chest. To tease you. To touch the soft skin of your face with his fingertips. To talk to you. To listen to you as you tell him about when you started taking lessons.

Because he still can’t believe you’re here, it still feels too good to be true.

He doesn’t feel the gravity settle back into his bones until you say you’ll play him a song.

Feeling oddly anxious when he notices you closing the booklet that was in front of you, in favor of putting it way and reaching for something else. But then you smile up at him as you show him the sheet music for song you told him you’ve been practicing.

There’s a look in your eyes that tells him you know exactly why he feeds Penny’s jukebox his quarters and plays “You Send Me” when he wants to dance with you. He knows in his gut that Mav must have told you, probably an intentionally unintentional slip of the tongue.

And god, he really fights the urge to ask. He doesn’t want to hurt your feelings or for you to think he’s taking this moment for granted or that he’s ungrateful for the work you’ve put into learning that song just for him.

A song that meant something to him.

But he is so desperate to hear you play the other one, the one that welcomed him home, the one that’s the first song he’s ever heard you play. It’s already so special to him in a way that he can’t put words too.

When you agree, Bradley’s chest swells with warmth and he can’t hold back his excitement. He pulls up a chair next to you as close as he can get without getting in your way.

And he swears he falls in love with you all over again when you ask him to turn the pages for you.

He hasn’t proposed yet, but if he is lucky enough to look in your eyes as he vows to spend forever with you, he knows he is going promise to turn your pages for the rest of your lives together. That is, if you’ll have him when the time comes.

His eyes catch the way you squeeze and flex your hand, the faintest hint of trembling in your fingers before you set them on the ivory key. The only thing giving away your nerves. Then after a deep breath, you’re playing for him.

And he gets to hear your song, from the beginning, for the very first time.

It starts of soft and melodic, almost like a lullaby. The timbre of the lower notes would sound almost melancholy if it weren’t for the uplifting lyrical, melody of the treble clef. The juxtaposition makes his heart ache and soar at the same time. He knows this song, even if he’s still having a hard time placing it, the title just out of reach.

When you had first told him that you’d forgotten how to play, he’d felt so guilty for all the times he’d tried to get you to play something for him. Kicking himself when he offered to help, not knowing even if you wanted to play anymore. He didn’t want to ever be the one causing you pain.

He knows better than anyone the bittersweet and complicated relationship that you have with the instrument. So the meaning of this gesture isn’t lost on him in the slightest.

He can feel every ounce of love and effort that has gone into this. And all because you wanted to wanted to share this part of yourself with him? Because you loved him?

Bradley wants to absorb every detail of this moment, wants to carry it with him always. The sound of the rich and round notes from the keys your fingers are gliding over. Your sweet face as you read the sheet music in front of you.

He only glances away every now and then to keep track on where you were in the song, so that he can fulfill his duties and turn the page when you’re ready.

You surprise him when you start singing along quietly. And he can’t help but lean in.

He’s always liked the sound of your pretty voice. He loves when he’s able to catch you singing in the shower, when he’ll linger in the doorway and listen. You’ll sing along with him in the car when the winds are whipping from the highway or when you’re tipsy. But it’s rare that he gets to hear you so sing so freely.

It’s not until he hears the words that it clicks for him, that he finally recognizes the song. It’s one he’s heard hundreds of times before, but never like this. There’s a sense of sincerity in it that feels new to him, but that seems entirely perfect for the piece. It’s like he’s hearing the song and understanding the depth of the lyrics for the very first time.

And the more you play, the more overwhelmed he’s getting. The lump in his throat growing in size with every passing measure. The pressure building behind his eyes isn’t from the lack of sleep, but something else entirely. The words you’re singing to him landing and making a place at home in his heart.

You’re approaching the chorus again. He knows where the song is building to. And he wants to meet you where you’re at, wants to show you he hears you. The one thing he’s always liked about the original is that it’s a duet. It’s a conversation.

Rooster realizes now that it was never the quiet he had wanted. It wasn’t the lonely sound of silence. All he wanted and all he needed was you.

Licking his lips, he waits for the right moment and then joins in with a low whistle.

Your head whips towards him and the brilliant smile on your face looks and feels like home.

This.

This is what you had wanted.

His harmonizing whistle was something you didn’t know you’d been hoping for until he joined in.

A part of him, a part of you. Something to be shared.

As you’d gotten yourself situated, smoothing out those pages in front of you, you’d felt your nerves trying to get the best of you.

Thinking about Bradley’s pretty brown eyes on you as you played versus actually having his steady gaze pinned on you were two very different things.

You’ve always had a hard time being the center of attention.

At your birthday, he had so flawlessly distracted everyone from that moment you always dreaded so much, sparing you from having everyone sing and watch on as the candles on the cake were blown out. Because he knew you and cared enough to want you to have the best time. It was the first birthday you’ve had where you were entirely out of your head for the whole evening.

However, he did play it for you himself on the piano much later that night when it was just the two of you, as you ate leftover cake wrapped up in his sheet.

And even those times when he’s serenaded you during crowded nights out at the Hard Deck, it was fine because while his eyes were on you, everyone else was busy looking at him.

But in his small living room, there wasn’t anything to distract him with or for you to hide behind.

The rapid sixteenth notes had been turned into more manageable eight notes with the help of piano teacher. Her tidy markings simplifying and streamlining the music to make it easier for you to learn. Done in pencil, she’d pointed out to you when she returned the sheet music back to you the next week after you’d given it to her, so that you could easily erase it when you were ready to tackle the more difficult portions.

Even so, there had been a brief moment where all the notes seemed to bleed into each other on the page.

It was as if the words of a book had been scrambled and rearranged just as you were getting to the best part. Just as you were about to find out who did it, just as they were about to kiss, just as the heist was about to be pulled off.

Your shaky fingers landing on the edges of a couple of the keys rather than in the middle of one.

But Bradley didn’t care that you’d fumbled over the opening. From the corner of your eye, you’d been able to see the way he was looking at you. It was like you’d hung the moon and the stars just for him.

He wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, because his feelings were always worn so openly on his face.

All those butterflies that had been swarming in your stomach took their flight, and a gentle warm wave of contentment filled you up instead.

You didn’t need the perfect notes when this was the perfect moment. It felt real, it felt right.

The urge had snuck up on you without warning. You hadn’t meant to start singing along, but once the first few words had come out of your mouth you were committed.

And then he’d leaned in.

He was already so close, you could just barely feel his knee brushing against the outside of your thigh from the way his legs were bracketing the piano bench. But there he was trying to get closer still.

Only you would know how many hours you’d spent behind your little electric keyboard and in Mrs. McMullen’s cozy music room and at Bradley’s house seated on his creaky piano bench.

Only you would know after he’d left, you’d driven right back to his house, the smell of his fancy coffee and sandalwood scent still lingering in the air. That you had pulled out the music to “Make Love to Me”, thinking that trying to play it for yourself on his piano would make you feel better, only to end up missing him more than ever when he hadn’t even been gone for an hour yet.

Only you would know many times you’ve tried, and made mistakes, only to try again.  Once more, once again.

But in that moment, you didn’t want him to hear all the hours of lessons or all the hours of practice.

You wanted him to hear your heart.

And when he turned the page of your music for you, you couldn’t help but smile.

You wanted this song to speak to him like it had spoke to you the first time you’d heard it. The way it still speaks to you. How it made you think of him, every time you played it and every time you heard it.

You hoped he could feel it through the keys beneath your fingers and the pedal under your foot.

When Bradley joins in, quietly at first before getting a little louder after you grin at him, you know it’s his way of telling you that he does.

And it is everything.

He follows the lead of your fingers as they glide over the keys. The ebb and flow of his whistle, coming in and tapering out. Your melody strong on its own, but made better with his counterpoint.

For him, you were up for it all. Those quiet periods were just beats of rest that dotted the staff of your life with him. There were so many more notes in his song to look forward to.

Because he was worth the wait.

Those combinations and arrangements of notes that had once been fed your yearning were now fueled by your joy.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, it dawns on you that this was the first time that you weren’t playing the piano not to mask the loud or to cover the quiet. You weren’t playing because with a self-imposed pressure to make something perfect. You weren’t playing as a way to try and ease the longing that had taken up residency in your chest ever since you’d dropped him off at base nearly one hundred days ago.

