#californian classics

[clemsblog]

[classiccarsincyprus]

Hillman Minx 1954 MK V111 2 Door Californian

[04tenno]

AN FUCK THEY DID IT AGAIN

THERES ANOTHER NAKED ASS MAN BUTT ON MY SCREEN RGGG

DURING PRIDE MONTH

ICHIBAN DING DONG FOR THE MASSES OF X COUNTRY WHERE ER THE FUCK HES AT

Unfortunately this ask reminded me that in promotional material for Yakuza: Like a Dragon, George Takei describes Ichiban as "everything you could ask for... and more" while the camera pans to Ichi's crotch

[march32nd]

HERE IS MINE AND RYLEE’S VIDEO I WAS TALKING ABOUT

[julio-claudian-saberface]

The Judgment of Paris (1976) is aptly named in that it, too, left pissy bigwigs with bruised egos in its wake.

[snckt]

also cannot believe the school librarian let me check out the string of books i did

[butwheredoyougetyourprotein]

Sydney Exterior Example of a mid-sized beach style gray two-story painted brick and shingle exterior home design with a tile roof and a gray roof

[fatehbaz]

taking relentless severe psychic damage from watching several hours of videos of television commercial advertisements from the United States in December 1999.

a world-historical moment, an all-time high peak of self-assured smirking arrogance.

ascendant home computers and internet modems. a new millennium! a time after Cold War but before Nining Leven, with saxophone-playing heads of state and cheery Spielbierg-ian sentimentality attempting to plaster over 1970s/1980s disappointments and hangovers with renewed millennarian End-Of-History optimism.

come celebrate with us! look at these images of The Nation! from sparkling Times Square and the cast of "Friends" in bustling cosmopolitan New York City, to sunny Californian prosperity, to those cartoonish frogs in the quasi-mythical Deep South-ish rural periphery of Budweiser ads, and all the suburban Midwestern Kay's Jeweler's in between! planetary hegemony. "Head east from the Colosseum, across the ruts of chariots, and you'll find an imperial estate built by a second-century Caesar. It's a rough ride. And if the agile and durable Chevy Tracker can handle these ancient roads, driving back home will be a walk in the park. Chevy Tracker: It Gets Around!"

or perhaps "our" power extends beyond this terrestrial imperium, into space, conquering the stars. UFOs; space aliens; The X-Files; Independence Day; Space Jam; Men in Black; the Phoenix Lights; Coast to Coast AM on the radio; Space Command in Colorado Springs.

the anxious fragility belied by the desperate constant promotion of an almost religious dedication to recognizable icons.

talking chihuahuas, marketing jingles, annual football game events. self-referential circular cross-promotion maelstrom.

"An all-new holiday spectacular, a Christmas special destined to become a family classic! With music from REM's Michael Stipe, voiced by Ally McBeal's Peter MacNicol, and starring Drew Barrymore! It's Olive the Other Reindeer! At 8/7 Central Fox Friday!"

trying to insist that this "classic" cultural iconography binds us. it has always lived in your heart. fabricating in real-time a supposedly shared history, insisting on this "reality" even at the moment of its very creation. hammering away at the soul.

Daffy Duck saunters in and pronounces: "Eat your way into the new millennium with this 'gigundo' party sub from Subway!"

why aren't you smiling?

[octuscle]

I feel like it's super taboo but I see white guys wanting to be other races all the time. I'm American Chinese but I really want to get rid of the chinese bit. Californian surfer bro preset please.

Dude. If you already know what you want to be, why are you approaching me? These are really the cases that are boring to yawn at. Apart from the fact that I also find the classic Californian surfer-bro boring to yawn at. My God, the beaches of Malibu are full of them. If you're going to trample on your history, don't you at least want to stand out from the crowd a little? Like 40 or 60 kilograms?

Okay, you're not exactly the surfing god. Your center of gravity is too high thanks to your huge pecs and monstrous upper arms. This makes stability on the board difficult. And with your 140 kg of almost pure muscle mass, you need a board with a lot of uplift to be able to ride the waves at all.

In any case, I can assure you: There hasn't been an Asian gene in your body since the Hun invasion. Too bad, really… But your roots are now completely German. Okay, you had a Swedish grandmother. You owe your blonde hair to her.

I hope I've captured your taste. Chill out, dude!

[mysteryfleshpit]

Depending on who you talked to, James Jackson was either a con man, a genius, a degenerate gambler, a reincarnated shaman from ages past, or some combination of all four. “Jim”, as his friends and detractors called him, was a strange man. He was a self-educated thinker who was absolutely convinced that he was possessed of talents that approached the supernatural.     He may have been right: in the history of American enterprise there was no one quite like Jim Jackson. His overall demeanor and presentation to all who interacted with him was that of a self-styled cowboy; he wore ostrich-leather boots, always had a Marlboro cigarette in his mouth, and owned a ten gallon hat in every color in the catalog, and spoke with a drawl so thick that he could easily be mistaken for a man out of time. This man, who came to embody every myth of the western oilman and whose exploits would someday captivate a nation, had not stepped foot in Texas until his twentieth birthday. He never made a dime from oil. Jim was born in Boston on July 16th, 1945 at the exact instant that the first atomic bomb was detonated two thousand miles away in New Mexico. He was the youngest of four children to Walter and Evelyn Jackson; Evelyn was a classically-trained stage actress who came from old money tied up in real estate in the northeast. Walter was a prolific and brilliant chemist who directed a research group for Bell Telephone Laboratories. During the war, Walter’s team was instrumental in developing the membranes necessary for the gas-diffusion method of enriching uranium for the Manhattan Project. Walter moved his family from Boston to San Jose, California in 1949 to partner with one of his former colleagues in founding a new applied science company. This new venture, Allied Micromaterials Corporation, would become one of the pioneering institutions in the development of semiconductors and later transistors. Contacts Walter had maintained in the defense department led to Allied receiving a contract to manufacture guidance systems for a new range of ICBM missiles, and by the middle of the 1950s, Walter was a very wealthy man. As a boy, Jim was bright but had no patience for school. On several occasions he was found cutting class to wander along a creek that ran through the family’s estate. The land had been an apricot orchard before being purchased by his father, and a young Jim spent every spare minute he could find playing cowboy in the pastoral grove of trees. His patient mother indulged his fantasies and sent him to dude ranches and paid for horse riding lessons in the hopes it might instill a sense of discipline. By Jim’s sixteenth birthday he was showing signs of restlessness in the rapidly-urbanizing Californian environment, and entered into frequent arguments with his exasperated father. When he told Walter that he had no interest in attending college, and instead mentioned the then-escalating conflict in Vietnam, his father shouted him down. Angry but determined, a seventeen year old Jim walked to an army recruitment station the very next morning. It was of no use, however; through Walter’s many ties to the U.S. defense industry, it was essentially guaranteed that Jim would never see combat. For the young man who yearned to see the world and longed for an adventure to break the monotony of his sheltered upbringing, this was the final straw. On a spring day in 1962, James Jackson packed a small bag and left home. From San Jose he took a train to Carson City, Nevada with the intent of finding work at one of the horse ranches from his childhood. When he arrived, a new subdivision had taken its place, with any traces of the ranches long gone. For two months he washed dishes in a casino buffet in Reno to pay for accrued gambling debts. From Nevada he hitchhiked to Idaho where he cut onions for 80¢ a day until the winter season forced him to move on. For three years he stumbled from job to job, lumberjacking in Washington state, fitting irrigation pipe in Arizona, welding in Alaska, mining Molybdenum in Colorado, and eventually working as a roughneck in an oilfield outside of Odessa, Texas. These three years had hardened young Jim and for the first time he felt at home among the wildcatters and oilmen in the dust and sun of west Texas. The challenge of the work invigorated him. The harsh conditions of the desert inspired him. The boom-bust cycle of the petroleum industry, however, did little to help secure the human needs of food and shelter. The men who made the real money on the drilling sites, Jim had noticed, were the geologists; those who only found the oil and didn’t stick around to do the hard work of pulling it out of the ground. Jim was charismatic, and it wasn’t long before he found work as an assistant for a local surveying office and began to learn the fine art of finding things underground. (edited) He was almost ready to settle down when he received a call from home: His father had suffered an intracranial aneurysm and had died before emergency medical treatment could be administered. For the first time in years, he went home. In the days after Walters funeral, Jim was forced to confront his future. Jim was twenty, with little occupational prospects, but now had a twenty-five thousand dollar inheritance; enough in 1965 to get into nearly any business he wanted. He knew he still didn’t have the patience for college, and he had already figuratively “gone west.” Out of either a feeling of guilt, or a desire to not cause any further trouble to his family in California, he returned to Texas with the goal of finally striking out on his own. By 1973, James Jackson was a man who, at least on the surface, betrayed no insecurities about his expertise. He exuded confidence and, after a few lucky breaks locating petroleum where none was thought to have existed, was billed as a “guru of the underground”. A small office was leased in Midland, a clerk and eventually a geologist, a few engineers and surveyors were hired. For a short time it was a mundane but generally honest living. What he lacked in experience as the chief of the small firm he more than made up for in the energy and zeal he brought to every job he undertook. He detested office work and would personally show up to every site, rain or shine, with the enthusiasm and showmanship of a circus ringmaster. The job for Dale Whitmer was no exception.

