It's So Good - Tumblr Posts
SANTIAGO CABRERA’S LANCELOT (MERLIN)
as
FARAMIR IN THE LORD OF THE RINGS
The Countdown Solo from The Globalist by MUSE @ Glastonbury 2016
This is beautiful and wonderful and everything I’ve hoped for since I read the first part!!! It’s just so perfect!!!! 😭🥹🥹 💕
Leave a Light On {vol. ii}
Summary: Of all the sounds you would have expected to hear in the hazy, quiet small hours of the morning, the gentle rasp of Bradley’s voice wasn’t one that you ever could have anticipated. After three months away, he is finally home.
Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader
Length: 10k
Warnings: lots of pining and yearning (Minors DNI)
(read vol. i here)
“Can you play it from the beginning this time, sweetheart?"
That voice. His voice.
You’d been running your fingertips over the smooth keys of his piano, just about to settle them back into the starting position of the part of the song that had tripped you up in the first place. One breath away from launching into that tricky portion yet again, when you were nearly startled out of your skin. Surprise and shock shooting up your spine, the pencil in your hand sent flying.
Of all the sounds you would have expected to hear in the hazy, quiet small hours of the morning, the gentle rasp of Bradley’s voice wasn’t one that you ever could have anticipated.
Your pulse is pounding wildly, in your chest, in your throat, in your ears, as you swiftly spin around towards his front door.
And there leaning against the wooden doorframe of his house, wearing his green flight suit with a canvas seabag still clutched in hand, is Bradley.
Healthy, whole, and here.
“Bradley!” You’re up and off his creaky piano bench in less than half a heartbeat.
You had wanted to be the one to surprise him, but here he was surprising you. His arms wide and welcoming.
If his body was any less solid you might have knocked him over in the way you collide as you throw yourself at him. His bag hitting the floor with a thud as he drops it to hold you properly for the first time in three months.
I’ve missed you.I’ve missed you.I’ve missed you. your heart taps out against your ribcage.
I’m here.I’m home.I’m yours. you feel his beat in reply.
He has you so tightly pressed against his chest, holding you so close within the safe cocoon of his sturdy arms. Your face is buried in the side of his neck, breathing him in. He doesn’t smell like the sandalwood scent you’re used to, but rather some sharp astringent smell from whatever taxpayer funded soap they provided on the carrier. But underneath that, there’s something that’s just so Bradley.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says almost incredulously into your hair, his arms tightening around your waist. “I thought about you all the time. I missed you so much.”
Still in too much shock to speak, still too overwhelmed by him, you just rapidly nod your head in agreement and burrow yourself closer into his warmth. Your fingers combing through the fine hairs at the base of his head in that soothing way that you know makes him sigh. Smiling to yourself when you get the reaction you were hoping for, when his exhale ghosts down the side of your face as you hold each other.
Your perfect Bradley. Your Golden Boy.
You’ve thought about your reunion with him so many times over the last few months.
Visions of you picking him up, waiting for him by the Bronco wearing that sundress that drives him wild. Of him surprising you at work after some meeting that could have been an email, standing head and shoulders above the gray drab cubicle walls of your office. Of him lingering outside the door of your apartment with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, just like he had after that comically bad third date, but this time without the bug bites littering his thick forearms.
And even though your hair is probably a mess and you’re in an oversize threadbare shirt and wearing slippers that had seen better days, this is better than anything you’d imagined. Because this wasn’t some delicate daydream spun together in your mind to keep ache of missing him at bay.
In the early hours of the morning, it’s not a lyrical vibrato and swell of strings that serves as the soundtrack to his homecoming like it would be in the movies. It’s the percussion of the drip from the kitchen faucet, the low hum and rattle of his refrigerator, the melody of your mingled breathing. These were the sounds of the score to your reunion with Bradley, a domestic symphony.
The quiet, steady ticking of the clock mounted on his wall is the only acknowledgement of time passing as the two of you stay wrapped up in each other. The only indication that this moment isn’t suspended in time like the way it feels it is. A sign that while the sky is still inky and dark outside his living room window, that soon enough the birds will be chirping and the sun will be rising. And for the first time in a long time you will not be waking up in a bed alone.
Because he is here, he is here.
“Your heart is still beating so fast,” Rooster whispers lowly. His thumb is skimming the side of your throat as he cradles the back of your head with his big, warm hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.”
You place a gentle kiss to longest scar that decorates the skin of his throat before pulling away to get a good look at him. He’s wearing the softest smile for you as you take his face between your hands. His hair looks a shade darker than his usual sunkissed bronze and his skin a bit paler than it was before he’d left. And your heart squeezes in sympathy as you note the deep, dark purple circles beneath his eyes and the weariness he carries around the edges of him.
The little lamp with its soft glow was the only source of light in the room, but his exhaustion clear as day.
You could feel the worry creeping up on you, making your eyebrows pull together with unease, “Is everyone-”
“Everyone’s fine, baby,” he hushes you reassuringly. His family in San Diego had become yours as well. You care about them all. “Everyone’s home. Safe and sound.” The relief you feel drifts over you like a gentle breeze.
“I’m so happy to see you,” you say as you pull his face to yours. “I missed you too, Bradley. So much.”
His lips are a little dry, a little chapped, but the way he kisses you still takes your breath away.
You can taste the burnt coffee he must have had after landing, the perpetually scalded kind from base that’s terrible regardless of who makes it. He’s told you about how he always waits to cool just enough so he can throw it back in one go, not wanting to draw it out. You’ve never had it yourself, but you don’t mind the bitterness when it’s off his tongue.
There is nothing hurried or desperate about the way you reconnect with one another, nothing like how you imagined it might be after being apart for so long. Not the hungry mouths or frenzied touches you’d thought about late at night while looking at the pictures and videos on your phone that he had so generously left for you, with only your own hands and imagination to keep you company.
It’s easy to lose yourself in him, making up for lost time and lost kisses. Normally his attentions set your pulse racing, but the longer he kisses you the steadier the beating in your chest becomes as he pulls soft sighs from you. He kisses you slow and deep, like he is savoring the slide of your lips against his. His hands smoothing up and down your back and along your waist, as if he is luxuriating in the feel of your body under his warm palms.