You were playing because he made you happy and it made you happy to finally be able to off this little piece of your heart to him. He knew you in every other sense, but all you had wanted was for him to know you in this way too. 

You were playing because it made you happy.

The rhythm of your left hand sure and steady like a heartbeat, while those soaring winged notes of your right sounded like the way you felt when he was near. When he was here with you, when he was home with you.

It feels like time isn’t being marked by the ticking second hand of a clock, but rather by the passing of beats housed within measures. Dictated by tempo of your own choosing.

You let yourself float in the moment, in the music. Of the feeling of the keys under your hands, of reading the notes on the page. No longer a random series of dots scattered along five lines on a page. Their language unlocked to you once again. Of the pride you can feel radiating off the man who loves you as you are. The one who made you want to try. The one who helped you find this part of yourself again.

Those two parallel lines that mark the end of the song inch closer as he turns the final page for you. And you find yourself playing just a bit slower. Trying to draw out every note and chord, soaking up the way they filled every nook and corner of his living room with their sound.

It’s inevitable when you come up on those few closing measures. All good things come to an end, but it doesn’t mean there won’t be more good things to come. You can have this whenever you want. You have all you need.

You and Bradley and a piano.

Your fingers hold down the keys of those final notes, pulling out every last bit of sound that can be let from them. The sound waves bending and spreading, their energy passing through his home until they can’t be heard any more.

Holding on. Holding it. Before finally, letting go.

And when you turn to Bradley, his arms are already open and waiting for you.

His piano bench announces its displeasure you’ve stopped playing for the moment when it groans and creaks as you get up in favor of tucking yourself into the comfort of his lap.

He wastes no time pulling you into him and wrapping you up. Encouraging you to nestle your head into his shoulder. Pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his cheek on the top of your head. His hand slipping under the hem of your t-shirt to run soothingly up and down your spine as you breathe him in.

You’re feeling exposed to him in a way you’ve never felt before. It was your turn to put all your cards on the table. But you know you’re safe with him, your heart is safe with him. Just as his is with you.

Neither of you say anything as the weight of the moment relaxes into something softer. As you felt the essence of the notes you’d been playing settle around the two of you from how they’d been silently lingering in the air.

It’s quiet, but there is peace to be found in it.

Bradley is the one to pull away to take your face between his large hands. His brown eyes brimming with warmth.

“I love you so damn much,” he murmurs before leaning in to kiss you. Delicately, softly, tenderly. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too,” you say running your fingers through his curls. Your heart swells as he leans into your touch, letting his eyes flutter close in contentment. Your Golden Boy. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

“There’s no place I’d rather be than here. My home is with you,” he sighs, sleepy and satisfied. But the sincerity in his statement wraps itself around your heart.

“Bradley.”

“Mmhm,” he hums, his eyes still closed.

“Let’s go to bed,” you say softly as you gaze at him. Even half asleep, he’s still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. And he’s yours. “It’s still too early for even roosters to be up.”

He huffs a little chuckle, cracking one eye open to squint at you. The side of his mouth pulling up on one side in amusement.

You move to climb off of him, but he hooks his hand underneath your thighs. Waiting for you to thread your arms around his neck before he stands up with you in his arms as he starts walking towards his bedroom.

Looking over his shoulder, you notice that little light above his piano is on.

The sky outside Bradley’s window is beginning to lighten now, the dark of night has given way to a dusky navy. There is the gentlest tease of wispy pink and purple cotton candy clouds, a sign that a sure to be stunning sunrise that’s on its way.

And you already know, it’s going to be a good day.

Thank you for reading, friends! This soft little piano fic has been living with me since January and I'm so thrilled that it's out now! I loved getting to share this one with you!

And a sincere thank you to @gretagerwigsmuse, @callsignspark, and @laracrofted for the support, and for letting me send endless snippets and the feedback! I appreciate you so much!

I purposefully left out the song that Bradley's Sweetheart plays, just in case anyone wanted to imagine their perfect song. But if you’re curious, here’s the one that I had in mind when I was writing this: Home (slowed) by Edith Whiskers 🤍

You can read some of my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[gigisimsonmars]

Reunions

Jake Seresin x F!Reader. This is my first fic, so please be nice! Dedicated to @sebsxphia - so proud of you! Thanks to @gretagerwigsmuse for reading this over. Tagging a few people who might be interested: @blue-aconite @anniesocsandgeneralstore @wildbornsiren @seresinhangmanjake @callsignvalley @theharddeck

Warnings: pregnancy scare, situationships, anxiety.

You stand on your tip-toes, peering around the heads of the people in front of you on the dock, trying to get a glimpse of the gangway. Jake will be in his camo uniform, blending into the crowd of sailors walking off the carrier. The sun is so bright, the wind blowing the sea air off the water and mixing with the smells of the crowd around you. You feel a little nauseous. You haven’t seen him in three months.

An excited little girl knocks into you, hopping up and down, tugging on her father’s hand. “Mommy! Can you see Mommy?” Her father is smiling, even as the lines of exhaustion from the past few months carve down his cheeks. “She’s almost here, baby.” You stare a little too long. The noise of the crowd, the pressure of the bodies around you, the light, it’s all pressing down on you. You’re a little lightheaded. You look again at the gangway but can’t pick Jake out.

You’re staring at a family reunion, parents clutching their gangly son – do they really let kids join this young? He looks sixteen – when Jake finds you.

He looks perfect, bronzed by the sun, sea glass eyes full of light. He asked you to come get him, and he emailed you every week while he was away and called twice, and he calls you sweetheart -  

“Sweetheart, you okay?” He’s been speaking. You should have been listening. You missed his first words to you.

“I-,” the words aren’t coming. Jake looks at you a moment, carefully.

“Too much noise?” he asks gently, so gently that it’s out of place in this boisterous scene. You nod, still unable to call up your voice.

“C’mon, let’s blow this popsicle stand.” He slings his arm around your waist and leads you back to the parking lot. Opens the passenger door for you, closes it gently. Slings his seabag into the trunk and comes around, settles into the driver’s seat.

You fold your hands tightly in your lap, braced against your stomach. It’s an old habit, to make yourself smaller. You haven’t been this tense around him since he drove you home after your fifth date.

Jake starts the car. The radio station you had on starts to play. He glances over at you as the old Garth Brooks song fills the car. You started listening to music like this with him, and kept listening when he left you. You’re pretty sure that George Strait will be in your Spotify Top 5 list this year.

The two of you head back to your place. Jake’s has been shut up for weeks, though you’ve been keeping an eye on it. He likes yours better anyway. You have soft pillows and pretty art posters on the walls, and a spice rack that you actually use. He complains that your couch isn’t big enough for a six foot naval aviator and his girl (your stomach flips again remembering when he said that), but you’ve managed okay.

Jake pulls into the apartment parking lot. There’s always a spot open for golden boy somehow, even though you usually have to circle around a couple of times and park in the back. He gets out, gets his bag, opens your door and takes your hand. You walk into the building together, take off your shoes together, bumping into each other in the small entryway to your place. You go into the living room and sit on the couch. You still haven’t spoken.

Jake joins you after he goes to the bathroom. He must have splashed water on his face, you can see the droplets on his collar. He’s tense now, too, you can tell.

“I thought I was pregnant.”

The words fall like a stone into water. His eyes widen, and drop to your flat stomach. Your hands are braced there again. You’d only been seeing him for two months before he left.

“I wasn’t – I’ve never skipped a period before, so I thought maybe – but it was probably just stress.” Stress from work, stress from family, stress from your maybe-boyfriend going to sea for three months, whatever.

But that week when you thought maybe? You’d thought about children as a hazy, dreamy someday. But this was real. You could have really had a baby – a sweet-faced baby with a round tummy and big green eyes. You could have made room in your apartment, changed your work schedule, spent Saturday mornings at the library story hour instead of sleeping off Friday night. You could have had a baby with a man who didn’t love you and probably didn’t even want to be a father.

Jake sucks in a deep breath, then exhales. “Sweetheart…” he clearly doesn’t know what to say. You’ve dropped this on him with no warning.

You stand up, pace into the kitchen. You consciously tidied up your breakfast dishes this morning even though you usually leave them for after dinner. Jake is fastidious. You run the sponge over the stovetop instead. You can never get all the grease off. Jake can.

