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It Will Come Back - Prologue (Jud Duplenticyxf!Reader)
A/N: Non-stop edits of this man since I saw the movie in theaters. Whoever thought to put Josh O'Connor in this role with a slutty lil neck tattoo that peaks out? Thank you.
Synopsis: The local church needs a new office assistant. You thought it'd be great way to re-invent yourself, but it's hard to let go of temptations when there's a hot new priest in town.
Warninngs: N/A. Just an introduction to the pining and the yearning. Might be some smut later on though, just sayin-
Word Count: 1.4k Words
Masterlist
You find yourself twiddling with a piece of paper as you approach the wooden sign in front of you.
Our Lady of Perpetual Grace.
A small smile touches your lips. It was certainly more welcoming than what the church was previously called. You look down at the advert in your hands, rereading each line with careful precision as to make sure this is actually where you were supposed to be. Youād picked it up on a whim, a split-second decision. The advert was crinkled; youād read it over twice, thrice, but you still feel your hands break in cold sweat.
Hiring for an office assistant. No experience required. All are welcome to apply. Please submit any and all applications to-
āCan I help you with something?ā
Your shoulder slightly perks up in surprise.
Turning around, youāre met with a tall frame. If you could describe the man in front of you in one word, it would be homely. Completely unassuming in his sweater and dark curly hair.
Youād seen him on the news. His face was plastered everywhere for a while and considering that quirky detective decided to take the case on, he didnāt have much of a chance of escaping the media. Maybe it was the human nature in you, but you struggled to believe how such a kind-looking person turned out to be such a cold-blooded killer.
Fortunately, he didnāt end up becoming a murderer after all. But heās certainly gotten more attention. For his looks or for the story? You donāt know. Maybe a bit of both.
Your eyes scan up from his chest to his face, and you see a warm smile and even warmer eyes. The lines etched on his face suggests he had the expression often. His priestās collar was starch white, like it was almost mocking you at how perfectly well it fit him.
āUmāā you swallowed thickly, your voice sounding foreign to you. āIām here about the advert that I saw posted?ā
His smile turns into one that shows teeth, and you feel your heartbeat slow and hands unclench. āOf course, Iām glad someone picked it up!ā He holds an arm outstretched, gesturing you to walk with him. āJud.ā He simply introduces.
You introduce yourself, and you both start a slow stroll towards the church doors. āYou canāt believe how happy I am that someone decided to pick up the advert,ā he explains. āIāve been having an awful time filing everything; I figured I needed to start looking for help.ā Jud is expressive. Almost animated in the way he talks and the way he moves.
You bit the inside of your lip. āIām sure with how popular youāve gotten, youāve had lots of calls.ā
He turns quieter, that once wide smile turning into something more somber. Ā You probably shouldnāt have brought up the fact that people see him as some mythic true crime caricature. Youāre about to open your mouth to apologize, but he speaks first. āIāve had lots of calls, but nothing for a new office assistant, no.ā He stops in front of the large wooden doors and opens them for you to step inside first. āPosted it on the community board in town first.ā He confesses. āFigured that it would reach someone who actually wanted to be an office assistant that way.ā
You walk past him into the church. Sunlight shines through the stained-glass windows and creates patterns of light onto the floors. He takes his coat off, and heās more toned than he lets on, with broad shoulders and a broad back. You let your sight linger on a little too long before it dawns on you that youāre ogling a priest in a church. You clear your throat.
He sits in a pew and gestures for you to sit with him. You follow, leaving a respectable distance between the two of you. He starts with the simple questions. Do you live in town? What experiences do you have? Do you have any accommodations? The conversation flows well, despite your stuttering.
You explain you used to work at the local library but had to take an extended leave due to a personal matter. By the time you had been ready to return, the position had been given to somebody else.
Ā It has been upsetting. Another thing to add to the never-ending list of your mistakes and mishaps.
Talking to Father Jud is like being roped with the lasso of truth. He pulls conversation out of you so seamlessly, so effortlessly. Itās like when he talks, you canāt help but shut up and listen.
He discusses that there is a room where you can bunk, free of charge if you want it. Goes into detail about what needs filing, and what your duties would be around the church if someone were to ask questions. He says he lives on site, should you ever have concerns or have questions about anything and that you wouldnāt have to make any decisions right now.
āSo,ā he starts, āwhat makes you want to work at the church?ā
Now that was a loaded question.
Why did you? No matter how welcoming this one felt, you hadnāt been inside a church for years. You had a complicated relationship with God, with religion, with all of it. You tried to talk to God, several times in fact. Pleaded, begged, wondered why other people saw enlightenment, but you didnāt. Honestly, as far as you were concerned, God could kick rocks, but-
āIt didnāt need to be this job in particular, I guess.ā You simply state. āIāve been living like a shut-in for a while and have some horrid memories to boot, but I just figured I needed to let some of that shit go and start fresh.ā
You bite your tongue.
Checking out a priest and then swearing at him.
All lovely church activities that were helping your cause to land a job for sure.
But Judās eyes? They just twinkle. āI find this place is good at letting people do that.ā He springs to his feet and offers you a hand. āWhen can you start?ā
You think about how much of a hot mess you probably looked. Bags under your eyes, an old fall jacket with a small rip at the bottom, hair pulled away from your face into something disorganized. You didnāt have a whole lot to offer, but you at least had whatever small amount of pride you still had in yourself. Maybe it wasnāt a good reason to give, but you were honest, let your desperation show itself for that tiny sliver of a moment.
You quickly crossed your arms and hugged yourself tight as if to signal that was all you were willing to let out.
A record scratches. Was he being serious?
You stare at his outstretched hand. Your own hand twitches as it plays with the edge of your coat. āI donāt need to be, like, Catholic or anything to work here right?ā You realize the question and the way you asked it sounds juvenile the moment it leaves your mouth.
Jud continues to keep his hand steady, staying firm on his offer. āYou can file, read, and sort basic letters and numbers, yes?ā
You nod as a reply.
You blink for a few more awkward seconds and finally grasp his hand. Itās rougher than you thought it would be. Calloused. Strong. Electricity doesnāt zap through you, but itās heat. Like standing in front of a hearth.
āThen there should be no problem.ā
He peers down at your joined hands and gives you a boyish look from beneath his lashes. Suddenly youāre no longer just standing in front of the hearth but thrown straight into the fire. You speak to kick yourself out of the spell. āPleasure working with you, Father Jud.ā
Though, you canāt help but think that maybe pleasure should be the last thing on your mind when it comes to man in front of you.
As the saying goes, āDonāt play with fire, unless you want to get burned.ā
So no, it doesnāt matter that the hot priest is totally your type. It doesnāt matter that his voice has soothed your soul in a matter of seconds.
āYou were going to prove to yourself that you could be a proper, decent person and no amount of attraction was going to make you crackā you thought.
But that doesnāt mean you werenāt willing to drink up whatever it was that he had to give.
He pulls away first, but you donāt miss the way his jaw clenches. āPleasure to be working with you.ā
āIāll be on my best behaviour.ā You joke.
He lets out a deep huff from his nose, a touch of amusement lighting his features. āIām sure.ā
- - - - - - - - - - -
A/N: Guysss, let me know if you want to read more of this! Give it a reblog, comment, or like! I want to know your thoughts and gauge out the interest! (Even though I will willingly publish more chapters for my own self-interest)
It Will Come Back (Jud DuplenticyxReader) - Knives Out
Don't let me in with no intention to keep me
Jesus Christ, don't be kind to me
Honey, don't feed me, I will come back
You saw an advert for the local church needing a new office assistant. It was a great opportunity for a new start, a way to re-invent yourself from your past, or it should have been.
Nobody told you the new priest in town had gentle eyes and even gentler hands. Hands you can't stop thinking about. Hands you definitely need to stop thinking about, especially when you catch him on the off days where those gentle hands turn just a touch rough.
But how can you stop when he keeps coaxing you closer, feeding you scraps?
You'd lap it up like it was your last meal if it meant getting his attention.
New Fic: Releasing Dec 17-18~
- - - - - - - - - - - - - --
A/N: It's been so long since I had the motivation to write something and it's for a hot priest. Religious trauma go brrrr. Idec if this does well, this is me becoming my own hero because I need more of this man.
A/N: Naaaah whoever decided Joel Miller should be played by Pedro Pascal did it for the people who have daddy issuesssss. Hereās something I whipped out because Pedro leaves in my mind rent free. Pleaseee give me some suggestions or prompts for things to write
I tried starting a tag-list but it literally burned in flames when I tried setting it up. Please just turn on notifications if you would like to be updated for @cherryblossom-enthusiast if you want to keep up with my writing :)
Synopsis: Joel Miller was neither friend or foe. Youāve barely talked to the man considering his reclusiveness. But you canāt stop staring and wanting. Turns out, he canāt stop staring and wanting you either.Ā
Warnings/ Tags: E (18+). Smut bby. Fluff, GrumpyxSunshine (Reader is a florist!), Unprotected PinV, Language, Dirty talk! Joel, Praise Kink, Rough sex, Fingering,
Word Count:Ā 5.3K Words
MasterlistĀ
Your breath clouds your vision like a puff of white smoke.
Winter. The very word is a tragedy.
Food is harder to come by, light leaves much faster. The world is as bleak as it is and yet winter still cascades around you, turning everything black and white. A lifeless painting.
The chilly wind picks up and a shiver runs through your body.
āYāgood?ā
The voice is lazy. Slow.
Warm.
Considering who itās coming from, the level of warmth is a fucking marvel.
A hulking figure approaches your side. With a deep sigh, you turn your head and youāre met with the most tired eyes youāve ever seen on someone. No shine, no luster, just an outpour of exhaustion from every small gesture he decides to do.
