#angsty goodness

[ky-landfill]

[lhaagain]

The Ground of Mercy

Summary: There's more to Julienne than meets the eye, even if she doesn't necessarily understand that herself.

Starts in the 1930s and will run right through the series.

This work is a bit of an epic and is a gift for the legendary @linguini17

Part 1: The New Girl

Chapter 1 - A Long Labour

Evangelina came in the front door, hung up her cape and headed straight for the Clinical Room.

“Where is she?” she asked tersely when she did not find who she was expecting. Their latest arrival in Poplar wasn’t going to last six months if she was any judge and this tendency to vanish into the shadows at the slightest difficulty certainly didn’t help.

“Sister Julienne sorted her bag,” Ada said calmly. “And then I sent her up to her room. What on earth happened?”

Read more on AO3

[yuly]

the level of angst here is simply ✨ top notch✨

where Simon introduces you to Ghost

PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader 

WARNINGS: established situationship (or is it).  angsty.  18+ only.

LENGTH: 5k

Sooner or later, this way or that, the bubble was going to burst, and now that it was happening—just as you’d predicted—you’d both turned out to be responsible for it.

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_____

Sooner or later, the bubble was going to burst.  You knew that, he probably knew that.  Your collective cognisance (and resigned acceptance) of the fact was in sync—so much so that you’d have found it comforting under different circumstances, how in tune with each you were—and you knew you’d collectively be responsible for it.  

Working together towards your relationship’s last hurrah.

You, with your devotion plain on your face, plain for him to see and develop a hostility to.

Him, with the sky-high walls he’d built around himself, only able—or willing—to show you any hint of what he felt towards you when he was inside you.

Sooner or later, this way or that, the bubble was going to burst, and now that it was happening,  just as you’d predicted, you’d both turned out to be responsible for it.

_____

With the benefit of hindsight, something was clearly bothering Simon that night, and you should have clocked his behaviour as odd immediately.  

At least your involvement starts innocently enough.  

You return home from a shit day at work.  A screw up in the orders the night before had led to an ingredient shortage (you’d had to have a commis run down to the shops to grab flour for fucks’ sake), a fussy table had pissed you off, and—today of all days for this shit to happen to you—you’d left your knives home, and had to use the shitty blunt knives at the kitchen.

You’re upset and your exhaustion seeps into your bones.

Under usual circumstances, this wouldn’t prevent you from seeing Simon per se.  Far from it, sometimes a rough pounding scratched the itch, made it easier for you to step away from your thoughts, gave you something else to focus on.

Today, however, was not usual.  Today, you just wanted to go home and sleep off your shit day, fully intending on consuming an inordinate amount of beer and passing out in front of the telly.

But…Simon had been back on leave for 10 days now, and you hadn’t heard from him at all, bar a text.  Landed.  

You knew the series of events that took place when he returned from deployment—he would take a day or two to reset.  Adjust into civilian life, as far as he could.  Then he’d text you.  You’d see each other three or maybe four times over the period of his leave.  Then he’d return to work again.  Rinse and repeat.

So when you walk home from work in the heavy rain—because why not—you’re taken aback to see him leaning against the front door to your flat block, looking broody and sullen as his eyes dart from person to person walking across the small park in front of your block.   

That, by itself, should have been an indication that something was wrong.  You’ve stepped into the outside world with him before and you know he’s always on guard, always switched on, looking for an unknown threat.  But he never makes it obvious, and every time you look up at him, his attention is focused on you.  

So today’s behaviour is an obvious red flag, a slip-up in the facade as he clearly wears his stress in the furrowed lines of his brow, but your elation at seeing him brings his gorgeous mask-covered face to sharp focus, muting all colours at the edges of your vision.

“Simon?” you ask, rummaging through your pockets for your key.

“Who the fuck else?” comes the gruff reply.

Your eyebrows rise as far as they can go on your forehead.  “Okie doke,” you murmur under your breath, but you know he hears you anyway when he scoffs.  Wow.  So it was going to be like that tonight.

You fumble with the key to your flat, but when you finally manage to let yourselves in, he pauses.  “What happened to your alarm?”

It takes you a second, and you grimace.  “Oh yeah, not sure what’s wrong with it.  Haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet.”  You run a quick hand through your drenched hair.  “I need to shower and dry my hair, do you need anything?”

You don’t even know why you ask.  He’s been over enough times to know his way around your flat.

“Gonna fix your alarm,” he mutters under his breath, and you have to force yourself not to roll your eyes at him.

“Look, Simon, it’s fine.  It’s whatever—I’m going for a shower, just order some food,and we can hang out.  Forget the alarm.  I missed you,” you blurt, and immediately regret the words.  

His massive arms cross over his chest immediately in a defensive posture, and you glance away.  “I saw you a month ago.”   

“I know, look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…it doesn’t matter–”

“You can’t say that shit to me,” he interrupts, his eyes dark with sudden ire.  “ I don’t want to hear it, yeah?”

“I just meant–”

“I don’t fuckin’  care what you meant.  Don’t. Say.  That shit to me.”

“Simon!  What is the matter with you? Did…did something happen?”  You take a step toward him and your hand reaches out to touch his forearm, but he backs up.  You’ve never known him to lose his cool like this, not at something so trivial, and certainly not at you.

“This was fucking stupid,” he mutters under his breath, and then turns to you with dark eyes.  “Don’t wanna do this right now, I’ll see you later.”  He turns to leave before you have a chance to say anything, and your broken safety alarm catches his attention again.  “Get this shit fixed.”  

The implied or else suddenly makes you see red.  Your heart thuds in your chest and you’re surprised at the sudden fury you feel right now.  

“Wh-What the fuck is happening right now?  Don’t fucking talk to me like I’m a dog!”

Your caustic words make him freeze with his hand on the door knob, and his shoulders tighten.  You can see how intimidating his enemies must find him in his rage.  He stands unnaturally still, and his back is turned to you, but you’re under no misunderstanding—his anger is both potent and consuming.  His stillness is dangerous.  

You take a deep breath and try to calm your racing heart.  “Look, just…can we talk?  Something’s clearly happened, let’s just calm down and talk about it, alright?”

He scoffs at your words and turns to face you slowly, arms still crossed over his chest.  “You wanna talk, pet? Let’s talk.  What do you wanna talk about?”

“Simon–”

“I’ll start.  Why the fuck is your flat falling apart, eh?  You need a functioning alarm.”

“Jesus Christ, what is the deal with you and that alarm?  This is ridiculous!” 

“You’re the one s’fucking ridiculous,” he breathes.  “You could get broken into in the middle of the night, and you wouldn’t even know it.”

You drag a hand over tired eyes.  “Oh my god, why do you give a shit?  This has nothing to do with you.”  

Simon exhales.  “It could happen while I'm here.  Then what?” 

“You can take care of yourself, Simon.  Besides,” you can’t hold back a small, bitter laugh “you’re not around enough for there to be a real risk to your safety, alright?”

“Is that what this is about?  How you missed me?”  His voice is mocking, and it’s enough petrol to your fire that your fury rises exponentially. “ I should be around you more?  Quit the army to be your lap dog, s’that it?”

“No.  We are not having this conversation, you’re taking this too far.”

What you don’t tell him is that you can’t have this conversation with him—not now, not ever.  You’re in love with him, you’re so helplessly in love with him, and it will break more than just your heart if he throws it back in your face right now.

“Not fuckin’ far enough,” he mutters.  “Christ, what the fuck am I doin’ here,” he says, running a hand through his hair.  

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?  Aren’t you here to fuck me, then leave, then come right back when you like only to pick back up where you left off, like the convenience that I am to you?”

“You think this s’fuckin convenient for me, pet?  Think anything about being with you is convenient?”

“Being with me?” you snort, your anger making you lash out.  “Please let’s not pretend that this is anything more than somewhere warm and wet for you to stick your dick  in every time that you’re in London, Simon.  I’m not with you, and you’re certainly not with me.” 

You turn away from him quickly, walking into your kitchen without giving him the opportunity to respond.  What you need right now is some space.  You don’t hear him immediately follow you, but you’re far from convinced that this is over.

You grab a glass from the cabinet above you, fill it with water.   Your fingers tremble as you bring it up to your lips, though you convince yourself that it’s because you’re still wet and cold from the rain. 

It’s your nerves that make you grip the edge of the kitchen counter hard, until your knuckles turn white. Fuck, where is this coming from?  What could have happened to him?  

You feel more than hear his presence lurking at the entrance to your kitchen.  You turn to him with a sigh, trying to stay calm and reason with him.  And though his words have been hurtful to this point,  something about the way he just stands there makes you look up at him.  His eyes are hard, an edge to them you haven’t seen before, but they’re also shiny.  Honest.  Wounded.

You sigh again.  “Can we just drop this?  Look I’m sorry I said anything, let’s just–”

“Do whatever the fuck you want to do, I’m out.”  He states, but makes no move to leave.  It’s almost like he’s baiting you to respond, waiting for…something from you.  You see his hands clench and unclench at his sides, see the slight tremble in his fingers.  

So this is how it ends.  This is the culmination of almost a year’s worth of devotion to this man, to making him the centre of your universe.  The fight leaves you almost as quickly as it arrived. 

“If you’re going to leave, then just fucking leave. Do  what you think is right.”

“What I think,” he yells suddenly, “is that you’re fuckin’ messing with my mind.”  His voice breaks and his hands go up to his hair, tugging at the short strands in frustration.  “You—you’re fuckin’ everywhere.  Y-you…SHIT.”  He slams his hand against the kitchen door, the frame rattling with the force.    

Your vision blurs with hot tears, from the hurt you feel and from the pity that takes centre-stage in your chest when you look at him.  He’s clearly wrecked with something you can’t put your finger on.  Something’s happened, something’s gone wrong at some point between the last time you saw him and now, and even Simon—with the world’s indifference he pretends to possess—can’t move forward, can’t look past it. 