You hear him get up and follow you. He’s leaning against the doorframe, you know without looking. You’re throwing off mixed signals, you know that. You’re not angry at him. You want him to touch you again. But you’re afraid of what he’s going to say next. If he says that the two of you weren’t serious, that it was a good thing, that he likes you a lot but he’s not cut out for fatherhood, you will either chuck the sponge straight at his head or splinter all over your kitchen floor.

“Would it have been so bad?”

What.

You spin around and gawk at him.

“I mean, we’ve only been seeing each other for a few months, but I thought you wanted kids?”

What.

“I know we’ve never talked about it but it was pretty obvious when you were playing with Payback’s kid.”

Payback’s kid is adorable. She has the entire Dagger Squad wrapped around her finger. You’re pretty sure that she has never been put down the whole time she’s been in North Island. Right before everyone deployed you all had a picnic on the beach. She was wearing the tiniest sunhat you had ever seen and punched Fanboy with her tiny baby fist when he stopped her from eating sand.

“I – what?”

Jake shifts uncomfortably. You’ve never seen him like this. He’s always so confident and smooth, whether he’s sliding up beside you at the bar or opening a car door for you or carrying you to his bedroom or kissing you goodbye and whispering for you to meet him on the dock when he gets back.

“We would have figured it out.” The light through your window dapples across his face. It must be windy, you can see the branches of the tree moving from their shadows.

You literally had never considered the conversation going this way.

“Unless you didn’t – unless I’m not the one – then I guess –”

“You are.” You didn’t even realize that your mouth had started forming the words until they were out. “I didn’t – we’ve never talked about kids, or exclusivity or anything. I didn’t want to assume…” You know that your eyes are big and hopeful and watery.

Jake’s face relaxed the second you started speaking. He crosses the kitchen to you, takes the sponge from you gently and tosses it in the sink. Blindly you grope for a dishcloth to dry your hands before they come to rest lightly on his shoulders.

“Sweetheart, it’s been you since I dropped you off on your doorstep after our first date.”

Oh. Now you’re crying.

He kisses your cheeks, kisses the tears away, then lightly sets his mouth to yours. It’s the first time in three months. You’ve missed him so, so much. The week you thought you were carrying his child you’d curled yourself around your belly every night, thinking that there was a piece of him in there. It had hurt so much more than you had expected when the test came back negative.

Jake finally pulls away, looks at you with such tenderness.

“You want a baby?”

You nod, shakily. It still feels risky to admit it. Five months together, three of those apart, isn’t long at all.

“You’d better come with me to Texas for Thanksgiving then. My dad says he’ll give me my grandma’s ring whenever I’m ready, but he wants to meet you first.”

You suck in a breath. He’s told his family about you?

“Sweetheart, I like to think I’m pretty good at reading you, but I need to hear the words.”

You tip up your chin a bit. “Oh, was that a proposal?”

He grins down at you, eyes flashing.

“Oh, you’ll know when I propose, sweetheart.”

Your smile matches his.

“I guess you also know what I’ll say, then.”

[the-authoress-writes]

Somewhere Out There

Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Deployments are hard, but when you have someone to come home to, someone to love, that makes things easier, painful as it may be.

Warnings: Maybe a little bit of angst, I guess, offscreen sort-of implied married-people-doing-married-people-stuff 😉😉, minuscule cursing, a PG-13 use of the F-word, and a crap-ton of fluffy, lovey-dovey goodness.

Author’s Note: I don’t write reader fic.

I really don’t.

I write ship fic and gen fic, and I’d say I’m pretty decent at it, judging from the comments on my stories.

But then, @valmare came along, and we just clicked.

Mostly through screaming about Top Gun, naval aviators (*cough*tomkazansky*cough*), and our mutual appreciation for Val Kilmer.

And I knew I wanted to write something for her, especially since she was celebrating 300 followers!

Unfortunately, deep down, I knew I couldn’t write a ship fic for her.

I would have to write a reader!fic.

So, because I love her, I delved into the uncharted (for me, at least) waters of reader!fic.

I’m honestly not sure if this is any good, I wrote it in a perspective I’m not used to, and I hope and pray it makes any kind of sense.

Title is from the song of the same name, “Somewhere Out There”, from An American Tail.

To my dear Mir, I swear I began writing this yesterday, but I touched on things that you did in your own most recent fic, however, I couldn’t for the life of me, find another way to put what I wrote.

I promise on Goose’s grave that I did not plagiarize you.

All I can say is… fangirls think alike?

Please don’t hate meeee!!!!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this attempt at wading in the waters you so expertly navigate, my dear!

Happy 300 Followers!!!

The mist was rolling in from the sea, she absently noted, while the rising sun caught the minuscule droplets of water in the air, making the very wind shimmer.

Even inside, she could smell the faint tang of salt in the air, one of her favorite scents, but it was missing the key part—so much was missing.

The warmth of her husband behind her, for one thing, as they watched the sunrise on this window seat, her legs bracketed by his, his arms around her, the scent of spice, bourbon, and jet fuel which was all him, surrounding her.

God, she missed Tom.

Right now, he was halfway around the world on a ship, and she was watching the weekend sunrise without him, for the first time since they got married.

She knew this was part of being married to an active duty naval aviator, but it didn’t make the ache any better.

She tugged the collar of the USNA t-shirt up to her nose, but the scent was so faint from when Tom had tossed it to the floor the night before his deployment.

She sighed; she could still remember how he’d made her feel that night—he’d made her body sing, playing her like an expert musician would his instrument.

She’d felt him for days after, and if she focused enough, even now, she could almost feel his hands on her, the paradox of how gentle they were, despite the callouses on his palm, his lips on hers.

For all that he was called “Iceman”, she never saw an iota of the reasoning; with her, he was never anything but unfailingly warm, gentle, kind, loving, and passionate.

It had been nearly a week since she dropped him off last Monday at Miramar, exhorting Mav and Slider to bring him home to her.

The grave promise in the two men’s eyes as they readily agreed, had to be comfort enough, and wordlessly, they hauled Tom’s seabag between them, a strap in each of their hands, cheerfully bickering as they went, to give her a chance to say a more private goodbye.

She didn’t know what to say to him—this had to be one of the most painful things she’d ever done—giving her husband up to the sea and sky for ninety days, not knowing if he’d return to her alive, safe, having to trust only in his skill on the stick and his wingmen to bring him back to her.

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and Tom’s eyes softened, as he drew her into his embrace. “I’ll come back to you, lyubimaya moya,” he whispered in her ear, all too aware of how dangerous it was to speak Russian on base, outside of the safety of the walls of their house, but aware that she needed the comfort.

“Promise me—promise you’ll come back to me, Thomas Kazansky,” she fiercely murmured, drawing back to look at him, taking the opportunity that she would shortly not have.

“Always.

No matter what, no matter what oceans part us,” he replied, an intensity which would frighten others, but which soothed her, in his crystalline eyes.

She gasped and desperately tugged him to her, his kiss piecing her heart together and breaking it, all for knowing that it was the last time she’d feel it for three months.

He’d taken her soul with him the moment he let her go to do his duty.

Back in the pain of her present, a sob masquerading as a sigh tore from her lips—it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough until she had him back in her arms, back in her bed, back in this house, where she felt like a shade of herself, a modern-day Eurydice.

Her legs reluctantly carried her to the kitchen, where she prepared her weekend coffee, narrowly resisting the urge to pull out two mugs instead of one.

But when she picked up the can of Maxwell House, she fumbled it, because it was far lighter than it should’ve been—heavy, but not the still-full can it should have been.

Tentatively, she opened it, and gasped when she saw that the can was filled with folded-up pieces of paper, each marked with dates on them, in Tom’s careful, exacting writing.

She tipped the can over, and the papers came spilling out—there had to be at least three months worth of letters here, one for each day of his deployment.

She frantically searched through the pile, looking for today’s date.

Upon finding it, she dashed back to the window seat, deliberately peeling the tape holding it closed, unable to treat the letter with anything less than the utmost care.

She quickly noticed Tom’s writing here was cramped, as if he were trying to fit everything he wanted to say on this one small piece of paper.

“Hello, solnishko,

If you’re reading this, it means that you’ve found the letters I wrote for you; one for each day of my deployment.