Joel fucking Miller.
You remember the first time you talked to him all too clearly.
Youād never been friends. Acquaintances even. Makes it a bit hard when the son of a bitch was as recluse as he was. They were the new residents of Jackson. Him and the girl he holds tight to his chest.
You were intimidated by him at first. Joel was all gruff words, long sighs, and blank stares. But the more you paid attention to him, the more you understood how he worked. Especially, when it came to the people he cared about. The man didnāt take shit from anyone. Nobody bothered him, and he returned the favour.
For the most part, that stayed true. Joel was the kind of person who always vied to stay invisible, be like every other person. Unaffected for the most part. But as you start to water your flowers on a clear-skied summer day, you hear him laughing. Ā
The richness of that laugh is still embedded into the deep recesses of your mind.
Joel wasnāt hard to understand as long as you really looked at him and boy did you stare.
You look over to his porch and there he is, ātake no shitā Joel Miller with Ellie, teaching her how to play the guitar. You canāt quite remember what they were talking about. Something about ādinosaursā and āT-rex handsā, but his adoration for the girl was so palpable, so intoxicating.
It was your first time seeing him so- loose. Like he actually gave a damn.
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Hi :D Did you see the latest episode? Morpheus as a cat was amazing! Could you write something about Morpheus interacting as a cat with human reader and / or behaving like a cat, with reader teasing him and enjoying every second of it? Thanks :)
Lord Meowpheus
WC: 2,5 k (I was inspired and had no chill) AO3
Relationship: Morpheus x reader
Notes: Morpheus as a cat, established relationship, a literal cat-and-mouse game, a little spicy at the end.
Dear anon, thanks for your request, this was a blast! I hope you all enjoy.
If you've enjoyed this story, check out this prompt and this story.
In the Dreaming, youāve seen wonderous creatures, enjoying how the limits of your fantasy are pushed every time you explore. Your highlight is still Cain and Abelās baby gargoyle.
You should visit them, you muse idly as you pass through the main hall of the palace, almost missing the patch of black at the edge of your field of vision.Ā
You turn around to see a black cat stroll around, and you tilt your head in confusion. It would make sense that the Dreaming is also home to animals, but seeing a cat just walk through the heart of the palace still surprises you.Ā
āHey there,ā you call out softly, dropping to your knees and extending a hand. The cat turns around and you realize that it might belong in the Dreaming after all. Its eyes are gleaming gold, and as it slowly approaches, you notice that it might be bigger than usual cats.Ā
The cat carefully nudges its head against your palm, and you marvel at the soft fur as you gently rub the right spot underneath the chin. As you continue, the cat starts to purr, a low noise that puts a smile on your face.Ā
Far too soon, it takes a step back and you leave it be, knowing that a cat canāt be forced into something while hoping that you will see it again.Ā
Youāre quite certain that people would shake their head in disbelief if they saw you spend your time in your room inside the palace instead of pushing the boundaries of the realm, riding a unicorn, swimming through a rainbow-colored sea, or at least having a date with Morpheus.Ā
But the King of dreams is busy, and you would never keep him from his duties. So you rest on your canopy bed, knowing from experience that one can sleep in a dream.Ā
The door is slowly pushed open, and you sit up, expecting Morpheus or Lucienne to enter. Instead, itās the black cat, meowling once before jumping on the bed.Ā
āNice to see you too,ā you say, waiting for the cat to approach you. It bumps its head against your hand, sprawled on the blanket, and you raise it to stroke the soft fur. Like before, it immediately starts purring. Youāre living the dream as a cat whisperer.Ā
āThatās kind of you to keep me company,ā you say, looking into the deep, mesmerizing gold of its eyes. The cat lies down on your lap, and you let out a surprised giggle before continuing to drag your fingers of its head and back.Ā
The comfortable weight of the cat on your lap and the soft purring start to lull you into sleep, and you wonder if the cat would be offended if you go for a nap. You scratch it behind the ears, letting out a yawn when suddenly the weight shifts, becoming much heavier.Ā
Looking down, you stare into the half-lidded eyes of Morpheus, his head resting on your lap where the cat used to be, your fingers gliding through the silky strands of his hair.
You gasp loudly, willing your body to remain seated instead of jumping up.Ā
āDonāt stop,ā Morpheus demands, and you raise one eyebrow at him. You know a secret, a very important secret. Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, king of dreams and ruler of the nightmare realm, likes physical affection.Ā
You continue, catching a mischievous glint in his eternal blue eyes as he reaches out to link your free hand with his.Ā
āI didnāt know you could be a cat,ā you wonder aloud.Ā
āI can take on many forms,ā he explains, letting out a pleased hum as your thumb trails over the shell of his ear.Ā
āI assume you can appear as a cat because cats dream too?ā you ask, and you feel him nod.Ā
āAnimals dream too, and I visit and cross through their dreams.āĀ
āLord Meowpheus, ruler over cats and dreams,ā you announce, keeping a stoic mine for one second before cracking, your head tilting down as you laugh. Morpheus now raises one eyebrow at you, giving you one of his small, precious smiles.Ā
In one fluid move, he arises, all feline grace and reminding you of the former form, while pulling you upright with him.Ā
You keep on hoping that you would see Meowpheus ā you adore that name ā again, but it would be odd and weird to ask the ruler of the Dreaming to be a cat for you.Ā
Maybe you can motivate him somehow. You have half a plan as you walk to Abel and Cainās cottage. Abel once told you in private that your visits always put Cain in a good mood, resulting in quick and painless deaths for Abel. It had really hammered in the fact that these were biblical figures, the first murderer and the first victim.
āHere to visit us and Goldie?ā Cain greets you and you nod. Goldie flies towards you, croaking as it circles around you once before landing in front of you.Ā
āYouāve grown since my last visit!ā you exclaim, earning yourself a loud croak. You drop into the soft grass and let your fingers glide over the scaly skin of his head.Ā
āArenāt you the most adorable?ā you coo loudly, hoping that somebody else in this realm hears these words.Ā
āGoldie is our pride and joy,ā Abel says, nervously glancing at his brother. You canāt imagine what it must be like to be killed by your own brother for all eternity. You once asked Morpheus if there wasnāt a way to make their lives better. There isnāt.Ā
You donāt see him coming, but you notice how Cain and Abelās expressions change as they start bowing.Ā
āMy Lord, what a surprise and honor to see you here,ā Cain says. Youāre still busy with Goldie, the little gargoyle rubbing its head against your hand.Ā
āI have found who I am looking for,ā he says, and with one last boop on its nose, you stand up. If Morpheus were Meowpheus right now, his tail would be swishing right and left. You remember your friend Sam complaining that she thinks that Mina, her Maine Coon, is destroying furniture on purpose if she doesnāt get enough attention. The picture of Morpheus breaking one the pots around here is so hilarious that you must bite your lip to stop the giggle trying to escape your lips.Ā
You say goodbye to Cain, Abel and Goldie and let Morpheus guide you away.Ā
You find yourself back inside the confines of your own dream, close to a lush forest. As you turn to marvel at the emerald leaves, you notice the black cat standing next to you.Ā
āLord Meowpheus, what an honor,ā you bow dramatically, and you find out that even in this form, Morpheus can still roll his eyes at you.Ā
āIs this not what you wanted?ā You startle after hearing Morpheusā voice inside your head.Ā
āRelax, my love.ā Meowpheus presses himself against your legs, and you take a deep breath. āI am simply communicating with you.āĀ
āOf course. Stupid of me.ā This is still Morpheus. You card a hand through your hair before sitting down. You hope that the Dreaming never stops surprising you. āWhat do you want to do?āĀ
āI would like a chase. I havenāt had one in this form in a while,ā Morpheus answers, stretching and dragging his claws over the ground.Ā
āI donāt envy the mice here,ā you joke. Sam keeps on complaining about the dead or half-alive presents Mina leaves at her doorstep. Cats are still predators.Ā
āI would only pursue one particular mouse.ā His golden gaze seems to pierce you, and the penny drops.Ā
āCan I even be a mouse?ā you ask, before mentally face-palming yourself. Itās the Dreaming, itās your dream; anything is possible.Ā
āDo you want to find out?ā The question hangs in the air as an exhilarating mix of excitement, curiosity and a little fear rushes through you. You know that youāre perfectly safe, that Morpheus would never put you in harmās way. But are you ready to be chased by him?Ā
āYes,ā you blurt out before you can chicken out. āYes.ā This time you say in with determination, and Morpheus gives you a small nod.Ā
āClose your eyes.āĀ
After you open your eyes again, the world has changed and has become much bigger.Ā
Being a mouse isnāt that difficult. Youāre relieved that you still can see all the colors, and the tail is less of a problem than anticipated. Moving around on four is even fun. The only real issue is that everything is so big and far away.Ā
Youāre running around under the watchful gaze of Morpheus. Heās lying down, his head resting on top of his paws. Unfortunately, just like the rest of the world, heās big, a large, frightening menace for a small mouse like you. He doesnāt even need to stand to loom over you. As if he needs another advantage.Ā
āReady?ā you ask in your mind, knowing that he will hear you. He stands up, suddenly baring his teeth at you and you let out a very mouse-like squeak before realizing that heās smiling at you.Ā
It has been decided that you will get a head start to level the playing field. You want to head straight for the forest, hoping that there will be plenty of trees and boscage to hide. If Morpheus canāt reach you, he wonāt catch you.Ā
āMy love, run.ā His low command makes adrenaline rush through you, and your little body brings you into the forest. You donāt want to stop to see if Morpheus has started chasing you, but the ignorance will drive you insane. Your tiny feet carry you over grass, leaves, mud, and soil as you run past flowers and hedges. You wish you could enjoy the view, but thereās a big cat chasing you, catching up on you sooner rather than later.Ā
The rustling of leaves to your left catches your attention and you see a big shadow before you know that your time is up. You race towards the narrow, exposed roots of the tree closest to you, hoping that Morpheus canāt follow.Ā
Your little heart is beating like a drum as you find yourself underground, standing on dry leaves, and you watch a pair of golden eyes narrow.Ā
āLet us continue,ā Morpheus asks, his voice a deep purr inside your mind, and you make one small step towards the exit before stopping.Ā
āYou would like that, wouldnāt you?ā you reply, your voice on the edge of taunting and teasing. You stick your tiny tongue at him, only for Morpheus to let out a terrifying growl.