“Bradley,” you breathe contentedly.
“I’m here,” he says.
The simple statement has your mouth breaking out in a wide grin, you can feel the matching one he’s wearing against your lips as he pulls away.
“You’re back.”
“I know,” he says teasingly, running his finger down the bridge of your nose.
You huff a laugh, “No, you’re back early.”
“Mhm,” he hums happily, “And you were playing something really pretty on my piano.” He drops a sweet, lingering kiss on your lips again. “And here I thought”- a kiss on your right cheek- “you said you couldn’t”- a kiss on the left one- “play anymore,” he murmurs as he kisses your forehead. The coarse hair of his mustache feeling rougher than you remember against your skin after so many days without it. “You’ve been holding out on me, sweetheart.”
Your hands slides down from around his neck to rest on his chest. “I’ve been taking lessons,” you tell him. Feeling a bit shy now as you glance up at him from beneath your eyelashes.
“Yeah?” He pulls his head back to look at you, there’s surprise there in his eyes but also pride, “For how long? When did you start?”
If Bradley hadn’t been gazing at you with such genuine affection in those brown eyes of his, you might have been much more nervous to admit just how long you’ve been keeping this secret from him. Even so, you still feel like you’re holding your breath as you reply, “Since you got back from that first deployment.”
You can tell he’s trying to school his features, but his eyebrow still jumps up a bit as he does the math. And as he blinks at you, you can’t help but feel like for all your good intentions that you’ve let him down.
Six months was a long time to keep something like that to yourself.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want to tell him, it had been on the tip of your tongue on more than one occasion. He was the only person you’d been wanting to tell, but waiting for the right time had turned into a three-month deployment.
There’s already an apology about to work its way out of your mouth when he cups your cheeks in his hands, “Why didn’t you tell me? You could have been practicing here the whole time. That piano is basically fifty percent yours anyways, since you were the one who found it.”
“I just- It needed to be mine, just for a little bit,” you say quietly, hoping he understands. Your fingertip anxiously traces around the edges of the patch that rests over his heart. “And I wanted to surprise you. But, then…” You nod your head to the green seabag forgotten on the floor.
The kiss he presses to your lips makes your knees weak with its softness. With its acceptance. With its understanding.
“Well, consider me surprised. You play so lovely,” he says with a gentle smile to put you at ease. And you feel instantly lighter, the pressure that had been building in your chest now just a memory. “I swear, that’s the best thing I’ve heard in months. What were you using to practice with before? The piano at the Hard Deck?”
That he was so invested in this because it was something that mattered to you soothed that tender part of your heart.
His enthusiasm made you want to tell him more, to tell him everything, “I bought an electric keyboard for my place.”
“Wait, really? Where?” he asks, looking adorably confused. You can see him trying to search his memory, as if he’d somehow missed a big rectangular black and white thing pressed against a wall in your tiny apartment. “I swear I’ve never seen one there. That’s something I definitely would have noticed.”
“I would hide it under my bed whenever you were coming over.” Saying it out loud makes you feel a bit sheepish about the lengths you took to keep it a secret until you were ready.
“Under the bed, she says,” Rooster repeats with a shake of his head, clearly amused.
“Well, we’re usually busy on top of it, so it seemed like a good place to keep it hidden,” you say with a little shrug, biting back the smile at the memory of the one time he’d shown up unannounced catching you off guard. And how flustered you been trying to shove it under your mattress as he recovered from the blowjob you’d given him on the couch as an attempt to keep him from going into your bedroom before you could put it away, but also because he really had such a nice cock.
He throws his head back to laugh, the deep sound of it fills the living room. Hearing it for the first time since he’s been away makes your smile grow wider until your cheeks hurt. You love that sound. You love being the one to make him laugh.
But something still tugs at you, something you need to know, something you need to hear.
“Bradley- You’re not…” you trail off.
Mad. Disappointed. Or worse, hurt.
“No. No, I’m not,” he says earnestly, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone softly. “I mean, yeah, I wish I’d known sooner. But only because I would have loved to be the one turning the pages for you and supporting you. I know what this means to you.” He pauses for a moment, that thumb still caressing the curve of your face, “But will you do me a favor?”
ofcourseofcourseofcourse
“Anything.”
That soft smile of his gets bigger and brighter, “Will you play a song for me, sweetheart?”
Some winged thing inside of you takes flight at the sweet sincerity laced between the syllables and the consonants his question.
He’s asked you to play for him so many times. And it had always hurt to deny him what should have been such an easy yes to such a simple request.
But now it didn’t have to be some lonesome dream. Because you’re there and he’s here and it’s all you’ve been wanting.
“Yes, Bradley,” you beam, “I can play something for you.”
You take his hand and pull him further inside the house from where you had been standing in the open doorway. He kicks his duffle bag out of the way, so that he can close the door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world.
It’s just you and him. Together.
In the comfort of his cozy living room, the light from the lamp on top of his piano wrapping you both up in its warm, golden glow.
His piano is no longer daunting the way it used to be. Instead, it welcomes you as you approach it with him in tow. Familiar and friendly.
He lets go of your hand and crouches down next to you. When he stands back up, he shows you the pencil in his hand that he’d picked up for you before tucking it behind your ear, back to where it had been earlier. And you’re dying to know just how long he had been standing in that doorway listening with you completely oblivious to his presence.
You watch with your heart in your throat as he straightens out the previously askewed bench and motions for you to take a seat, dropping a kiss to your cheek.
The creak of the bench not cold and mocking as you sit down, but rather a cheery acknowledgement of your return and of the hours you’ve spent there sitting and practicing together.
You close the open booklet in front of you, to clear up space on the shelf to swap it out for the other sheet music to the song you were planning to play for him, the one you had wanted to welcome him back with. Just as you’re reaching for it, Rooster stops you with a gentle touch to your wrist.
“Wait.” He’s looking down at you with his head tilted and a slight pinch of confusion between his eyebrows, “Why are you putting that one away?”
The song you’d been playing when he’d arrived wasn’t as rehearsed as the other one you’d been reaching for. It wasn’t something you’d ever meant for anyone else to hear, that is other than your piano instructor as she helped to guide you through the tricky parts.