As I write this, I am next to you in bed, looking at your beautiful face, so peaceful in sleep, but the mere thought of my impending departure already tears me apart more than I thought possible.

I won’t have thought of anything else but you since the moment I left your arms, I am absolutely certain.

You know all too well why I joined the Navy—my search for a home, a real home, one not plagued by unattainable standards and harsh words.

I eventually found one in the sky, and for the longest time, she was enough, with her freedom, her thrill, but there were still demands, still standards, though the words were kinder.

Then I met you.

And you changed everything.

You are my home, lyubimaya moya; with you, I don’t have to be Iceman, or Lieutenant Kazansky; with you, I can be Tom.

Just Tom.

Your Tom.

I can’t wait until I can be your Tom again.

Eighty-four days, zhizn moya; and I’m yours again.

Yours forever,

Tom”

She pressed her hand to her chest, careful to avoid crumpling the paper beneath her hand, a tear slipping from her eyes, the ache of his absence soothed with the absolute confirmation that he was thinking of her just as she was about him, and intensified, knowing that he was so far away.

Eventually, she sniffled, brushing away her tear tracks, wishing it was Tom’s hand, and gathered herself.

Eighty-four days.

Eighty-four days, and she’d have him back—a short eternity, to be sure, but a small price to pay for what she’d get back at the end.

Until then, she’d count the sunrises, holding him and the words he’d written for her, close to her heart.

Tom stared out at the horizon, watching the sun come up on the relatively quiet deck of the Enterprise.

It meant that he lost a good thirty minutes of sleep, but it was worth it, just to know that his wife was looking at the same sunrise, or she would be, at any rate, given the time difference.

The horizon spread out before him; endless, and the fleeting, errant thought that she was just there, beyond the beyond, entered his mind.

So far—a little over six thousand nautical miles, more or less, depending on the course and speed of the Enterprise, further than any F-14 could fly—and yet so near, because she was never far from his heart.

He’d never thought he could love anything or anyone more than her—among his other endearments for her was zhizn moya, because that was what she was to him: his life.

Tom idly twisted the band of gold around his left ring finger, more proud of that simple ring than the hard-won blue-jeweled Annapolis ring on his right.

God, he missed her.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Tom turned to see Mav, coming up to lean on the railing beside him, none of the usual cockiness on his face.

“You shouldn’t be up yet, Mav.”

A haunted expression lingered on the edges of his wingman’s face as he searched for anything but the truth to tell, and Tom knew. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Mav rasped. “I—I checked on Merls and Sli, but I got—got worried when I—I didn’t find you, so…” the black-haired pilot trailed off, before continuing, “you okay?”

“I should be asking you that, but… yeah, I am, just…”

“Just missing her,” Mav nodded sagely, almost wistfully.

“Yeah.”

“How do you even handle that?” Mav asked, frowning.

The sunlight made him feel more honest than he would probably otherwise be, Aurora’s kiss a comforting benediction, reminding him of all he had to come home to, and he replied, “What makes you think that I am?” He shook his head, “Doesn’t really feel like I’m even here, honestly.”

Mav good-naturedly smirked, “You left your heart in San Diego?”

Tom side-eyed his wingman. “Yeah, actually.

You’ll understand it one day, when you meet the right one,” he sighed, thinking of his wife’s beautiful smile.

“I dunno, Ice, I’m not sure if I want to be you, or be thankful that I’m not.”

Tom scoffed, unable to help his grin. “It’s the worst feeling in the world, to be away from her, to exist without her, after knowing what it’s like to be with her—”

“Not exactly selling it, Kazansky,” Mav interrupted.

Tom rolled his eyes, “I wasn’t done, dickhead.”

At Mav’s grin, Tom continued, “As I was saying, it’s the worst feeling in the world, to be away from her, to exist without her, after knowing what it’s like to be with her, but knowing that I get to come home to her… that makes it all worth it.

I hope you get this someday, Mav.

You sure as hell deserve some fucking happiness in this life.”

Mav smiled weakly, but honestly. “Maybe one day, Ice.”

The two of them smiled at each other, before Tom clapped Mav on the shoulder. “We better get going—the guys should be awake now, and if we don’t get to mess, Slider and Merlin might just take all the good stuff.”

“Good is relative,” Mav scoffed, making him laugh.

“Okay—the better stuff.”

They laughed, beginning to make their way back in.

But just before he stepped through the door amidships, he couldn’t help but look back at the horizon, the sun shedding the last of its dawning gentility, to turn into the harsh, blazing light that it was in this part of the world.

Eighty-four days.

Eighty-four more sunrises holding her only in his heart until he could also hold her in his arms.

It was a high price, to be sure, but in the face of having eternity as hers, what was eighty-four days?

Until then, he’d count the sunrises, holding her close to his heart.

“Hey Ice, you coming?” Mav called.

“I’m coming,” he replied.

And with that, he stepped inside to do his duty, eagerly awaiting the next sunrise, each consecutive one bringing him closer to his home, to his beloved wife.

I headcanon Ice as having Russian descent, but quite frankly, you can tear Slavic!Ice from my cold, dead hands.

To me, he’s either Polish or Russian.

Russian Glossary

Disclaimer: endearments and translations taken from Google—please don’t hesitate to correct me if I’m wrong, which, odds are, I am.

Lyubimaya moya: my darling/my one and only sweetheart

Solnishko: little sun

Zhizn moya: my life

[sacredwhores]

Chris Stevens - The Exchange (1986)

[library-whale]

This person kept seabagging me so you know what? Take this video where I point-blank Ink Vac’d them in a really pointless stand-off.

[theridervhagar]

Signed by Ewan Mitchell—a proponent of sustainability and the actor who plays Aemond Targaryen, Vhagar's dragonrider in HBO's House of the Dragon—this number one tote is truly a one-of-a-kind piece of memorabilia.

📎 @ ewancentral

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

DONALD TRUMP'S POLITICAL ACT OF HARA-KIRI

TCinLA

Oct 28, 2024

“Never interfere with an enemy who is defeating himself.” – Napoleon

In February 1939, 100,000 people ringed Madison Square Garden, desiring only to get inside and beat the holy living shit out of the 22,000 American Nazis attending the “Pro American Rally” held inside by the German-American Bund.

In October 2024, the line of MAGAts lining 33rd Street outside Madison Square Garden in hopes of getting inside to participate in Dear Leader’s final hatealong of the 2024 presidential campaign melted away in minutes when they were told by the police at 3:30 pm that the Garden was full. There weren’t 100,000 wanting to see them end up as shitstains on the sidewalks. They were as they have always been, objects of scorn and laughter.

Trump didn’t even match Fritz Kuhn’s numbers from 1939 for his all-important audience size.

MAGA has always been most impressive in the complete lack of self-awareness on the part of the MAGAts. And that moron stupidity has always been most particularly on display among the lifetime losers who declare themselves geniuses and rise to leadership positions in this clown show.

The truth is, these people are not only crazed morons, they are all comic lightweights, idiots who proclaim themselves geniuses, just like Dear Leader. They aren’t even up there with the actors singing “Springtime For Hitler” in The Producers. They would have failed the call to be hired, since Mel Brooks required those he chose to have talent.

Dr. Phil McGraw - once Oprah’s darling who became America’s Shrink despite not actually being a licensed therapist, until he finally got busted for all the sexual hijinks associated with the show and all the lawsuits over the results of his bad advice and his COVID denialism - did his own Trump satire, droning on and on about how Dear Leader was not in fact a bully.

Rudy Giuliani - wearing what is likely the only suit he has left- shouted about how Vice President Harris was “in with the terrorists.”

MAGAMike Johnson, Keebler Speaker of the House of Representatives - who made his reputation as the guy who sued to get the House not to recognize the result of the 2020 election - chattered about the Republican respect for the rule of law.

Self-hating Jewish reincarnation of Holocaust author Reinhard Heydrich Steven Miller rewrote the words he spoke 81 years ago at the Wannsee Conference in his previous life, changing from “Germany is for Germans” to “America is for Americans,” demonstrating once again that he should have been locked in a seabag and thrown off the Santa Monica Pier in the middle of a winter storm back when he was merely the School Pissant at Santa Monica High 20 years ago.