[classiccarsincyprus]

Hillman Minx 1955 MK V111 2 Door Californian

[thenewblackcanvas]

Spooky 3 (California Kings// Poly Chanlix)

poly chanlix (bang chan x reader x felix) themes: polyamory/throuple, fluffy, funny, two boyfriend shenanigans, mention of sex, alaskan king bed (not californian king), three parts of halloween with your boyfriends ♡ Spooky Season 2023♡

Part I: Costumes

“Ok boys,” you announced as you jumped onto the bed where the two were relaxing. “spooky season is upon us. It is time to decide on costumes.“

Felix sat up excitedly. “Oh yeah! We have to do something good.”

“Should we go trio again?”

Chan, who was watching tv, paused his video. “It’s one of the fun things about being together. You have to take advantage of it.”

You nodded. “Important question: are either of you opposed to wearing dresses?”

Chan seemed confused but Felix just shrugged. “Nah.” Chan echoed the same sentiment after a moment before adding “Do you have a good idea or do you just want to see us in dresses?”

“Yeah,” Felix added. “Because we’ll do it anytime.”

The thought made you giddy but you refocused. “In that case, we could always go classic trio. Powerpuff Girls!”

The men seemed less than enthused. 

You shrugged “Just a thought.”

“Hmm,” Chan hummed in thought. “What about Ghostbusters?”

“There are 4 Ghostbusters.” You frowned.

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Ok maybe we just say Stantz is sick.”

Felix shook the mattress as he jumped up and down in excitement. “O! What about Batman, Robin, and Batgirl!”

Your eyes light up. “That’s a great idea!”

Chan sat up, now excited as well. “Good idea, Lix!”

“I wanna be Robin!” the younger says.

“I’ll be Batman. Robin shouldn’t go kissing my girl though.” Chan jests.

He starts searching for costumes on his laptop as Felix protests next to him. “Actually Dick and Barbara were together-” 

“Sure, Boy Wonder.”

Felix jumps on Chan as they begin to play fight. You laugh as you take the laptop and peruse through a list of trio costumes. Some are interesting though less fun than Felix’s idea, others have you cringing at the suggestions.

“Oh what about Woody, Buzz, and Jessie from Toy Story!”

Chan sits up from where he has Felix pinned under him, holding the boy’s wrists in his hand. “Oh that’s a good one too!”

Felix squirms under him. “I wanna be Buzz!”

“Trying to get with my girl again, Lightyear?”

“Buzz and Jessie are together!”

Chan knows that but has fun egging his boyfriend’s ranting on.

Next to them, you add both positively received ideas to the list, knowing you might have to deal with it more later since your boyfriends seem riled up now.

Part II: Party Party...yeah?

Three drunks at party can get rough.

Part of the time you three are glued together, somewhere in the middle of where the dancing is happening, grinding on each other in a way that has people that don’t know you questioning if they’re going to see a threesome and the three of you about to give them that show.

Or

The other times you are all lost in the dim party lighting unsure of when you separated. You become aware of the lack of warmth you’re used to and drunkenly look for your boyfriends. Thankfully, you find your oldest boyfriend with a trash bag. Somehow he’s managed to clean part of the kitchen in the time you lost track of him. With a groan, you take the bag from him. “We need to find Lixxie. I’m tired and the music is making me want to hit someone.”

He seems to sober up ever so slightly, recognizing you’re at the point where you can’t handle being around other people like this. Last time he and Felix insisted on you staying with them you ended up passing out in a linen closet and they couldn’t find you for three hours.

He takes your hand intending to lead you but you walk much faster. You want to find your third before you start crying. Alcohol and your emotions make for a rollercoaster when you aren’t careful. 

And with the way the three of you were downing "ghost shots" when you arrived, you weren’t careful at all.

Chan spots the blonde in his Robin costume. You didn’t see him at first but saw the man sifting through the bowl of candy as you approached. 

“You remember we have candy at home right?” Chan says making Felix jump. He was barely phased by the older being strangely close, instead, his attention turned to your purse. “Yeah, but this is free candy.” He gently tugs you closer to him by the strap. You’re confused for a second, not having paid attention too much thanks to how good he looks in his costume, until you realize what he’s doing. He unzips your bag, dumping his loot in. The purse is more decorative than anything else but he doesn’t seem to care much.

“Technically our candy IS free for you because I bought it.” Chan chastises though doesn’t try to stop him. Clearly, he wasn’t listening anyway as he took a final mini snicker before zipping the bag.

He finally looks up at you, whining. “Can we go home now?”

Chan rolls his eyes probably muttering how that is why you both came to find him but you're so endeared by him you just nod and take his hand.

Part III: Back to Bed

Coming into the house was already alleviating the pressure you felt. As if you couldn’t stand it anymore you started to strip as you made for the bedroom immediately. Felix follows suit, mask then cape, before basically breaking the back of the outfit to pull it down around his waist. Chan starts cleaning up behind you two silently.

By the time you flop back on the bed, you’ve somehow managed to pull yours completely off.