“Oh, um, that one’s not ready,” you falter over the words just a bit as you try to hedge the question. “I have a different piece I wanted to play for you.”
You hold up the sheet music to him and his eyes soften when he sees the title of the song you purchased and practiced with only him in mind. It was polished, it was ready.
You’d had three months to get it ready for him, and you’d made sure to play it through at least once a day. You had wanted it to be perfect, he’d waited so long. He deserved the best and you wanted to be the one to give it to him.
He holds your gaze for a few moments. There’s a questioning look in his eyes, but he must find whatever answer he was looking for written on your face. Because instead of asking you the question seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, he just clears his throat with a little shake of his head.
“You learned this just for me?” he asks, his voice thick and raspy.
And when you bob your head yes, there’s a brief moment where it almost looks like he is struggling with himself. His eyes bouncing from you to the sheet music in his hands to the piano.
“I can’t wait to hear this. Truly, sweetheart. It’s just- the other one is the first thing I’ve ever heard you play...”
It’s not even a real question, but there’s a gentle request ripping in the wake of the way he trails off. There’s no pressure behind the ask that’s not an ask.
But still, there are butterflies fluttering around in your stomach now.
“Ok, Bradley. If that’s what you want to hear, then I’ll play that one for you.” You would do anything this man asked of you, you would do anything for him.
“Yeah?” The grin on his face could power the whole city when you nod your agreement.
He takes a few long strides around you as you work on reopening and flattening out the sheet music to the song he asked you to play for him. Out of the corner of your eye you see him grab and turn the wooden spindle framed arm chair, bringing it closer and situating it in just the right spot next to the piano.
“Look,” he says gesturing to it, pleased with himself as he settles into the chair, “A front row seat.” He is close enough that his knees are hugging either side of the piano bench.
The genuine excitement in his voice makes your heart stutter and skip a beat.
That the anticipation of fingers on keys and hammers striking strings is better to him than any jackpot or trophy could ever be. He makes you feel like this moment is his lucky lottery ticket. That this is his winning championship game.
You.
You seated at his piano bench with sheet music stretched across it and hands that can make music again.
And you would learn all every song ever composed just as long as he keeps looking at you like the way he is now, eyes bright and with a boyish grin on his face.
“Will you turn the pages for me?” you ask him, even though you already know what is answer will be.
“I would be happy to,” he says with satisfaction. And you know he means it.
You’re nervous now seated on the bench with a different song waiting to be played with the black and white keys under your fingers. As you feeling the warmth of Bradley’s presence next to you and the intensity of his gaze on you.
And with shaky fingers, you begin.
All Bradley had craved when he was on that carrier was for some silence.
Just for a moment where he could hear the sound of his own breathing, where his thoughts weren’t overwhelmed by all the other commotion.
And the closer he got to his house, seated in the back seat of the white Prius that had picked him up from base, the more he wished he was headed somewhere else. To someone else.
It had been three months of endless noise.
Three months of the relentless humming and buzzing and rattling and shaking of the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Of planes taking off for night hops and the explosions of jet fuel and machines banging on deck and the clang of metal on metal.
Three months of endless voices. In his ear from over the radio. Bouncing off the walls of the dull gray passageways. Layered and loud on top of the clatter of forks and spoons on plates and bowls in the mess hall.
Three months of sharing a room with Payback, who was considerate and tidy, but snored louder than anyone he’s ever bunked with. In such tight quarters it was hard to get a moment to himself, let alone a sliver of some peace and quiet.
With over a decade of service under his belt, Rooster would have thought it was something he’d get used to. And while it got more bearable over time, it never seems to get any better.
Sleep ‘til you’re hungry. Eat ‘til you’re tired.
That was the motto most of them lived by when they were aboard the ship.
His schedule shifting depending on the day, at the will of whatever commanding officer was in charge. Lunch became breakfast, the leftovers from previous dinner service that they ate during Midrats gave him just enough energy to make it to dawn. He often had stretches where he’d go days without seeing the sun, it was just another reminder that his time didn’t belong to him. There were moments when it felt like he wasn’t even his own person, but he’d known what he was signing up for when he inked his name on those papers.
Those first few weeks on a carrier were always the worst, when sleep would escape him just when he needed it the most.
He was either doing the midnight hops or being woken up by them. Trying to sneak in naps whenever he had more than twenty minutes of free time. More often than not he’d be right on the precipice of falling asleep when his alarm would go off and he’d have to rush off to the Ready Room for tactics trainings or the flight deck for practicing inflight refueling and aerial combat maneuvers.
Bradley loved flying.
He loved that moment when he climbs in the cockpit of his F/A-18 and everything just clicks into place. When the edges of the world around him sharpen, when the contrast is increased and the clarity heightened. That feeling of surety that washes over him every time from knowing that his actions matter, that what he does matters, that he mattered.
It was the way he could honor the man who made him and to solidify his bond with the one who raised him.
He understands his place in the world the best when he is thirty thousand feet in the air.
In the past, it had been easy to put his head down and get through his deployments because his career gave him purpose. His temporary discomforts and the high-stakes risks he took were worth it for the sake of the greater good.
But things were different for him now because he had you. You were always on his mind.
The two of you have been together for a little less than a year, but it feels like he’s known you forever. You make him feel seen and understood in a way that he’s never experienced before.
Bradley knew how lucky he was to have you, he’d almost blown it one too many times for his comfort in the early days of your relationship. His anxiety nearly derailing one of the best things that’s ever happened to him.
But luckily for him, you wanted him.
Even with all his flaws and scars and baggage.
And for you, he wanted to be a man worth waiting for.
That first deployment was harder than he could have ever anticipated. Not only because he’d never had anyone to miss before, but also because he’d never had to carry the weight that came from knowing someone else was missing him just as much in return.
The way he felt as he held you and danced with you in his living room, with that record you’d found spinning in the background, was a moment he wasn’t ever going to forget. It had felt just as special then as it does now. It’s the memory he replays in his mind over and over again on the nights he can’t sleep.