āCome out now and I shall give you chance.ā He leaves and if you could sigh as a mouse, you would. While youāre safe here, itās also boring, and you donāt want to take your chances as a mouse with Morpheus as a disgruntled cat.Ā
After checking if the coast is clear, you bolt away, not knowing that this is only the first of many times.Ā
A few times, you managed to run for so long that you started hoping that you had shaken him off, only for Morpheus to reappear. The last time, he had even pounced on you, giving you a heart attack as you saved yourself in the last second by diving into a tree hole. You had taken a very long break in your hideout, with Morpheus taking an ever longer time to coax you out, using honeyed words and his wonderful voice.Ā
Each time Morpheus would wait in front of your hideout, either lying in wait or moving around, but never letting you out of his sight.Ā
Youāve been following a small steam of a river, grateful for some sort of orientation in this maze of green and brown. While youāre still not physically exhausted, youāre starting to become tired, but your pride and competitive spirit are keeping you from calling quits.Ā
Listening for any treacherous noise, you keep your gaze focused straight ahead. Youāre skipping over stones and feel as jump onto dry ground. Maybe youāre running through some sort of ravine or dry riverbed?Ā
Your stomach twists into knots as you realize that you are stuck, a large wall of stone blocking your path. There is no way you can climb or hide.Ā
You pray that Morpheus is still far away as you turn around to run all the way back. A black cat approaches at a leisurely pace, and you squeak again.Ā
āWell done, my love.ā His praise should put your mind at ease, but it something about his controlled steps and the cold determination in his eyes that makes you want to bolt.Ā
Youāre backed into a corner, your tail pressed against the rigid stone. Morpheus has almost reached you. This is it, your last chance; you will try to run underneath his belly and between his paws, hoping that he doesnāt expect one last, desperate move.Ā
You wait for the right moment before pushing yourself one last time. Suddenly, your movement is cut short, and you realize that a paw is weighing down on your tail, keeping you from escaping. At least it doesnāt hurt.Ā
Morpheus is giving you another snarling smile as he lies down, his body trapping you against the wall.
His mouth is coming closer, and you are screaming internally that youāre not in danger, your mind reminding your body that despite being a mouse this close to a cat, you wonāt end up as snack. A rough tongue glides over your cheek, connecting with your whiskers.Ā
āThis was terrifying and amazing. Next time, Iāll be the cat and youāll be the mouse,ā you think, making Morpheus chuckle and you melt inside at the sound.Ā
āClose your eyes.ā One moment later, youāre human again, and it feels so good. Youāre still pressed against the wall, with Morpheus resting his head on top of yours.Ā
āDo you know what a cat usually does with a caught mouse, after it played with it?ā Morpheus asks, his lips now brushing over the shell of your ear. You can only shake your head, your knees suddenly wobbly as you inhale sharply.Ā
āIt devours it.ā Before you can come up with a smart reply, you feel Morpheus press his body against yours, his lips brushing against yours, stealing the air you just inhaled. This is nothing like the soft kisses you usually share, but untamed and raw, with his tongue demanding entrance as his hands roam over you. You open your lips, letting him explore and taste you, grateful for the rough wall behind you as your hands rest on the back of his neck.Ā
His lips leave yours and you gasp for air, only for Morpheus to trail a path across your jaw, down your neck, until they are resting on your pulse point. Youāre clinging to him as you wait for him to go for the kill.Ā
Nibbling at the soft flesh, he sucks until you know that it will leave a love bite, and you feel him smile against your skin.Ā
āThank you, lord cat,ā you say breathlessly, your body and mind serene and mushy at the same time.Ā
Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ācreator chooses not to use warningsā. You also agree that youāre the right age to be consuming anything here.
You werenāt supposed to be here. It was against the laws for a servant to use these pools. Set aside and preserved for the nobility that roamed the hills outside of Kings Landing, Ā you thought it was ridiculous that they got everything good in life.Ā
They already had fine clothes, rich foods, plenty of coins to spend. They didnāt spend their days laboring away to make the lives of others cushy as you did. The springs that were rocked off and creating a pool were most beneficial to someone who worked all day. You had just spend the day scrubbing the hearth of that bitch queen that was on the throne, listening to her barbed insults being flung at you while you pretended not to hear.Ā
pairing: jake āhangmanā seresin x pilot!reader
warnings: pre-uranium mission, 18+, minors DNI, jake and reader have similar personalities, sexual themes, sexual content, p in v sex, car sex, fingering, reader is from louisiana, inaccurate military (and sex) knowledge, a virgin writing sex, doesnāt follow movie plot
description: where you pick up jakeās cowboy hat knowing very well what youāre doing
wc: 2.2k
readerās call sign is viper
Jake āHangmanā Seresin, the Casanova of Top Gun Academy - and probably the entirety of Texas - was someone you had your eye set on since you first started as a pilot. It would be an absolute lie to say you had never thought about anything with him.
As embarrassing as it is and though you would never admit it, you thought of him quite frequently. But the most embarrassing part of it was that you hadnāt seen Jake in almost a year and a half.
synopsis ; bradley has lived with his fatherās ghost for long enough to know heāll never make the same mistakes he did. and then he meets you.
wc ; 10.5k i'm sorry
warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; bradley bradshaw's sad, sad life; angst, literally SO much angst; mentions of canon past character death; near-death experience; alcohol abuse; explicit language; explicit sexual content (breeding kink, cumplay, p in v, dirty talk, fingering, idk?)
note: ... yeah i don't fucking know either goodbye. stole the title from "sidelines" by phoebe bridgers aka god.
sol. sunderlust... none of this would be possible without you, thank you forever.
Bradley doesnāt remember much about his father.
These days, he recalls him only in fractions: Hawaiian shirts, mustache, hair that stood up spikey like grass covered in the first tentative November frost. He had big hands, Bradley remembers that, and he used to swing him up on his shoulders and let him ride around living rooms in Army commissioned houses they never stayed in longer than a few months. He always smelled of engine oil, and he played pianos like he didnāt even know the meaning of the word embarrassment.
Bradley based his whole life on the fading glimpses of that man he carries locked in the chambers of his heart. The older he gets, the more gaps he finds.
Suddenly heās taller than Goose ever was, older, ranked higher. He wants to say, wait, hold on, go back. Wants to rewind to a time when he felt closer to his father, when he could remember what his voice sounded like, what it felt like when he tucked him into bed. When he thought if he just sat by the front door long enough, his father would inevitably walk through it again, hoist him into the air, and press tickling kisses to his cheeks.
Sometimes, Bradley wishes he could go back to when he thought bad things happened only in movies. When he had a father and a mother and an uncle and the bone-deep, unconscious conviction that things would always stay this way.
He canāt remember the day Goose died. Canāt remember Mav coming to the house, canāt remember the dog tags pressed into his motherās hands. Strange how the most significant day of his little life remains in his memory as just another day - morning cartoons and PB&J sandwiches and his mom reading him a bedtime story. Part of Bradley thinks itās unfair, his whole world crashing down and him not even remembering it. Like heās arriving late for a movie and canāt make sense of the plot.
Not once did he see his mother cry over his father. Heās sure she must have shed tears, remembers now the empty tissue boxes and the eyes rimmed in red, understands now what he was too young to see then. But Carol carried her grief like a secret. She locked it behind the mahogany of her bedroom door, she hid it behind the veneer of her smile.
Bradley is nineteen, standing at his motherās open grave, when he decides heās never going to do to someone what Goose did to her. What he did to him.
For a while, he wants nothing to do with the memory of that man. Wraps himself in his mother, toys with the idea of taking her maiden name. Goes to college and gets drunk, gets high, gets himself into trouble. Thinks sometimes, in his very darkest moments, that maybe the best thing he could do for the world is to stop existing.
One night lands him at the police station. And itās not like he got arrested or anything, they just take him in to sober up and tell him to call somebody to come get him. Mav is in town, thank God, and he comes in wearing his old aviator jacket and a wistful expression. Bradleyās call probably pulled him out of some bar or some girl or both.
Mav doesnāt say much, just drives him back to his college dorm and pulls over to the curb, doesnāt even turn off the car. They sit there in silence, with the blinker going and the engine purring.
Finally, Mav says, āSometimes, you remind me so much of your father, it scares me.ā
Bradley doesnāt know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Sits there for a little longer and watches as frat bros and law students and cheerleaders cross the street on their way to hook-ups, to parties, to midnight fast food runs. Envies them just for a moment. Then, without saying goodbye, gets out of the car, goes to his room, and buries himself beneath the weight of his blankets.
So itās like Bradley always suspected. It really is a futile thing, trying to escape the memory of his father. His ghost lives inside Bradleyās chest. Rattles against his bones.
And he loves him, even if he doesnāt remember him. Thinks that love is some intrinsic, primordial thing. Something that was there before he was born and will be there after he dies. Something he canāt fight. Unstoppable like the tide.