Most of all, you resent that he’s making you tense, a natural reaction to a physically larger man looming over you and speaking to you in a raised voice.   

The tears flow freely now.  “What–what’s wrong Simon, please, jus–”

“Fuck,” he breathes, his eyes scrunched closed,  one hand holding his chest.  “I can’t—can’t do this.  Thought I could…forgot…can’t forget.”

“Simon…please.  You’re scaring me.”  You whisper, and it’s like you can’t help yourself.  Your feet take him to you as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and your face crumbles when he makes eye contact with you, and you see his shimmering eyes staring back at you. 

He slowly lowers to his knees and you go down with him.  He’s starting to pant like he’s been running hard, his breaths staccato and loud, and his chest starts to heave violently.  “Can’t–can’t breathe, shit, shit,” he whimpers, and you don’t think there’s much more of your heart left to break.

“Hey, hey, look at me.  It’s alright, I’m here, look at me.  There’s enough air in the room, Simon, listen to my voice.  There’s enough.  Just breathe for me.”  You try to soothe him as much as possible, trying to pitch down your voice, make it soft and lilting.  He grabs your hand in  a death grip, and you gently use your intertwined fingers to guide his face to the crook of your neck.  He comes easily, takes a deep breath, and for some time, this is all he does.  Just breathes in your scent where it’s the strongest, and you both sit there on the floor of your kitchen, shivering.  

Your tears slowly return, and he clutches at you tighter but says nothing.

_____

You don’t know how long you sit there with him.   

You hold him until the muscles in your arm ache and burn, and even then, you don’t let go.  You’ve enough awareness to realise that this wasn’t about you at all—you were just there when the dam burst—but you’d both said some horrible things to each other.  Things you couldn’t take back.

He shudders in your arms, once, twice, kisses your neck, then slowly lifts his head to look up at you.  He doesn’t cry—you’re not sure he even can—but his gorgeous green eyes soften and melt as they look deep into yours.  He’s never been vulnerable with you, this is more emotion than you’ve ever seen him show, and so you don’t say anything.  He keeps looking at you, searching for…something, but you’re not sure what.  

He seems to find whatever he was looking for after a moment, and looks away from you.  “M’sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

You nod and run your fingers gently through his hair.  “Does…does this happen a lot?”    

“Not for a while. Thought–thought they stopped. Sorry,” he says again, and sighs. 

You move your arms so they’re wrapped around him tighter, and lay your head on his shoulder.  “I know we don’t do this, but…do you want to go to bed, Simon?”

“Shit, I–I can’t.  Baby, I can’t.  Not tonight.”

You swallow at the rejection and your eyes dart away from him quickly.  You know this isn’t about you but you can’t help but feel like all he does is reject you, over and over.

But his hold on your chin is gentle but firm, and he brings your eyes back to his.  “I’ve been—there’s dreams.  Nightmares.  S’bad.”

“Then stay awake with me.  Let’s just stay awake together…in bed?”

You don’t know where you stand with him right now.  You don’t know where you’ll go from here.  But when he whispers a quiet okay, and gathers you to him, you think you understand where you stand, right in that moment, and it’s enough for you. 

You can only hope that it’s enough for him too.

_____

You undress quietly, facing away from him.  He turns the lights off in the room, you hear his mask drop on your bed stand, and then…bliss.  He pulls you to him and his arms wrap around you, legs tangling with yours, your face burrowing in his chest.  You almost can’t believe it—you went from just sex to almost nothing to…this.  

It makes all the soft thoughts you hold for him in your heart bubble up to your throat, and you have to hold back from blurting them out.

He stays silent for a long time, his breathing deep and even, and you wonder if he’s fallen asleep after all.  So when his soft voice pierces the night, you almost jump.  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.  Tha’ was—I’m sorry.”

You sigh.  He’s hurt your feelings, been completely inconsiderate, been downright hateful, and all you feel is fear that he’s going to take it all away.  You hate that the worst possible scenario for you is that he could take himself away from you.

 “I’m sorry, too.  I don’t—I know you don’t think of me as a convenience.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

But his body is taut now, tense.  He reads you well. 

“But.  You need to define what you want here, Simon.  I respect you enough to stick to our original agreement.  But if you want to…pause this, then do it.  It’s fine.  But I won’t be strung along—”

“S’not fine to me.”  It’s all he says.  You’re physically close enough to him to  feel his heartbeat between your bodies, strong and starting to take off in his chest.  Your heart, in turn, thuds painfully in your chest, hands and feet clammy, feeling the adrenaline in his body move into yours.  

“What happened, Simon?”  Your words are soft, but firm.

“No,” he whispers, his grip unyielding on you. “Not tonight, please, pet.  Know I fucked up, Jesus.  Fuckin’ knew I went too far today…just not tonight. Please.”

You pause a moment.  Hear his words.  “Okay,” you agree, and lean your face up to kiss him.  He responds eagerly, clutching you tight.  Far too eagerly,  considering the events of the evening, and you feel him hot and heavy against your thigh.  You’re not surprised.

Pleasure and pain all mixed up in his mind. All paths, you’d once hoped,  leading him to you.  Seems like they finally did.

You continue to kiss him, languid and slow, and at one point you feel his brows tightly furrowed and pressed against yours.  An emotion you can’t name settles deep in your chest, and it makes your heart swell and throb.   

Simon is an enigma to you, a puzzle you can’t solve, a man you thought felt only the bare minimum, just enough to get through his life.  But he proves you wrong, shows you just how little you know the man you’re in love with.  Simon feels.  He feels so much, feels so intensely that he separates his entire person from it—becomes Ghost—and tries to keep your Simon safe.

But you know that right now, in this moment, it’s not Ghost who pulls you over him, hands moving over your back gently, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin.  It’s not Ghost in your bed right now, kissing you like the world is ending around you.  And it’s not Ghost who lets you go for a second only to wipe your tears and press gentle kisses along your jaw and the side of your neck.

“Can I?” he whispers.  “Pl-please let me, fuck, let me—”

“Yes, God, please.”

He wastes no time after that.  You think he’s going to push inside you—you brace for that sweet, first stretch—but you’re quickly flipped around so you’re on your back.  He crawls down your body, pulls your panties off and you’re not prepared,not even close to prepared,for the barrage of sensation his body invites in yours. Warm breath for a sliver of a second, then a hot tongue and a thick finger find you molten and willing for him, and you think that this, right here, like this with you, this is where he belongs.  

He may belong to whatever demons reside in his mind, whatever he does out there when he’s away from you for months on end, but he belongs to you while he’s here like this too. 

You’ll take whatever you’re given and you’ll endure.

He pulls you away from your thoughts just as they descend into forbidden territory, but you don’t care.  He can keep himself locked away from you as much he wants, as much as he feels he needs to, but he can’t stop what’s already taken root in your chest.  That belongs only to you.

“S’this okay, pet?  You alright?” He whispers, then dips his head down to nip at where the evidence of how alright you are paints the insides of your thigh.  “You with me?”

“I’m with you, Simon,” you whisper back, the irony and stark contrast of the words against the ones you’d flung at him earlier not lost on you.

Seems he’s thinking the same thing.

“Won’t happen again, dove.”  The words are promised against your clit, and his fingers don’t stop moving inside you when he speaks.  “Promise, I–fuck–I won’t bring it home again.”

The whispered words don’t give you much solace—you know he can’t help but carry it with him wherever he goes, even if he thinks differently—but his use of the word home lights a warmth in your chest like you haven’t felt before.

Home, yes, this is home, with him, worshipping between your legs and you, hovering on that cliff edge, waiting for that feeling only his touch brings.  Waiting for him to give you something you can’t quantify, waiting for him to release the part of you that he holds so you can run free with it, now it’s been imbued with his essence.

He doesn’t keep you waiting long, gives you exactly what you need to be able to drop off that precipice without anything to catch you—and when your pleasure finally runs in your veins, you know it’s because only he can touch you the way you need to be touched at that moment.   

Your hips arch against his mouth, and you haven’t even fully come down from your high yet before he’s moving away from you, freeing himself from his jeans and pushing inside you to the hilt.  The feeling of sudden fullness is almost overwhelming, and your breath sputters and chokes in your chest, as though he’s lodged himself in your throat instead of your cunt.  You gasp and clutch at him, but he’s not done taking your breath away—he lifts both your legs and effortlessly puts them on one of his shoulders.  

You know you’re the singular object of his focus when you close your eyes and turn your face away so the meagre lights from your window don’t accidentally show you his face, but his hand moves to your jaw and brings it back to him.  “Open your eyes, sweetheart.”  

“Simon—”

“Open them,” he insists.  “I want to see your gorgeous eyes, sweet girl.  L-let me see them.”

You open your eyes.  

You can’t see him clearly—of course not, it’s close to pitch black in the room—only the outlines of his features, but you understand what he means.  You want to see his gorgeous eyes when he pounds into you with no abandon, showing you he cares for you in the only way he thinks he’s allowed to.  It’s dark but you can see pieces of him.  A mosaic.  You can draw your own conclusions from the pieces of the puzzle you’ve been handed.

Your eyes trace the crooked length of his nose—how many times has it been broken?  You bring your hand up to trace a single finger over his tight jaw and move up to gently run your hand over his hair—how long can it grow?  Does he cut it himself?  You can’t imagine him allowing someone else to do it, touch him like that, he wouldn’t allow that level of intimacy.   

“I want to get on top,” you breathe.  He starts to shake his head, but you cup his face in your palm.  It makes him pause, then nod.  With a grace you think someone of his size and build shouldn’t possess, he helps you up without slipping out of you, and sits up while you straddle him.