Elmo Muck showed up to decry “illegal immigrants” on the same day the Washington Post brought the receipts to show that he was an “illegal immigrant” while creating the first of his companies. The lies he undoubtedly wrote down when he filled out the forms to get the Top Secret clearance he has constitute a felony that could result not only in the loss of his security clearance but the revocation of his right to be in the United States. No wonder he campaigns for the only candidate who would pardon him.

In 1939, Fritz Kuhn went on about President “Rosenfelt” and Governor Thomas “Jewey,” to thunderous applause. In 2024, some guy named Rosenfeld clearly demonstrated that Kuhn’s slur that all Jews were geniuses was false when he went on about Hillary Clinton, who hasn’t been a candidate for anything for eight years.

Alleged comedian Tony Hinchcliffe went looking for the Kuhn audience, joking about an island of garbage floating in the ocean called Puerto Rico, to gales of laughter from the mouthbreathing audience. The result of that was the endorsement of Kamala Harris by Puerto Rican superstars Bad Bunny, Jlo, and Ricky Martin, energizing the 6 million Puerto Ricans living in the US - most particularly in the battleground states and including the 600,000 who live in the five New York congressional districts that need to be flipped from R to D to end the fuckwittery of MAGA in the House of Representatives.

Hinchcliffe showed he had gained the instant clueless infamy that makes him a self-owning MAGA superstar when he complained that Tim Walz “didn’t get the joke.”

By the time Dear Leader took the stage two hours late, the 22,000 wannabe sieg heilers who got in had dropped to about 16,000 true believers who remained to listen to his regurgitation of his greatest hits, the high point of which was his promise to put RFK Jr in charge of “the health,” and “the drugs” and “the food.”

What the walking proof that you can indeed stack bullshit 6 feet 4 inches high without it toppling over wanted from his rally was a shoutout to Fritz Kuhn as he went Full Fascist. What he got was a radio talk show where Daddy Joe is worried that Sonny Boy is going to come home from school turned into Daughter Dearest by the dastardly public school teachers.

The shedding of crocodile tears by those Republicans who have spent the last eight years bending their knee to Trump, claiming in the aftermath of his shitshow that this time he really had gone too far in attacking the voters they now realize they need to win, was rich.

Sorry, you worthless assholes. You. Own. This. All of it. Every last word from every last tenth-rate moron stupid enough to believe Donald Trump is anything but a candidate to be found dangling by his ankles from a gas station sign.

Yesterday, “the dumbest fucking student who ever walked into my classroom” managed to engineer what will be seen forever by political historians as the coup de grâce to the possibility of his ever being president again. What was happened at Madison Square Garden on October 27, 2024 was an act of political hara-kiri. Rather than confirm the loyalty of his voters to him and their commitment to vote, he energized millions more to vote against him. Even Rick Scott was smart enough to see that.

Trump managed to provide in his final message of the campaign the best case for why he must be defeated. As Charles Pierce observed of the event, “At the end of the day, all that was proven was that these people can’t even be fascists with any kind of dignity.”

Donald Trump is a drooling moron. In fact he’s the most ignorant moron to ever strut onstage in American history.

Last night proved that.

TCinLa

[nolita-fairytale]

call sign: tennessee whiskey | rooster x fem!reader & hangman x phoenix | chapter eight

summary: you and bradley spend three days in encinitas on your proverbial honeymoon and make a big decision about your relationship.

warnings: smut, fluff, minor angst, suggestive language, swearing, mentions of death, military & aircraft carrier inaccuracies, second person pov

wc: 4.8k

listen to: the playlist

a/n: this is an exclusively rooster x whiskey chapter and gets a little smutty. this is the second to last part, so next chapter i'll wrap up the rom-com of these four. i'm going back to work and very much want to finish this nine chapter adventure before i do. however, i AM planning on writing a more extended oneshot that catches up with these guys a year and a half later so i'm definitely not done with these four.

chapter seven | masterlist | chapter nine

Friday 

“Look at us! We’re almost normal,” you comment, optimistically as you breathe in the bright California air. Sometimes, when you’re on leave, you can almost trick yourself into believing you’re a civilian. “No one would know by looking at us that you just saved the world!” 

“And almost died trying,” Bradley grumbles as a reminder the job you share is rarely ever that glamorous. 

Bradley holds your hand in his as the two of you walk along the beach. The drive up hadn’t been long, but you’d been eager to go for a walk after arriving. Once you’d arrived, Bradley had barely been able to put his seabag down before you’d practically tugged him outside across onto deck, past the gorgeous private pool, and off to the beach.

“That’s what I mean! We’re not aviators this weekend. We’re not facing near-death today! We’re just… two normal people who don’t have to worry about deployments or fighter jets or top secret missions funded and backed by the pentagon,” you continue, celebrating the freedom you’re leaning into on this particular leave. 

“Probably shouldn’t say that too loudly,” Bradley coughs, scanning the beach for any curious listeners. 

“Ahhhh yes, you’re right,” you mumble, lowering your voice. 

“But I like where this is going. We’re just… Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” Bradley chimes in, playing along with you. “You know… the boring ones. Not like... the spy assassin ones.”

“Right, right. Because there’s a fine line, Bradshaw,” you fire back. 

He laughs in response with a shake of his head, his eyes full of endearment towards you. 

“Okay so… how’d we meet?” you ask, turning to steal a glance Bradley’s way. 

“How does anyone meet these days?! On an app?” he answers, in his best well-duh tone of voice. 

“No!” you cry out, giving his arm a little shake. He laughs again, giving your hand a squeeze in return. God, no one’s made him laugh this much in a long time. He shoots you a quizzical look as you clarify with, “C’mon! There’s no romance in that! No, we uh… we definitely had a meet-cute.”

“Who knew you were such a romantic, Mrs. Smith,” Bradley chuckles as he teases you, giving your hand another squeeze. 

“Okay then. Tell me more about this meet-cute.”

“Okay hmmmm… so you’re…” you trail off, before letting the silliest, furthest away from reality thing tumble out of your mouth. “... a yoga instructor.”

“What?!” he yelps, his eyes widening at the ridiculous sentiment. 

“And I'm… a chef who’s just recently moved to San Diego to open up yet another fusion restaurant gentrifying small surf towns across the nation,” you continue, making sure your faux-job feels just as silly as his does. 

“Wait. Why am I the yoga instructor!? I can’t even touch my toes,” he backtracks, alarmingly. 

You laugh, “Because it’s funny! And maybe the furthest thing away from what we actually do.”

“Okay fine. I’m a yoga instructor,” he grumbles, resigning himself to his new pretend-occupation. “But I’m not growing out a man bun.”

“No, the mustache alone gives you enough street-cred. Or rather, hipster-cred, if you will,” you reply, playfully. 

“You like the mustache,” he shoots back. 

“Oh, I definitely like the mustache,” you smirk. “In fact, that’s how we met. I spotted that mustache across the room in a coffee shop, made sure to let you know that, even though they don’t really do it for me, yours was pretty cool, which of course led you to inviting me to the yoga studio that you own.” 

“Which was just an excuse to see you again,” Bradley adds, playing along. 

“Exactly,” you giggle, as the story continues to grow more and more ridiculous. “… And well, you know what they say! The rest was history.”

“You are so silly,” Bradley chuckles, releasing your hand as he wraps an arm around your shoulders instead. 

“Gotta keep you on your toes, Bradshaw,” you giggle, your sliding around his waist. “Oh! That reminds me. We need to go to the grocery store.”

“I thought you said we could stay in bed all weekend,” Bradley challenges, his tone light. 

“Fuel,” you shrug, coquettishly.  

“Besides, I’m cooking you dinner tonight.”

“Well, you are the chef between the two of us.”

“Now, you’re catching on.”

It’s later that night that Bradley learns that while you gave him the job furthest away from reality, the possibility of you being a chef was a lot more probable. He watches you create a lemon-scented pan sauce, his mind wandering back to earlier when he’d been surprised by your knife skills. 

“Holy shit! You really cook?!” he practically exclaims in the middle of the state-of-the-art home kitchen you’re occupying all weekend.

“Guilty,” you answer, as if it’s some kind of confession. “If I hadn’t gotten into the Naval Academy, I was going to go to culinary school. Just one psycho thing for the next.”