Chan sees Felix struggling with the tightness of the pants. You open your eyes at the grunt Felix lets out. As you watch Chan start to strip Felix you feel the sparks of arousal. Felix in turn helps your Batman do the same. Your mind starts to delve further into desire as he fixes Chan’s hair after undressing him. It’s short-lived as Felix pouts, putting his arms out to hug you but tackling you backward onto the bed instead. You laugh as you stroke his head. His hair tickles you while he buries his face in your neck. You look up, wondering why Chan hasn’t joined yet. 

Silently, he’s picking up everything on the floor. You watch for a moment as he flints around the room like a fairy, cleaning the tornado that is his drunken partners. You laugh to yourself as you get up. Doing as you did earlier, you take the discarded costume from his hand. He looks confused but lets you lead him to the bed. You sit on the bed, holding his hand to drag him with you as you scoot back. Felix finds you again with his eyes still closed as Chan lays on his back with a deep sigh. 

The alcohol settles in your system again as you feel how tired you are. 

Chan seems to feel the same. “Only two more to go.”

“Huh?” you look over to him, his hands behind his head and his eyes closed.

He opens an eye to peek at you. “Minho’s party is next week.” Chan states.

“And our company party is on Halloween.” Felix adds.

You groan loudly rolling to your side to curl into a ball. Somehow you’d forgotten it was only the 20th. “We shoulda just gone as ghosts.”

Felix laughs and he sits up resting on your side. “Sounds like more free candy to me.”

spooky season mlist * poly chanlix

[literary-illuminati]

Book Review 43 - Even Though I Knew The End by C. L. Polk

Oh this was fun. Never would have heard of it if it hadn’t been nominated for a Hugo, and devoured it in the course of a computer-less Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t exactly reaching for the stars, but it knew what it was about and it executed it well; there’s a real virtue to that. Also I adore slightly cheesy but self-serious noir and the early 20th century really is the ideal setting for classical urban fantasy.

The story follows Helen, a private investigator and warlock in 1930s Chicago. Ten years prior to the story, she sold her soul to a demon to resurrect her younger brother from a car crash that would have otherwise killed her entire family – for her trouble, she was cast out from the magical brotherhood training her as a mystic and forced to make a living as a cut-rate diviner and gumshoe in Chicago. The plot kicks off three days before the deal comes due and her soul’s forfeit, and she takes one last consulting job to add a bit more to the nest egg she’ll be leaving for her girlfriend Edith when she’s torn from the mortal coil. And then, of course, she finds out that a) her employer is a demon, b) the case she’s consulting on is someone ritually murdering other poor souls who’ve made deals, days before they come due, and c) if she solves it she’ll get her soul back, along with enough money to make to San Francisco with Edith and start a new life free and clear.

So this is not a book that sets out to surprise the reader. The storytelling is efficient and the foreshadowing is reasonably honest – you can guess just about every twist well ahead of time with even the slightest bit of effort. I’d say the book isn’t trying to break any new ground, but actually it’s the only example I can think off hand of this sort of genre emulation period piece that both has a queer protagonist and doesn’t either elide or edit out the homophobia of the their environment, so there is that. Anyway, ‘genre emulation’ is the right term I think – snappy, tightly written noir plot that doesn’t outlast its welcome (this was absolutely a novella-sized story).

I really don’t know the author or their work well enough to know how intentional it is, but the ending very much felt like a comment on the whole Bury Your Gays/Tragic Lesbian trope. Essentially, Edith gets herself heroically sacrificed saving Helen’s life in the climactic showdown. Then, once the dust has settled and Marlow (her demonic client) has given Helen her soul back she…immediately sells it again to bring her back. Better ten years of Californian bliss with her true love then an eternity in heaven (and besides, that brother she’d saved the first time had just killed an angel, so someone’s going to need to keep him company in hell). The book’s title is in no way subtle or metaphorical, it is a line of the protagonist’s internal monologue.

The story’s universe is a folk-Christian one, and it is absolutely imperative that when reading it you don’t poke at the underlying metaphysics at all. Angels and demons are real and magicians are the distant descendants of Nephilim and some of the Grigori still haunt the earth, and we have it on good authority that God doesn’t actually care about being gay and everyone seems very frightened of the idea of summoning the Archangel Michael to earth, but start asking any followup questions about angels and world events during the Roosevelt Administration and you’re ruin the story for yourself. Just don’t worry about it.

As a final note, I really did love Marlowe – or properly, she’s one of my favorite types of demons in these sorts of stories. Epitome of high class beauty, lives in a palatial penthouse waited upon handed and foot by layers of servants, eats the best food and wears the best clothes and has the best lovers, even a generous employer and creditor as long as you do what she wants and give her what she’s owed. The sort of demon who seems like falling out of heaven was worth it, and one you can imagine actually convincing someone to sell their soul. She’s fun!

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

American Riviera Orchard sounds like the name a 14-year-old would use in a fanfic. Or give a horse.

My work involves looking at companies and I’ve looked at hundreds. I can honestly say I have never seen anything like ARO and I’ve come across Harry Potter-named companies and companies with “Top Secret” in the name. American Riviera on its own would have actually been a lovely name imo.

I checked on the California Business Search and American Riviera Orchard, LLC was incorporated in California on 28 February 2024. I was expecting it to be registered in California but incorporated in another state like Delaware, where company disclosure requirements are much more limited. (Very common for Californian-headquartered businesses to be incorporated elsewhere for this reason).

About Goop: Gwyneth Paltrow reportedly owns only around 30% of Goop, which is very normal even for non-celebrity companies. I would expect Meghan to also have below 50% ownership in AOR if she does it right. A lot of the successful celebrity entities / business ventures like that of Reese Witherspoon have the celebrity at the front-end and experienced executives and directors at the back-end (both important roles, not meant as a put-down comment - RW is a very underestimated kick-ass business woman).

I’m not surprised that the likes of Meghan got backing for a venture like this. I think the massive catch for her investors will be whether she can make a return on their investments. It seems to me while Goop’s… questionable items get news coverage, there is actually a range of different offerings like Goop Kitchen that has made it go past a merch-fest. (But my knowledge of Goop is limited - blessedly.) I can’t see Meghan matching that sustainable growth and variation based on her history. And the ability to take massive criticism and lawsuits like GW / Goop.

My celebrity knowledge is severely lacking, but I believe GP still has that Hollywood sparkle, despite having a reputation. It seems like Goop is supported by the stars, which then trickles down? If so, AOR will be Meghan’s ultimate test of her love-bombing Hollywood. She cannot get to Goop status off of the sugars alone. If she doesn’t get Goop status, she will need to strike a deal with the likes of Walmart / Target to really make money off of it. Drew Barrymore’s Flower Beauty seems to be a successful, non-luxury line like that?

Sorry for the essay, I saw “new company” and my brain immediately went “I’m so ready for this!”.

This is honestly super interesting, anon! Thanks for sharing! (And everyone can write an essay any time...god knows I put you through it sometimes!)

What's surprising about your research is that the registration was done just a couple of weeks ago. All the PR that I've seen has talked about how this has been in the works for over a year. If that's true, then why wasn't the registration done earlier?