You start to ride him,  but hug him close to your chest—the coalescence of a thousand galaxies in a universe-shattering type of violence could not pull you away from this moment with him—and he groans against your skin.  His mouth moves to your throat, and you swear, you swear, he whispers into the crook of your neck before he kisses it, but you’re so far gone that you don’t hear and you can’t think to ask him.  You’re safe like this, with his arms wrapped around you and with the knowledge that he cares—just doesn’t know how to show it.

Home in the truest sense of the word.

His hands move to your back, supporting you, even as you rise and fall steadily on his cock.  For as desperate as he was railing into you before, he seems perfectly content for you to take your time now, reach the pinnacle of your bodies’ connection, but not sprint towards it and end it too soon.  One of his arms moves to cradle the back of your head and the small shift causes your clit to grind against the coarse hair on the base of his cock.  Your throaty moan doesn’t go unnoticed—nothing ever slips past him unnoticed—and he jerks his hips up, over and over so the sensation never stops, and you feel closer than ever to your peak.

You’re panting now too, the strain on your muscles making you slick with sweat, and you can tell he’s close too.  His jaw is clenched and his eyes stare intensely into yours, but you feel the tightening of the muscles in his thighs and his hips never cease their insistent pistoning motion into yours.  

You’re so close, so close to coming and his hand disappears just briefly between the two of you where you’re joined, rubs at your clit, gathering the slick and bringing it up to your mouth.  You exhale at the filthy action—even after all this time he finds new ways to surprise you—but you grab his fingers before they reach you and push them into his mouth instead.  You catch the widening of his bright eyes and his sharp hiss, but he keeps them on you as he sucks on his fingers.  You grab his face and kiss him then, and the movement of his tongue inside your mouth mimics that of his cock—it’s deep and thorough, leaving no stone unturned in absolutely undoing you. 

You pull back for a moment, and you’re both suspended as though in space—nothing between you but darkness, but you’re wrapped in it too, so are you really apart?  

You suppose you are and you aren’t.

The only two people in the universe.  

He thrusts up into you a few more times, his rhythm broken and stuttering, but his eyes never leave you.  You come just like that, your eyes screwed shut tight and your body burning up with molten heat.  It licks down your spine, and you feel tingles running down the length of your body, from your fingertips all the way down to your toes.  

Your world goes bright then dark, a supernova behind your eyes from the orgasm he gives you, but a black hole where you feel his arms wrapped around you—opposite but sister forces, blinding you when you try to look at him but pulling you into him anyway.

The only two people in a universe that is kind enough to let you pass through it together, that lets you exist at the same time as this man, gives you the privilege to love a man who is so clearly deserving of it, unashamedly craves for it, has been denied it at every turn in his life.

While you come down, you dread the conversation you still need to have with him.  His behaviour is not on but you can’t help but focus on the fixation with your alarm.  That singular thing could not have set him off.  Unless—

Well.  You can’t even start to guess.  The life he leads when he’s away is so far removed from yours, you can’t even begin to imagine what he’s seen, the things he’s done in his line of work.  Fuck, you don’t even know what his line of work is.

“Can hear your mind workin, pet,” he murmurs to you.  “You gonna tell me?”  He moves his face so he can kiss your neck, then decides to stay there.

“Just—just thinking about you.”

“Not thinkin’ about much then?”

“Plenty,” you insist with a small smile.  “Actually, I was thinking about how you must hate how much I reek.  Just came home from an extra-sweaty shift and you fucked me before I even showered.  Disgusting.”

“Quite the opposite, pet.  Ain’t tasted anything sweeter,” he murmurs.  He even makes a point of it by licking his favourite spot on your neck. 

“Dirty flatterer,” you whisper.  His face lifts up to you, and he slowly lifts your hand up and brings it to his face.  You can feel the beginnings of a smile on his lips, and it tells you what you need to know for now.  “Shower, then take out?”

“Yeah, pet.”

“Then maybe we can look online, find a replacement for my alarm?”

You hear him swallow, then nod and lean in to kiss you.  He kisses you for what feels like a lifetime, pouring a profound sadness and longing into it.  You’re scared of it, as much as you hurt for him.  You still don’t understand it, you don’t get why this situation made him so upset to begin with, but you’re willing to work with him on it.  You’re willing to—

“Need you safe, pet.  Can’t—won’t compromise on that.  Need you to be safe while I’m away, yeah?”

“Okay, Simon.”

“Mean it.  Was a proper dick to you today, it won’t happen again.  We’ll…talk about it,” he mumbles.  “But you need to stay safe, I won’t—you can’t get hurt.”

“I won’t, Simon.  I won’t get hurt.  This is a safe neighb—”

“No.  Things can happen, dove.  Trust me.”  He exhales heavily.  “Fuck, trust me, I know.  Just need to know you’re safe when I ain’t here.”

You acquiesce slowly, nodding and laying your head on his shoulder, your heart full with his words.  

How is it that every time you think you figure out one part of the puzzle, it expands, as though no amount of individual pieces of him could ever hold him, could ever hope to draw a full picture.  It’s like he exists outside of the plane you reside in, too big, too complex to be deciphered by using small pieces of him.   

No, he only unravels when he hands you the string and tells you to pull.   He’s only ever yours when he chooses to come to you himself.  

Simon, Ghost, you don’t care. 

You love the version of him that does. 

[lejoursobre]

Global warming is wild isn't it? I mean? Warm and salty raindrops 24/7? specifically in Soho???

(I physically can't draw angst sorry I did my best here)

[wilderbas]

got hooked on dbd didn’t i

[lorehappy83]

"Grant me your wrath, my dear. For I've become unworthy of your forgiveness"

[bradshawburner]

I am too tender for this! I am so soft and teary-eyed. This was perfectly and wonderfully and heartbreakingly painful in the best way.

I ACHE.

Bradley is eleven, will turn twelve in five months, his mom has been dead for over a year, and his dad for over nine.

His homeroom teacher gives him a permission slip for a school trip to some dumb museum Bradley’s probably already been to and says, “Your dad needs to sign it before next Monday.”

It’s Mav picking him up from school today — it’s Ice, usually, but he is supervising night-time flight maneuvers tonight — so Bradley gets in the car and they go over the normal, how was school today, any new grades, any homework to do, do you need to bring anything for class tomorrow.

They’ve stopped at a light and Bradley takes out the permission slip and says, “Mrs. Sanchez said my dad needs to sign it before Monday or I won’t go.”

Mav—Mav freezes. His hand grips the shift gear and he clenches his jaw, not looking at Bradley. The car behind them has to honk for him to snap out of it.

“I’m—I’m not your dad, Bradley,” he finally says.

“It’s just what Mrs. Sanchez said,” he points out. He doesn’t think it’s such a big deal — Mav’s been doing everything a dad would for years now, for Bradley, and Ice has been helping him the last couple of years. It’s a conclusion that many come to and it seems logical. Bradley is sure half of his teachers thought that even back when his mom was alive, Mav had certainly been to enough PTA meetings with her that it’d be an easy mistake.

“You can correct her, buddy, no one is going to be mad if you correct her, okay?”

They arrive at the house and Mav still hasn’t added anything. Bradley shrugs it off — Mav has these moments, sometimes, when he gets all quiet and unresponsive. Ice usually tells him to leave him alone or wait a couple of hours and try to cuddle with him. Bradley is kind of too big for that now, but it seems to help sometimes.

So Bradley asks if Mav needs help with dinner and after hearing no, goes back to his room.

Out of all that mess, he forgets about the permission slip.

He sits down and fills out all the empty lines so Mav just has to sign it — in capital letters, his handwriting isn’t that readable yet — and leaves just that last line with the date and signature empty.

He thinks, once again, about what Mrs. Sanchez said.

He doesn’t feel the need to correct her, still. He barely remembers his dad — he knows he loved them and he’ll never forget all the stories he heard from everyone but they’re, well, just stories. Mav is the one who taught him how to ride a bike and helped him make stupid macaroni projects for art classes, taught him how to count to a hundred, and how to tie his shoelaces and who would notice when Bradley was outgrowing his clothes or needed a new shoe size. Mav is there, every memory he has. Mav loves him like his mom and dad did.

Mav is his dad.

If Bradley’d really think about it, Ice is getting really close to being his dad, too. He’s making Bradley’s school lunches and helping him with his English homework from time to time, and he comes to Bradley’s matches and, even if Mav will never admit it, he’s the one who choses Bradley’s Christmas and birthday presents. He makes him hot chocolate when he has nightmares and stays with him for hours in the living room, reading plane manuals out loud, in the same tone his mom used to use to read his bedtime stories.

Bradley calling Mav his dad is as logical as people assuming he is his dad. And maybe it can be the same with Ice, in the near future, or maybe even now, if he agrees.

Bradley wants to call Mav dad.

So he grabs the permission slip and goes to the kitchen to tell him that.

“I don’t know, Ice, I just don’t know.”

He doesn’t notice Bradley there, standing with the piece of paper in his hand in the doorway. The phone’s cord is stretched across the kitchen, almost completely straight, as he talks with the handle between his ear and shoulder, slicing an onion at the same time.

“I’ve always wanted to have kids, as unrealistic as it seemed, but not like this,” he continues. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I’m not his dad, he’s not my son, it’s just wrong to think that, I’m not—He can’t think that.”

Bradley blinks. Once, twice, a third time. Takes a quiet step back behind the doorframe, flattens his back on the cold wall. Holds his breath.

“I mean, you’ve always said you don’t want kids,” Mav says, the knife clanking on the cutting board as he changes the hand holding the phone. “We made do with the situation, obviously, but we’re not his parents—”

Bradley doesn’t want to hear more.

*

Bradley was right — he’s already been to the Castle Air Museum. More than once, with his mom, with Mav and Ice, and with Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah.

His dad didn’t sign the permission slip but Mav did.