You coat the back of a spoon so that you can taste the sauce for seasoning:

Salt levels are good. Shallots are perfectly caramelized. Capers add the right amount of tang to it. 

You scoop up another pool of the liquid in the spoon once more, offering it to Bradley. 

“Come try this,” you say. “It’s a lemon chicken piccata. I think you’ll really like it.” You hold the spoon up to his lips, watching as Bradley tastes the lemon butter pan sauce. 

As soon as the sauce hits his tongue, you watch as he closes his eyes, in total disbelief. 

“Holy shit. This is un-fucking-real, honey,” he says, the term of endearment making you blush a little. 

“Thank you,” you smile, leaning in to place a kiss on his lips. 

As you pull away, he pulls you back for another kiss before murmuring against your lips, “Though I think I like it better on you.”

Holy shit, is that hot. 

As Bradley releases you, it’s almost as if you’ve forgotten to breathe. Your head feels light and you have to remind yourself to take a deep breath. 

“I won’t distract you any longer. Sooner we finish up dinner, the sooner I get you naked,” he coos, his hands dragging across your hips as he pulls away. 

Jeez, this man is perfect, you think to yourself. 

What the hell were you getting yourself into?

As you sit down to dinner with your lemon chicken piccata and a funky orange wine, you learn that Bradley can’t cook to save his life. You can’t believe that after two and a half weeks of the craziest of training, you’ve managed to find yourself on your proverbial honeymoon with a guy you’re quite sure is perfect. Sure, he’s got enough baggage to sink the USS Roosevelt, but you’re not sure you mind. He is, after all, who he is because of it. 

He finishes telling you another story from his days at UVA and you’re caught in a fit of giggles as you watch how animated he gets as tells you about his college-day shenanigans. 

“What?” he asks you, seeing the look on your face. 

You know you probably look like you’ve got goddamn hearts for pupils at this point, so your answer is simple:

“The more I learn about you, the more I like you, Bradshaw.”

He blushes.

“I really like you too, Whiskey.”

Saturday morning: 

Rooster Bradshaw thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. 

It doesn’t feel real. 

As you stand there in the middle of the kitchen, clad only in his NAVY tee, it’s as if the domestic bliss he’s always craved is right in front of him. 

This is all he’s ever wanted. 

Bradley’s frozen for a second, paused in a moment in time. Ever since his mother died, there’s been a hole in his heart he’s never been able to fill – not with girlfriends, not with work, not even with himself. It’s this hole in his heart that yearns for a family – that allows himself to be taken care of, to be cherished, to be loved. But he can feel something, this feeling, swelling in his chest as he watches you make breakfast in the way-too-fancy home kitchen after knowing you for barely three weeks. 

Now that he’s proven himself in the Navy, maybe he could begin healing his relationship with Mav. He could let himself open up to you. Maybe the part of his healing he’s been missing… is letting himself be loved. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been standing there, but he figures it’s been long enough as you turn back around to him, sending him a curious look. 

“Good morning, handsome. Coffee?” you greet him, with the sweetest smile he thinks he’s ever seen in his life. 

And damn, he loves the way you look in his t-shirt. 

“That would be great,” he answers, a lovestruck grin plastered to his face.

You hear the sounds of his footsteps before you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you in close to him from behind. You giggle, turning your head for a good morning kiss. Bradley’s lips are soft – a stark contrast from the rough texture of his mustache – earning another giggle from you. 

You nod towards the french press on the counter that holds the coffee you’ve just made. There’s a second mug resting on the table that you pulled from the cabinets for him. He likes that you thought of him – thought to do that. He likes being thought of. 

“How’d you sleep?” you ask, plating up two plates of eggs, bacon, sliced avocado, and a mix of berries you’d purchased yesterday. 

“Great. How about you?” Bradley answers, a soft smile on his face as he watches you. 

You wrap a hand around the edge of the plate while your other hand carries your coffee cup. 

“Wonderfully. Why don’t you grab a fork and meet me out by the pool?” you tempt him, sending a wink his way before disappearing, heading towards the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck. 

Instead of following suit, Bradley watches, taking this all in. He takes a few steps so that he can see you through the glass door. You sit down with your copy of today’s paper, while you snack on a few strawberries before picking up your fork to eat your soft scrambled eggs. Bradley swears under his breath, still in disbelief that this is real, before fixing his cup of coffee and taking his plate outside to join you. 

“You know… I know we have the same one… but I think I like mine better on you,” Rooster says, taking a seat on the lounge chair next to the one you’ve posted up on. 

You can practically feel your heart speed up, as you watch Bradley pop a strawberry into his mouth. 

“Listen. I’m just relieved you own something other than the Hawaiian shirts,” you admit, a cheeky smile on your face. 

“What’s wrong with my Hawaiian shirts?” he teases you with a wink. 

“Absolutely nothing. But… it’s not like I can bring you as a wedding date in a printed shirt and jorts,” you tease him back, playfully.

 As much as he likes to banter with you, he’s more focused on the fact that you’re thinking of ahead – thinking of the future with him. 

“How do you feel about eventually making our way out to the beach today?” you propose, continuing with your breakfast. 

“If we make it out… yeah,” Bradley replies, suggestively. 

You smirk, “Well in that case, finish your breakfast. You’ll need the energy.”

You enjoy the poolside breakfast with him, handing him the sports section of the newspaper so that he can check out some of the baseball stats. You swap: the arts section for the sports section when he mentions maybe seeing if there’s a show you both could go to – making plans that you most likely won’t make anyways. 

After breakfast, you pull Rooster’s NAVY shirt over your head, revealing your barely-covers-anything bikini you put on earlier. 

“You wanna-?” you start asking, with every intention of getting in the pool. 

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he says, grabbing your hand. 

Before you know it, Rooster’s thrown his empty breakfast plate on the small end table between both lounge chairs, pulling you back towards him. You follow, more than eager to explore exactly where this is going. As he pulls you down on top of him, you sit over his hips, just to feel how excited he’s gotten from seeing you in your bikini. 

“You are such a tease,” he growls, bucking his hips up into you. 

“I think you like it,” you smirk, leaning down to ghost your lips over his. 

“Uh huh,” he answers, and you can feel his breath on your lips. 

“Already, Roos?” you ask him, a devilish smile on your face as you grind your hips against him. 

He hisses, pushing his hips up again as he answers, “Baby, you’ve had me this hard all weekend.”

You giggle, your lips finally meeting his, your tongues easily tangling together as your lips move in perfect time. 

“I like these,” he says, his fingers dancing over your hips as works to untie your bikini bottoms. 

“Yeah?” you ask, your eyes filled with lust. 

“Yeah,” he answers, untying one side completely. 

Rooster sits up, flipping you over so that you’re now laying back against the lounge chair, earning something between a gasp and a laugh from you. Eagerly, he pulls your bikini bottoms off, tossing them somewhere on the deck as he covers your body with his in this new position. 

“Rooster,” you moan, his mouth moving lower. 

His lips and tongue are everywhere: your shoulders, your breasts, and rapidly making their way down your abdomen. 

His hands pull your legs apart to make room for his shoulders as he watches you with a fire in his eyes. You know exactly where this is going, waiting impatiently for him to touch you. Bradley licks a broad stripe up your already wet heat, his tongue stopping to move around your clit as you throw your head back, his name on your lips. 

“Bradley.”

“God, you taste so good, sweetheart.”

You close your eyes, the hot sun kissing the both of you as he eats you out, right on the freaking pool lounge chair. He works at your clit, tracing little shapes around it as you moan his name, trying to remind yourself not to be too loud since your friends do have neighbors. As his tongue moves further down, his mustache bumping up against your most sensitive spots, your hands move straight into his brunette waves, bucking your hips up against his face. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you cry as you feel him begin fucking you with his tongue. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

You feel him smile against you, your words having unleashed something within him. From here forward, Rooster is relentless. He’s holding your hips down, pulling all kinds of sounds from your body as he continues to bring you heavenly pleasure with his tongue and his fingers. 

“Fuck!” you cry, feeling that tight feeling in your abdomen as he pulls his fingers in and out of you. 

“You gonna cum for me again?” 

“Yes. God, yes. I’m so close!”

And it’s all he needs to hear to do whatever it takes to get you to cum, pulling you past the point of pleasure you thought you could feel. You come with a strangle moan, and before you know it, Bradley’s folding his body over yours once again. He presses his lips against yours and you can taste yourself on him, earning a moan from him as you kiss him with desperation. 