He’d ordered the sheet music to “Make Love to Me” during those final few hours he had left with you the night before he was due to leave. The screen brightness on his phone turned down all the way so that he didn’t wake you up as you slept soundly, soft and naked, next to him in his bed.
The anticipation getting home to you and learning it for you was the only thing that helped to get him through those six weeks when he felt like the walls were closing in on him from the way he missed and wanted you.
And once he was back, in between the hours he spent at work and the hours he spent tangled in bed with you, he’d go to the Hard Deck before it opened to use Penny’s old upright to practice. Thinking about how nice it would be to have one that he had a place to call his own. Then flipping off Hangman every chance he got when he’d groan about having to hear the song again.
Rooster had been able to bribe his team with the promise of free beer for a month in exchange for their participation when the song was finally ready for you. He’d known that their over the top antics would make you laugh. And the smile on your face when he’d serenaded you with it for the first time had been worth every penny of the hefty credit card bill he’d received the next month.
It was just as hard this time.
It had taken him a while to realize what exactly that feeling was that had settled heavy on his chest.
Homesick.
He’d never known he could be homesick for a person until he met you.
Time seemed to move faster when the two of you were together. And when he was away from you, the hours and days felt long.
It was harder to let the little things roll off his back because he couldn’t look forward to seeing your smile after a long day when he was thousands of miles away. He couldn’t decompress the way he was used to, the burn he worked up at the weight bench in the gym wasn’t nearly as effective as sitting at the bench in front of his piano. Even if his biceps were reaping the benefits.
On more than one occasion, he’d caught himself absentmindedly tapping out unheard tunes on the sides of his thighs.
Bradley hadn’t realized how much tension he was carrying in his shoulders until he’d felt it release at the sound of your laugh on one of the rare instances he’d been able to call you over the satellite phone on board.
“Have you been wearing the sunscreen I sent with you, Golden Boy?” you’d asked him.
“I promised you I would, didn’t I?” he’d replied, even as he rubbed at his sternum in discomfort at the not quite lie. When the reality was he didn’t need it when he was on such good terms with the moon. But he didn’t tell you that, didn’t want you to worry about him more than he already knew you were.
“That’s good. Because Lobster Boy just doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.” He could hear the smile in your tone, could feel it as it traveled over the electrical currents.
All the sounds and noise that seemed to follow him around, all the thoughts that circled and spiraled in his head, they faded when he got to listen to your sweet voice. As you told him how much you missed him and how proud you were of him and how much you loved him. Everything he’d never had before. The one thing he’d never let himself hope for.
Someone who cared. Someone who loved him. Someone who was waiting for him.
It was the first time in weeks that things had felt quieter. That he could finally breathe a little easier.
Until they’d told Bradley and his team that the mission they had spent the better part of two and a half months preparing for was getting moved up. And then the sound of the pounding of his heart was drown out by the ringing in his ears.
And on the night, during those pivotal moments where the minutes stretched on like hours, they’d flown it as damn near perfect as could be.
The feeling of sweat dripping down his back as his team had made their way back to the carrier an uncomfortable, but welcomed, reminder that he’d made it. That they’d all made it. That he would be headed back to you soon.
They did the fly-off two days before the carrier was due to dock back at base. Unlike usual, there wasn’t a fanfare of family and friends ready to greet them at the hanger. Normally, their return was a big event. Their formations immaculate as ever as they showed off for all of the important people in their lives before landing.
With all his other deployments, it was the moment that Bradley did is best to avoid thinking about, as he tried and failed to ignore the dread that would settle deep in the pit of his stomach.
Knowing that he’d have to watch as members of his squadron were met with a cheerful homecoming of handmade signs and smiles and laughter and hugs. Watching their tearful and happy reunions, watching as some of his teammates met the newest members of their families for the very first time. All while he’d gather his things and shake the occasional hand, only leave alone.
With this one, it was something he’d been looking forward to for the first time in his career. The idea of you being there to greet him, that big beautiful smile on your face just for him. Of getting to hold you in his arms for the first time in months in the bright golden California sunshine.
But he didn’t mind missing out since it meant he could be home early. He’d trade all the hoopla and hubbub for any extra minute he could have with you.
After all, there was always next time.
Because there would be a next time.
They’d gotten in sometime after midnight, the flashing lights on the runway guiding them in. The diet of stale coffee and adrenaline that he’d been living off of for the last few days finally catching up with him as he worked his way through the final check list of things needing to be done. The brief wrap-up that Cyclone wanted to have ended up going longer than originally planned.
And the longer he had sat there, the more the bone-deep weariness had set in.
His boots felt heavy on his feet as they’d all shuffled out the door to collect the rest of their belongings to head out. Everyone eager to get back to their own homes, back to their own beds. And for the lucky ones, back to the people in those homes and in those beds, who would be excited to see them.
Reuben had offered to give him a ride. He’d snuck a call to his wife the moment they’d gotten service to let her know he was coming home, and she had been there in the parking lot waiting for him. But Payback’s classy condo was on the other side of town from his own Craftsman bungalow, and Rooster wasn’t going to have his now former roommate drive out of his way when he had an app on his phone that could drop him off without inconveniencing anyone else.
So he’d bluffed and said that you were on you way, and then lingered in the break room with another cup of terrible coffee for an additional twenty minutes until everyone cleared out before ordering his ride.
He had been so close to putting in your address for the drop off when he’d booked the Lyft. He really wanted to see you, he’d missed you so much over the last three months. But had decided against it at the last minute, when he realized just how late it was. Thinking that maybe he could surprise you at work and take you out for lunch after some much-needed sleep, when he wasn’t so dead on his feet.
He wanted to be at his best for you.
But the longer he sits in the back of the white Prius, with his knees crushed against the back of the seat in front of him, sipping on the little eight-ounce water bottle the man had blindly tossed in his direction when he’d climbed in, the more he was realizing just how big of a mistake it was to give the driver his own address instead of yours.
The roads were mostly empty, only a few cars here and there.
It was sometime when night met astronomical twilight. The sun hovering somewhere between twelve to eighteen degrees from the horizon. Some stars visible in the night sky even with all the light pollution from the city.