You do it hit on the head with Gwyneth Paltrow and Goop. Gwyneth has real Hollywood bona fides - she has an Oscar, an Emmy, two SAGs; she's in Marvel; and she's a legit Hollywood nepo baby (mother is an award-winning actress, father is a director/producer) - and that rubs off a lot. As silly as Goop is and as much as everyone jokes about how out of touch it is, it's actually a real juggernaut in the luxury space that Gwyneth occupies. Goop serves a purpose and fills a necessary gap in the market - luxury wellness.

Just like Reese Witherspoon. Her brand serves a purpose and addresses a gap in the marketplace - classic Americana with a feminine twist and female-driven entertainment. It's purposeful. It's different. Not everyone can do a book club but she did, and it's wildly successful.

Meghan's American Riviera Orchard is just another in a long line of luxury wellness/lifestyle brands trying to copy Goop's success. Like Blake Lively. She launched her wellness brand, Preserve, in 2014 but it was just a Goop copy with nothing unique or different. It didn't fill a gap or offer a service, and it floundered, shutting down after less than a year. That's what I see happening with Meghan. There's nothing unique about about American Riviera Orchard that sets it apart from every other lifestyle brand and company. Meghan will be lucky if she can keep this going for at least a year.

But she isn't helping herself with that name. American Riviera Orchard. It's a mouthful, and it's such a mouthful that people will abbreviate it and however the abbreviate it, Meghan will hate it. It sounds like something one of the knockoff Kennedy family members would do to try and reclaim the JFK/Jackie/RFK aura, maybe the one who's married to StarLord.

IMO, Meghan should just lean into the wino allegations and buy a vineyard to make wine. It'd be very Brad and Angelina of her and the Sussex Squad would keep her in business year after year.

[godempworm]

Seven Comfort Films

tagged by @fulcrum843 and @alderaanakin

Moulin Rouge! - I first watched this movie when I was like 10 years old and then in middle school I literally watched it every single day of the week. Really got me into my obsession with Ewan McGregor...also dyed my hair red because of Satine I obsoletely adore her.

The Prince of Egypt - I watched this is Bible School the very first time and I recall having a VHS tape of it, but everything about it I love. It makes me miss 2D animation because the animated movies nowadays haven't done it for me especially the parting of the Red Sea. This movie also feeds into Ancient Egyptian obsession.

Suspiria (2018) - to me this movie should've gotten more accolades and everything because even though its a remake it still feels original; especially, compared to the Dario Argento '77 version. Again, it brings great comfort even with the horror elements and the soundtrack compares very well to the OG.

Black Beauty (1994) - I love horses and stories about horses. This movie hits all the correct spots for a good horse movie to be enjoyable. The story is so compelling plus using the legit horses instead of CGI monstrosities as stand-ins help a lot. I love a good tragic story with a happy ending then the humans are quite in the background but they serve the story.

Velvet Goldmine - anther Ewan McGregor classic but I watch this every Christmas Day since I got the DVD. It's weird about glam rock and lots of male and female nudity, but I wouldn't want anything less from it.

Bottle Shock - a good story about a Californian vineyard's wine that takes place in France and they end up winning the competition. Then also long-haired hippy Chris Pine with your typical snobby British Snob played by Alan Rickman. My favorite way to watch this is with a bottle of chardonnay and snacks.

Babe (1995) - final one! I love this one so much with all the drama behind the pig and the farmer. Him stubbornly accepting poor Babe then I also like of they don't hold back on how things are in the farming industry especially right at the beginning.

I have a lot of favorite films these are just generally my favorite to watch whenever I can and that I know are readily available. I've probably close to over 100 DVD's and have seen a lot more movies that I do find comforting.

[pisupsala]

One for The History Books [Epilogue] [Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw]

[Summary] You are an archivist at the Pentagon, sent on assignment to TOPGUN to catalog and report on a top-secret mission. In the days under the Californian sun, a certain naval aviator puts your once orderly life in a tailspin that you might never recover from.

[Pairing] Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc

[Warnings] Mature content: swearing, (explicit) smut. 18+ only.

[Words] 6.4k

[Index] All Chapters | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Epilogue

[Library]

The gravel crunches under the wheels of the rented Bronco as Bradley easily steers it into a parking spot. The lot in front of the Hard Deck is busy, even though it’s closed for a private party tonight.

You smooth down your dress as you get from the car. The loose cut makes the soft fabric gently sway in the wind, grazing your mid-thigh. The smell of salt on the gentle ocean breeze hits you, still warm from the late summer sun. It takes you back to three years ago, when you found yourself here for the first time. You close your eyes for a moment.

The first time you saw Bradley.

Back then, you didn’t know yet that it was the night your entire world pitched off its axis. You didn’t really feel it until you fell—and kept falling. Even now, you’re not always sure your feet have touched on solid ground yet.

“You okay, darlin’?” Bradley appears next to you, his fingers grazing the skin of your neck and shoulders, exposed by the wide neck of your dress.

“Yeah.” You smile up at him. Your heart still does a little jump when your eyes lock—especially today; when he looks so relaxed, every smile reaches his eyes, and he carries himself with such easy confidence, lighting up every room.

Sure, it also doesn’t hurt he’s wearing his service khakis, that look like they’ve been molded onto his body. His classic aviators complete the image of effortless coolness. It’s like you’re falling for him all over again.

Bradley closes the car door for you, before running tracing his fingers down your spine before resting on the small of your back, guiding you to the entrance of the Hard Deck. He greets some fellow officers shortly on the way, never taking his hand from your back.

Inside, the Hard Deck is busy, filled to the brim with uniformed personnel. Penny and Amelia clearly made an effort in decorating the place for tonight— red, white, and blue garlands hang from the ceiling, banners, the works. You smile; some if it is definitely Amelia’s handiwork. She has a real creative streak.

“Bradley! Darcy!” Penny is making her way through the crowd, smiling broadly. She looks amazing—her long dress makes her look like she stepped out of a classical painting. “I’m so glad you guys made it.”

You gladly accept her hug, before she turns to Bradley to hug him too. “We’re glad to be here.” He smiles.

“I love what you’ve done with the place.” You say, looking around. 

“Thank you, I’m glad it actually turned out well,” Penny chuckles. “Today has been absolutely crazy.”

“You should have called, I could have come earlier to help.” You say a bit worriedly. 

“Nonsense, you guys have been so busy, you should enjoy your time off together.” Penny dismisses you easily, looping her arms through yours. “Let’s get you guys some drinks—what are you having?”

“A beer for me.” Bradley says as he follows you to the bar.

“I’ll have a… sparkling water.” 

Penny doesn’t say anything, but her gaze quickly travels down to your midsection. Her eyes meet yours for a moment, and you can feel the burning question behind them.

“I’m just thirsty.” You laugh, waving her away. “It’s so warm today.”

“Of course.” She smiles back.

Amelia is sat at the bar, and as you receive your drinks, in lieu of a greeting, she just says: “That empire waist looks cute.”

Teenager. 

Penny rolls her eyes, and you thank Amelia graciously, trying to not blush. 

Bradley is silently laughing as he leads you away to greet Pete, who is the guest of honor today.