“I hope your friends don’t have cameras out here,” he chuckles, in between kisses. 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” you tease. 

“Jeez, sweetheart. If that’s what you’re into….”

You were going to be the death of him. 

And, he decides, what a lovely way to go.

Sunday: 

“Bradley!” you gasp, feeling that all-too-familiar tightening in your abdomen, as Bradley winds you up.

“You gonna cum?” he grits out, his hips driving into at a rapid pace. “Go ahead. Let go for me, baby.”

“Yesyesyes,” you’re practically chanting as you feel him so, so deep inside of you. 

“Fuck, Bradley. I’m gonna-,” you pant, and he groans, feeling you squeezing around him. “Please make me cum.”

“God, I love it when you beg me. Shit. Holy shit, baby. Fuck,” Bradley grunts out, his face buried in the crevice of your neck. He whines your name so sweetly as he releases, finally stilling the motion of his hips. 

Bradley lifts his head, still inside of you as he leans down to press a passionate kiss to your lips. 

“Holy shit. How is it possible that it just keeps getting better and better?” you sigh, your back hitting the sheets as you catch your breath. 

“I don’t know but… if we get any better at it I might go into cardiac arrest,” he jokes, earning a laugh from you. 

“No!!” you cry out, dramatically.

The two of you settle into a quiet intimacy, as you turn over onto your side, wrapping yourself up in the sheets. Bradley notices a shift in you, but remains on his back as you prop your head up on your hand. 

“I want to be with you,” you blurt out, causing Rooster to turn his head in your direction. 

He can’t even hide the smile on his face as he hears your words. 

“I want to be with you too, Whiskey,” he grins, his eyes as soft as the morning light. 

“Oh thank god!” you say, letting out a sigh of relief, eliciting the most amused look from Bradley. But you pause, and he can tell that you’ve got something else on your mind as you continue with, “I just-, I guess I’m just wondering if-. Do you… think we’re moving too fast?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, curiously, rolling over onto his side so that he can match your body language with his own. 

“I don’t know…” you hesitate with an ambivalent shrug. “We haven’t known each other for that long. Is it… totally wild to feel this way about someone after only three weeks?”

Bradley takes a beat, his chocolate brown eyes warm and filled with confidence. 

“Maybe. But stranger things have happened and… Whiskey, I-. I think I’ve been waiting to meet you for a long time,” Bradley answers genuinely. 

“I think so too. Is that crazy?” you reply softly. 

“If it is, then at least we’re both in it together,” he reassures you, pulling you over to him so that you can cuddle.

“Okay.”

“What do you want to do today?” you ask him, shifting a little to something more lighthearted. 

Like you’d predicted, despite every intention of doing so, neither of you had made it out of the house this weekend aside from the occasional beach walk and for dinner last night in Leucadia. Not that you were complaining. The hot non-stop sex-a-thon and staying up to talk till the early hours of the morning were absolutely heaven… but you knew at some point you’d both have to resurface. 

“I think I might go for a run,” Bradley replies, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

“You haven’t gotten enough cardio?!” you practically shriek in surprise. 

He chuckles, “Can’t take too many days off or I’ll lose my stamina, honey. Wanna come with?”

“Hmmm… I think I may just stay here… take a shower. Unlike you… I’m not a psychopath,” you joke. 

He laughs, “Okay, okay. Then how about when I get back, I’ll take you out to breakfast and we can go from there.”

“Sounds perfect,” you agree with a totally lovestruck smile. 

After a few more kisses, Bradley manages to unwillingly pry himself out of bed to get ready for his morning run. He’s right. You both have to return to reality at some point, and it’s not a bad idea to try to work in some of your routine before you’re back on base. You might’ve even agreed to go on a run with him, but selfishly, you’d like the alone time because you have to call Nat. 

Once Bradley is out of the house, you slip a t-shirt left on the floor from the night before, hurrying into the master bathroom. You quickly FaceTime Natasha, praying that she picks up, considering this is the first time you’ve had a moment to call. 

“Hey! Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you till you got back,” Nat says as soon as she answers the call. 

“Oh my God, Nat. I am in love with this man,” you say, incredulously. 

“Are you talking about Rooster?” she asks.

“Yes, of course I’m talking about Rooster!” you exclaim, with a laugh. 

“Jeez, Whiskey. How much sex are you guys having?!” she teases, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“You… don’t want to know the answer to that,” you answer honestly. 

“You’re right,” she nods, her voice dropping. “I don’t. I guess I don’t even need to ask how it’s going then.”

“So well. Too well. I-, we told each other that we want to give this a shot. A relationship,” you fill her in. 

“Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“I mean... Whiskey, I think he’s ready to settle down with someone and… that’s why I wanted to introduce the two of you so badly. Don’t overthink it. Chalk it up to good timing,” she advises. 

“Okay yes, but do you think this is too fast?” you ask, nervously. 

“It’s… fast, sure. But it’s not like you’re getting married or anything,” she reassures you, before pausing. “You’re-... not getting married-.”

“Of course not!” you interrupt her, rolling your eyes playfully. 

“You know what the proverbial they say: when you know you know,” Nat adds, trying her best to offer up a little more reassurance. 

“Yeah, I guess I’m just trying to check in with myself. Make sure we’re being realistic, you know?” you vent. Truthfully, your hesitations have nothing to do with Rooster and everything to do with the fact that you haven’t chosen the best partners in the best. But Rooster? He’s near-perfect. 

“Have you told him about your deployment yet?” Nat asks you. 

You shake your head, “Not yet. I didn’t want it to be another thing to raise the stakes, you know? But I’m… I’m kind of nervous to.”

“Rooster knows how this goes. He’ll be fine,” she replies. 

You nod slowly, “How are things going on your end?”

“Uh… good. Just waiting for you guys to get back before I head back up to LA,” Nat replies with the most casual tone in her voice. You eye her suspiciously, knowing that that can’t just be it. 

“And Jake?” you ask, curiously. 

“What about Jake?” she asks back, earning a funny look from you. 

Okay, Trace. 

If she needs it spelled out, that’s exactly what you’ll do. 

“Have you guys talked or are the two of you still just fucking each others’ brains out?” you rephrase, putting it bluntly. 

Natasha rolls her at eyes at your crass comment before answering, “More so the latter,”

“Got it.”

You take a beat, not wanting to overstep, but then again this is the woman that quite literally parent-trapped you and Rooster. 

“It would be okay, Nat… if you had feelings for him,” you begin, cautiously. 

“Whiskey, I don’t-,” but she can’t finish the sentence. She knows she can’t finish that sentence because it would be a lie. And when has she ever been able to bullshit you? If anything, you’re the person who knows both her and Jake the best. 

She takes a beat before opening her mouth to say something else, “I don’t know if I’m ready. For that.”

You nod slowly, “And that’s okay too. You’re just gonna have to tell him.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs, dissatisfied with the resolution she’s come to. She changes the subject and you talk about a few other things. Who else is going on the next deployment from the Dagger Squad. Having lunch solo with Halo. That Maverick and Penny seemed to be a thing.

“Hey uh… I gotta run but, we’ll talk. When you’re back,” Natasha says, as she realizes what time it is.

“Yeah of course,” you agree.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon,” she smiles, signing off. 

“Bye, Nat.”

You take a breath after hanging up the phone with Nat. Maybe you wish that she and Jake could just figure it out, but you also know that they’re not exactly those people. They’re actually the most stubborn people you know. You run the shower for a minute or so, waiting for it to come up to temp before stepping in, letting the water help you think through things. 

You and Bradley were different. Both of you were looking for something – a relationship – and had found a connection with each other that felt good. It felt right to be with him, even if the idea of falling in love with him terrified you – even if it felt like the two of you were on the fast track. But Jake and Natasha? You’ve always felt like they were more similar than either of them would admit. They’d have to really want it, really want to be together to make it work, and it doesn’t seem like either of them are there yet. 

You finish up your shower, enjoying a little you-time before Bradley gets back. You haven’t exactly had that much since you got here, but you know you’ll have plenty when you return to Lemoore. After shutting off the water and drying your hair as best as you can with just the towel, you wrap a second towel around your body before heading back into the bedroom. 