So he embraces it instead. Tries growing a mustache heāll only be able to pull off much later in life, gets those old Hawaiian shirts out of storage. Decides to give into the underlying current of longing heās felt every time he tipped his head back and looked at the sky.
Accepting that he loves his father is much easier than he thought it would be. Much easier than hating him.
Itās good for a while because it feels like he has a purpose, a goal. For so long, Bradley has been drifting at sea, unmoored, unbound, with no sense of direction. Now heās swimming toward something, broad strokes, every move deliberate.
Then Mav pulls his papers.
The worst part of it all, worse than the betrayal, worse than the anger, is the confusion. He thought Mav would understand. Mav of all people.Ā
(Itās his mother, setting a casserole on the table, smiling at Bradley and saying Pete over here, heās the craziest pilot the Navyās ever seen. Itās his sixth Christmas, the second one without his dad, and Mav gives him a model of a plane theyāll build together. Itās Mav staring at him with eyes gleaming with moisture the time he stole the Navy hat from his uncleās head. Itās Mav in every memory of his life, laced so tightly to him he thought they were inseparable, woven together. Now the seams are coming apart.)
Mav, who keeps flying, who seems only to be a real, complete person for those few, short, fleeting moments just after he steps off a plane. Whoās never happy unless heās going break-neck speed miles and miles above the ground, jumping off deathās shovel, laughing, flipping the bird, and saying look, I can fly!
If Maverick doesnāt understand why Bradley wants to fly, why he needs to fly, then who ever could?
Mav wants to explain it, calls him, shows up at his apartment. Bradley declines the calls, turns off all the lights, and sits on his couch in perfect silence, pretending he isnāt in.
He doesnāt want to hear explanations, doesnāt want to listen to excuses. He wants to fly.
Back when his mother was alive, she wouldnāt even let him get on an airplane. His whole childhood, they only left their state once to go to a funeral of some distant aunt or cousin or uncle, Bradley canāt remember, and his mother drove the whole ten hours there and back. It didnāt even register as anything weird to him - it was all juice boxes and gas station ice cream and goldies on the radio. It was his momās laughter and her smile and her fingers carding strands of hair warmed by the sun out of his eyes.
So Bradley remembers his mother every time he gets into a car. But his dad? Him, he can only get above the clouds.
He doesnāt give up. He finishes college, works odd jobs for some money, drifts further and further from the orbit he used to inhabit. And then he applies to the academy again, and then he goes to Top Gun, and he graduates top of his class and wonders what it would feel like if there were somebody to be proud of him. If somebody were congratulating him, taking him out for a celebratory dinner, or just somebody to hug him. What it would feel like if he werenāt so alone.
Itās what he dreams about sometimes, in the very darkest pockets of the night. A house with a swing set and a big, smiling, dumb dog and a pretty wife and a whole gaggle of children running through the garden. Bradley would teach them how to throw a football, and heād carry them to bed at night, and his wife would smile at him, and there would always be food in the fridge and brownies on the table, and every room would be filled with love, and there would be no ghosts to haunt him.
Itās a dangerous fantasy. Itās a trap door, a slippery slope, itās a snare, itās a cliffās edge. If he stays in it too long, heāll be lost.
His mother always used to say he was a functional dreamer. He had his head stuck in the clouds, sure, but he knew exactly when to pull it out of there too. Maybe thatās why heās such a good pilot.
So Bradley still is a functional dreamer. He knows that this is something he can never have, can never allow himself to have. He knows the pain of it too well, too intimately, still feels it every time he catches sight of his reflection in a mirror, the golden streaks of sun in his hair, the mustache, the split second of pure, blank horror, of oh god I look like him, I look so much like him, and feels it slice right through him like a knife through butter. Heās been carrying his fatherās ghost for so long, sometimes it feels like his spine will crack under the weight.
Maybe people that live life like he does, like Mav does, like his father did - up in the sky, heads in the clouds - arenāt meant to have anything on the ground. Inevitably, they always end up leaving it.
He decided the day of his motherās funeral, before the long procession of Iām sorrys and If you need anythings, before he let real estate agents into a house overflowing with cards and flowers - flowers in every room, flowers blooming and wilting and dying like a garden watered by his grief, like a garden watered by his ghosts - that he would never have a family. Not a wife to mourn him, not a child to miss him.
So thereāll be nobody to carry the burden of him.
And then he meets you.
Itās not momentous - itās easy. Natural. Quicker than he thought possible. Itās stolen glances across a room and a smile that brands him like a mark, that cuts right through to the bone. A smile that settles in his heart. A smile thatāll never leave again.
In the beginning, he tries to fight it. Tells himself not to engage, not to get involved, to stay out of the mess he knows heāll make here inevitably. To shield him, but to shield you too, to protect you from whatever hurt heās going to inflict sooner or later.
But then it goes like this:
āAre you never going to ask me out, Bradshaw?ā you ask him, smiling as you pluck his Ray Bans from him, as you place them on your own nose, and blink at him from over the rims.
The sun is casting you in gold. Bradley wants to catch the moment in a mason jar and put it on his bedside table. Let the glow illuminate his nights.
āI donāt thinkā¦.ā He trails off, wonders why itās so easy for him to talk to you, why he canāt stop spilling truths like leaking water taps. āI donāt think Iāll be good for you.ā
You donāt miss a beat. One eyebrow raising, you say, āAnd donāt you think that should be my decision?ā
Thatās when he knows that for him, you will always be it. That itāll never be this way again with someone else. Itās not even a question. Itās just the truth.
When heās with you, for the first time since he sat shotgun in a car with his mother, head nodding along to Elvis on the radio, Bradley feels like he belongs somewhere. Like heās reached a shore, maybe. Like he can breathe.
For the first time, it feels like he knows peace, even with his feet on the ground.
His mother would have loved you.
You have a long conversation about it. About how he knows you want it - the diapers and the first days of school and the family Christmases. The pitter-patter of childrenās feet, the cribs, the tiny fingers curling around your thumb. He knows youāve dreamed of it all your life. And Bradley also knows, as much as it hurts, as much as it aches, that he can never give it to you.
He needs to be honest. He needs to put all the cards on the table so you know your options, see the truth about him. So you can walk away before you get any deeper into this.
Part of him is sure you will. Thinks it might be better, the safest option for both of you. Hopes you will, fears you will.
It doesnāt matter that he loves you. It doesnāt matter that he only feels at peace when heās with you. It doesnāt matter that for the first time since he was four years old, the ghosts have gone quiet.
What matters is that he wants you to be happy. What matters is that if that happiness lies somewhere else, with someone else, with someone whoāll give you everything you dream of, give you a life, give you a child⦠Bradley will let you go. Itāll be the hardest thing heās ever done, but he will.
Only you donāt leave.
You think about it for a very, very long time. Sit at his kitchen table with your hands folded on the tablecloth like youāre praying, with your head turned down, without looking at him, and then finally you say, āAlright. Fine with me.ā
And Bradleyās protesting, pushing, saying, āHoney, you want this, I know you do, you want a family, youā¦.ā
āI want you more,ā you say, and thatās that.
Thereās no lie to it. Itās the truth, naked and beautiful and awful.
And Bradley - selfish as he is - accepts it. Because he doesnāt want to lose you. Because as much as he tries to convince himself of the opposite, deep down, he knows heās not a good man. Just like his father wasnāt. Theyāre both just men willing to leave the people they love behind. Brave enough to fight for the āgreater goodā, but never brave enough to stay.
Regardless of it all, itās the happiest Bradley has been in years. With you, he doesnāt feel like something is missing from him. He actually feels whole.
Your job as a freelancer allows you to travel with him, and heās unspeakably grateful for it. He tries to show you, tries to be good about bringing flowers and cooking dinner, thinks if he can make you even a fraction as happy as you make him, heāll have succeeded. When he gets deployed, he spends days memorizing your face, the shape of your throat where your pulse point jumps, the pattern of your heartbeat, the feeling of you beneath his arm.
And sometimes, when youāre asleep, Bradley puts his hand on your stomach and imagines a bump there, imagines a baby growing beneath it, and thatās when the ache gets so strong he thinks he canāt breathe.
Thatās when he hates himself for not being something else: a doctor, an accountant, a real estate agent. Anything other than what he is. Could he have it then, this thing you both want so much? Could he let himself have it?
But eventually, when the fantasies fade, he always circles back to the truth: Bradley isnāt a doctor or an accountant or a real estate agent. Heās a pilot. Always has been, always will be.
Heās just too much like his father. Thatās the whole point.
When he gets called back to Top Gun, three years after he met you, something shifts. He doesnāt know to explain it, but from the very first moment he sets foot on North Island again, something about it tastes like the beginning of an end. At night, he canāt settle, roams through the little house you rent off base like a sleepwalker. Checks in on you like heās afraid youāre going to disappear. Canāt concentrate up in the air, canāt shut his brain off.
Itās like his fatherās ghost travels with him in his suitcases, tucked between his neatly folded shirts, climbs out when no oneās looking. No matter where he goes, that ghost goes too. He canāt shake him.
You love California. You like the sunshine and the ocean. Like the Hard Deck and Penny and Phoenix. Turn your face into the warmth like a sunflower, and then you bloom, go brighter and brighter as Bradley goes the opposite direction. As something in him dims.
āIs it because of Mav?ā you ask him softly, in the quiet of your bedroom. Youāre carding hair from his forehead, fingers gentle, voice gentler.
Bradley canāt look at you. Shame coils low in his stomach.
āYes,ā he says, even if it feels like a lie in his mouth.
You sigh, no annoyance, only affection. Your head is heavy on his shoulder as you press the shape of a yawn into his skin.
āI know he hurt you, Bradley,ā you whisper. āItās okay to be hurt. But I think you need to talk to him.ā
He nods into the darkness. Youāre right. Youāre always right.
āI know,ā he agrees, even though he knows he wonāt.
When youāre asleep, Bradley slips out of bed. Pats into the living room and sits on the floor, back leaning against the couch. Pulls his knees up to his chest, closes his eyes, and then he dreams.
He dreams heās four riding on his fatherās shoulders through the living room. He dreams heās ten, in a car with his mother, turning up the radio. He dreams heās twenty, and he lets Mav explain. He dreams heās thirty-five, and he marries you. He dreams heās thirty-six and holding his baby. He dreams itās a little girl with your smile and his eyes, and he loves her more than he thought he was capable of, so much it almost breaks him apart, so much it puts him back together. So much itās worth it all.
Bradleyās earliest memory is of the giant, bone-white seashell on his grandmotherās mantlepiece. He remembers how heavy it was, remembers how cold it felt against the side of his face when he pressed it to his ear. He remembers hearing the distant, muffled hum of the waves, the song of the sea, remembers imagining what it might look like.Ā
Itās no comparison to the real thing, years and years and years later, he knows this, but itās something. Itās better than nothing.
Itās all he can allow himselfāan ocean in a seashell.
The mission is a disaster, even if it is successful. Later, Bradley wonāt remember what he was thinking up in the air, when he hit the target, when Mav went down, when he decided to go after him. He wonāt even be able to tell if that is because heās in shock or because he really wasnāt thinking anything. Maybe for the first time in his life.
If he had been thinking, Bradley likes to believe he would have kept his plane on course. Would have flown back to the carrier and then back to you, home, home, home. Wouldnāt have gone back for a man he still hasnāt spoken to, not properly, someone he loved once and now barely knows.
But all the ghosts of the people heās loved and lost crowd up on him in that cockpit - his father and his mother and even Admiral Kazansky and their sad, sad eyes. Thereās no room for Mav to be up there, too, he thinks.
So at first, you donāt cross his mind at all. He just follows his instincts like heās never done before, could never bring himself to do. So much of Bradleyās life has been about dissecting just those urges, dismantling them, disabling them. Making himself into a creature of logic and second-guessing. Now, for the first time, he gives in to the currents and lets himself be rushed away.
And then his plane goes down, and he drifts into the white white white of snow he hasnāt felt in so long - and still, he doesnāt think. But every instinct from the moment of impact on, the moment his feet hit the ground, every instinct centers on you.
Home, he thinks. I need to get home to her.
Up in that F-14, thatās when he realizes. The brink of death is a bleak place. Itās a place of memories, a place of despair. Itās a place of hope.
All he can think of is you. How heās leaving you with nothing. How heās going to die here, miles above the ocean, and what will happen then? Whoās going to bring you his dog tags, the way Mav had brought his fatherās to Carole all those years ago? Phoenix? Hangman? How are they even going to retrieve them if he goes down in enemy territory? Will anybody even remember the girl in that house, the one he didnāt even marry? And why didnāt he anyway? Why didnāt he put a ring on your finger, buy you a house, get you a dog, give you a baby?
What will remain of him now, in this world after heās gone?
Nothing, he thinks, and his lungs fill with water, high up in the sky. You made damn sure of that, Bradley.
There will be nobody to haunt. He will disappear, and he will take his mother with him, will take his father with him, will take Mav with him. Nobody to remember him. Nobody to mourn him except you, all alone, carrying the terrible burden of his ghost.
It used to be a relief. Nobody to mourn me after Iām gone. Now it feels like a punishment.
Home, he thinks, remembering the content of your smile and your eyes gleaming in the darkness and your face turning, always turning, toward the sun. Like a child, as he closes his eyes, as he tries to accept the inevitable, he thinks, I want to go home. I just want to go home.
And then thatās what he doesāhe and Mav. Incredibly, inexplicably, illogically, they go home.
From far away, as he walks up the driveway, the little house with the gardenias you planted blooming pink and red in front of the windows looks like an oasis at first. Then it seems to grow longer, taller, goes from beckoning to daunting. He almost doesnāt make it inside. Almost doesnāt dare to get out his keys, unlock the front door, push through and toe off his shoes. Feels like heās doing something forbidden, like heās an unwanted guest in his own home.
Youāre in the kitchen, elbows deep in sudsy dishwater, and when he walks through the doorway, when you hear the pat of his socked feet against the tiled floors, you look up at him with an open face full of love, full of relief. It almost bowls him over.
āBradley,ā you whisper, voice soft, and then youāre crossing the room, bubbles and foam and water dripping from your wrists across the tile, and he blinks at the trail you leave for a moment. Then youāre there, arms wrapping around his neck, face pressing against his shoulder, saying his name again and again, like a benediction, like a prayer of thanks.
Automatically, he pulls you against him with both arms crossed over your hips. Inhales deep, lets the familiar scent of you envelop him. Listens to your breath echoing against the dip of his collarbone, to the steady rhythm of your heart.
Your hands leave wet prints against the fabric of his shirt, like something primeval pressed to cave walls, like something thatās been happening for centuries, something that is happening right now, something that will happen again tomorrow and next year and the year after that, and distantly, dumbly, Bradley thinks, Oh. Iām alive. Iām here.
He feels packed in cotton. He feels submerged. He feels not-real, not-present, not-normal. He feels like heās going to fall apart, and no one will notice.
When you draw back, it takes you only a split second to realize somethingās wrong. You frown, the furrow Bradley likes to smooth out with his thumb appearing between your eyebrows, eyes swimming with a concern he doesnāt deserve.
āWhat happened?ā
Itās classified, all of it. Thereās so much of his life Bradley isnāt allowed to share with you, even if he wants to. Thereās so much he doesnāt want to share but knows he should.
From far away, he hears himself say, āMy plane went down.ā
He can feel the panic in your body, feels it go through you like a spasm. You try to draw back, but he holds you where you are, afraid heās going to shatter all across the kitchen floor the moment youāre gone.
Itās not fair, he thinks, how he keeps looking to you to hold him together. Itās just that at the end of the day, youāve always been so much stronger than him.
āBradleyā¦ā you begin to say, but he canāt hear it. He doesnāt want to hear it. He doesnāt want to hear how scared you are every time he leaves, he doesnāt want to hear how it made you feel to know that he almost died because he already knows. He knows.
āI wantā¦ā he says into your hair, a fragment of a sentence, a statement that trails off halfway, that goes nowhere. He doesnāt even know what heās trying to say.
In some ways, he feels stuck in that F-14. Like time kept moving, but he didnāt, remained static and crystallized like somebody dipped the moment in amber and preserved it on a bookshelf. Nothing makes sense to him. Rationally, he knows heās standing here in his kitchen with you in his arms, knows he isnāt dead, knows he survived, but it doesnāt feel like it.Ā
So Bradley tries to remember grounding exercises, focuses on little things, mundane things, things that shouldnāt exist on the verge of death. The bubbles popping in the sink. The specks of dust dancing through the room. The curve of your spine beneath the worn fabric of his Navy shirt.
Suddenly, the thought of you alone in this house is unbearable. Waiting for a man that never comes back. History repeating itself in the worst of ways.
āI want to have a baby,ā he says, out of nowhere, out of some madness that took hold of him up in the air, or maybe when he touched the ground, or maybe at some other point he canāt name, canāt even think.
And itās not a conscious thought. Itās not a decision he makes. Itās just something that spills from him, something that has been there unnoticed all along, words taking shape on his tongue before he can overthink their meaning, but then theyāre out, and they drop between you like an anvil, and itās like a relief, itās like a breath heās been holding for years, itās like a sigh, something inside of him finally unlatching, finally escaping the shackles he put on it himself.
Oh, he thinks. Heās known this about himself, always, but itās the first time he says it out loud. Itās always been a want, an ache, a yearning, but now it goes from all that to a need, a thrumming inside of him, something that cannot be ignored. Something that demands to be felt instead of thought.
In his arms, you stiffen.
With your palms on his chest, you push him away from you, take a step back, take the warmth and the scent and the anchor with you. Bradley is surprised he doesnāt float right up to the ceiling.
The openness of your face has shuttered now. You look at him with something unreadable crossing your features, something unfamiliar, and say, āWhat did you just say?ā
Bradley swallows around a lump in his throat. āI want to have a baby,ā he repeats, his voice smaller now, quieter, but the words more assured.
Because he does. Because itās true. Because heās always wanted this and doesnāt know how to explain to you that now he needs it. How now itās the only thing that makes sense in a world thatās gone off the rails.
Your face falls, something crumbles, and it hits him like a punch to the gut.Ā
āNo,ā you say, turning away from him. You step right into the trail of water you left earlier, it soaks into your socks, and then youāre leaving footprints too. Everywhere you go, you leave your mark like a brand. Not one part of Bradley has been left untouched.
Confusion zaps through him, but itās a muted feeling. Muffled by all the chaos.
āI thought youā¦.ā Itās a great effort to form words, like pulling teeth. āYou want children. Donāt you want this?ā
āNot likeā¦ā You pause, rake your fingers through your hair, exasperation crackling from you like sparks from a burned-out socket, and Bradley canāt make sense of it.
You want this, he knows you do. So whatās the problem now? What did he do wrong?
āI donātā¦.ā
āDonāt go there.ā
Thereās a finality to your voice, and he sees you drawing back from him, sees your shoulders come up, your face turning away, something wilting.
The idea of losing you, of pushing you away now that heās finally decided to let you in, really let you in, the panic of it finally slices through the haze. Lifts the fog.
Bradley crosses the room and says, āItās your decision too, honey, of course, it is, but I love you, and I want this, andā¦.ā
You whirl on him, and it punches the air out of his lungs. Thereās real anger on your face now, your eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and Bradleyās heart clenches in answer.
āYou donāt get to do this,ā you say, voice heaving with the barely contained emotion, a ship on a stormy sea, ānot after I compromised, not after I spent so long trying to get used to the idea of not having a baby, not after giving that up for you, Bradley. You donāt⦠donāt get to just come in here and change your mind just because it suits you, because you had some near-death experience and youāre full of adrenaline and⦠andā¦.ā
Bradley frowns, moves to touch you, but you flinch away from him, one arm going up to hug your own ribcage. As if you have to shield yourself from him.
Suddenly, he feels a sob building in his throat. To realize how much heās hurt you, not just today by springing this on you, but by how selfish he was, again and again. By letting his past stand in the way of your future.
āItās not that I changed my mind,ā he begins, trying to string together something that will make you see the truth of it, make you understand what he means.
You interrupt, āYou said you didnāt want kids.ā
Bradley pauses. Did he say that? If he didā¦Ā
āAnd itā¦ā You gasp for breath, the tears now streaming freely down your face, and god, it hurts, it hurts worse than thinking he lost Mav, hurts worse than thinking heād die in that F-14 because all of that heād been prepared for, had been practicing for his whole life. Losing Maverick, losing himself, all of that had been inevitable. But losing you⦠Bradley always assumed he was going to be the one to go first.Ā
āItās fine,ā you go on. āI was fine with it, Bradley, I gave that dream up because⦠because I wanted you more, and I was okay with it. It was my decision, and I donāt regret it, but for you to just⦠to justā¦.ā
āI do want children,ā he says because he doesnāt know what to do except explain it, except make you see the truth of it all. āIāve always⦠Iāve always wanted children, honey. I just⦠after what happened to my dad, after what that did to me, what it did to my mother, I didnāt⦠I didnāt want to do that to you. I couldnāt do that to you.ā
For a moment, you say nothing, eyebrows furrowed, lower lip caught between your teeth.
āYouā¦ā You look like youāre trying very hard to understand it. āAre you saying you decided not to have children with me because you thought it would hurt me too much if you died?ā
When you say it like that, out loud, logically, through your tears, it sounds so incredibly stupid.
Bradley opens and closes his mouth, once, twice. Finally, he nods.
He expects you to start crying harder, to hit him (all valid reactions, really), but instead, you do the one thing he doesnāt expect: You laugh. Itās a watery sound, barely amused, but it is a laugh.
You bury your face in your hands, then reemerge after a moment, eyes rimmed in red, and say, āGod, Bradley, youāre so stupid.ā
āIā¦ā He doesnāt know what to say to that. Probably, youāre right. āWhat?ā
āYou justā¦ā You exhale a long, shuddering breath. āYou keep trying to make decisions without me.ā
ā... I do?ā
āYeah!ā Your voice rises a little, then settles, and you say, āThis is my decision as much as itās yours. If I say I want it, if I say I know the risk and I know the danger, then you donāt get to tell me no. Do you think Iām dumb? Do you think I donāt understand what goes on when you get deployed? Do you think I donāt know that youāre risking your life all the time?ā
āNo, I⦠I know you know that.ā
You shrug, and itās a gesture of such helplessness that Bradleyās knees almost buckle.
āI donāt know whatās going to happen tomorrow. I donāt know if⦠if one day thereās going to be a mission you donāt come back from. I donāt know that, Bradley. I canāt know that. But until then⦠canāt you just let us be happy?ā
Bradleyās shaking. Head to toe, tremors that run through him like the tides. Unstoppable. Unrelenting.
āIā¦ā And he knows heās the one who brought it up, but suddenly all the doubts come crashing down. Suddenly the ghosts crowd around him. āWhat if I die? What if I leave you? What if we have a baby and Iām not⦠there?ā
āOh, Bradleyā¦ā Something on your face melts. You step closer, put a hand on his cheek, fingertips still pruned from the water, and say, so gently it breaks something open inside of him, āBradley. Youāre not your father.ā
And Bradley canāt help it - he cries. Itās an ugly sort of crying, the sort that leaves you with a headache and snot dripping down your face and eyes that hurt. The one you feel in the morning. But itās a relief too. A release. Rain after years and years of drought.
For so long, Bradley was trying to let go of a world that didnāt want him to leave. Heās been preparing for an early exit since he entered, has been so caught up in dreaming he forgot to live. So caught up in thinking he forgot to do. He thought he would be content to go out of this world and leave nothing behind, to disappear without a trace, without a word, without a ghost.
But now he sees it clearly. Now he understands.
Bradley doesnāt want to stop existing. He wants to cling to this world like someone clinging to the edge of a cliff, like a leech, like a cancer. He wants to haunt someone.
Only thereās something else, too.Ā
A week before his mother died, when she had gone all quiet, when she had lost the vibrancy she used to carry around like a glow, when she had slept longer and spoke less and Bradley had known, somewhere deep inside of him, that things were ending, that they were truly ending, heād gathered all his courage and asked a question heād been rehearsing for weeks, months, years.
āDo you regret it?ā
Do you regret loving my father now, knowing all that would come after? Knowing the landslide it really was?
And Carol had just smiled, something of that old light returning for a moment, a tenderness so big it felt like violence, and sheād said, āI could never regret him. Not even the heartbreak or the grief or the pain. After all, he gave me you, didnāt he?ā
Maybe, he thinks, itās time to let the past be in the past. Maybe itās time to let himself have a future.
Maybe itās time to let go of the ghost.
And you just hold him as he cries like he hasnāt since he locked himself in a bathroom stall after his motherās funeral, cries until it feels like heās going to throw up, cries until the gnashing teeth of grief of pain of hurt of anger finally leave him be.
After half an eternity, you pull away, warm hands cupping his face, tugging him gently away from the crook of your neck, so he has to look at you, canāt look anywhere but at you, and then you say, āBradley, what happened to your father was a horrible, terrible accident. But he loved you. You know that, donāt you?ā
He nods. His father, the hazy shape of him, the ghost heās carried for so long - frosted tips and Hawaiian shirts and the smell of motor oil. Large hands and a mustache and rides around living rooms. So much of him is shadowed, fractioned, incomplete, but not this. This he knows. When he thinks of his father, thereās nothing now but the hazy, easy warmth of love.Ā
āDo you really think,ā you say softly, āthat they made a mistake when they had you? Your parents? Do you really think they shouldnāt have done it?ā
Bradley has thought about his life in boxes. Big cardboard ones, the kind you get when you move apartments. He tucks the good parts away beneath his bed, stows them, hoards them like a secret. Like his mother kept her grief. But all the bad parts - the pain and the sadness and the sorrow - those he lets pile up everywhere, in hallways, in living rooms, on kitchen tables. He stumbles over them on his way to the bathroom. He stubs his toe halfway to the closet.
He never looks at those good parts, afraid theyāll become tainted somehow if he thinks about them for too long, afraid theyāll lose their appeal or their strength. But thereās so much good there too.
Goose loved him, he knows this without a doubt. Carole loved him. Mav loves him, Phoenix loves him, you love him⦠At the end of it all, even despite all the terrible things that have happened to him, even with the ghosts that have haunted him for so long, Bradley has been loved, and he has lived, and he has been happy.
Shouldnāt that be worth something, too?
āNo,ā he says, voice soft, āno, Iām glad they had me.ā
His life has been a long, long road. Difficult to walk sometimes, full of potholes, some as big as canyons. But thereās so much happiness there, too - car rides with his mother, Mav telling him stories about his father, the moment when the wheels lift off the tarmac at take-off. This long, terrible, winding road that led him here. That led him to you.
You brush your fingertips across his cheekbone, and Bradley capsizes.
āI love you,ā he says, and itās the truest thing heās ever said. Itās the truest thing heās ever known. āI want⦠I want to have a life with you.ā
āYou do,ā you answer. āYou have one.ā
Bradleyās tears have dried so the sound he makes isnāt really a sob, but itās damn close to one.Ā
āDo youā¦ā He clears his throat. āYou love me, too?ā
Itās a dumb question, unnecessary because he already knows the answer. But he needs to hear you say it anyway.
And when you smile, your whole face lights up. It echoes somewhere inside Bradley, somewhere at his core, goes through him like a current.
āBradley Bradshaw,ā you say, and thereās only a little bit of amusement in your voice, āyouāre the love of my life.ā
His heart jumps like a jackknife in his chest.
Before he recognizes that heās made the conscious decision to do so, heās bridged the space between you and has pulled you into a searing, soaring, slow kiss. He fumbles it a little, teeth knocking against yours, but you just laugh into it, going up on your tiptoes, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him like you want to meld yourself to his bones. Bradley feels like somebodyās poured liquid sunlight into his chest.
Somewhere it goes heated, goes desperate, goes near frantic, all the adrenaline, all the fear, everything pouring from him in a shower of want. Somehow heās got you pressed up against the counter, tongue tangled with yours, fingers in your hair, fingers on your back, fingers pulling up the edge of the shirt youāve stolen from him to find the warm, soft skin beneath.
Breathless, heart stuttering, Bradley pulls away, looks at your lips swollen from the tug of his teeth, your eyes with the heavy lids, the hair mussed by his fingers, and he needs to hear it. Needs to know you want this as much as he does. The ache in him twists like a knife between the ribs.
āTell me,ā he whispers, afraid the moment will shatter if he makes a wrong move, speaks too loudly. Itās so fragile - he wants to protect it so fiercely. Presses the tips of his fingers into the place where your pulse hammers away. āTell me you want to have a baby with me.ā
āI wantā¦ā And you sigh, a sound like a spring day, a sound like a rushing mountain stream. āI want it.ā
He surges forward, lips against yours again, and youāre so alive beneath him, heart racing, breath heaving, fingers grappling along his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, and Bradley wants to devour you. Wants to sink his teeth into all this life and never let it go again. He wants to exist, right here, in this moment with you forever.
āI love you,ā he mumbles into your neck, lets his mouth move over the column of your throat, down to the sharp points of your collarbones beneath the soft skin. Sinks to his knees on the kitchen tiles like heās kneeling at an altar to pray.
āBradley,ā you whisper, fingers going to tangle in his hair, to smooth along the sides of his face, and the softness in your voice cracks something in him. He swears he could cry again.
He doesnāt even know what heās doing as he nuzzles his nose against the sloping curve of your upper thigh, as his fingers tighten on your hips. He just wants to be close to you. And youāre so soft, so warm, you smell like home, and it tears through him, blazes everything in its wake, to realize just how close he came to losing it all.
āIām gonna marry you,ā he whispers, babbles, barely coherent, pressing his face against the fabric of your panties, inhaling your scent, opening his mouth to push his tongue where he knows your clit is. āGonna make you so happy, baby, I promise, itās all I want. Iām never letting you go again, Iām neverā¦.ā
Above him, you whimper, hips knocking forward, arching into the movement of his tongue for a moment, and he wonders if youāre wet, thinks about the hot, tight vice of your cunt, and groans against you. His cock jumps.
Then youāre tugging him away from you by the hair, and Bradley goes reluctantly, mouth still open, wishing he could stay where he was forever. Drowning in you.Ā
Youāre looking down at him with eyes blown wide.
āBradley,ā you say, and thereās something unsteady to your voice. āTake me to bed.ā
He doesnāt need to be told twice. Itās a tumble all the way to your bedroom - he kicks off his shoes on the way, you lose your shirt, and heās somehow, miraculously, gotten down to his boxers by the time he drags you backward with him onto the mattress.
āI love you,ā he says as he drags you on top of him, your legs opening around his hips like the petals of a flower. The mattress dips where your knees press against the springs, your weight grounds him. āI love you, youāre so perfect, youāreā¦.ā
He has no idea what heās saying. His brain checked out a while ago, and itās all just feelings now, just emotions coursing through him, and every once in a while, one will plunge its head through the surface, and then heāll tell you something nonsensical, something dumb, something important, something he needs you to know, somethingā¦
You lean down to kiss him, to shut him up, his brain buzzes, your breasts press to his bare chest, and heās so hard in his boxers it hurts.
āI love you, too,ā you whisper against his lips, smile into the kiss. The curve of it burns against Bradleyās face.
He sits up, grasps you by the thighs to drag you closer, drag your core across his cock, and you both moan against each other. Your fingernails scrape over the back of his neck, where his hair is buzzed so short he knows it feels like prickles, and he shudders, sighs, lets his tongue run across your teeth.
For a while, you just stay like that, rutting against each other like fucking teenagers, tongues lazy, fingers eager, mouths hungry. Even through your panties, he can feel your wetness, wonders if itās going to leave stains on his underwear, across his thighs. Bradley thinks heās going to die, but this time itās nothing like it was up in the F-14.
Itās difficult in your position, awkward, but he gets a finger first on your clit, and then, when he finds you wet and swollen and open, he slides it right inside you. Watches your face as you squeeze your eyes shut, as your mouth falls open on a muffled gasp, as your head tips backward.
Youāre the most beautiful thing heās ever seen.
He fucks his finger in and out slowly, adds a second to stretch you, and then heās saying, āBaby, honey, youāre so tight, youāre so fucking wet, god Iā¦.ā
You whimper, and then youāre pulling off him, shimmying out of your panties, leaning down to tug his boxers off.
āGotta haveā¦ā Your throat moves when you swallow as you clamber back into his lap. āWant you inside me, please, Bradley. Iām ready.ā
He groans, something in his stomach yanking tight, and heās pretty sure heās leaking precum steadily by now.
Thereās no time to tease, no need for it either, not when youāre both aching for it, not after what youāve just gone through. The hot slide of him inside you, feeling you all around him, Bradley thinks that might be the only thing that could make him realize heās actually back here, that it isnāt all just a dream, that he didnāt actually go down in that plane and has been stuck in some kind of cruel limbo for the past few days.
But thereās the other thing too. The need he canāt explain. The selfish, horrible, depraved thing he can share with nobody but you. That nobody but you would ever understand.
Slowly, tentatively, he places his palm on your stomach, fingers splaying wide, and leaves it there. Heās too scared to look at you, too scared of what youāll think of him, too scared of what youāll do once you find out how deep his desire runs, how desperately he wants this. Will you hate him? Will you be disgusted? Will you draw back, pull away, leave him alone with all his depravity and all his fears and all his sorrow?Ā
āI need⦠I wantā¦ā He canāt even finish the sentence, brain too foggy. Too scared to meet your eyes, Bradley just blinks at the sight in front of him, his big hand on your skin, and his heart seizes, his insides clench, and he canāt breathe, canāt, heās going toā¦
Slowly, your fingers wrap around his wrist.
āYes,ā you breathe above him.
Itās a visceral thing. The words burn through him, wrap around him, curl into him. He surges forward to kiss you, desperate, a choked sound escaping him, and licks into your mouth. Around his wrist, your fingers tighten.
He pushes you back into the sheets, crawls over you and spreads your legs, slides between them where he belongs. When his gaze falls to your face, thereās so much trust there, so much love, and it cleaves him in two, just how much he loves you, just how much he needs you. He doesnāt have the words to express it, can only hope you understand what he means when he plunges into you without preamble, when he whispers your name against the shell of your ear, when he curves around you like he wants to shield you from everything bad in the world.
You moan, fingers coming up to grasp his arm where heās balancing his weight on the elbows. Your mouth tips open, your eyes not straying from his for a second as he goes slow, as he goes deep, as he goes home. Thereās an answer in that too.
āYouāre so beautiful,ā he says, voice choked as he bottoms out, as he holds himself perfectly still. āSo tight and beautiful, and youāre all mine, and Iām yours andā¦.ā
āBradley,ā you stop him. Wrap your legs around his hips and pull him in. āItās okay. You can move now.ā
So he does.
Itās frantic from the first moment. Itās all the tension thatās been building up for years and years inside of him, all his love and all his longing finally laid open, and he canāt hold back anymore, not when he feels like heās going to burst out of his own skin at any moment now.
The wet squeeze of your walls around his cock has his eyes rolling into the back of his head.
āFuck,ā he curses, hips pushing forward at an unsteady pace, as he leans down to kiss you again, as you open your mouth for him easily, as he nips at your lower lip.
And itās so dumb - heās inside of you, curled around you, his tongue tangled with your own, but Bradley wants you closer, still. Needs to know that youāre there with him, that heās here with you, that he came home and he is letting himself have this, youāre letting him have it, and he loves you, he loves you, heā¦
Bradley takes his weight off his elbows, gets his arms around you, plasters himself to you, chest to chest, hip to hip, mouth finding the side of your neck, your collarbones. Like this, with his arms around your shoulders, it feels almost like heās pulling you down to him with every thrust, like he slides just half an inch deeper into you.
You try to muffle a moan into his hair, but Bradley pulls your face away, keeps his pace as he says, āWanna hear you. Let me hear you, baby, tell me how much you like it. You love it, donāt you? Love my cock, yeah? Love it when I fuck you?ā
Maybe itās pathetic, but Bradley needs to hear it. Needs to know youāre as desperate for him as he is for you. Needs to know you want it just as much.
On a thrust in, your walls flutter around him, and you whine, back arching a little, head sliding across the pillow as you nod.
āYes,ā you gasp, āI love it, Bradley, I love your cock. Thought about it while you were gone all the time, every night, Iā¦.ā
Bradley groans, shudders, suddenly so close to the brink he needs to squeeze his eyes shut against the image of you - the glossy eyes, the swollen lips, the absolute ruin heās reduced you to.
āCanāt say shit like that, baby,ā he whispers, leaning to press tender kisses to the column of your throat. āNot when youāre this fucking wet, not when youāre making these sounds⦠youāre gonna make me cum.ā
You giggle, then moan, head lolling to the side to give him better access.Ā
āGood,ā you say, legs hiking higher up on his hips, his cock sliding deeper, āthatās the plan, isnāt it?ā
If there were any air left in his lungs, Bradley would laugh with you. As it stands, he just ups the ante, going a little harder, watching as your eyelashes flutter, feeling your fingers spasm against the skin of his back.
Itās so hot in the room, both of you sticking to each other with sweat, and maybe that, too, should be disgusting, but Bradley doesnāt care. When he leans down to lick a long, wet stripe along the edge of your jaw, he tastes salt on his tongue.
āIām gonnaā¦.ā When he glances down at you, at the eyes wide with that much trust, as he realizes you would let him do just about anything to you, that youāve both opened yourself to each other completely now, no barriers and no ghosts standing between you, itās like a dam breaking. He moans, so loud it echoes through the room, leans to plunge his tongue into your mouth, desperate, and then heās saying into it, āGod, Iām gonna fuck you so full, honey, gonna fuck you until it takes, yeah? Gonna keep you right here and fill you up, again and again, gonna make sure to get a baby in you, fuck, youād be so fucking pretty, honey, so pretty all full of me, I know it, I canā¦.ā
And you sob. Full-on. Back arching off the bed, legs sliding off his hips, spreading so wide it must hurt.
āBradley,ā you say, fingernails breaking skin, forehead pressing against his throat to hide your face. āBradley, fuck, I⦠the pillā¦.ā
Heās shaking his head, cutting you off with his mouth on yours. Conveying what he canāt speak, what heās too far gone to formulate, here where logic has become a distant, remote concept, here between your legs. Donāt say it. Let me live in this fantasy. Let me dream a little longer.
Itās the thought of it all - a bump beneath your dresses, a baby in your arms, tiny fingers wrapping around his thumb, itās about the long, long stretch of life ahead of the two of you. Itās about a house filled with love and free of ghosts. Itās about the first glimpse of the ocean after listening to its roar in seashells all his life. Itās about giving himself over to you completely, after years of only dreaming of it.
Do you know? he wonders. Do you know that youāre holding his whole life in your hands?
āI love you,ā he mumbles, repeats it as he sinks into you again and again, as he buries himself in you, as he holds onto you like heāll be back in the cold, cold, cold of all that snow the moment he lets go, like heāll go back to the cockpit with the ghosts like jailors around him, like heāll float right off the face off the earth. You have always been his anchor. āIām gonna give you a baby, honey, I promise, gonna cum inside of you, you want that, right? You want me to come right here in this pretty pussy, fill you up all nice and wet, andā¦.ā
Your mouth moves against his clavicle, the feel of it spreading like wildfire through him, and youāre saying, āYes, yes, Bradley, give it to me, please, I wanna feel it, want you to come inside me, please, please, I need it, Iā¦.ā
A yell punches from him as he thrusts inside one last time, buries himself to the hilt in your warmth, and then heās panting, his ears are ringing, his veins are buzzing as he cums, as he paints you with his release. He canāt do anything except hold onto you, bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, jerking his hips forward erratically, little sounds escaping him. Itās never felt like this before - like dying and coming back alive. The release of it is so big he feels shattered under its weight.Ā
And youāre saying something to him, whispering words sticky with honey into his ear, pouring them right into his heart, and he can barely hear you over the hammering of his own heart, but it doesnāt matter. You hold him as he trembles, as he shakes, as he tries to collect himself, to control his breathing, hold him and stroke lazy, soft circles up and down his back, trace patterns against his spine, leave soft kisses on any inch of skin you can reach, trapped beneath his weight as you are.
Finally, after an eternity, Bradley pulls away an inch or two, careful not to let his cock slip out. Thereās a little embarrassment spreading through his stomach now because he canāt believe he came that fast, canāt believe he didnāt even make sure to take you over the edge with him.
But you barely seem to think about your own lack of an orgasm.
āAre you okay?ā you ask, voice gentle, face full of concern.
Bradleyās heart clenches. Maybe, he thinks, his ribcage is going to crack open. It seems impossible for one person to hold so much love inside.
āAreā¦ā He clears his throat, suddenly unsure. āAre you?ā
You nod immediately, smile, and the relief floods him. Then you shift, gasp, muscles fluttering around his softening cock.
āWell⦠Iā¦ā
He doesnāt let you finish, shakes his head, says, āYou did so good for me, baby. Let me take care of you, yeah?ā
Heās already looking at the place where youāre still connected, where his cum is beginning to drip from you in silvery trails. The sight of it is enough to make something like madness descend again, something like that earlier haze, the frenzy of the heat.
Bradley pulls out, sighs at the feeling, and your mouth opens as if in protest, but before you can form any words, heās replaced his cock with two fingers.
You whimper, eyes closing, a muscle in your stomach jumping.
āI got you,ā he says, keeps his eyes on the mess of your swollen cunt, the wet spot soaking into the mattress just beneath, the evidence of his pleasure, smooths his free hand over your chest to settle you. āRelax, honey. I got you.ā
Your answer is a moan of his name, fingers twisting into the sheets. He can feel your walls bearing down on the motion of his fingers and knows youāre close, desperately, frantically, torturously close to the brink.
So he speeds up the movement of his digits, swipes his thumb through the sopping wetness, and then across your clit as he fucks his cum back into you. Not letting a single drop go to waste.
āBradley,ā you sob, mouth opening, fingers grappling for something.
Knowing what you need, knowing without you asking for it, he catches your hand with his own and interlaces your fingers. Then he leans down, leans over you, leans in. Finds the seam of your mouth with his own. Itās less of a kiss than both of you panting against each other, finding the same rhythm.
āYou can let go now,ā he whispers into you. āIām here. Iāve got you, honey. My perfect girl.ā
You come with his name on your lips, cunt clenching around his fingers, arching off the bed and into him, and itās like a prayer. Itās like a song.Ā
It takes you a while to come down, and he coaxes you through it, brushes kisses against your lips and your jaw and your ear. Hopes he can ground you the same way you ground him.
Finally, softly, voice faint and fragile, you say, āThat was⦠intense.ā
Bradley hums in agreement, and then a laugh rips from him. Because itās all so ridiculous and so monumental, and he doesnāt know where to go with all these emotions.
āI⦠yeah. It really was.ā He pauses, feels shame curling through him. āIām sorry I sprung that on you.ā
You shake your head, lift one hand to run a finger across his mustache the way you like to do sometimes.Ā
āItās okay,ā you say, and he knows you mean it. āYou must have carried that for a long time.ā
It chokes him up, the way you know him so well. Better than anybody else.
āYeah,ā he agrees, drops his head into the crook of your neck. āIt⦠I want you to know that I really want this. Itās not⦠itās not adrenaline, and itās not just almost dying, itās⦠Itās you. I want this with you. Only with you.ā
He can feel the curve of your smile against his temple, can hear it in your voice.
āI want it with you too, Bradley. Only with you.ā
Bradleyās so afraid heās going to start crying again that he springs into action instead. Reaches around you for a pillow to push beneath your hips, angle your lower body upwards.
āWhat are you doing?ā you ask, laughing a little.
āIām trying to keep my cum in you. Maybe weāre like super extra lucky, and it works out on the first try.ā
Now youāre laughing in earnest, and he gets the impression it might be at his expanse.
āStill on the pill, Bradley,ā you remind him, eyes luminous with your happiness.
Feeling a little sheepish, a little embarrassed, a little elated, he shrugs helplessly.
āCanāt hurt,ā he says. Then adds, āBesides⦠I donāt want all my hard work to go to waste.ā
Then youāre laughing together, breathless, loud laughter, the bending-at-the-waist kind. The belly-hurting kind. The kind that doesnāt come often.
And itās good. Itās beautiful. Itās the kind of peace heās never known before but has wanted always, always, always.
Itās so much better than anything he could have ever dreamed. Because itās real. Because itās true.
All his life, Bradley thinks, heās been listening to oceans in seashells. Itās good, fun even, for a while, but itās no replacement for the real thing. Itās no comparison to standing at the shore of the Pacific Ocean, watching waves crest and crash and throw themselves against the beach again and again, like a devotion that never ends. How big and beautiful and terrible the truth of it is.
And heād thought the whole world was in that seashell.
Once the laughter has died down, once youāve fallen back into the kind of comfortable silence that can exist only between people that really, truly love each other, Bradley strokes his thumb against your cheekbone, watches your eyes flutter closed.
āI love you,ā he says, āmore than I thought I could love someone. Thanks for loving me back.ā
Itās bumbling, and itās inadequate, and it doesnāt convey half of what it should.
But you smile at him, eyes opening, face so tender his heart stutters, and you whisper, āItās an honor, Lieutenant Bradshaw.ā
For the first time, Bradley doesnāt think about dying, doesnāt think about leaving. He thinks about living. He thinks about staying.
Heās determined to hate you. Unfortunately, fate has other plans. Thereās only so long that oneāeven Dream of the Endlessācan stave off the inevitable.
Reluctant Allies to Lovers. Grumpy x (Somewhat) Sunshine. Unwilling Soulmates.
WORD COUNT: 7.6k
WARNINGS:Ā Explicit 18+ ONLY; Enemies to Lovers Elements; Slight Tinges of Toxicity; Angst (Honestly, These Two Will Give You Whiplash); Mentions of Blood; Biting/Marking; Vaginal Fingering; Oral Sex; Other Potentially Non-Exhaustive Warnings: Read at Own Risk; The Sandman (2022) Spoilers; Not Beta Read.
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A/N: Letās be very clear up front. I am only halfway through the season and Iāve never read the comics. All of this could be extremely innacurate in the loreā but a reminder that this isnāt to be taken too seriously. Itās fanfiction. A bit of fun. Iāve given you this little PSA so you know what youāre getting into.
āAre you going to let me go yet?ā Itās a question, but not youāre not scared of the answer.
Dream of the Endless may be a god. Silent, mysterious, and most likely still vengefulā but right now, he needs you. Itās not often that one comes across someone with the gift of True Sight and Travel. Youāre a Lucid Dreamer, as unpracticed as any might be, but it still gives you power in all realms.Ā The ability to untether oneās own soul is rare, and all too useful.
So, his reply is not a surprise. āYour Order still has a debt to repay.ā
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if youre a brian stan, youre a brian stan. if youre a wonpil stan, youre a brian stan. if youre a jae stan, youre a brian stan. if youre a sungjin stan, youreĀ a brian stan. if youre a dowoon stan, youre a brian stan. if you stan day6, youre a brian stan. if youre a member of day6, youre a brian stan. if youre brian youre a brian stan. if you hate brian, youre a brian stan.Ā if youreĀ with jyp, youre a brian stan. if you donāt listen to day6, youre a brian stan. if youre sleeping on day6, youre a brian stan. if you donāt listen to kpop, youre a brian stan. if youre just born, youre a brian stan. if youre dead, youre a brian stan. if youre breathing, youre a brian stan.
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