“I think they are on to us.” He chuckles softly as he uses his free hand to pull you against him.

“Pff, I never expected differently from Penny. Amelia is surprising, though.” You sigh. “As long as they keep it to themselves, I’ll pretend this is a vodka soda or something.” You take a sip from your drink.

Two-and-a-half months. That’s how far you are along. You’ve only known for about four weeks, but since then it’s become your most closely guarded secret, shared only with Bradley.

Being a stickler for rules under normal circumstances already, you are so nervous about something going wrong, you implored Bradley not to tell anyone before the three-month mark, and especially not at Pete’s retirement party tonight. 

Unfortunately, you met up with Penny right after you found out when you and Bradley visited in Nevada before they flew out for Pete’s retirement ceremony, and you already used the excuse of coming off medication when refusing a glass of wine.

It’s not going to fly again.

You haven’t seen Pete anywhere yet, but you assume he’s being kept busy as the guest of honor. Bradley stops to talk with Mickey, while you greet Nat. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her, but she’s amazingly sharp as always.

“Bradshaw, as I live and breath.” Seresin emerges from the crowd, clapping Bradley on the back. 

“Hangman.” He greets back, nodding shortly, before moving just a fraction closer to you, his hand still resting on the small of your back.

“And if it isn’t Miss Williams.” He continues, grinning mischievously. “I have to say, I am surprised…”

Yep. Still an asshole.

You smile politely, as you hold up your left hand. “Actually…” You start.

“That’s Dr. Bradshaw to you, Bagman.” Bradley cuts in, almost arrogantly. 

Honestly. 

You giggle. He still allows Seresin to get a rise out of him so easily. You have to admit, it’s kind of cute how proud Bradley is of you. It sure as hell makes you feel amazing. 

Seresin’s momentarily utterly confused look is worth it, too. Although, he recovers in typical fashion: “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order to you both. But especially Rooster, because she’s even more out of your league now.”

“Doesn’t Darcy go by Dr. Bradshaw-Williams?” Nat suddenly pipes up, shutting both Bradley and Seresin up. Mickey nearly chokes on his beer. “Since, as I recall, she had a career and got the PhD before she got a husband.”

You cannot stop yourself from laughing as you thank Nat under your breath. Bradley scoffs. After you received your doctorate, Bradley absolutely beamed with pride every time he introduced you—and you still had your maiden name then, as you were only engaged. 

After you got married, and you sent him a picture of the new name plaque on your office door, Nat told you he showed it off to the whole wing.

You chose to hyphenate your name—Nat is right about that. You already have a career and publications under your maiden name, and it’s an absolute bitch to get your name changed on all those articles retroactively. Plus, you don’t want to suddenly lose any name recognition, so you hyphenate mostly for work purposes.

“True, but Dr. Bradshaw works just fine.” You grin, lightly touching Bradley’s arm. To his credit, Bradley never made an issue of you hyphenating your last name. He even admitted to you he would understand if you kept your maiden name when you discussed it. 

But you know him. 

When you told him you would take his last name together with your own, the look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. It was the only right decision—because deep down, it was incredibly important to him: the idea of family being a family together and sharing a name.

Bradley presses a kiss against your temple, as Seresin rolls his eyes. “Who’s up for some pool?”

“We need to talk to Mav first.” Bradley replies. “Any idea where he is?”

“Probably at the pool table, actually.” Mickey replies. 

Bradley leads you through the crowd, arm wrapped around you to keep anyone from bumping into you. 

You give Pete a big hug, congratulating him. 

“How does it feel?” You ask, smiling.

“Strange, very strange.” He admits with a half-smile. “I don’t think it’s complete sunk in yet.”

“How was the ceremony?” You inquire conversationally. Pete chose to have his ceremony onboard of the USS Roosevelt together with his closest fellow aviators and colleagues a few weeks ago. Bradley had been there, while you stayed behind with Penny. This was the party for everyone who wasn’t at the ceremony.

“It was very nice, but let’s not talk about that now. I’d rather hear how you are doing.” Pete replies with a grin. Ah, it probably still feels raw for him, finally retiring from active duty. “How’s the new house? Are you getting settled?”

“Yeah, it’s finally as good as done.” You let out a sigh of relief. “You should come visit sometime soon.”

The last six months have been insane: you got married, bought a new place together, Bradley went on a 6-week detachment, you tried your hardest to turn that house into a home and then you got pregnant. You haven’t even been on honeymoon yet. Now, you try not to think about having to convert one of the bedrooms into a nursery soon.

“It’s as good as done if Darcy doesn’t keep buying more books,” Bradley jokes. “I will be building shelves forever at this rate.”

Pete laughs, as you gently elbow Bradley in the ribs, frowning playfully. 

“I’m kidding, darlin’, I’ll build you all the shelves you want.” He concedes, laughing too. You really, really try not to blush at the implication behind Bradley’s words.

Yeah, so, you thought you had a thing for Bradley in uniform? Try having him working with his hands, power tools, in the house you bought together. Fuck. You could try to blame it on the newlywed rush, coming off birth control, missing Bradley—but the bottom line is—he’s so good with his hands, and looks so fine doing it, you’re 99% sure the shelves are the reason you’re pregnant now.

“I’m glad you kids are doing well.” Pete comments, almost wistfully.

“Thanks Mav.” Bradley replies sincerely. Although he’d probably never admit it as such, Bradley cares deeply about Pete’s opinion, and wants his approval. It’s something that goes unspoken between them, but is mutually understood.

The moment is disturbed by Seresin waltzing past with a tray of shots. “Rooster, Maverick, you’re up—two v. two against Payback and me.”

Pete and Bradley share one look—and you know they will never back down from a challenge like that. Shaking your head, you follow them to the pool table. 

“Go sit down, darlin’.” Bradley leads you to a bar stool, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you slide onto it. “You still good?” He asks quietly. 

You nod, smiling. Bradley is trying not to be overbearing, but he wants to make sure you are comfortable. You are okay with that—smothering, not so much. Bradley starts racking the balls as Seresin is distributing shots, and even though you shake your head, he presses one into your hand. 

“Come on, Willia- shit, I have to call you Bradshaw now.” He corrects himself. 

“You can call me Darcy.” You laugh.

“Will your husband be okay with that?” He taunts. Bradley shoots his a murderous look from the table.

“It’s my name, you ass.” You reply with a fake smile. “And I don’t want a shot.”

You move to put the glass back onto the tray Seresin is holding.

“It’s for a toast to Maverick’s health,” Seresin plays up his faux shock. “Surely you can’t say no to that?”

“Leave my wife alone, Hangman.” Bradley warns.

“Please tell me you didn’t get so boring since marrying Rooster.” Seresin continues needling you, ignoring Bradley. “You used to be fun: doing shots, shotgunning beers…”

You roll your eyes. Of course he wouldn’t let up, acting like going out with you and Bradley wasn’t a one-off, that time when Seresin suddenly showed up in Arlington. 

You hold the shot glass up, shooting Seresin a sarcastic smile as he walks away. There’s not arguing with him. 

“I’ll drink it for you.” Bradley whispers, turning to you. 