Only, you see something you’re not expecting – something you weren’t quite ready for. 

“Bradley…” is all that comes out of your mouth as you see him. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tanned skin glistening from his run while he holds loose papers in his hands. 

Papers. 

Those papers. 

Your papers. 

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asks, looking up from your deployment papers. 

“Bradley. I’m sorry,” you repeat, your voice shaking a little. 

You take a few steps towards him, stopping so that you can sit next to him on the edge of the bed. 

“I don't know…” you answer, honestly. “I guess I just thought-. We've clouded our judgment with hot sex all weekend….” You laugh nervously. “... and all of this has just been so intense – between the mission, and you almost dying, and… – I didn’t want my deployment to change the outcome of this weekend.”

You wait for him to answer, and you can see the gears turning in his head as he listens to you. You’re right. The parameters of the mission, your hookup, all of it has been so high stakes. He’d be a fool to deny it. But it doesn’t change how crazy he is about you. He thinks he’d feel this crazy about you if he met you in the supermarket, not in training for a suicide mission. 

“I understand,” he says, his voice low as he turns to you. “But I wish you had told me.”

“Would it have changed anything for you?” you ask, stealing a glance his way. 

“No,” he reassures you, his voice softening. He slips an arm around your bare shoulders, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against your skin. “I just-, I don’t know. I guess I thought we’d have more time before we had to deal with… all of this.”

You nod, “I know. I should’ve told you earlier.”

“You still want to do this?” you ask again, with a nervous flutter in the bottom of your belly. 

“Yeah, of course,” he admits with a smile. “But it’s not going to be easy and… I guess… these papers just reminded me of that.”

You turn your body towards him so that you’re facing him, no longer sitting side by side. Bradley runs his fingers through your wet locks, eventually moving to cup your face. There’s a sadness in his eyes and you can see that the reality of your jobs has set in. 

“I kinda wish I was still a yoga instructor and you were some hot shot chef,” he chuckles, trying his best to make light of the situation.

“Me too,” you agree. “It’ll only be a month. And… then maybe once Cyclone has all the data he needs… they’ll make our detachment official. We-... won’t have to be apart.”

Bradley nods, “Yeah. We’re gonna figure this out together, sweetheart. I know it.”

You smile in response. How is this man real?

“How can you be sure?” you ask him, hopefully. 

“I can just feel it,” he replies, leaning in to kiss you. He touches his lips to yours before pulling back to ask, “What would you say to getting back in the shower?”

You smirk, “Lead the way, handsome.”

read: chapter nine

[vicsnook]

Come Back…Be Here | Bob Floyd x Reader

word count: 1230

warnings: deployment, sad, fluff

song pairing: Come Back… Be Here - Taylor Swift

notes: Hey y’all!! Hope everyone is doing well! I know I’ve been away for a little while but no worries I am back ☺️ and ready to write. This one is a sad one so forgive me for that. Please if you don’t mind, like and reblog that way more people can read this too. Thank you for all the likes and reblogs on my other works. Hope everyone is having a great week!!!! 💗

The sound of thunder startled you awake. Looking at your bedside table the alarm clock read 3:00AM in bright red letters. Bob snored peacefully beside you, he could sleep through anything.

The morning came too soon and as you got ready for work you noticed Bob was unusually chatty. He only did that when he was keeping something. Not wanting to pry you went along with it but as everyone headed off the tarmac that afternoon him and Nat got called into Cyclone’s office.

“I wonder what that’s about.”Jake said, raising his eyebrows at you.

“Me too, he’s been really chatty lately so maybe it has to do with that.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. He ain’t real good at keeping secrets” He chuckled as you both headed to the vending machines.

Usually you’d get a snack with Bob after flying exercises were completed but today your appetite was absent. The weird feeling that you’d had in your stomach when you woke up last night only intensified more as you waited for Bob. Jake tried making you laugh by showing you pictures of his new pup but your mind was elsewhere.

“Hey Peach, can we talk?” whispered Bob from behind you, breaking you away from your thoughts. You followed him quietly to your car grateful that you’d all been dismissed earlier today since Maverick was sick.

He started the car and looked over at you smiling weakly. You felt the knot in your throat as he headed towards the beach. This wasn’t going to be a good talk.

He grabbed your hand as you both found a spot to sit in the sand. Both of you stared at the beautiful California ocean when he finally broke the silence. “Nat and I were called up for a mission in Europe. We’ll be gone for a few months.”

“How long?”

“9 months but it can extend to a year. We leave in 2 days”

“Oh” you replied, trying to hold back the tears. Both of you knew this could happen anytime but you were not prepared for it to happen so soon. You’d only been together 8 months and now he was being sent off to the other side of the world.

He pulled you into his chest as you let the tears fall. He smelled of pines and jet oil. A weird combination that you’d come to adore. His fingers lifted your chin to look at him and he kissed you softly.

“We’re going to be okay.” he whispered as you both started to head towards the car. You nodded in response.

That night you helped him pack his seabag between dancing in the kitchen and eating leftover pizza. Tomorrow night the squad wanted to meet up at the Hard Deck for a small goodbye party.

—

Work flew by and before you knew it you were at the Hard Deck. Bob was off playing pool with Fanboy when Nat pulled you aside.

“Hey, you call me if you need anything. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll keep this one in check.” she said, taking a swig of her beer.

“I’ll try to keep Rooster in check but no promises.” You raised your hands as you both laughed and she pulled you into a hug. In a few hours your best friend and boyfriend would be gone and tonight only seemed to fly by.

Bob and you said goodbye to everyone around midnight. Him and Nat had to be at the airport by 4:00AM. You cuddled up to him that night but as the alarm went off at 3:00AM you felt you’d only slept 10 minutes.

You said it in a simple way

4:00 a.m. the second day

Everyone gathered at the airport saying their final goodbyes. Bob pulled you in for one last hug and whispered “I love you” as he pulled away and kissed your forehead. A few tears escaped your eyes as you both had yet to say those 3 words.

“I love you too, Robby.”

Stumbled through the long goodbye

One last kiss, then catch your flight

“Time to go.” said Nat as Bob kissed you one last time and headed to security.

You followed the squad out to the parking lot politely declining their invitation to get breakfast. All you wanted to do was go home.

Getting ready for work you scanned the room for your dog tags and that’s when you saw it. A red gift box on your bed. Opening it you pulled out a necklace with a heart locket and in it was a picture of you and Bob from your first date. The note in the box read “So you always have me with you. Love, Bob.”

And this is when the feeling sinks in

I don't wanna miss you like this

Come back, be here

You put it on and finished getting ready as quickly as you could so you wouldn’t be late for work. Holding back tears as you headed out the door missing Bob more than anything.

—

Bob had left Wednesday and it was now Friday. Calls were short as he and Nat were settling in and the time difference didn’t help. He mentioned you should go see your sister to help not feel so lonely. So here you were boarding a plane to NY for the weekend.

Taxi cabs and busy streets

That never bring you back to me

I can't help but wish you took me with you

The breeze was cold as you stepped out of the airport. Raising your arm you hailed a taxi and then you were off to your sister’s. That night after a long day of retail therapy you were able to facetime Bob.

His sweet smile filled the screen as you showed him your purchases. “I got you something so once you know your mailing address let me know.” you said, eying the box on the floor. He nodded, raising his eyebrows at you making you laugh.

You got him a watch he’d been wanting according to Mickey. On the back it had the word fearless engraved, a nod to when you both danced in the rain a couple months back.

He was getting ready for work while you were ready for bed. He said he was happy that you liked his gift and couldn’t wait to get his.

“I’ve got to go baby but just know I love you and I’m thinking of you. Sweet dreams.” he said quietly as Nat knocked on his door.

“I love you Robby.” you replied as he smiled and ended the call.

This is falling in love in the cruelest way

This is falling for you and you are worlds away

In New York, be here

But you're in London, and I break down

'Cause it's not fair that you're not around

You shed a few tears after the call ended. Missing him hurt so much. Your chest aching as you tossed and turned that night. Wishing time would fly by the next couple of months.

—

Central park felt lonely the next day since your sister was called into work. She loved being a doctor but being on call sucked. You watched the birds from the bench you were sitting at wishing that Bob was with you. That he could Come back, be here.