Too late for the people from the bars to still be out and too early for the stirrings of the early commuters who had a long journey into work ahead of them.
Bradley had spent months wishing for the quiet. And he finally had it.
It was silent in the car.
His driver has his AirPods in- which he knows is illegal in California, but he wasn’t going to press it when the roads were this deserted- and the man hadn’t bothered to turn the radio on, so he was left on his own with his worn and well-used duffle bag, an empty water bottle that looked comically small in his hand, and his thoughts.
That quiet he had been so eager for wasn’t the peaceful kind he had hoped for. It is a lonely kind of quiet. It was one that pointedly reminded him that no one would be waiting for him at the end of his destination, when he finally reached that dot at the end of the purple road on his app.
The white static in his ears gets louder with every passing mile. As he watches the minutes tick down until the end of his ride. Where he would get out, and the driver would move on with his night, and he would still be on his own.
He was so tired of coming back from deployments to an empty space. Just like it had been at the barracks. Just like it had been at the minimally furnished apartments he’d rented before he’d been relocated.
This felt too close to those hollow, lonely homecomings of his past.
And while he liked his house, with its wooden shingles and original windows and warm charm, it was just building with four walls and a roof. The rooms held his things, but they didn’t hold anyone.
His dark, empty, quiet house.
It wasn’t a home if he was there alone.
He’d be so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he’d missed the fact that the driver had turned up his street. He’d missed the tree lined suburban blocks leading up to his small Craftsman, until the car slowed down and came to a stop in front of it.
Bradley can feel the guy’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror as he waits for him to grab his things and get out. That homesick feeling in his chest that he’d carried with him for the last ninety days, now back in tenfold. The weight of it keeps him sitting where he is.
He is so much closer to where he wanted to be when he was out in the middle of the ocean, but still too far from who he needed to be with.
As he is opening his mouth to give the driver the address to your apartment, his eyes catch on a light that’s been left on in his house.
That gentle, warm glow of the small lamp above his piano illuminating his living room against the shadows. The curtains still pushed to either side, so he can see in from the outside. Where he can see his piano and a figure curved over it.
And then he’s out of the car and standing on the cracked sidewalk with his bag in hand and taillights rounding a corner before he can fully even process it.
He almost doesn’t want to believe his eyes, the dried out and tired things that they are. Not trusting that in his sleep deprived state that they aren’t playing tricks on him, conjuring the one person he wanted to see the most.
It’s not until he hears the faint sound of his piano calling for him to come closer that it hits him in the chest with as much force as it does when he’s pulling G’s.
That his favorite daydream was now his reality.
His pretty girlfriend, the one who said she couldn’t play, was the one who was sitting at his piano making the music that was welcoming him home.
But as his feet carried him up the walkway, up the stairs, and across his porch to the front door, the music had only gotten louder and clearer. Fishing out the key from his pocket, he slips it into the lock as quietly as possible, opening the door ever… so… slowly… and with more patience than he knew he had in him.
He is too captivated by the curve and shape of you sitting there to try and figure out what that familiar tune is that you’re playing. There’s a cup of tea resting on top of the piano, sitting on one of the coasters you’d got for him when you realized he didn’t have any. You look so soft and perfect wearing a t-shirt of his that he thought he’d lost, a pencil adorably tucked behind your ear.
The picture in front of him is easily the best thing he has seen in months.
Bradley loves that piano. You were the one to find it for him.
It’s his favorite thing that he owns, because when he looks at his piano he thinks of you and the fact you were thinking of him.
It was always something he’d meant to find the time to research, to look into. He knew he wanted one, but he’d never taken the initiative to actually shop around for one.
It had been a dream of his for years, but he’d never had the opportunity to even consider it until after the Uranium Mission when they’d all been permanently relocated to San Diego. And even after he’d bought his house, it was something that sat in the corner of his mind rather than in the corner of his living room.
Instead of putting roots down, he felt like he was waiting for the rug to get pulled out from underneath him. Yet again.
Until one night at the Hard Deck, after he’d played a few of the crowd-pleasing tunes he kept in his back pocket, you’d passed him your phone to show him something. It had been picture of a gorgeous mahogany console piano, just the right size for where he’d been imagining one would go in his house.
“You’ve been telling me you want one of your own for ages, so I set up a few alerts just see what was out there,” you’d told him a bit shyly, almost like you weren’t sure if you were overstepping. “That one just came up, it looks like it’s in really great shape. And that price is better than what I’ve been seeing from some of the other ones I’ve looked at. So I sent the seller an email- just in case- and they replied. They’re not too far away, you’d just need to move it yourself. But you’ve got first dibs on it if you want it.”
His eyes had bounced back and forth between pictures and your beautiful face, “You did that for me?”
“It seemed like something that would make you happy,” you’d replied simply.
He can still remember the way his heart had pressed against the ribs in his chest.
“This is- It’s perfect. Thank you for finding this. Will you ask them if they want a deposit?” he’d asked, watching as that tentative, hopeful smile on your face grew bigger and brighter. “I don’t want to lose it. This is the one for me.”
He’d been sure of it. He was still sure of it.
A couple hours later and standing in front of Penny’s jukebox, he had still been buzzing from the find. The seller had taken down the listing, the deposit had been sent, the pick-up time was set, and he’d even managed to rope Jake into helping him move it in exchange for a bottle of whiskey. And you, you were the reason for it all.
He didn’t mean to play the song, didn’t even remember selecting it.
One minute he was looking through the catalogue of songs and the next you were in his arms as he twirled and spun you around on the scuffed wooden floors of the Hard Deck. He knew you weren’t the most confident of dancers, but loved that you trusted him to lead you in a slow easy rhythm.
Enjoying the feel of you in his arms, his lips pressed against your ear as he whispered anything and everything that came to his mind, the words all honey-dipped, as the song played on in the background.
“My girl likes sweet nothings?” he had murmured teasingly at the way he’d felt another shiver dance its way down your spine.
“They’re not nothings, Bradley. They’re sweet somethings,” you’d murmured back, settling your head on his shoulder. “It’s never nothing with you.”
He took your hand and placed it on his heart and he leaned back in. Whispering more sweet somethings into the shell of your ear. He didn’t stop until the song ended, but he could have gone on for hours.
Later that night, Mav had slid up to him at the bar as he was cashing out for the night. He was having a hard time focusing on the conversation the older man was trying to have with him because his eyes kept searching out you from across the room.
And you kept catching him looking.
“You going to marry that girl?” Mav had asked him with a knowing look in his eyes.
He knew the meaning of the song Bradley had selected better than anyone else. Pete been there the night his parents had gotten married, watching on from the sidelines as they’d had their first dance to the crooning voice of Sam Cooke.
“I sure hope so,” he’d answered.
He’d been feeling it for a while, but that was the night he knew.
Now he feds Penny’s jukebox his quarters and plays that song on purpose at least once a week.
For how tired he had been in the back of the Lyft, he feels like he could stand here and watch you for hours.
You’re humming to yourself as you play. Shaking your head when your finger hits a wrong key, slowing down to repeat it, before continuing on. Nodding along when you get through a portion, like you must have practiced that part in particular and were proud of yourself to get it right.
It’s the best thing he’s ever heard. Even when your fingers slip up and play a string of wrong notes.
“Fuck me, F Sharp not F,” you huff.
And he has to bite his lip to keep from chuckling and giving himself away.
Stopping this time to pull the pencil from out behind your ear, you bend forward making some circles on the sheet music in front of you for the spot that had tripped you up. Grumbling some other expletives lowly under your breath as you work.
His studious sweetheart.
Bradley is hit was with a tidal wave of affection so fierce that he knows he can’t stay quiet anymore.
You’ve made your marks and are setting your hands back on the keys about to start over again when he decides to ask you a question in-person for the first time in three months, “Can you play it from the beginning this time, sweetheart?"
“Bradley!”
He loves the way you say his name. He loves the sound of your voice. He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.
It’s almost an out of body experience to have you in his arms.
To kiss you. To taste the hint of chamomile on your tongue. To feel your heart beating against his chest. To tease you. To touch the soft skin of your face with his fingertips. To talk to you. To listen to you as you tell him about when you started taking lessons.
Because he still can’t believe you’re here, it still feels too good to be true.
He doesn’t feel the gravity settle back into his bones until you say you’ll play him a song.
Feeling oddly anxious when he notices you closing the booklet that was in front of you, in favor of putting it way and reaching for something else. But then you smile up at him as you show him the sheet music for song you told him you’ve been practicing.
There’s a look in your eyes that tells him you know exactly why he feeds Penny’s jukebox his quarters and plays “You Send Me” when he wants to dance with you. He knows in his gut that Mav must have told you, probably an intentionally unintentional slip of the tongue.
And god, he really fights the urge to ask. He doesn’t want to hurt your feelings or for you to think he’s taking this moment for granted or that he’s ungrateful for the work you’ve put into learning that song just for him.
A song that meant something to him.
But he is so desperate to hear you play the other one, the one that welcomed him home, the one that’s the first song he’s ever heard you play. It’s already so special to him in a way that he can’t put words too.
When you agree, Bradley’s chest swells with warmth and he can’t hold back his excitement. He pulls up a chair next to you as close as he can get without getting in your way.
And he swears he falls in love with you all over again when you ask him to turn the pages for you.
He hasn’t proposed yet, but if he is lucky enough to look in your eyes as he vows to spend forever with you, he knows he is going promise to turn your pages for the rest of your lives together. That is, if you’ll have him when the time comes.
His eyes catch the way you squeeze and flex your hand, the faintest hint of trembling in your fingers before you set them on the ivory key. The only thing giving away your nerves. Then after a deep breath, you’re playing for him.
And he gets to hear your song, from the beginning, for the very first time.
It starts of soft and melodic, almost like a lullaby. The timbre of the lower notes would sound almost melancholy if it weren’t for the uplifting lyrical, melody of the treble clef. The juxtaposition makes his heart ache and soar at the same time. He knows this song, even if he’s still having a hard time placing it, the title just out of reach.
When you had first told him that you’d forgotten how to play, he’d felt so guilty for all the times he’d tried to get you to play something for him. Kicking himself when he offered to help, not knowing even if you wanted to play anymore. He didn’t want to ever be the one causing you pain.
He knows better than anyone the bittersweet and complicated relationship that you have with the instrument. So the meaning of this gesture isn’t lost on him in the slightest.
He can feel every ounce of love and effort that has gone into this. And all because you wanted to wanted to share this part of yourself with him? Because you loved him?
Bradley wants to absorb every detail of this moment, wants to carry it with him always. The sound of the rich and round notes from the keys your fingers are gliding over. Your sweet face as you read the sheet music in front of you.
He only glances away every now and then to keep track on where you were in the song, so that he can fulfill his duties and turn the page when you’re ready.
You surprise him when you start singing along quietly. And he can’t help but lean in.
He’s always liked the sound of your pretty voice. He loves when he’s able to catch you singing in the shower, when he’ll linger in the doorway and listen. You’ll sing along with him in the car when the winds are whipping from the highway or when you’re tipsy. But it’s rare that he gets to hear you so sing so freely.
It’s not until he hears the words that it clicks for him, that he finally recognizes the song. It’s one he’s heard hundreds of times before, but never like this. There’s a sense of sincerity in it that feels new to him, but that seems entirely perfect for the piece. It’s like he’s hearing the song and understanding the depth of the lyrics for the very first time.
And the more you play, the more overwhelmed he’s getting. The lump in his throat growing in size with every passing measure. The pressure building behind his eyes isn’t from the lack of sleep, but something else entirely. The words you’re singing to him landing and making a place at home in his heart.
You’re approaching the chorus again. He knows where the song is building to. And he wants to meet you where you’re at, wants to show you he hears you. The one thing he’s always liked about the original is that it’s a duet. It’s a conversation.
Rooster realizes now that it was never the quiet he had wanted. It wasn’t the lonely sound of silence. All he wanted and all he needed was you.
Licking his lips, he waits for the right moment and then joins in with a low whistle.
Your head whips towards him and the brilliant smile on your face looks and feels like home.
This.
This is what you had wanted.