“Don’t worry about it, babe.” You shake your head, as he runs his knuckles over your upper arm. “I’ll get rid of it—you keep all your faculties for the game.” You add, teasing.

“I’m glad you have such faith in me, darlin’.” Bradley drawls sarcastically. You blow him a kiss in response. Penny joins the crowd, standing next to Pete—they look radiant together—as an old friend of Pete’s makes the toast.

As everyone kicks back their drink, you bring the shot glass up to your sealed lips, tilting your head back as if you’re drinking, only to dump the clear liquid into the melting ice of your water glass as you move your head back down. 

You put away both glasses on the bar behind you, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Bradley’s fingers gently wrap around your chin, tilting your face up to his. 

“A kiss for good luck?” He murmurs against your lips.

You giggle, pressing your lips against his. He tastes faintly of vodka. “I’ll be here, enjoying the view.”

“Order me another beer, sweetheart?” He asks as he accepts a cue stick from Pete. You nod affirmative, as Penny slides onto the bar stool next to you. 

“Smooth move.” She comments airily. You just shoot her a look as you accept a new glass of sparkling water and a beer from the bartender. She knows. But you just shake your head.

“Not yet. Not today.” You don’t elaborate—you don’t have to. Penny nods in understanding as she grabs your hand and squeezes it in assurance. An understanding of ‘I know what you’re going through’. You squeeze back as a thank-you.

“At least one of us will be sober enough to drive.” You comment dryly, nodding to the pool table as Bradley and Pete knock back another shot. You dissolve into giggles with Penny.

You chat with Penny as the boys play, later teaming up with Nat to take on Bob and Mickey. Dodging Seresin and his mission to get everyone blind drunk (it is an open bar, but man, show some restraint), which you think you’re doing a pretty decent job of.

You keep ‘forgetting’ your drink on the side table, or just simply handing it to Bradley as you pretend to focus on the game. Barley beating the boys, you high five Nat.

“C’mon, let's have a drink to celebrate.” She grabs your elbow and leads you to the bar.

“I’m good.” God, you never realized how hard it’s to dodge every offer of alcohol. You tug back a little, stopping Nat. “Designated driver.” You grin lightly, shrugging. 

Nat cocks an eyebrow, knowing full well it’s several hours before you’ll leave. You hold your smile on your face, trying to look as neutral as possible. It’s not even a lie—you are the designated driver. But Nat is sharp. Thankfully, she’s also tactful and doesn’t push the issue. 

You make your way to Bradley, who is standing at the dart board with a few others, wrapping your arms around his waist. He immediately, automatically puts his arm around, and presses a kiss on the top of your head.

After that, there is a flurry of names and faces—so many people know Bradley, knew his dad, and want to talk to him. The smile never leaves his face. You know he is loving this, he loves being around people, and he does it so well—laughing, joking, telling stories.

People gravitate to him, his genuine warmth and his light. He doesn’t always see it himself that way and uses his extraversion as a mask, but it’s really him. 

“It’s good to see you, son.” An older man claps Bradley on the shoulder, before pulling him into a hug. “Taking after your old man more and more, I see.” He adds jokingly. 

Bradley laughs. “I can only hope.” 

You politely chat to the man’s wife—honestly, your brain is turning to mush from all the names—supplying her with details of your newlywed status.

“That’s not Carole’s ring, is it? She asks suddenly, gently grabbing your hand. 

“No, we decided to keep them together.” You share a look with Bradley as you both smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back then, when he stayed in Texas for a month, Bradley had put any thoughts of marriage to rest for the time being. He knew then already: it’s not that he doesn’t want to marry you eventually—it still crosses his mind regularly—but he’s not sure if you will actually say yes right now. He doesn’t feel worthy of it. Not yet. 

So he doesn’t bring it up. Neither do you.

After he comes back he has time to spend by himself with his memories, that you are lovingly and painstakingly restoring for him. While you are out for work, he flips through the pictures, trying to remember, to feel those moments again. 

Some evenings he sits quietly next to you, as you pull nitrile gloves on, hair in a messy bun, and slowly, carefully go through every picture. You go through almost meditative motions as you reapply glue, precisely placing the photo on the page, humming softly.

He loves it.

It’s such an incredibly intimate affair. There are no words. There is no touching, but it’s like watching you preform surgery on his soul. For Bradley, these moments are like a vacuum in time, simultaneously without end, but also always too short. 

It’s only when you stretch out, groaning involuntarily as your spine pops, it’s like the bubble burst. 

Running his fingers over the tight muscles in your shoulders, Bradley jokes:

“You should work on your posture.” 

You moan softly in response, eyes closed, as he works out the knots in your back. 

Bradley has purposefully been avoiding the box that has the display case with his father’s funeral flag. You asked him what he wanted to do with it, but truthfully, he just shrugged, not having an answer. You regarded him carefully, like you were trying to discern what he was thinking. Ultimately, you suggest keeping it in the box for the time being with the other items, gently waylaying the decision to the future.

It stays there until after Christmas.

You spend Christmas at your parents’ place in Colorado together, and despite the numerous arguments you have with your sister, seeing you with family, being welcomed into your family, makes Bradley ache for having his own. 

With you. 

When you return home, Bradley’s head is once again filled with those intrusive thoughts. His gaze is trained on your hand as you play with a pen while reading, running your fingers through your hair in deep thought, wrapped around a mug of tea as you watch TV together. It looks so bare, and it’s almost offensive to him. 

He should get it together and ask you to marry him. It’s been months since that seed took hold in his brain, and it has been only growing, even though he tried not to feed it. The vines have now irrevocably entangled him, and Bradley knows he can’t pull them off without tearing his soul apart in the process.

He just doesn’t feel ready. It’s like he’s been rooted in place.

If Bradley is completely honest with himself, he never particularly put much thought in marriage or family in his own life. Ironically, that has been leading him down a lonely work alcoholic path similar to Mav’s (and Bradley even had the gall to call him out on it—it’s embarrassing in hindsight). But the solution seems so simple. He’ll get his mom’s ring, ask you, and pray you will say yes.

But it’s when he finally actually sits down at your desk and opens the small items box, even the little bit of resolve he feels melts away. His mom’s ring and dad’s dog tags sit snugly together, like their last earthly possession have found their final resting place. Together, as they should be. It feels almost sacrilegious as Bradley takes the ring out, and inspects it.

It’s really quite dirty, grime stuck along the setting, the yellow gold band dull. He rolls the ring around in his palm, weighing it, trying to figure out why it doesn’t feel… right.

The center topaz glints happily in the sun—and it reminds him of his mom. Her warmth, the way she could light up a room with a single smile, and her incredibly energy. She was the sun; keeping him in orbit, on the right path. 

Leaning his head on his head, he sighs. But that’s not you. You are steady and patient; a calming presence. Not a force of nature in the way his mom was, but rather a gentle guiding light.

Bradley didn’t realize how little he could actually see until you illuminated his path home, like his own personal north star. And Bradley wants more than anything to always come home to you.

He decides to mull it over as he leaves for deployment. Every time he makes port somewhere, he cannot help but stop in front of a jewelry store. Looking at the displays, he feels lost.

What would you actually like? What would actually make sense for someone who hardly wears jewelry?