It’s sunny so they’re left to wander around the outside display. The tour was boring — their tour guide couldn’t even answer the questions about engines and wingspans and takeoff capacity and it was so disappointing to know more than the adult that was supposed to teach them, again.

The rest of his class went with the tour guide, to see the open cockpit of the Mentor but Bradley just turned around to the F-4 that was on the edge of the display, old and partially reconstructed with cheap metal and plastic. He sits down on the grass in front of it and lets the sun shine at the modern paint that should not belong on the fuselage of a Phantom.

Mrs. Sanchez comes over, standing above him, looking at the Phantom with an appreciation that is clearly less understanding and more awe at the sight. She hums before asking Bradley, “You don’t want to see the cockpit with everyone? Maybe they’ll let you sit in the pilot seat, today. Our group is small.”

The open cockpit belongs to T-34, a piston-driven one they stopped using in the fifties. “I flew one of those, but it was a T-34C, powered by a turboprop.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at him, tilting her head a bit, not really understanding what Bradley said, like most people don’t when he talks about planes. ”I suppose it’s not that impressive of a place when your dad is a naval aviator, is it?”

Mav told him to correct her so he does, “He’s not my dad.”

He brings his knees closer, wishing she’d go away. Instead, she sits down next to him, her white pants smudged green by the grass in seconds.

“Is something wrong at home, Bradley? Is your—Is everything okay with Pete?”

“Yeah,” he says because he doesn't want to be whiney. He’s already been enough trouble. “His dad flew one of those.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at the plague in front of them to remind herself of the plane’s name. “A Phantom?”

“Yeah, during Vietnam War.”

“He must be really proud of Pete then.”

Bradley supposes he’d be. “He didn’t come back.”

Mav lost his dad, too, and then his mom. He met Bradley’s mom in the foster system and she became like a sister to him. Bradley probably wouldn’t even know Mav if Duke Mitchell was alive.

Bradley was in the foster system for three weeks when his mom died, before Mav and his case worker had filed all the appropriate paperwork. He was placed in a foster family in the neighboring town — the wife, Sandie, didn’t work and would take him to school every morning, and the husband, Robert, was a corporate lawyer, bent from six to five. They would take Bradley to church every Sunday with the rest of the kids even though Sundays were the only days Mav had enough time to drive out of Fresno and visit him while the paperwork was still in progress,

They were nice, he supposes, and some of the kids called them mom and dad, so they couldn’t be too bad.

“Is there a way I could go back to the foster system?” 

Mrs. Sanchez looks away from the plane, clears her throat, and asks gently, “Why would you go back there?”

“I dunno, just—Is there a way to put me back there?”

“I don’t think so, no, Bradley, not unless—” she breaks off, taking a deep breath, and says softly, “I’m sure Pete wouldn’t like that.”

Maybe he wouldn’t like that but it’d make everything easier for everyone.

*

It’s a few weeks later. Mrs. Sanchez hasn’t mentioned anything to Bradley even if she keeps on looking out for him during recess so he doesn’t think she’ll drill the topic.

Mav and Ice have both gone to the PTA meeting which Bradley finds odd. They’ve always been very careful about their relationship — his mom had given him a talk about how he couldn’t call Ice Mav’s boyfriend when he was six, well, Bradley had called him his husband because he didn’t really know the difference back then, and he had been instructed to keep it a secret.

He’s never mentioned it to anyone, since then, especially not to Mrs. Sanchez. He used to think it was stupid because they were both his parents and they should both be allowed to come to his plays and career days and charity fairs, but now he supposes it was convenient since Ice didn’t want a kid and probably didn’t want to be included in all those parental stuff anyway.

They pick him up from Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah’s place but they don’t say anything. Usually, they at least mention that Bradley has good grades.

Maybe he’s doing something wrong, again. He got into one fight a couple of weeks ago but Mav said it was alright as long as it didn’t happen again.

“Can you come up to the living room once you unpack?”

Bradley takes his time. He unpacks his English homework, the only one he couldn’t do but also one Uncle Slider couldn’t really help him with — Aunt Sarah probably could but she’s been sleeping the whole time because apparently being six months pregnant is making her super sleepy. Contemplates asking Ice for help with it but decides it’s probably better he doesn’t.

He needs to start doing these things alone. He can’t bother them forever.

In six years, he’s going to be in college, and he holds onto that thought.

“So, your grades are perfect and we’re really proud of how well you’re doing in school, but—But Mrs. Sanchez mentioned a couple of things about your behavior,” Mav says.

Bradley doesn’t sit down with them on the couch even though they left space for him in the middle. He also doesn’t reply anything.

They both look at Bradley for a long moment and he fidgets under their gazes.

“Mrs. Sanchez said you asked her whether we—whether we can give you back for adoption,” Mav begins. “We’re just worried about where that question came from, Bradley, we aren’t going to—”

He said we like Ice actually wants anything to do with Bradley’s guardianship.

“We love you, Bradley, we promised your mom we’d take care of you and—”

He isn’t their son. He’s a promise they’re keeping and nothing else.

“Can I go back to my room?”

“Buddy—” Mav begins again.

Bradley doesn’t want to hear whatever he has to say. He already knows everything he needs to know.

“I know you love me, I know you won’t give me back. It was just a stupid question, is all,” he says because that was the truth — they promised his mom they would love him and here they were, trying very hard to do that.

They don’t need to pretend it’s anything else.

“Okay,” Ice says, carefully. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate and we can talk some more—”

“I just want to go to sleep.”

There’s a moment of silence and they give each other a meaningful look before turning back to Bradley.

Ice notes, “It’s not even seven.”

“We painted the whole nursery with Uncle Slider, I’m just tired. Can I go?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Mav says.

“I know,” Bradley tells him even if he isn’t so sure about it. “Can I go? I still have some homework to do.”

part two/Slider POV now here

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[galaghiel]

Both Jack and Maddie stared at him, speechless. Silence blanketed the lab, everything but Danny’s strangled crying, his hand pressed over the muzzle as if to hide it. No- to hold it still, to still the dozen wicked barbs that were digging into his tongue, probably ripping it with each sob.

a little sketch of @liketolaugh-writes amazing one-shot fanfic that you can read here

[kringle-c]

"It's only-"

[bradshawburner]

I had a lot of feelings and big emotions reading this one! The pain! The pining! The miscommunication of it all! Their dynamics were so lovely and this was so well written!

More below!

“Just uh, was just thinking about you.”-what I wouldn’t GIVE

You’d opened the door to a Bradley with flushed cheeks and a glint in his eye, leaning against the railing outside your apartment. — LORD HAVE MERCY I WOULDN’T SURVIVE 

The first time Bradley had ever slid his cock into you, you knew you’d never be the same, that you’d never be able to go back.— it would have you tasting sound and hearing colors, blesssss

You’re not trying to break your own heart more than you already are.- OOF

Bradley warm around you and inside you, him making you feel complete in a way you hadn’t known you weren’t whole before. — oh this is so lovely it HURTS

Had to run for work. Thanks for having me over. A messy heart and a hastily scrawled Bradley closing off the message. - A LITTLE NOTE FROM BRADLEY WITH A LITTLE HEART?! Like what else needs to be said?!! She’s got him doodling hearts, like it’s loveeeee

For once, he doesn’t trip or stub his toe on anything, and it somehow heightens the intensity.— because he has her place memorizeeeeddddd. That boy has been paying attention!

What does send a terrible feeling trickling down your throat and into your stomach is the post-it, all four square inches covered in sloppy hearts.— this sweet, lovely, beautiful idiot! He’s so gone for her, but she’s not a mind reader! Oh it hurts so good

Bradley always seems to take a special sort of pleasure from fucking you in his shirt, and you selfishly want to keep that bargaining chip, to have something that tethers him to you. — oh but he likes more than just her in his shirt! He’s leaving hearts all over the place like confetti!

“Well, have you ever had sex with yourself? It’s tough out here–give a guy a break.”- your honor I love him

Bradley is a perfectionist at heart, an overachiever.- 1% BABYYYYY

He responds by whispering your name back to you, the same tone undercutting the way he says it, “That doesn’t matter, I’m here now.”- the way my stomach dropped 😭

And you’re weak for him. You should’ve known from the start that you wouldn’t be able to resist him. You can’t even now, even when you’re only getting him in pieces.— oh this poor girl would rather hurt herself than give him up, happily unhappy with any crumb 🥲

It’s not exactly your bravest moment to be hiding slightly behind Phoenix so he can’t see you (if you can’t see him, he can’t see you, right?) while she stares at you with an endlessly amused expression in her eyes. She doesn’t move to expose you, though.— she’s such a real one for this! I just know she’s been giving Bradley so much shit for being messy! #womensupportingwomen

You wonder for a moment if he’s been talking to her about all this, but again, is there even anything to talk about?— who gave you permission to hurt me??!!

“I tried to tell you so many times how I felt, I left you all those post-it notes, god, I thought you were seeing them and just didn’t feel the same.”— MY SWEET BABY I KNEW IT, HES SO PRETTY AND SO DUMB AND IM SO SOFT FOR HIM

 “I meant every heart, every I love you, from the very first one I left.”— 😭💖😭

I adored the emotional roller coaster! xx @sometimesanalice​

new rules

summary: "Don’t pick up the phone, he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone. Don’t let him in, you’ll have to kick him out again. Don’t be his friend, you know he’s going to wake up in your bed in the morning. If you’re under him, you’re sure as hell not getting over him."  rating: explicit (18+ mdni) pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!reader word count: 8.5k (this got away from me sorry y'all) warnings: angst (lack of communication!), idiots pining, PiV (unprotected), oral (f receiving), hangman x phoenix (blink and u will miss it), no use of y/n.  notes: thank you to @waklman for letting me bounce ideas off you! im very nervous abt this one, i feel like its dif from my other stuff so pls pls let me know what u think! my other works are here

Friends with benefits is maybe an inaccurate way to describe what’s going on between you and Bradley. Friends? Sure, since he asked you if you were using that bench at the beach and then he’d introduced himself. With benefits? You’re not sure if they really could be classified that way.

Bradley’s almost always a perfect gentleman. 

He doesn’t ignore you in the daylight, but the two of you never talk about the way he finds himself in your bed most nights rather than not, drunk or sober. 

It had started one night when you’d turned down an invitation to go to the Hard Deck, instead choosing to do a night of self care. You’d spent too long doing your eyebrows and managed to get a sheet mask to fully cover your face for once. You lost count of how much time you spent in the shower as an indulgence, and threw on the comfiest clothing you owned. Then, you sat yourself down in front of your TV to numb your mind with some perfectly trashy reality television.

Around 11:30, your phone had rang. Picking it up and squinting at the brightness, you saw Bradley’s face grinning back at you, the picture from one of your many beach days since you’d met. 

Despite your best instincts you’d picked up. What if he was stranded? What if something had happened? You’d steeled yourself for the worst. 

Instead, Bradley had just opened with a simple, “Hey.”

“Bradley? Is everything okay?” You could hear the noise of the Hard Deck in the background, but it had been yelling and there weren’t any sirens. 

“Yeah,” His sigh had come over extra loud through the speakers, “Just uh, was just thinking about you.”

“Okay,” What the hell? You remember mouthing the words to yourself as someone on screen had thrown a drink in someone else’s face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He hadn’t responded to your question, instead he’d just said, “Are you at your apartment?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Bradley is everything–”

“I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he’d hung up with a definitive click. 

You’d stared at the dimming screen of your phone for probably almost five minutes. Surely he couldn’t have been that drunk–god, was he planning on driving? Calling him during that was probably a bad idea.

Great, leave it to Bradley to stress you the fuck out on a Friday evening when you’d been aiming for peace. You’d tried to refocus on your show, but you weren’t even paying attention to the words. 

No more than five minutes later, there had been a knock at your door. You’d stood slowly, not sure that this was actually happening. 

You’d opened the door to a Bradley with flushed cheeks and a glint in his eye, leaning against the railing outside your apartment. It was only after a moment of silence that you realized you were wearing an old Navy shirt of his, loaned to you at the beach a few weeks ago. You could feel the way his eyes started at your legs and dragged up your frame, taking everything in.

“Bradley?”

He’d pushed off the railing and backed you into your apartment, letting the door swing shut behind the two of you. You’d backed into the living room til your back hit a wall, your heart in your throat. You couldn’t look away from him, not with the way he’d been crowding into your space, leaning into you.

“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was a tone he’d never used on you before, and you remember the way your heart had hammered in your chest. 

He’d been so warm and so close, setting all of your nerve endings on fire. It wasn’t that you hadn’t realized that Bradley was attractive–the man’s whole job was to stay in shape and be clean cut. He was beautiful. But you’d kept that to yourself, afraid of crossing that line, afraid that you’d ruin something that was turning out to be one of the strongest friendships you’d had in years. 

You still feel that fear, despite all the lines that have been crossed since that moment.

The way he’d kissed you had wiped every thought from your head. His hands had slid up your thighs to grip at your waist under his shirt hanging loosely on you. His mouth had moved smoothly against yours, making you sigh and wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

By the time the two of you had made your way into your bedroom, he’d lost every piece of clothing but his briefs and his dog tags. They’d dug into your sternum as you’d pressed yourself against him, the cool metal warming quickly between the two of you. 

The way your blood had been rushing in your ears from adrenaline had drowned out the way he’d murmured to himself as he’d kissed down your body. He never did pull his shirt off you. He’d simply maintained his grip on your hips, lifting your thighs over his shoulders as he’d pulled your panties down and licked desperately into you.

Your hands had gone to his hair out of reflex. He had been rocking you steadily and you think you’ll always remember how you felt when you’d realized it was because he was grinding his hips against the bedframe, so turned on from getting his mouth on you. 

He’d eaten you out like a man starved, his nose bumping into your clit as his tongue fucked you. It had been messy and loud but you hadn’t cared about the neighbors or your dignity, not with the way his fingers had finally curled into you. 

“Bradley,” You’d gasped when you finally came, back arching and fingers tightening in his hair to the point where your knuckles ached.

He’d held you through it, had let you rock your hips against his face and not complained at all. In fact, he’d seemed delighted by the way you’d let yourself just feel, pleasure wracking your body and consuming your mind in a haze.

Kissing his way up your body, he’d slid his hands under the shirt and groped you gently. You remember the way your mind had stayed cloudy and you’d floated, tethered only to the real world by the way his thumbs flicked gently at your nipples.

“I’m here, I’m here,” He’d panted into your mouth as you whined when he’d sat back slightly to kick off his briefs and hitch your thighs over his waist, “I’ve got you.”

The first time Bradley had ever slid his cock into you, you knew you’d never be the same, that you’d never be able to go back. Not when he’d kept himself hovering over you just barely, propped up on his elbow, with his lips still brushing yours and his dog tags catching in the sheen of sweat along your sternum. Not when he rocked into you inch by inch, making the world around you blur into nothingness. 

You’d let yourself fall apart under him, let yourself sink into the mattress and just take whatever he was willing to give you. He’d fucked you deeper and more gently than anyone before–to this day, you’re not even sure you can classify it as ‘fucking’, that always felt too vulgar for the way he’d brushed his lips over your cheekbones and murmured sweet nothings. 

But saying Bradley had, and still does, made love to you means trying to find something from nothing, means discerning some sort of level of connection he’s never made clear. You’re not trying to break your own heart more than you already are.

In spite of that, you can’t forget the way he’d held you like you were precious, like you were everything to him. He’d cum inside you with a guttural moan, a punched out gasp at the way you’d clenched around him. It had made you realize that was all you’d ever wanted, Bradley warm around you and inside you, him making you feel complete in a way you hadn’t known you weren’t whole before. 

He’d been a perfect gentleman when you’d both come down, easing out of you so he could clean up. He’d massaged your thighs and hips where you were sure you would’ve been aching the next morning if he hadn’t, had apologized under his breath at the fingerprints now dotying your hips. He’d thumbed at the collar of the Navy shirt where it had stayed on your frame the entire time, looking pensive but never saying anything.

You’d woken up alone the next morning, a sticky note on the bedside table reading–Had to run for work. Thanks for having me over. A messy heart and a hastily scrawled Bradley closing off the message. 

And so it went. So it goes. 

During the day, you and Bradley are the paragon of good friendship–he’ll send you memes when he gets access to his phone in between flights and lessons, you’ll pick him up after work to go to the beach. The two of you don’t talk about it–because what is there to talk about? 

No words are ever exchanged about the way that Bradley clears out a drawer for you at his place, you just find a few of the things you’d left at his place in there one day. You never give back his Navy shirt, not when you find yourself wearing it more often than not. Nothing is said about how you start picking up his favorite flavors of ice cream and his preferred brand of coffee creamer, you just make a habit of throwing them into your cart when you go to the store.

And everything is fine. It really is. You disregard the side glances from Phoenix and Bob as they see you leave with Bradley on Friday and Saturday nights, you ignore the way Hangman wiggles his eyebrows at you when Bradley insists on paying for your drinks. Just friends, is all. Just friends.

They can make their assumptions, whisper while you’re out of ear shot, but they don’t see the quiet, comfortable domesticity that you and Bradley engage in when the two of you are alone. You go back to his after beach afternoons since it’s closer to your favorite spot, and the two of you will shower (separately) and make dinner together. Sometimes you’ll sleep over if you’re working remote the next day, sometimes you’ll go home.

On weekends, Bradley picks you up in the morning, trunk holding a cooler full of drinks and snacks, and you two will go to the beach again or go on a hike. Sometimes Phoenix or Bob or the whole crew will come along, sometimes they won’t. 

Just friends. And it’s fine.

Until everything isn’t fine. 

Bradley and you have been at this for a few months now, and you can feel yourself cracking. You’re reaching out to kiss him when you do wake up together, before your brain is awake enough to stop you, reminding you that that’s not what you two do. On an outing to a boardwalk teeming with life and populated by those games you can win stuffed animals at, you resist the urge to press him against the railing of the pier and lick the taste of your shared gelato cone out of his mouth. 

When the dam finally breaks, it begins like any other night. You have a margarita and a half in you, some concoction that Phoenix insisted you try that’s actually good. Bradley’s already done a rendition of My Way at Penny’s request, but for now the jukebox is blaring some 80s hit Hangman picked out.

You can feel yourself swaying to the beat, just letting the warmth of the moment sink in as you’re surrounded by your friends, the people you love. 

“Hi,” Bradley breathes into your ear as he sidles up next to you, his arms coming to settle around your waist. You can feel his warmth through the flimsy fabric of the dress you’ve got on.

“Hi Brad,” He hates it when people call him that–lets you get away with it though. “What’cha doin’?”

“Waitin’ for you.” He leans his entire body weight against you, making you slump against the table you’re standing next to.

“Ah! Bradley, stop it.” You try to stand, but the way he’s laughing makes it hard to shake yourself from his grip, “What do you mean you’re waiting for me? I’m waiting for you.”

The grin he shoots you is electric, and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, right here in the middle of the Hard Deck, with all your friends around and in Penny and Mav’s line of sight. That thought makes your heart skip a beat.

“Come home with me?” He whispers, just barely letting his voice rise above the background noise, and when you don’t respond immediately, “Or let me take you home?”

That’s all it takes, really, for you to agree. The way he’s so willing, so malleable, for you. You’re leading him out by the hand without responding to his questions, making your way to the Bronco that’s parked in the back corner of the lot. 