His harmonizing whistle was something you didn’t know you’d been hoping for until he joined in.
A part of him, a part of you. Something to be shared.
As you’d gotten yourself situated, smoothing out those pages in front of you, you’d felt your nerves trying to get the best of you.
Thinking about Bradley’s pretty brown eyes on you as you played versus actually having his steady gaze pinned on you were two very different things.
You’ve always had a hard time being the center of attention.
At your birthday, he had so flawlessly distracted everyone from that moment you always dreaded so much, sparing you from having everyone sing and watch on as the candles on the cake were blown out. Because he knew you and cared enough to want you to have the best time. It was the first birthday you’ve had where you were entirely out of your head for the whole evening.
However, he did play it for you himself on the piano much later that night when it was just the two of you, as you ate leftover cake wrapped up in his sheet.
And even those times when he’s serenaded you during crowded nights out at the Hard Deck, it was fine because while his eyes were on you, everyone else was busy looking at him.
But in his small living room, there wasn’t anything to distract him with or for you to hide behind.
The rapid sixteenth notes had been turned into more manageable eight notes with the help of piano teacher. Her tidy markings simplifying and streamlining the music to make it easier for you to learn. Done in pencil, she’d pointed out to you when she returned the sheet music back to you the next week after you’d given it to her, so that you could easily erase it when you were ready to tackle the more difficult portions.
Even so, there had been a brief moment where all the notes seemed to bleed into each other on the page.
It was as if the words of a book had been scrambled and rearranged just as you were getting to the best part. Just as you were about to find out who did it, just as they were about to kiss, just as the heist was about to be pulled off.
Your shaky fingers landing on the edges of a couple of the keys rather than in the middle of one.
But Bradley didn’t care that you’d fumbled over the opening. From the corner of your eye, you’d been able to see the way he was looking at you. It was like you’d hung the moon and the stars just for him.
He wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, because his feelings were always worn so openly on his face.
All those butterflies that had been swarming in your stomach took their flight, and a gentle warm wave of contentment filled you up instead.
You didn’t need the perfect notes when this was the perfect moment. It felt real, it felt right.
The urge had snuck up on you without warning. You hadn’t meant to start singing along, but once the first few words had come out of your mouth you were committed.
And then he’d leaned in.
He was already so close, you could just barely feel his knee brushing against the outside of your thigh from the way his legs were bracketing the piano bench. But there he was trying to get closer still.
Only you would know how many hours you’d spent behind your little electric keyboard and in Mrs. McMullen’s cozy music room and at Bradley’s house seated on his creaky piano bench.
Only you would know after he’d left, you’d driven right back to his house, the smell of his fancy coffee and sandalwood scent still lingering in the air. That you had pulled out the music to “Make Love to Me”, thinking that trying to play it for yourself on his piano would make you feel better, only to end up missing him more than ever when he hadn’t even been gone for an hour yet.
Only you would know many times you’ve tried, and made mistakes, only to try again. Once more, once again.
But in that moment, you didn’t want him to hear all the hours of lessons or all the hours of practice.
You wanted him to hear your heart.
And when he turned the page of your music for you, you couldn’t help but smile.
You wanted this song to speak to him like it had spoke to you the first time you’d heard it. The way it still speaks to you. How it made you think of him, every time you played it and every time you heard it.
You hoped he could feel it through the keys beneath your fingers and the pedal under your foot.
When Bradley joins in, quietly at first before getting a little louder after you grin at him, you know it’s his way of telling you that he does.
And it is everything.
He follows the lead of your fingers as they glide over the keys. The ebb and flow of his whistle, coming in and tapering out. Your melody strong on its own, but made better with his counterpoint.
For him, you were up for it all. Those quiet periods were just beats of rest that dotted the staff of your life with him. There were so many more notes in his song to look forward to.
Because he was worth the wait.
Those combinations and arrangements of notes that had once been fed your yearning were now fueled by your joy.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, it dawns on you that this was the first time that you weren’t playing the piano not to mask the loud or to cover the quiet. You weren’t playing because with a self-imposed pressure to make something perfect. You weren’t playing as a way to try and ease the longing that had taken up residency in your chest ever since you’d dropped him off at base nearly one hundred days ago.
You were playing because he made you happy and it made you happy to finally be able to off this little piece of your heart to him. He knew you in every other sense, but all you had wanted was for him to know you in this way too.
You were playing because it made you happy.
The rhythm of your left hand sure and steady like a heartbeat, while those soaring winged notes of your right sounded like the way you felt when he was near. When he was here with you, when he was home with you.
It feels like time isn’t being marked by the ticking second hand of a clock, but rather by the passing of beats housed within measures. Dictated by tempo of your own choosing.
You let yourself float in the moment, in the music. Of the feeling of the keys under your hands, of reading the notes on the page. No longer a random series of dots scattered along five lines on a page. Their language unlocked to you once again. Of the pride you can feel radiating off the man who loves you as you are. The one who made you want to try. The one who helped you find this part of yourself again.
Those two parallel lines that mark the end of the song inch closer as he turns the final page for you. And you find yourself playing just a bit slower. Trying to draw out every note and chord, soaking up the way they filled every nook and corner of his living room with their sound.
It’s inevitable when you come up on those few closing measures. All good things come to an end, but it doesn’t mean there won’t be more good things to come. You can have this whenever you want. You have all you need.
You and Bradley and a piano.
Your fingers hold down the keys of those final notes, pulling out every last bit of sound that can be let from them. The sound waves bending and spreading, their energy passing through his home until they can’t be heard any more.
Holding on. Holding it. Before finally, letting go.
And when you turn to Bradley, his arms are already open and waiting for you.
His piano bench announces its displeasure you’ve stopped playing for the moment when it groans and creaks as you get up in favor of tucking yourself into the comfort of his lap.
He wastes no time pulling you into him and wrapping you up. Encouraging you to nestle your head into his shoulder. Pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his cheek on the top of your head. His hand slipping under the hem of your t-shirt to run soothingly up and down your spine as you breathe him in.
You’re feeling exposed to him in a way you’ve never felt before. It was your turn to put all your cards on the table. But you know you’re safe with him, your heart is safe with him. Just as his is with you.
Neither of you say anything as the weight of the moment relaxes into something softer. As you felt the essence of the notes you’d been playing settle around the two of you from how they’d been silently lingering in the air.
It’s quiet, but there is peace to be found in it.
Bradley is the one to pull away to take your face between his large hands. His brown eyes brimming with warmth.
“I love you so damn much,” he murmurs before leaning in to kiss you. Delicately, softly, tenderly. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too,” you say running your fingers through his curls. Your heart swells as he leans into your touch, letting his eyes flutter close in contentment. Your Golden Boy. “I’m so happy you’re home.”
“There’s no place I’d rather be than here. My home is with you,” he sighs, sleepy and satisfied. But the sincerity in his statement wraps itself around your heart.
“Bradley.”
“Mmhm,” he hums, his eyes still closed.
“Let’s go to bed,” you say softly as you gaze at him. Even half asleep, he’s still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. And he’s yours. “It’s still too early for even roosters to be up.”
He huffs a little chuckle, cracking one eye open to squint at you. The side of his mouth pulling up on one side in amusement.
You move to climb off of him, but he hooks his hand underneath your thighs. Waiting for you to thread your arms around his neck before he stands up with you in his arms as he starts walking towards his bedroom.
Looking over his shoulder, you notice that little light above his piano is on.
The sky outside Bradley’s window is beginning to lighten now, the dark of night has given way to a dusky navy. There is the gentlest tease of wispy pink and purple cotton candy clouds, a sign that a sure to be stunning sunrise that’s on its way.
And you already know, it’s going to be a good day.
Thank you for reading, friends! This soft little piano fic has been living with me since January and I'm so thrilled that it's out now! I loved getting to share this one with you!
And a sincere thank you to @gretagerwigsmuse, @callsignspark, and @laracrofted for the support, and for letting me send endless snippets and the feedback! I appreciate you so much!
I purposefully left out the song that Bradley's Sweetheart plays, just in case anyone wanted to imagine their perfect song. But if you’re curious, here’s the one that I had in mind when I was writing this: Home (slowed) by Edith Whiskers 🤍
You can read some of my other stories here!
Taglist:
@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader
"And will we ever end up together?
No, I think not. It's never to become... for I am not the One."
Warning: Thorin's death
(It's also in 🐦 here)
Play for FREE at itch.io
Dead Plate is a short 2D restaurant tycoon themed rpg horror game with visual novel and point-and-click elements set in 1960s France following the story of a lively waiter named Rody trying to make as much money as possible in a week at a fancy bistro owned by a charismatic and successful chef, Vince.
🍽️ Development & Story & Graphics 🍽️ :: RachelDrawsThis :: @ekrixart
🍷 Composer & Sound Designer 🍷 :: BellKalengar
🥩 Features 🥩 :: Original soundtrack :: 70+ CGs and 8+ maps :: Classic restaurant tycoon styled gameplay :: Character-driven story with 8k+ of dialogue
⏲️ Estimated Play Time ⏲️ :: 1 hour 20 ~ 30 minutes for an ending :: Up to 3 hours in total for completion
🔥 NUMBER OF ENDINGS 🔥 :: 4 (+ Different dialogues and hidden secrets/details)
Reblogs and tips are greatly appreciated!
Another Undertale AU guys, this time is Reapertale, I love this AU so much (fangirl screaming).
AU made by: @renrink
Thanks for the new followers, where are you finding me guys?!? Anyway, hope you enjoy the art :3
Edit: so many notes, OMG thank you >
Ghost Pokemon - Halloween 2023
Thank you for the support on this project! Now to the next one!
i’m so normal about this.
Knifewifes: Slay Together Stay Together
1x08 || 2x06
So when Pristine cut comes out and everyone has time to soak it all in, you’re all going to go ahead and play Scarlet Hollow, right?
(ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ heres some fanart of tachi! i think he’s my favourite of your characters~
~~~~~ AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH OH MY WOOOOOOOOORD!!!!! I'm like sitting here speechless!!! I'm so happy you like him!!! Thank you so much for this amazing drawing!!!!!
me and the only other person on this site who knows what throwup club is are friends in my mind already
emily axford i'm in love with you. please read our wives under the sea by julia armfield
PLEASE people NEED to read Hell Followed With Us. Everyone needs to if they can. Religious, not religious, lgbt and allies. Its an important book that is fuled by the anger the author felt. It is a book written and wrought with sorrow and anger of loss and loss of what the author never was allowed. Even after reading the letter from the author I could have never expected the volume of anger and intrigue plastered and carved into the pages. Hell followed with us is a book about trans anger in all of its righteousness to the modern church. If the modern church continues to ingore the truth of what is around them, more books like these will fill their bookstores. No book burnings can stop that
I’m on my hands and knees guys read Hell Followed With Us by Andrew Joseph White I need to tell my insane ramblings to someone
I actually don’t know how long I’ve been staring at S12 Shake’s animation but it’s just so satisfying I can’t stop watching, the amount of expressions and smoothness is just ugh I’m obsessed
park seonghwa | the trouble with twenty
pairing: park seonghwa + fem!reader (theres ONE mention of the reader being female im kinda mad i thought this was gender neutral the whole time)
wc: 3.0k
genre: fluff and angst (but the fluff wins)
warning: mentions of death
concept: when you fall in love with someone that isn’t your soulmate, you give a piece of your soul to them; failure to find your soulmate before running out of soul to give results in one’s death + you stop physically aging when you hit the age of twenty.
a/n: ok holy shit i ,, never finish my wips 99% of the time so im glad this could b the 1% !! s/o to @akokj @cheelix @lvryeol @trulyjaehyuk & finally a big big thank you to one of my irls who’s been w it since its beginnings in early january SDHJS
Keep reading
just talked about genshin lore for three hours with my friend holy fuck
its so interesting though and theres so many theories and stuff i could continue to talk abt it for hours ˙ᵕ˙
Some doodles from last night
Somehow still not satisfied with the way I drew the mimics💔 attempt 39273615
( @mustangs-flames )
I made this graphic to convince my brother to watch dunmeshi.
The Acolyte and The Master (v.2)