Before he left, he took a quick look at your sparsely filled jewelry box—it’s mostly filled with simple silver designs. It makes him grin. You are such a practical person, even when it comes to things that are supposed to be nice.

Nothing catches his eyes for weeks—months, even. He googles, trying to come up with a better description than: something Darcy would like, something that will make her happy every time she looks at it, something she will wear every day. But nothing seems to fit.

Bradley finds himself in Portsmouth, England for a week. His fellow aviators have cottoned on and absolutely to refuse to let go of the matter. A few of the younger guys don’t understand the big deal (like, it’s all cool if it’s like a diamond, right?) while others seem to firmly on the side that it’s romantic.

To Bradley, it’s becoming torture.

It’s only the second time around, when he walks past several of the city’s jewelry stores, something finally catches his eye. He looks at the ring through the glass—a thin silver band, beset with a round light blue stone, surrounded by what he assumes are diamonds. But it looks too big, so he leaves it at that. 

The next days are busy, full of preparations for departure festivities before embarking back west to Nova Scotia before returning to Virginia. The more he thinks about that fucking ring, the more he realizes that… that might actually be the perfect one. He doesn’t remember any of the other rings he’s seen, but this one stayed on his mind from the moment he saw it.

On departure day, already dressed in his Navy whites, he makes an attempt at looking dignified while dashing to the store. Please, please be open, he prays.

He practically Kramers into the store, his loafers skidding on the polished wooden floor. The poor clerk is so out of sorts he just looks at Bradley mutely, eyes wide in surprise. 

��Good morning.” Bradley smiles, breathing a little too hard, trying to regain some composure. “I want to buy a ring.”

The clerk nods, before jolting into action.

“So, this is a white gold ring, with a halo design: the center stone a beautiful light blue aquamarine, beset with white diamond accent stones, which-” The clerk is doing going through his sales pitch, showing the ring from all angles in the glittering light, but Bradley really doesn’t have time. He shouldn’t even be off the boat right now.

“Sounds lovely.” He cuts in diplomatically. “Can I see it?”

Perturbed, the clerk hand him the ring. Bradley runs his finger over the gems—the setting is smooth. He likes to imagine you would wear this when working: not tearing through gloves, comfortable as you write—and the light blue is elegant and understated.

It feels so much more like you.

In the palm of his hand, the ring doesn’t look that big, but your hands are significantly smaller. Before he can start overthinking it again, Bradley decides that, hell, even if the stone is a bit large—surely it’s not that bad to show off that you are engaged?

Bradley is so lost in thought, he doesn’t really hear the clerk patter on about upselling him on similar rings, different boxes, gift wrapping—the works. Rather than to waste even more time, he just cuts to the chase.

“Do you take credit?” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So, commander, are you ready for tonight?” You are fixing your hair in the bathroom mirror. Bradley peeks into the bathroom, appreciating how his favored sundress is clinging to every curve of your body. He was recently promoted, and so you had taken it upon yourself to tease him a bit with his new rank. Just to get used to it a little.

“I’m all good.” His eyes rake over your body, appreciatively. “You look great, darlin’.”

You turn to him with a smile, dress twirling. Bradley is dressed casually—you’re only going to a 4th of July cook out, after all. But you can’t help but be nervous, you really don’t want to be over or underdressed. 

“You sure this is okay?” You ask, hesitantly. It’s the first time you’re actually doing a thing with his work buddies, at work. And you’re his guest.

“More than okay.” He assures you. To him, it’s adorable how worried you are. But it’s also a good thing, because if you are worried about what you are wearing, maybe you’ll be less likely to clock him. Bradley is sure the anxiety is rolling off him in waves, to the point where his own voice sounds weirdly forced to him. 

For weeks that little box has been going everywhere with him—in his pocket, glove compartment, locker—sometimes he almost wished you would just find it. Now he needs to find a good way to keep it on him—he can’t really ask you to keep it in your purse, but it’s too warm to wear a jacket. So he takes a risk.

“I’ll pack you a hoodie, okay, sweetheart?” He says, turning around and walking to the bedroom to grab his gray zip up hoodie. “In case you get cold later.”

He can pretend it’s the gentlemanly thing to do and hold it for you, hiding the ring in one of the pockets. He’ll have to keep an eye on it during the day, but he’ll have to keep his wits about him either way.

Because today is the day.

He is going to ask you to marry him. 

Finally, he can accept that there will never be a perfect moment. The goalposts will always move, and new challenges come up on the horizon at every turn, and the darkness doesn’t disappear as easily as it came.

But you stick by him.

You stick by him through the deployments, the comms blackouts, the things he can’t talk about, the things he wants to talk about but hurt. You are the constant. 

Some dark nights, when sleep is elusive, he wonders what it is he actually does for you to make you want to endure him. 

On the other hand, whatever it is he’s doing, it’s working. Your face breaks into a smile when you see him, and when pulls you in for a dance in the cereal aisle, your laughter is definitely taking over your mortification, and secretly his favorite? You don’t stop singing immediately when he walks into the room, allowing him to listen before you revert to soft humming.

Your sister casually mentioned you were in choir in high school, intending to make fun of you (you threatened to stab her with a butter knife at the dinner table), but for Bradley that was… well, music to his ears.

But now he needs to get through this afternoon, the ring box practically burning a hole through the hoodie in his hand as you strap on your sandals. 

Every time you catch his eye that day, talking to people, playing with one of the kids, every time you smile, it burns him a little bit more.

Finally, the sun is setting, and the first fireworks start soon. 

“Let’s go for a walk.” Bradley whispers in your ear, easily whisking you away from a conversation with one of the junior officers in his wing. Your fingers thread through his immediately, as he leads you away from the noisy crowd of the party, along the shoreline away from the harbor.

“Aren’t the fireworks starting soon?” You ask, looking back quickly. You are moving away from the fireworks show, which strikes you as strange. Bradley has spent weeks talking that the fireworks show they put in Virginia Beach is absolutely amazing, and you really have to spend the 4th of July there, having a booked a hotel even before you agreed. In hindsight, that should really have been a hint.

You descend from the walkway down to the beach, the waves softly lapping at the sand the only sound around. The sun is in those final minutes before it drops behind the horizon competently, covering everything in a palette of oranges and reds like a final goodbye. The wind picks up every so slightly, causing you to shiver. 

“Good thing I brought this.” Bradley jokes, although his voice sounds somewhat forced, as he slips the zipped open hoodie over your shoulders.

“Where would I be without you?” You chuckle. In your periphery you see his Bradley’s closed fist, knuckles straining, like he’s holding on to something heavy. Before you can ask, he twirls you around, resting your back to his chest, arm wrapped around your waist.

“The fireworks will come from there—and trust me, this is the absolutely best spot to see them.” In his own ears, he doesn’t sound nearly as smooth or confident as he’d like. You turn your head at him, smiling contently. The final rays of sunshine are dancing over his skin, the dark shadows brining your every movement of his muscles and illuminating his curls in a golden hue. How can you be so lucky? 

Not being able to stop yourself, you pepper kisses along his jaw. Bradley kisses you back, almost absentmindedly, eyes looking away in the distance.