Bradley keeps the foolish grin on his face the entire time he drives back to your apartment. The warmth radiating from him doesn’t abate when he licks into your mouth once the two of you are inside. One of his palms rests against your heart, the other working its way up your thigh and inside your panties that are already damp. 

“You’re so good to me,” He murmurs, dipping his fingers below your waistband and brushing through your curls, feeling just how slick you are. 

All you can do is whine as he picks you up and makes his way to your bedroom. For once, he doesn’t trip or stub his toe on anything, and it somehow heightens the intensity. Normally, you and Bradley seek comedic relief of some sort, something to cut the tension and keep it from making your chest tighten in a way that feels like a warning. This time, you aren’t granted any such reprieve.

He undresses you slowly and deliberately, letting his fingertips drag lightly up your sides and over your shoulders. He shrugs his Hawaiian shirt off easily, and lets you yank his wife beater over his head without complaint. 

Then, the two of you are just staring at each other, both panting lightly. You’re propped up on your elbows, staring up at him only in your panties. Bradley’s got one hand about to pop the button of his jeans, but he’s frozen. You feel like you can’t move but also like something might be changing. 

You don’t want it to change, you don’t want to lose Bradley in more ways than one. If this is what he’s willing to give you, you don’t want this to change. 

He nearly falls over when his foot gets stuck in his jeans, and even that doesn’t break the tension. Once he’s climbing over you, enveloping you, kissing up your stomach and neck, you forget all about decorum and keeping up appearances.

The whine that echoes around the room is pathetic and high pitched, but it’s the only way you think to communicate to Bradley how bad you need him in that moment. His hips are rocking gently against yours and you want the layers gone, you need to feel him. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” And his hands are around your hips, dragging your underwear off you unceremoniously. 

Although he makes a good attempt at going down on you, you don’t let him. You dig your fingers into his shoulder and yank at his hair to keep his face level with yours and kiss him desperately.

“I want to eat you out, please?” The depth of his voice sends a shiver through you.

Normally he wouldn’t even have to ask, but you don’t want that right now. You just want to feel him inside you. 

“Need you in me, please,” You take a heaving breath before the pleading spills out of you, “Pleasepleasepleaseplease–”

He shushes you as you scrunch your face up, not knowing how else to convey your desires in that moment, “Okay. I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

You almost wail in protest when his fingers slide into you. You can’t figure out why you feel like you’re burning up from the inside out, why you feel so fucking needy. 

“Sweetheart you gotta let me prep you somehow, just–” 

You feel like the embarrassment might kill you when you keen at the feeling of his fingers inside you. The way you’re trying to be good, you really are, because he does have a point. Plus, you have to be fair to Bradley, this isn’t just about you. 

So you hold still, let him work his fingers in and out of you as you pant and clutch at his shoulders like a lifeline. His mouth presses against yours, works its way over your cheeks and down your throat. He sucks a mark gently into your collarbone, and you ignore the way your brain reminds you about having to cover that up for work. 

He doesn’t shut up the entire time, just keeps telling you how good you’re doing for him, how good you feel, how he’s been thinking about this all night. The world seems to go right-side up again when he pushes into you. 

You whimper at the way he rocks his hips ever so gently before pulling out. He kisses you again and again, only letting his lips leave yours so he can kiss your forehead or cheeks. The motion of his hips is a steady tempo, he keeps time with your breaths that turn into moans when you start feeling that telltale coil in your stomach. 

He runs his tongue along your teeth and you’re done for. You clench down on him and dig your nails into his skin, bucking your hips up as your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave. 

Bradley fucks you through it like every other time, yes, but this time there’s something about the way he stutters out a moan and his hips match the faltering rhythm as he finishes right after you. The shallow rocking of his hips continues and you try to ignore the prickling of tears at the corners of your eyes. 

Something tells you that this time, you shouldn’t have let Bradley take you home. When he pulls his face back from yours and he rolls the two of you onto your sides without pulling out, he’s got this look on his face that screams unspoken words. He cups your face and strokes your cheekbone with his thumb without saying anything. 

The two of you are quiet as he cleans you up, as you dress yourself in another one of his shirts.

When you wake up the next morning, Bradley isn’t there. It doesn’t shock you necessarily, sometimes he stays, sometimes he has to leave to be on time for work.

What does send a terrible feeling trickling down your throat and into your stomach is the post-it, all four square inches covered in sloppy hearts. Bradley had signed his name in the bottom left corner, characteristic chicken scratch labeling it as him even if the name wasn’t enough.

This has to end.

Don’t pick up the phone, he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone.

You last about three rings before you cave in, waiting for the sound of his voice to echo around the apartment. You’re holding your breath.

“I knocked.” Is all he says before you’re on your feet, making your way to the door.

There he is, and although you know he isn’t really drunk, you know he’s got a beer or two in him from the way he doesn’t try to hide how he looks at you. You hate the way you’re weak for him.

You’ve been caving to him more than once a week since that first night, since Bradley had knocked your world off kilter. Though you’re in bed together almost every night, whether at his place or yours, you don’t have sex nearly every time. Part of you thinks that might make it worse. It really had been fine at first, but the first morning you’d cried at the sight of that sticky note covered in hearts, you’d known you had to try and put an end to this.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” He tries, a crooked grin splitting his face as he walks toward you, but you know he doesn’t mean his words at all. 

“Bradshaw, have you been drinking?” You want to not want this, want to not want the way his gaze pins you down, the way the length of his body against yours just feel so right.

Let him being drunk and you being sober be the excuse, you beg silently. You can’t manage to force out that maybe he should go home, sleep this off in his own bed. You can’t find it in yourself to tell him to leave, to reject his advances. Watching as if outside your own body, he shuts the door behind him and walks up to you. 

Your chest aches with unconfessed feelings when he takes your face in his hands and lets his forehead rest against yours. His lips are soft and warm against yours, his mustache tickling you lightly when it brushes against your face. The whine you let out matches his soft groan, and the two of you stand there making out for a few minutes, almost as if you’re both content to just drink each other in without further motives. 

“I’ve got you sweetheart, I’ve got you,” And he’s picking you up.

You yelp at the way you’re suddenly lifted from the ground and you bury your face in his neck. You hate heights, your feet off the ground anything more than a few inches sends you spiraling in short order. But it’s Bradley who’s holding you, and some part of you knows he’d never let you fall, never let you crash into the ground. 

The way you two fall into your bed is too natural, it makes your stomach churn. His fingers find their place on your hips, around your thighs. It’s all too easy. You wish it would be a bit more awkward, that the chemistry could be imagined or false–instead you’re confronted by the way your bodies flow with one another’s all too easily. 

Again, somehow, you’re in nothing but his Navy shirt. 

Maybe I should give it back, the thought flits through your mind and you feel guilty immediately. Bradley always seems to take a special sort of pleasure from fucking you in his shirt, and you selfishly want to keep that bargaining chip, to have something that tethers him to you. If he won’t come back to press you into your sheets, then maybe he’ll come back one last time to get his shirt when this inevitably unravels. 

“Sweetheart,” He groans softly when his fingers reach the way you’re embarrassingly wet between your legs. 

It takes everything in you not to jerk back from his touch–you still don’t know how to confront the way you’re so responsive to his touch. His mere presence.

“I missed you.”

It slips out before you can stop yourself, your lips part and you breathe the words before you can do anything about it. He chooses that exact moment to dip a fingertip into your fluttering, but empty, hole, and you arch your back and moan. Instead of responding, he kisses you hungrily, all pretense gone. 

This isn’t something entirely tender, not anymore. He’s searching for something, a certain reaction, with the way he adds and then curls his fingers inside of you. He finds it when you jerk underneath him at the way he pets at that spot inside you you can never seem to reach on your own. 

He mumbles against your lips, “There you go,” As you squirm under him, the press of his fingers inside you relentless.

He works his fingers in and out of you, not taking anything in return. It’s all you can do to hold on to him and whine pitifully. Every sensation feels amplified, feels electric because it’s him. 

The two of you settle into a familiar rhythm for as long as it takes for Bradley to make you cum the first time. You’re rocking against him through the aftershocks and you can feel the way he’s hard against you through his clothes.

He’s still dressed. The realization sends a bolt of shame through you, but it doesn’t linger long. 

He’s shoving his jeans down his legs, not bothering with wiping his hand clean and you shiver at the thought that he’ll have to put them on again, you streaked across them. He makes quick work of his boxers too, and it occurs to you that he must’ve lost his shirt somewhere along the way when he presses his bare chest against your still clothed one.

“Bradley, Bradley,” You chant, “Take off my shirt.”

It’s the most demanding you’ve probably ever been with him, but he laughs at you anyways. There’s a glint in his eye as he sits up, his hard cock bobbing between his thighs. The sight of his naked form between your spread legs makes you swallow hard and your mouth water. 

“I like you in my shirt.” There’s something unsaid there, something about claims and ownership that isn’t truly possession, but a reminder of who belongs to whom regardless.

You pull it off your head in protest, and grab his wrist to drag him back down to you. You let yourself indulge in trailing a hand down the firm planes of his body down to where he’s smearing precum against your thigh. He’s heavy and pulsing in your hand and a light hiss rushes through his clenched teeth when you grip him tightly and twist with your wrist. 

“Fuck, fuck, not gonna last if you–” Bradley cuts himself off with a groan as you swipe your thumb over his head. 

It’s your turn to laugh, “You just got here.”

“Well, have you ever had sex with yourself? It’s tough out here–give a guy a break.”

The both of you dissolve into giggles at that, as you try to imagine how you would look sprawled under yourself. You can’t picture it, but the image of Bradley under or over you makes you think you might understand. 

He lines his hips up with yours once you’re both done making fools of yourself at the thought of you having sex with yourself (it reminds you of a drunk hypothetical you’d spent thirty minutes on with Hangman once–would you have sex with a clone of yourself?). 

The first push of him inside you cuts through the lighthearted mood immediately. It always shocks you how perfectly he fits inside you despite his size, how incredibly full you feel when his hips meet yours. The gentle friction of the neat curls at the base of his cock against your clit always provides a stimulation that makes your brain go fuzzy. 

The snap of his hips against yours is more intense this time, a sort of rhythm that makes you briefly think about the way the headboard might start knocking against the wall. But all thoughts, really, fly out of your head when Bradley brings a hand up to your nipples, the steady stroke of his fingers over the swell of your breasts as practiced and knowing as everything else he’s doing to you. 

All you can do is run your hands down his back, scratch your nails against his skin ever so often when he brushes against something so sweet and perfect inside you. You clench around him just to see the reaction it’ll get, and you’re rewarded with a broken groan.

“You’re not fighting fair,” He gasps, and he hitches one of your thighs up so he can press more insistently into you. 

You have a clever comeback somewhere in you–something about how you weren’t aware that the two of you were fighting, but it’s swallowed as he presses his lips into yours again. He seems absolutely intent on showing you exactly how you make him feel because the sensations of pleasure become overwhelming. 

“Fuck sweetheart, you feel perfect, god you’re so wet for me,” He’s rambling mindlessly, but you let it happen, clinging to any expression of emotion, any sliver of dedication in his tone that you can hold on to til the next time you find yourself in this position. 

You know he’s close when his grip on your thigh tightens forcefully and the strokes go from long and deep to slightly shorter and stunted. He’s grunting and gasping, but it’s all the best thing you’ve ever heard. 

“Come for me Bradley, I want to feel you,” And at that, he follows your orders, listens to you for once in his life. 

Everything is hazy as he keeps himself hovering over you and continues to rock his hips. You start to try and tell him he can pull out before his fingers find your clit and he dives back in to kiss you passionately. 

Bradley is a perfectionist at heart, an overachiever. You suppose it isn’t entirely ridiculous that that extends to his performance in the bedroom–he’s insistent you finish every time, and always more than him. Feeling the way he’s still warm and heavy inside you, his lips firm against yours, brings you over the edge more quickly than you’d like to admit. 

Still, you heave a shuddering gasp and let the pleasure wash over you. It’s overwhelming and all consuming, but he’s there through all of it til you feel yourself come back into your own body. 

You think he might be writing something on your skin, the way his finger loops and dips softly over your hip bone as he kisses you gently. He’s softening inside you and you can feel the mess the two of you made under your hips, except he isn’t moving, not yet at least, to rectify that situation. 

For once, you don’t push him to go clean up or scold him for another set of ruined sheets, you just let yourself bask in the moment as you imagine a world where the two of you will talk about this in the morning. You think of a timeline where this is where you end up because it’s where you’re meant to be, not because it’s something you’re choosing despite how it hurts you every time. You think of a place where Bradley is yours and you are his, wholly and completely.

Don’t let him in, you’ll have to kick him out again. 

“Didn’t you have a date tonight?” You breathe into his mouth.

Bradley just hums in response, brushing his lips over yours, down your jawline and your throat. His breath comes in warm puffs over your collarbones before he pulls back.

Hands pinned above your head, you squirm under his gaze. There’s something so intense about the way he’s looking at you, but you can’t bring yourself to squeeze your eyes shut to avoid it. Both of you lost your clothes somewhere on your way to the bedroom, and you’re thinking about how to persuade him to be the one to pick it all up when this is inevitably over. 

He smells like expensive cologne, and he’s got some product in his hair that made it difficult for you to brush your hands through it earlier. Plus, Phoenix had been dropping unsubtle hints earlier in the week (Hangman had affectionately called her out, a little sigh following— “You’re being such a shit stirrer.”)

“Bradley,” You try again, this time with a slight whine.

Did he seriously ditch some girl that’s probably been waiting on their date all week for this?

He responds by whispering your name back to you, the same tone undercutting the way he says it, “That doesn’t matter, I’m here now.”

The urge to keep complaining rises in you but he preempts your worries by licking into your mouth when you open it. 

He presses you into the mattress, weighing you down as he kisses you languidly, as if he’s trying to taste every part of you, as if he’s trying to memorize the sounds that escape you when he does. The warmth of his body makes your mind fog, and for the time being, everything else but this goes quiet. 

Distantly, you know that in the morning, he’ll have to leave. At the very least, he’ll have to go back to his to grab his stuff for the beach, a change of clothes. It isn’t kicking him out, but watching him leave again and again has started to build this pit at the bottom of your stomach. 

It would be different, you think, if the two of you were together. Because then, him leaving wouldn’t mean much where there would be an implicit promise and understanding that he was going to come back. Every time he closed the door behind him, you swallowed the fear that that would be your final memory of him. 

You’re selfish though. And you want to focus on the feeling of his touch instead of thinking about how you may never get to have this again. 

He makes it easy. Bradley pulls his shirt off and his dog tags make a gentle clinking sound as they hit each other and then finally come to rest on his chest. He looks like a god, backlit by the setting sun coming through your windows. 

This is how you want to remember him. Smiling down at you as he dives back in to kiss you breathless, twitching when you skim your fingertips up his sides because he’s ticklish. 

He makes short work of your shirt and sleep shorts, then his jeans are discarded. He stops briefly when his fingers reach the waistband of your underwear, a silent question that you answer by lifting your hips and letting him pull them off you. 

Every time he’s between your legs, he has this reverent look on his face, and it makes your chest twist at the fact that this time is no different. He holds your thighs open gently but firmly, and he presses his face into your pussy. Then, his tongue is darting out and licking up your core, flat and wide. 

You’d asked him once, if he likes going down on you. With a gleam in his eye, Bradley had said it was second only to being inside of you. You think of that as he eats you out enthusiastically, as you bury your hands in his hair and pull. 

He slides his tongue in and out of you, curls it around your clit and sucks in a way that makes your back arch and your thighs clenched around his head. Then, he’s slipping a finger inside and fucking you slowly with it. It makes you shiver as you realize how close you are. 

“Sweetheart, fuck, you taste incredible,” He murmurs, more to himself than anything else, pulling back briefly to make eye contact and you feel the way your breath quickens at the intensity of his gaze.

It only takes a few more minutes of him licking into you, tonguing at your clit, and adding another finger before you feel that familiar swooping in your stomach, before you’re choking out his name. Your back arches so much it aches, but it’s all you can do as the pleasure is all consuming. Bradley works you through it like every other time, holding you and letting you take what you need from him.

Then, he’s on you in an instant, kissing you furiously and sliding his hardness up and down you, covering himself in your slick. It’s filthy and sloppy but neither of you seem to mind. He lets himself rut against you til you’re hooking your legs around him and digging one of your heels into his back.

“Alright, alright,” He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but you know he’s more affected than his light tone lets on. 

The first push into you is always the most intense, but you suck in a deep breath that you force out through your teeth.

“I know, I know,” He croons, pressing little kisses all over your face as you adjust to him.

Bradley inches into you slowly, inch by inch. The initial stretch subsides til it’s replaced by the sweetest feeling of fullness, the way you can feel all of him. 

If there’s one thing the Navy’s good for, it’s the sheer strength Bradley possesses and has to maintain. You feel it in the way he fucks you, his back muscles rippling as you hold on for dear life. You feel it in the way his hips press into yours, shunting you slightly up the mattress.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are his hips meeting yours and the slick between the two of you. Momentarily, he pulls away from kissing you to look down to where he’s disappearing inside of you, that ring of you collecting at the base of his cock. His groan is guttural and broken. 

“Fuck, Bradley, it feels so good.”

He leans down again to kiss you sloppily, and the simple action of him burying a hand in your hair and twisting his wrist makes your heart skip a beat. He always knows exactly what you need when you need it. 

“C’mon, come for me, sweetheart, let me feel you.”

And because you’ve never been able to deny him anything, there you are, hurtling over the edge again. He’s everywhere around you, inside you, and his tongue in your mouth is the last thing you need to feel that wave crest inside of you. Bradley’s moan is deep as he feels you bare down on him and he follows you shortly after.

The moments after, when the glow is still settling and your mind is still hazy, are your favorite. Your mind is too foggy to focus on the fact that you know he’ll be leaving, but present enough to feel the way he doesn’t stop pressing kisses to your lips. You’re cognizant of how he cleans you up tenderly and presses his fingers into the skin of your thighs and hips just to watch it dimple. 

In those precious few minutes, that’s all that exists to you.

Don’t be his friend, you know he’s going to wake up in your bed in the morning. If you’re under him, you’re sure as hell not getting over him. 

You’re trying to ignore him, you really are. You start going to the beach an hour earlier than you usually do, hoping that he’s maintaining his schedule. Every tall brunette jogging across the sand sends your heart into overdrive. 

You still see Bradley when you go to the Hard Deck for a drink, but you keep a respectable distance between the two of you. If Phoenix mentions a round of pool, you jump at the chance, while asking Bob and Payback if they’d like to be the opposing team. You ignore the way your heart jumps into your throat when you can feel his eyes on you. 

Every note of Great Big Balls of Fire feels like a stab in the chest, and you hold back tears of frustration when you see some girl wrap her arms around his neck and rock along with him as he belts out the lyrics. You’re a fool. 

You’ve been ignoring his calls about Saturday morning beach runs and the memes he sends during the day go unanswered except for the little reactions iPhones let you send. You suppose it’s only fair that he gets to ignore you a little bit too.

Your little charade doesn’t last long, not truly in the grand scheme of things. Bradley doesn’t put up with you skirting his advances for long–he knows what he wants and he’ll be relentless til he gets it. And right now, he’s trying to corner you. 

And you’re weak for him. You should’ve known from the start that you wouldn’t be able to resist him. You can’t even now, even when you’re only getting him in pieces.

It’s not exactly your bravest moment to be hiding slightly behind Phoenix so he can’t see you (if you can’t see him, he can’t see you, right?) while she stares at you with an endlessly amused expression in her eyes. She doesn’t move to expose you, though.

“What’cha doin’?” Her tone is light, but you can tell she means business. 

The two of you are friends yes, but she’s known Bradley for a million times longer. There’s some girl-girl solidarity, but if you were in her shoes, you might have a few bones to pick about potentially throwing Bradley to the wolves on this one. You wonder for a moment if he’s been talking to her about all this, but again, is there even anything to talk about?

“Just uh, trying to see where Hangman’s at?” You sound like you’re asking her a question, and she quirks an eyebrow. 

She stretches the syllables of her next word out, letting it hang in the air, “Right. Even I don’t look at Hangman with that sort of intensity.”

That’s not entirely true, but you don’t really feel like getting into a competition with Phoenix of all people, over who’s looking at whom how. 

“Sweetheart? Can we talk?” 

You’d let Phoenix distract you for just a split second, and there he is, in all his glory. Bradley is beautiful, yes, but he looks tired. His sunny’s are hanging haphazardly from a floral button down that looks like it’s maybe seen better days, and he’s got dark circles marring the perfect tone of his tanned skin. 

This time, Phoenix just side-steps you and lets Bradley into your space. 

His presence is just as affecting there, in the middle of the Hard Deck, as it was the first time you saw him on the beach. Even with how tired he looks, he’s still glowing just slightly in the evening sun.

“Hi, Bradley,” You breathe, not daring to speak louder, as if that would make the moment real. 

You can feel Phoenix’s eyes on you, the way that Bob and Payback are starting to let their attention drift to from the game of pool. This, you don’t want anyone else to be witness to. This is something between just the two of you. You don’t really need the whole world to witness your imminent heartbreak. 

“I don’t want to do this here, is my place okay?” He looks so nervous, as if you’re going to push him away. It’s funny really, what you know is about to happen, and yet he still looks like this is about to break him entirely. 

Nodding, you let him lead you out of the bar. It feels like deja vu, how however many weeks ago you were tracing these exact steps but making your way towards a very different fate. 

The two of you are silent in the Bronco, and Bradley doesn’t bother turning the radio up to belt along to the 80s classic on the radio. Everything feels like you’re underwater, like the world is out of focus. You think you might start crying, but you try and swallow it down, be an adult. 

Pulling into the driveway, it’s silent in the car when he turns the engine off. Neither of you go to get out, but you know you can’t sit here forever. This had to happen at some point, had to come to a close. That doesn’t make getting out of the car and waiting for Bradley to unlock the door any easier, though. 

You toe off your shoes and let him get you a glass of water. Then, you’re standing on opposite sides of his kitchen, the pristine shine of the countertops and appliances making him feel a thousand miles away. You two are usually tumbling in, mouths locked together, or walking in with groceries, prepared to spend a comfortable evening cooking and watching a movie. This is everything coming apart at the seams. 

“Bradley,” You start, not really knowing where you’re going, but just wanting to break the silence.

He looks distraught and your stomach drops with guilt. 

This is your fault. 

He says your name once as he settles back against a countertop, and it hangs in the air between the two of you, til he starts speaking again, “I’ve been trying to figure out where I went wrong, what lines I crossed, and I guess at some point I realized it was all of them. I shouldn't have pushed you, I shouldn’t have–”

“I thought that that was all I could have of you, so I was selfish and I took it.” You say, the words tumbling out of you before you can stop yourself from interrupting him, but still unable to tear your eyes away from him, “But I was hurting you. I still am, and god, Bradley, I’ll make it up to you somehow, I’m so sorry.”

It’s almost funny, really, the way you’ll look back on this moment a year from now and laugh at the way the two of you are talking past each other, unwilling to acknowledge that your deepest desires could be attainable. But for now, all you can feel is the guilt in your veins, your heartbeat pounding your chest. 

“What?” He’d looked at the floor for a moment, but when you finish speaking he’s looking at you intently. “What did you say?”

Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself and start from the beginning, “I thought that you coming to me, like that, was the only way I could have you. And, and maybe it was me taking advantage because you were sometimes not super sober, but I would never–”

“I was always sober. Every time. I would never do that to you. What do you mean that was the only way you thought you could have me?” Bradley’s standing fully now, not leaning. 

“I thought you drank before, to, y’know, make it tolerable.” You regret the words as soon as you say them, “Sorry, that’s–you’re not that kind of person.”

He smiles ruefully, “I’m still focused on the part about that being the only way you could have me.”

Here it is. 

“I love you, Bradley. And not just as a friend, but more. But I didn’t want to push that on you, and so I thought–”

“You love me?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

Then, he’s laughing in that hysterical way when people are so overcome, the only way it’ll escape them is if they double over in giggles. But he’s trying to compose himself as quickly as he started. 

“I tried to tell you so many times how I felt, I left you all those post-it notes, god, I thought you were seeing them and just didn’t feel the same.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“The hearts. That’s how I,” He heaves a shuddering breath, his voice thick with unshed tears, “That’s how I told my parents I loved them before I could really write. I was saying it to you every time I left.”

“You love me?” You’re crying now, and he squeezes his eyes shut til tears run down his cheeks too. 

His laugh is bitter but you know that’s not directed at you, “Was the sticky note covered in hearts not clear enough?”

You feel the way your cheeks warm and your stomach churns as you try and defend yourself, “You were thanking me for letting you sleep over?”

At that, he laughs, genuine this time, breaking the sadness that has been building in the air. Finally, he makes his way across the room to you and crowds into your space, wrapping you in his arms and pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes are closed. 

“Sweetheart.” It’s a warning, a plea, and a prayer all in one. “I meant every heart, every I love you, from the very first one I left.”

“I kept them all. In my bedside table.”

Then his lips are on yours. The kiss is salty, reminding you of all the emotion that’s been building for the past few months, every moment you didn’t confess, every moment you assumed the worst, it’s all there. But you don’t want to dwell on that now, now that you’ve heard him say something plucked from your wildest dreams.

“Say it again,” You whisper when his lips leave yours ever so briefly as the two of you are stumbling to the bedroom.

And he does. As he’s undressing you, he says it. He mumbles it against your lips and into your mouth. 

He says it against your bare skin as he presses you into his bed, the sheets smelling like him before he puts on cologne. It’s muffled momentarily by the way he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, but you feel the way his jaw works anyways as you cup his face. You let your legs fall open around him and feel the way he slides his fingers into you.

When he’s pressing into you, he’s saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you.

In those moments between start and finish, when the world falls away and all you know is the warmth of his body against yours, the slight slick of sweat on your skin, that’s when you think you realize that he means it. The motion of his hips is deep and insistent, as if to try and leave a permanent reminder that he was there. 

You’re crying, you realize. And he’s kissing the tears away like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pressing his forehead to yours as his lips keep forming the words. At some point, you’ve started saying them back to him too, choking them out despite everything so that you know that he knows that you love him.

When you finish, it feels like a supernova exploding inside of you. It starts in the center of your body and pushes its way to your fingertips til you’re gasping for air and he fucks you through it. Bradley cums moments later, filling you with his warmth in a way that’s both familiar and still thrilling. 

He rolls gently off you, and you hiss as he slips out. That’ll be a mess to clean up. 

But he’s looking at you, brushing your sweaty hair from your face, and his eyes are shining so brightly that it feels like looking at the sun. You want to look away, but you think that losing your vision in return for staring at the way his eyes crinkle in genuine happiness is well worth the price. 

I love you, he mouths. And you believe him. 

You whisper it back.

tagging: @sebsxphia @roosterbruiser @bradshawburner @gretagerwigsmuse @sometimesanalice @joaquinwhorres @roosterbruiser @roosterforme @bradshawsbitch @seresinsweetie @notroosterbradshaw @genius2050 @peachystenbrough @rhettabbotts @theharddeck @wkndwlff - tagging ppl either by request or whom i feel like are horny for bradley soooo pls let me know if you'd like to be added/removed

[mcducky1356]

Firefight by @remedyturtles is all wrapped up! If you haven’t read it check it out! It is so good!

[ninjasmudge]

something abt the horrors of godhood

[yuly]

woah this was amazing 

❛ silence! ❜ … aaron hotchner

aaron hotchner has a love-hate relationship with silence. sometimes when it get too much he would just like to hear nothing. but at the same time, when things got too much he wants anything but silence. he doesn't want his thoughts getting the better of him, the screams, the nightmares, sometimes he just wished it would all just stop.

when you came along his love for silence became less and less. he loves that it's not always quiet. absolutely adores when you blabber on about the new TV show you watch or the new book that broke your heart. he loves all of it. but now all he hears are suffocating silence, accompanied by the voices in his head.

stupid. stupid. stupid.

how could you let go of someone like that?

this is a once in a lifetime thing.

you're never going to be happy.

his thoughts just kept coming and coming at him like tidal waves, and he doesn't shut it out. he doesn't, because he knows it's true.

he can never hear your cheerful welcome greeting when he comes back from work, he can never hear your happy giggles or when you laugh so hard that it makes tears prickle at the edge of your eyes as he looks at your fondly, praying that you'll always be here. he can never hear any of that again because he was stupid and let his fears got the best of him. he finally got his second chance and he screwed it up.

so there he sat, in his office practically submerging himself with work cause that's the only thing that can help to distract the squeezing pain in his chest knowing that when he comes back home, he would only be met with loud, deafening, silence.

reblog for a kiss <3 || check out my masterlist!

[cookiedough77]

you guys remember that super duper old post i made? of course you dont, anyway bug noire but make it adrien

what a silly guy

[hitwiththetmnt]

Just a Number P1 P2

@butterfilledpockets bent boys have a good spread of ages between them to talk about