There is something strange about being on an empty part of the beach, so close to dark. The twilight has a foreboding feeling to it. Maybe it’s the anticipation for the show, although that feels like a too-shallow explanation for the strange twisting in your stomach. It feels like… it feels like you’re about to take an exam that you haven’t studied for—woefully under prepared and no insight about what is happening.

You lean back into Bradley, who tightens his arm around you, listening to the soft swash of the sea. When the first rocket soars into the night sky, dappling the darkness with red, white and blues, he hears you gasp softly. This is it. 

His eyes travel down your delighted face, hands clasped in front of your chest, the colors of the fireworks reflecting in your eyes. You’ve never looked prettier to him. 

Slowly, gently, as not to startle you from your enchantment, Bradley loosens his hold on your waist, fingers ghosting along your stomach before retracting his arm completely. When he steps back in a moment, it will be the point of no return, as you will surely notice then. He’s holding on to the ring box so tightly, it feels he’s about to crush it with his nervous energy alone.

On three, commander, he tries to spur himself into action.

He counts back to one at least ten times before pushes himself back with a little bit more force than intended, taking a clumsy step back. It’s now or never. The adrenaline coursing through his veins makes it feel like time is slowing down, allowing him to see every move with anxious clarity.

You start to turn, look of surprise on your face as the colors from the sky reflect on your skin. Your mouth is opening to say something, forehead creasing in confusion.

Not at all gracefully, certainly not with the level of control one might expect from an experienced aviator, Bradley lands on his knee in the sand before you can complete your motion. Your eyes meet, and for a second, a second that seems to stretch into infinity, nothing happens.

The flickers of colored light are the indication that time has not ground to halt completely as you stand rooted to the ground, unable to parse what is happening. There are so many thoughts running absolutely rampant through your head, you cannot find coherence.

Bradley is holding his breath—maybe he’s forgotten how to breathe—as he looks up at you. This is on him. He needs to make a move.

Finally loosening his vice-like grip on the ring box, he rests it in his palm. He rehearsed the words in his head so many times, wrote them down, rewrote them, kept them tucked in the pocket of his shirt. And now they seem to have evaporated from existence. 

“I want to come home to you for the rest of my days.” He starts, his voice mercifully steady unlike his insides, which seems to have turned into jello, quaking with every heartbeat. He’s completely winging it now.

Your brain appears to finally be capable of reaction, as your hand covers your mouth, tears threatening to spill from your brilliant eyes. “I promise to take care of you as you do for me, love you -” He trails off, eyes flickering away for a moment in embarrassment. So much for rehearsal. Don’t think, just do.

“I don’t want to be without you anymore.” He concludes, voice strong. “You are the light of my life, everything make sense with you. Please, Darcy, will you marry m-” 

He never gets to finish the sentence as you catapult yourself into him, arms desperately wrapping around his neck, your lips crashing into his. He falls backwards into the sand, catching you by the waist, your tears dripping on his face.

This is a good thing, right? Bradley muses. This is a good reaction. He thinks. You haven’t said anything, you didn’t even let him finish. Hell, you didn’t even wait for him to open the ring box. It’s currently in the sand, his hand blindly grasps for it, clutching it in his hand.

Maybe all that really isn’t as heavy and important as he made it out to be. Maybe all that really matters that you are happy, and he is a source of that happiness.

You break the kiss, sniffling a bit before breaking into soft laughter, the amalgamation of emotions raging within. Bradley watches it play all on your face anxiously.

“Yes.” You smile. “With every part of my being, yes.”

It’s like he can now relax and finally solidifies back into reality. Laughing, he lies back into the sand, pulling you with him in a kiss. Behind your back, he pops the ring box open and takes the ring out. 

“Give me your hand.” He murmurs against your lips. Sitting up a little, you watch with bated breath as Bradley takes your hand, and tenderly slides a ring on your ring finger. Holding on to your hand, he presses a kiss to your knuckles, as if to seal the ring in place. The stones glint in the sparse light of the night, the fireworks having died down. 

Bradley follows your every move carefully as you take a closer look at the ring.

“It’s beautiful.” You say breathlessly, tears prickling in your eyes again. It’s by far the nicest piece of jewelry you probably ever owned, and you don’t think you’ll ever own anything more precious. “I’m never taking it off.” 

Bradley laughs, eyes filled with happiness. “That’s the idea, darlin’.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slowly but surely the party at the Hard Deck winds down. You are set next to Bradley at the piano, head resting on his shoulder as he plays the melody to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here for you. It was always one of your favorite songs, something you would hum under your breath as you worked or did chores. 

One day, you had been humming along exactly like that, softly singing excerpts from the lyrics to yourself as you were unpacking boxes in your new living room. It was the strangest moment, when your humming was suddenly accompanied by the soft tones of the piano, Bradley adding little flourishes to the melody.

You were stunned into silence—you had heard Bradley play before, but never this song. Did he learn it for you? Because you hummed it? And he noticed? 

If you hadn’t been married already at that point, you would have married him again. A thousand times over, just for that. 

So you sat down next to him, exactly as you are sitting now. You started humming again as he harmonized with you. Music is what connects Bradley to his family and memories, and you could see in his eyes that this was something he wanted—that he needed. No matter how scared you are to sound off-key (like… he’s actually good, you are generally glad to hold a note), you enjoy this moment to the fullest.

And every moment after that, when he plays that song, just for you.

“I’m ready to go when you are.” He tells you softly. You just watch his fingers deftly dance over the piano keys for a bit longer. You will never tire of watching him move so elegantly, so precisely and with so much feeling. 

“I’m about ready to go home.” You nod, smiling. “But you can stay if you want? I think Nat and the others are staying longer.”

You look at the group milling around the bar still. Bradley follows your gaze but shakes his head.

“You sure?” You ask. Stationed all around the nation, hell, half the world, they don’t get together in one place that much. 

“Positive.” He replies, getting up from the piano.

“Dr. Bradshaw, if I may have the honor?” He holds out his hand to help you up, that cocky half-smile gracing his lips and mirth in his eyes—he knows you a little too well how to get you hot under the collar.

You laugh, blush dusting your cheeks. “Take us home, commander Bradshaw.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[note]And that's truly it for the main story. All in all, it clocks in at about 100k words, including the existing side stories. That's officially longer than my thesis. So what's next? Side stories (one already done, coming very soon), editing (lol), some more art, and I may or may not have been thinking about a new story. As long as stays fun to do! Again. Thank you for reading my first fic in a decade. I couldn't have chosen a nicer fandom to return to—you guys make it worth it. See you at the next one!

[taglist] @ponyboys-sunsets | @thatchickwiththecamera | @littlewhiterose | @katieshook02 | @straightforwardly | @zazzysseoul | @rororo06 | @datingbtr | @notalxx | @fresh-new-yoik-watah | @gretagerwigsmuse  | @swthxrry | @joshkiskasbunion | @caelipartem | @blackbrownie | @yanak324 | @unluckymonaghan | @letusbewildflowers | @ticklish-leafy-plant | @alana4610 | @eg-dr3amer3 | @turningtoclown | @mell-bell | @mak-32 | @avis15 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut