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sunlightmurdock · 1 year

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The Dawn Patrol | Prologue | Bradley Bradshaw

Masterlist | Next Chapter | PLS VOTE

Arriving a day late, with a broken taillight, in the middle of the night, Bradley shows up to his new posting in the Florida Keys and finds himself mixed up with something sinister.

Warnings: themes of kidnapping, murder and death as well as predatory male characters, age gap: reader is 24, Bradley is 32. All chapters detailing sensitive topics will have more detailed warnings. Kind of unhinged reader, she’s a little feral but we love her. Will be smutty from literally the get go but as always specific warnings will apply — minors dni.

May 2nd 1986

Lottie is last seen on the Sugarloaf Marina at twelve-oh-six. Just after midnight, already a while past her curfew. It’s well lit, visible from the Sugarloaf Channel Bridge which leads down through the keys.

She is wearing a yellow halter top, white shorts, denim jacket. Some reports say that she‘s barefoot on the marina, others say that she was wearing some white sneakers. Took them off, lost them, wasn’t wearing them in the first place; she was right by the beach, the detail doesn’t matter in the beginning. Those kind of crossed wires aren’t the kind that are easily tripped over. She was wearing the shoes, but that won’t ever matter.

That bridge is almost always busy, especially so at this time of year, tourists moving from one key to another or heading down from Miami or central Florida.

By this point in the journey, people tend to start checking their surroundings again. The Overseas Highway has been refurbished into a main coastal highway between the cities of Miami and Key West — its been like that since the fifties. Offering travellers a roadway through a tropical savanna environment and access to the largest area of coral reefs on the U.S. mainland.

If Bradley Bradshaw had looked to his left at exactly midnight on that night in May, as he crossed the mile marker on the Overseas Highway, he would have been the second to last person to have seen Lottie Rivera. Alive, standing at the payphone at the edge of the beach, tears streaming down her face and blood on her knees.

He hadn’t looked. It’s something heavy to consider, all of the things in your peripherals that you’ll never know where there. What would have happened if he had seen her. He isn’t sure that he would have stopped. He isn’t sure that she wouldn’t have gone missing if he did.

The radio is playing Tears for Fears’ hit from last summer, Bradley’s still wide awake; he has been driving for six hours straight and he doesn’t feel ready to stop. His destination is coming up. There’s something so melancholy in the synth pop, he hasn’t really ever listened to the words as much as he does that night.

Going fifty-five, the ocean passes him by on either side. Steady streams of traffic, tourists pouring into town for the summer. Nothing ever lasts forever. He almost scoffs, wanting to spit back at the radio, wondering if some sick DJ is out there sending him this message just to spite him. Instead, he tousles his hand through his curls, resting his head against his hand.

The reminder that he has crossed the threshold and now resides on the wrong side of thirty sits in his knees, more so in the dull ache that has come to rest in them at some point over the last six hours.

He’d trade in his soul before he’d ever consider trading in this truck, but he has to admit that the bronco has its downsides. ‘75 model, fresh blue paint job, wagon style with a removable hard top and a freshly detailed white leather interior. Bradley paid sticker price for it back in ‘81; it remains his pride and joy today.

The leather looks pretty but his ass has been numb since he passed Fort Pierce. On the highway like this, the gears are steady as they are, he can stretch out his left leg a little but the right has a job to do.

Even with all of these aches and pains, his gut would let him keep on driving until the front wheels hit the Gulf of Mexico. Running sway’s funny like that — it all feels so definite when you’re getting in the car. Knowing when to stop’s the harder part. This time around, he has a destination.

Seems a little too close for his liking. He hasn’t ever been here before, never this far south in the US. But Navy? — That’s someone fucking with him. His dog tags rest around his neck now, tangling with the chain that holds his badge.

Six years of service, nothing to show for it but the chain around his neck and a couple of bad dreams now and again. This work suits him better than the Navy ever did. He’s got Admiral Simpson to thank for where he is now. Yet, the thought of looking that man in the eye and shaking his hand makes Bradley’s stomach churn.

Rooster passes by the Sugarloaf Marina at twelve-oh-six. The moon’s sitting high in the sky, it’s full and it’s a dazzling white. Too bright to not notice that tonight’s a full moon. Rooster’s eyes are on it as he passes right by the marina. He never once notices Carlota Rivera in her abundantly clean, white reebok club c’s or her little yellow halter neck that her mom had told her that she would be too cold in.

No, the first time that Bradley will see her, she’ll be missing one of those sneakers and her left ankle will be bloated and twisted abnormally. Her tanned, Italian skin will be a sullen grey and her naturally slim body will be bloated from the days in the water.

But for tonight, she’s alive, at twelve-oh-six, standing beside a payphone with a smile on her face.

His posting isn’t anything to do with Lottie. It’s a simple strangulation in a Navy barracks. Someone taking hazing a little too far. It’s shut and closed but it gets Bradley out of the city, and that’s all that had mattered. It’s none of his business tomorrow morning, when her Mom calls the Monroe County police department, bawling her way through a missing person’s report. It’s none of his business until six days later.

For tonight, his only business is getting to his new apartment and the remaining thirty minutes that'll take. He rubs his calloused hands over his eye, feeling it pulse in complaint under his fingertips. Sitting up straighter, he exhales slowly and blinks until he feels a little more awake.

Grabbing his suitcase and duffel from the back of his truck, and the keys that he had mailed to him two days ago, he sees his apartment for the first time as he’s setting foot inside of it. He knows that his landlord thinks he’s insane, putting a deposit down and four months upfront for a place that he had apparently no interest in seeing. That doesn’t matter. It’s better than he was expecting.

Two bedrooms and open-plan living space, pre-furnished, first floor with a balcony that faces the Garrison Bight Marina. He pulls open the sliding door and steps out onto the beige tile, leaning his palms on the wooden slatted railing that brackets the front of his balcony.

A perfect view of all of the yachts he’ll never be able to afford. Sea air, salty and thick. He heard that there was a small storm here the last night that carried through into this morning. Even if he hadn’t heard that, he would know. He can feel it surrounding him, like it’s holding him in place. Maybe fate.

A police siren whoops once and he looks up to the end of the road. He can just about see the police cruiser marked Key West Police, its lights are on but it isn’t after anybody. Not at first glance anyway. The aging, sunburnt driver leans out of the window and holds the radio to his mouth, “Make the right decision, Finch.”

And then the perpetrator comes into view. Police description would mark her as early-twenties, curly perm in a large denim jacket and a denim skirt with the same kind of faded wash to it, advancing on foot — well, heel, westward towards… Rooster glances to his left, having to squint to read the road sign under the dim-neon of the street light. Not alone, there’s another girl with her. Female. Early-twenties too. Laughing her ass off.

“Come catch us, Marshall!” She calls back towards the cop in the car. He looks exhasperated and already out of breath, but not surprised. This isn’t the first time he has chased the two of you. You’re intoxictated. Rooster can tell from the perpetual squinting grin on your face, the bubbly laughter — and most prevalently, the brown paper bag and glass wine bottle peaking out of it in your hand. He doesn’t have to be a detective to figure that one out.

Briefly, you glance upwards. You follow the feeling of eyes on you and land on him, the handsome brunette on the first floor balcony. Tired looking but pretty, bathed in a pink flush and wearing a barely buttoned cream over shirt. Your grin widens as you give a nod of acknowledgement to your solitary audience member.

“Yeah, if you can run that fast!” You call back to the cop in the car. Hayward Marshall, the shiniest turd of the Key West police department. Not a bad guy, but a narc nonetheless. “Fuckin’ pig!”

At that, the cop at the end of the road growls loudly in annoyance and finally pops open the driver’s side door. Rooster’s lips quirk softly as he watches the two of you turn and run. The cop waits for a beat, then quickly catches on. There’s no point in chasing you.

Rooster hears the door to the police cruiser slam as he steps back into his apartment. Without turning the lights on, he closes the patio door and drops down onto the couch. Exhausted to the point that even closing his eyes hurts, sleep comes for him much more quickly than the usual tossing and turning, ebb and flow of consciousness. Carlota Rivera takes her last breath at 1:49am. Rooster’s laying on his back on an uncomfortable could that might’ve been new in ‘73, just about asleep. The blinding sun streaming through the window wakes him again at dawn.

His first shift with the Monroe County PD is tomorrow morning, an 8am start. Lottie’s whereabouts remain unknown from that morning. She was already dead, but she wasn’t in the water yet.

Rooster has today for himself. First, is a shower. He doesn’t bother to shave, that can wait until tomorrow. Second, he unpacks the essentials. Not that he packed much more than that.

Finally, he walks outside into the morning sun with a pair of gold ray-ban caravans and a faded baseball cap. It’s already warming up, in the high seventies before Rooster’s watch even ticks past seven. He walks over to the railing and looks out over the docks. It hosts a fleet of about eighty yachts, big ones that could easily make the trip across the ocean to Europe. He’s surprised to see as many of them as there are.

Taking off his sunglasses, he’s even more surprised to see the feral minx that was outside of his window last night, howling laughter like a damn coyote, now standing on the deck of a thirty-five thousand dollar boat. You’re showered and dressed, and flushed with a remarkably healthy glow considering how drunk you were a couple of hours ago.

Hair tied back into a loose ponytail, curls decorating the sides of your face, wearing a white tank top and classic blue denim cut offs. Resting his elbows against the railing, he thinks back to your treatment of the police officer from last night and finds himself glad to have left his badge in his bedroom. He’s technically still a cop, even if he tries to distance himself from all of that.

If he wasn’t alone and unobserved, he would pretend that he knows what you’re doing. Fiddling with different canisters and wires. All that crap has never made too much sense to him. He likes fancy cars and cool boats, he just doesn’t really get them. Now, planes? — They were much easier to understand than cars ever were.

Salty, warm morning air and half a packet of mints in, your sinuses are more than clear and your eyes have only just stopped streaming from under your sunglasses. As much as you know you shouldn’t have been out last night, drinking as much as you were, it helps to know that you’re got access to the best freshly squeezed orange juice known to man on this boat.

Usually, you’re pretty aware of your surroundings. A young lady has to be in this day and age — that’s what your grandmother would say, right before you’d teasingly remind her that there’s little that’s ladylike about you. But, you don’t notice the handsome brunette that’s watching you until you turn with a heavy canister in your hand, grunting softly.

It’s clear that he’s been there for a while, he’s settled in against that old railing like a statue, just studying you. It’s almost refreshing that it’s not some sun-spotted, viagra fuelled retiree standing there and slobbering all over the path as he watches you work. But, it’s still a random guy that makes no effort to look away, even as you narrow your eyes at him through your sunglasses.

“You got a staring problem, or something?”

Rooster’s lips quirk upwards as you confirm every suspicion in his mind that you’re the girl from last night. He gives you a slow shake of his head and nothing else. He’s handsome. Tanned with pink cheeks, sunglasses that fit his face well and a shirt that’s pleasantly tight around his biceps. You’re seeing him for the first time now, last night is too much of a drunken haze for you to remember the brief encounter that you had.

If he came up to you in a bar, you’d let him buy you a drink and maybe fuck you in the backseat of his car. Truck, he probably drives a truck. He’s probably Navy. It’s growing increasingly easy to identify the men that turn up around here for a summer or two.

“Y’know, to most people, that means stop staring.” You tell him, setting the empty gas canister down onto the dock for you to carry back later. His lips quirk up further. Almost really smiling at you now.

“‘M looking at the boat.” Rooster shrugs calmly, still smiling softly. You push your sunglasses up onto the top of your head, swiping several tight curls with them. He’s not looking at the damn boat. You’re pretty when you’re glaring at him like that. All riled up like a pissed off kitten.

“You wanna see it up close? — Can wipe the deck with your face if you’re feeling brave.” You bite back at him. This time he grins at you, truly amused and still leaning on that rickety old railing. That’s the thing about working at Garrison Bight — you spend just as much time fending off slimy old men as you do actually working.

This guy doesn’t look that old. Or that slimy. He’s older than you, certainly. You can see that from the nice watch he’s wearing, the sunglasses, the dated baseball cap. Definitely Navy. Poor fella picked the wrong place to approach you, anywhere other than work and you’d happily play along.

He gives you a small shake of his head, settling back into that comfortable, amused smirk. “Not that brave,” He teases, turning his head finally to actually take a look over the yacht. Three floors, not including below deck. Huge. Beyond impressive. “I’ll keep on looking from right here, if that’s alright with you. Got a pretty nice vantage point from over here.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, lifting your palm to shield your eyes from the glaring morning sun. “Have you got a wife or something that I need to know about?”

“Not that you need to know about,” He shrugs, “She keeps herself occupied most days.”

Finally, he gets you to break. You smile across the gap between the yacht and the railing, amused by his joke. You set your sunglasses back on the bridge of your nose and tilt your head at him, giving him a quick look up and down.

“You ever had your dick sucked on a yacht?”

…

tags:

@thedroneranger @cherrycola27 @perpetuelledaydreaming @raisehailpraisedale @khaylin27 @sharpsapphic666 @fudge13 @slutfordw @averyhotchner @hangmanscoming @bradshawseresinbabe @diorrfairy @phoenix1388 @alm334 @princess76179 @cherrycola27 @wkndwlff @xoxabs88xox @galaxy-moon @itsmytimetoodream @sugarcoated-lame

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradsaw x reader #bradley bradshaw au

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liaromancewriter · 23 days

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Stand By Me

Premise: Cassie experiences the downside of having Ethan Ramsey as a mentor.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Angsty Fluff Format: Prose + Text and Pic Fic Words: 2,610

A/N: Submission for @choicesaprilchallenge24 prompt, two-word sentence starter: "you're wrong"

Part 1: The Calm

Cassie Valentine had never traveled quite like this. The cargo plane’s interior was cavernous and dimly lit, a stark contrast to the tightly packed but bright commercial jet that had flown her and Ethan Ramsey from Boston to Miami for the first leg of their trek to assist humanitarian efforts after an earthquake in Haiti.

Cassie thought idly that the jet had been more comfortable with its plush seating. She sat cross-legged on the cold, metal floor, a duffle bag shoved behind her, cushioning her lower back from the unyielding steel, and scanned her surroundings.

The sparse interior was devoid of the usual comforts of commercial flights. There were no overhead bins, seatback trays or in-flight entertainment to pass the time. Just an expansive, unadorned metal hull echoing with the sound of the engines, a constant, deafening roar that made any attempt at conversation futile.

“Hope you’re strapped in tight, folks,” Hank, the team leader, shouted above the noise.

Standing in the center of the plane, his legs spread for balance, he stretched his long arms to grip one of the loops hanging from the ceiling.

“It’s going to be a bumpy ride, but at least there’s no middle seat to fight over,” Hank continued matter-of-factly as the plane gained speed on the runway, its sides rattling in response. A few people chuckled.

He finished his safety instructions a minute or two before the wheels lifted off the tarmac, and quickly strapped himself into a jump seat on the far side. He caught her watching him, and winked flirtatiously.

Back on the ground, Ethan had greeted Hank with an easy familiarity borne out of their shared experience during the Amazon mission years earlier. The casual insults had rolled off their tongues as they needled each other jokingly.

Cassie suspected this trip would be eye-opening in more ways than one as she spied on Ethan’s relaxed profile out of the corner of her eye. As if sensing her scrutiny, he glanced askance at her and she gave him a thumbs up signal.

She huddled inside the leather jacket, shivering from the chill that permeated the aircraft as it began its ascent. Leaning her head on Ethan’s shoulder, she smiled ruefully at Libby, the petite red-haired fifth-year surgical resident strapped in across from her.

They’d gotten to chatting in the hangar as they waited for the plane to be loaded with boxes filled with medical and food supplies and humanitarian aid packages. Libby, on her third trip to a disaster zone, had been a fount of information on what to expect and advice on how to manage in crude living conditions.

Cassie felt a sense of adventure mingled with apprehension. The headlines coming out of Port-au-Prince had painted a bleak picture of destruction, death and despair.

When Ethan’s contact in the WHO reached out asking for medical volunteers, Cassie knew she wasn’t going to be left behind this time. She might not have experience in field hospitals, but it was time she got it.

Ethan hadn’t argued or tried to talk her out of it. They were doctors; this is what they did.

As the plane reached cruising altitude, Cassie peered out of a small window near the floor. The view was obscured by a thick mesh covering the outside, but it did little to diminish the sense of wonder at the vast blue sea below, the calm surface broken only by the white crests of waves.

The flight was long, longer still, with nothing to do to pass the time. Cassie found herself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the monotony of the engine’s roar and the comforting feel of Ethan’s arm around her.

The next thing she knew, he was nudging her awake. The plane’s vibration beneath her had changed, gradually descending as they approached their destination. The atmosphere inside was abuzz with anticipation. Shortly after, the plane touched down on the tarmac, the landing rougher than the take-off.

“Ready?” Ethan asked as they unstrapped themselves once the plane had come to a halt.

Cassie nodded, stretching her arms and legs to shake off the stiffness. “Next time, remind me to grab a sleeping bag and some snacks.”

He chuckled, but his smile was soft as he stared into her green eyes. He ran his index finger down the side of her face, tucked back a lock of blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail, and tilted her face up.

The kiss was a mere brush of the lips, whisper soft, barely there before it was gone. It was the last moment of normality. Once they disembarked, everything would change.

Part 2: The Storm

The oppressive heat and humidity were unlike anything Cassie had experienced before, although she’d certainly been to the tropics. Her brother’s island home on St. Thomas was a few hundred miles east, but its luxurious, air-conditioned environs were worlds apart from the rows of beige-colored tents spread out in every direction.

The back of her short-sleeved cotton scrub top was damp from perspiration, so she lifted the hem to air it out. Exiting the stuffy interior of a medical tent housing non-urgent cases, Cassie took a deep breath. The pungent smells of human waste and unwashed bodies hit her nostrils immediately, and she started gagging.

Sweat dripped down her face, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. In the last few days, she’d lost her weight in fluids as they dug latrines, carried supplies from one end of the field hospital to another and spent hours in airless spaces treating patients whose eyes were inconsolable with loss.

It had taken her more than a minute to get her bearings, but Ethan had been in his element. She knew he’d volunteered with Partners in Health when he was a resident and fellow. But she’d had a hard time picturing the sophisticated, opera-loving Dr. Ramsey in such crude surroundings, digging ditches, boots covered in mud, grime staining his clothes.

They had both been busy in their respective areas, retreating every night, bone tired, muscles aching, to their assigned bedroom in staff housing near the hospital. All they did was sleep before waking up early to do it all over again.

Suddenly missing him and desperate to feel his arms around her, Cassie marched down the dirt path between tents, her green eyes searching for him or someone familiar who could tell her if they’d seen him.

Her ears pricked when she heard his deep voice and distinctive laugh close by. Changing directions, she followed her instincts and turned left, slowing down when she saw him standing in the middle of a clearing, his back to her.

Ethan was with an older man she hadn’t met before. His gray hair was long from the back, brushing past his collar, with deep-set eyes and a hooked nose. He spoke English with a heavy accent, gesticulating with his hands for emphasis.

The other man caught her spying on them, and his voice boomed, chiding. “Ah, another acolyte for my young friend. It’s always the same story, eh, Ramsey?”

Cassie flushed when she realized he was referring to her.

Surprised, Ethan spun on his heels and relaxed when he spotted her. “Cassie.”

Her earlier euphoria faded, replaced by a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach as she joined them.

“You know each other?” The other man asked, glancing between her and Ethan.

“Klaus, meet Dr. Valentine.” Ethan made the introductions. “Cassie, this is Dr. van Rijn, special missions head at the WHO. We go way back.”

“Valentine, Valentine. Why do I know that name?” Dr. van Rijn tapped one finger against his lips before his eyes cleared in recognition. “Ah, yes, of course.”

Cassie felt a momentary high at being recognized by someone of his stature, but his next words had her deflating like a balloon popped with a pin.

“You’re the intern!”

“That was six years ago,” Ethan shook his head in amusement. “She’s hardly an intern anymore, Klaus. Dr. Valentine is—”

“Your mentee, or rather, your protege,” he interrupted. “Yes, yes, Ethan, I remember. My hair is more gray than when we last saw each other, but my memory is sharper than ever.”

“But your hearing could use some work,” Ethan retorted, shoving his hands in his pant pockets. “As I was saying….”

Cassie saw herself standing in a long tunnel, the dismissive words spoken by the other man echoing around her. Intern. Mentee. Ramsey’s protege. Reduced to nothing more than that.

“Cassie, are you alright?”

Ethan’s concerned voice broke through her reverie, and she looked up, startled. They were both staring at her, one in disquiet and the other with curiosity.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” Cassie said. “What were you talking about?”

“Ethan was just telling me you’re now leading his former team,” van Rijn said. “That’s quite an accomplishment for one so young. You made a smart decision when you chose to train under Dr. Ramsey. He’s one of the best and most astute physicians I’ve ever met. You’ll go far if you keep following in your mentor’s footsteps.”

Incensed at the implication that her success was not of her own making, Cassie opened her mouth to deliver a cutting retort or at least defend her record. But Ethan stepped in front of her, figuratively, and beat her to it.

“That’s unfair, Klaus,” Ethan said sternly. “Dr. Valentine is brilliant. She diagnosed and found a cure for Naveen when he and I had both given up. She’s the keynote speaker at this year’s AADM conference, just like I was all those years ago, and is a special advisor to a Congressional national committee on healthcare affordability.”

He paused, frowning slightly before continuing. “And before you shove your foot even further down your mouth, you’ve apparently forgotten that she’s also my wife.”

Cassie stared in shock at Ethan, her ears ringing. His wife?!? That’s how he chose to end this? She thought they were partners and equals first, but clearly, she’d been mistaken.

“I heard you’d gotten married,” van Rijn said, flustered, “but I didn’t realize it was to…”

His words trailed off, and his cheeks turned red with embarrassment as he glanced at Cassie.

Ethan, too, watched her warily as she continued to stand there in stony silence, arms folded tightly across her front.

As she grappled with her emotions, feeling the old imposter syndrome return, Cassie knew she would blow her top if she didn’t walk away now. Preferably with her dignity intact.

“It was a pleasure,” she almost tripped over the word, “to meet you, Dr. van Rijn. I have to get back to work.”

She nodded rigidly at Ethan. “I’ll see you later.”

She was practically running once she was out of sight, unable to slow down despite the heat making her lightheaded.

Cassie often counted her blessings that she’d gotten a chance to work with Ethan, the compassionate and caring doctor who’d captured her heart. But for the first time in her life, she wished she’d never met Dr. Ramsey.

Part 3: The Aftermath

Part 4: The Closure

Ethan poured Malbec into a long-stemmed wine glass for Cassie the moment he heard her keys rattle in the apartment door. He’d had his ears cocked for the last half-hour, the trepidation building with every passing minute.

He heard the swoosh of the hallway closet door as she likely hung up her coat and the clatter of her shoes hitting the hardwood floor. Just as she walked into the living room, he took a large swallow of his wine and promptly started coughing when it went down the wrong pipe.

“Are you okay?” Cassie asked, her brow furrowed in concern as she approached him and brushed her hand up and down his back.

Ethan nodded, wheezing as the cough tickled his throat. He set the glass on the counter before he spilled the drink all over the kitchen floor. Finally, he managed to get himself under control.

Cassie lifted the glass of wine he’d poured for her and sipped slowly, her eyes closing as she savored the taste.

“You always know just what I need,” she said with a deep sigh. “M&M was particularly long and exhausting. Tell me, why did I choose to stay in academic medicine?”

“You’re wrong,” Ethan said quietly, causing her eyes to drift open and stare at him in surprise. “I don’t always know what you need. Something’s gone wrong between us. Things haven’t been the same since Haiti.”

Cassie pursed her lips and watched him above the rim of her glass, not reacting to his statement in any other way. Then she finished her wine and set the glass down on the counter.

“We already discussed this back then and today on text,” Cassie reminded him. “What else is there to say?”

She shrugged, and then her eyes turned hard like steel. “I need to stand on my own, but who you are, what you are…well, it casts a long shadow. I didn’t like how you and Klaus reduced me to someone who exists only because of what you saw in me. And not because I worked hard for it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Cassie cut him off. “You might not have meant to, but you defending me without giving me a chance to do it myself, you might as well have.”

“Why can’t I stand up for you?” Ethan said, frustration leaking through as he stabbed his fingers into his hair.

“I need you to stand by me, not for me,” Cassie said, her tone measured in response to his heated one. “I will always be measured by your reputation, just like you have to contend with Naveen’s legacy. We can’t control what others say or do. I’ve accepted it.”

“Then why are you angry with me?” Ethan shot back.

“I’m not angry.”

Cassie closed the distance between them, her smile throwing him off. When she took his hand and laced her fingers through his, he felt as if the tight band around his heart loosened.

“I’m not angry,” she repeated, squeezing his fingers. “But I resent that, despite what we talked about in Haiti, your natural inclination on seeing that Pictagram post was to respond defending my honor.”

“Don’t deny it,” she cautioned when he started to do just that. “If I wanted to shoot down small-minded individuals, I’m more than capable of doing it myself.”

Ethan took a deep breath in and then exhaled. “I did want to do that,” he admitted. “I saw red because what they said was so far from reality.”

“If you thought that was bad, it’s good you’re not on Reddit,” Cassie said, twisting her lips in a wry smile.

“You know, if someone attacked your reputation, I’d be upset too.” She nestled against him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist.

“But we both know the truth. I respect you enough to let you tear into shreds anyone that came at you. Give me the same courtesy, at least professionally,” Cassie added, angling her lips to kiss the underside of his jaw.

“If it was a personal attack, you have my permission to destroy them with that deathly Dr. Ramsey glare.”

Ethan snorted with laughter when she perfectly mimicked his angry expression.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said, framing her face between his hands. His lips hovered above hers, waiting, prolonging the anticipation.

“You may kis—”

But she didn’t need to finish for he was already kissing her, and she was kissing him back. Everything was finally right in their world.

-----------------

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @justyourusualash @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @youlookappropriate

#open heart #open heart choices #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x mc #open heart fanfics #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfics #choices fanfiction #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine #playchoices

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kassiekole22 · 3 days

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Joy Ride

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

Pairing: Brian O'Conner X Fem!Reader

Description: Brian finds you walking home late one night and offers you a ride, which turns into a night-long joy ride around Miami.

Warnings: Fluff, Speeding, Friends Or Future Lovers? (You Decide)

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Sooooo, I watched 2 Fast 2 Furious for the first time a around a month ago and this guy has been on my mind ever since. I have always really loved Paul Walker so this was bound to happen eventually. 😂 I don't know if I plan to write more for him or if this will just be a one time thing, but I have been working on this fic for quite some time now and I'm happy to finally be posting it. More to come from other beloved characters soon! Enjoy the fic and if you want more Brian O'Conner fics in the future, let me know in the comments or inbox! 🖤 (Also did any of you get the reference in the name? 👀)

Main MasterList: 🖤

Kassie's Angels: @mornandil, @lorebite.

(If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know in the comments! 🖤)

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

2002

The air is pretty cool for a night in Miami, but I don't mind. I walk with my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, protecting them from the slight chill. It's nothing too intense, but I haven't been used to being in cooler temperatures for awhile now.

I walk quickly down the sidewalk as a few cars pass from time to time. The sounds of their engines make my fingers and feet tingle a little, my body missing the feeling of the steering wheel gripped in my fingers and the gas pedal under my foot.

I wrecked pretty badly during my last race, resulting in my car becoming too banged up to drive. Most street racers have other cars to fall back on. Unfortunately for me, my girl was all I had. Now I'm left to walk on foot until I can get enough money to fix her.

The ambiance in the street is pretty calm until I hear the familiar rumble of a very specific engine approaching my side. To my surprise, that iconic silver and blue Nissan Skyline pulls up, slowing down to drive at my walking speed. But the slick paint job or glowing underbody isn't what makes it difficult to look away. The driver is none other than the man who beat me in my last race, Brian O'Conner.

I'm met with a kind smile as he rolls down his windows, his bright blue eyes glancing up at me from the shadows of the interior. There is just something about that man that draws me in. I could never tell what exactly it was, but it pulled me in his direction like a bee to a flower every time I was in the same location as him.

"Ey, need a ride?" He queries in a rasied voice, nearly shouting over the Skyline's growl.

Though it's tempting, I don't want to throw a wrench in any plans he may have. Knowing him, he has another street race or date to get to at this hour. So, despite the aching pain in my feet that is screaming in protest, I respond casually, "Nah, man. I'm good. Home's not too far away anyway, y'know?"

Even though it wouldn't take him too long, it would be pretty pointless to drive only a couple blocks anyway. He takes a mere second to let my words sink in and find an answer, his eyes hopeful as they are taken off the road and landing on me once more.

"We don't gotta take you home. The night's still—" He checks his watch, and his eyes widen slightly as he realizes the time. "—Well, middle-aged, but that don't gotta stop the fun."

I can't contain a faint chuckle at his dumb joke, rolling my eyes as I do so. The next thing I know, my feet are subconsciously coming to a stop, and he gently lays on the brakes. His car is also stopping right beside where I now stand, but the engine still purrs softly to alert all of its consciousness.

"Ah, c'mon, girl. Let's live a little, eh?" He flashes me that dangerous half-smirk that beckons me forward into mischief. It now dawns on me that he might not have the intention of taking me home, which is intriguing in a way.

I contemplate my options for a moment. The only thing waiting for me at home is a couple bottles of beer and some cold pizza left in the fridge from the night prior. It seems like I've been spending most of my time alone lately. Maybe it would be good to spend some time in good company.

"Alright," I give in with a subtle but still noticeable sigh, backing down in my mental debate.

He reaches across and opens the passenger door for me as I round the car, its headlights illuminating me for a brief moment as I cross in front of the bumper before hoping into the seat offered to me. It felt weird being in the left seat and not having a steering wheel before me. I could never get used to those foreign imported cars.

But regardless, it sure is a beauty. The leather interior smells oddly fresh and calming, with a faint hint of exhaust filtering through the open windows. It's clear he just cleaned her up. Brian was always the type to take care of his rides.

I pull the seatbelt across my chest and lock it in securely, mentally preparing myself for the wild ride I know damn well he is about to take me on. He looks at me and flashes me that cocky yet proud smile as he revvs the engine for only a moment before taking off into the night.

With windows down and speed carrying us, I feel like I'm floating on air. The soft breeze I felt only moments ago is now a fast wind in my hair, and the soft ambiance of the nightlife in Miami is now disturbed by a machine growl.

I glance over at him, and it's as if time slows for just a minute as I take in how happy he is. He's a simple man. He doesn't need the fancy things in life, just a fast car to make the corners of his lips part into that iconic grin I have grown to love.

"Wanna get fuckin' nuts?" He asks me, his voice taking me out of my thoughts and putting me back into reality. That's when I notice that mischievous look in his ocean blue eyes, their pupils blown wide with adrenaline.

Hm... Blue and full of adrenaline, like the blood pumping in our veins.

"What?" I blurt out, not fully comprehending what he is asking, until my gaze wanders down to where his thumbs hovers over the nitro buttons.

I look at the road ahead, seeing that it is completely barren of all life, and I can't help but smirk at the thought of what he is suggesting. It's a dangerous game—playing with speed in such a way—but a thrilling one, for sure.

Taking my eyes off the road ahead to look back at him, I notice the hopeful glint once again in his eyes, only pushing my thought process toward wanting to comply. So without a second breath, I cheer, "Fuck yeah!"

With a simple click of two buttons at once, we are off like a rocket in space. Suddenly, the street lights look like comets, and the lines on the road are just blurs of colors. It's oddly beautiful in a way, and I marvel at how it ignites my soul with such a unique feeling, which I can't possibly seek from anything else. My fingers dig into the sides of my seat as my heart pounds against my ribcage like thunder, both overwhelmed but thirsty for more of this intoxicating rush.

Though Brian only lets this last for a moment, just seconds passed that will remain with me for an eternity. We laugh as the car slows to a semi-normal speed again. My smile is so wide, I can feel my face begin to hurt.

But I don't care. I am just so high on the thrill that my mind is lost in a cloudy space of euphoria. It's crazy how the night went from a quiet walk home to taking a joy ride with one of my rivals, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Once our laughter dies down, the soft purr of the engine is the only thing heard yet again as we both seemingly get lost in our own thoughts. What is he thinking? I wish I knew. The only thing on my mind is how happy I am. It isn't until a couple minutes later that he speaks his mind, taking a deep breath before his lips finally form the words he has been pondering.

"We should do this more often," he suggests in that nonchalant tone he carries quite regularly for someone with such excitement in his life. "Y'know, hang out outside the racing world? You're a cool girl."

I can't repress how my smile softens for a moment at his words as my eyes flick over in his direction while a million responses filter through my mind. This guy is a legend—a local celebrity, if you will. To have this opportunity is an honor. However, I don't necessarily get the vibe of entitlement from him. Instead, his atmosphere reflects something else—something friendly and inviting.

"And you're a cool guy. I'd love to hang with you more often." I reply, trying to sound chill but coming off way more sincere than intended. Though he doesn't seem to mind, in fact, he seems to be pleased with my response.

The next thing I know, he is pulling into a public beach. Its sands are abandoned by any human life due to the lateness of time, though the footprints of the visitors that day still remain like ghosts of the past, their memories carved in the sand until they get washed away by the waves.

He locks the car in park, unhooks his seatbelt, and gets out. I watch through the windshield as he rounds the side of it to rest back on the hood. My eyes study him as he lifts himself to sit on the hood, not once looking back to see if I leave the car as well. It's almost as if he expects me to.

So to fulfill his silent expectations, I swing my door open and hop out after freeing myself from my seatbelt, nearly stumbling as the ground is unexpectedly unsteady where I stand. My feet sink into the sand, and I'm grateful I chose to wear boots tonight over anything else.

Once out of my sticky situation, I take a moment to appreciate the freshness in the air—the sweet smell of the ocean before me for just a second. After approaching him, I rest beside him on the hood, watching the waves crash before us. It reminds me that life is quite like the sea. It's unpredictable, a little scary at times, but beautiful in many unique ways. I release a soft breath, my body relaxing in this calming moment.

"I remember the first time I saw you pull up in that black Trans Am to the race. Fuckin' engine and bass on your stereo roaring over the sound of the crowd." He chuckles while he reminisces about old memories.

"Buni," I correct him as I smile fondly, thinking about the beauty that's currently under a tarp in my garage, just waiting to be repaired and set free on the road once again.

"Yeah, Buni." He parrots me in an almost teasing way. I know he finds the fact that I named my car ridiculous, but I can see it in his eyes that it amuses him all the same. "You're something else, (L/N). A damn good racer, though."

My heart flutters at the compliment, and I feel my cheeks heat up with this familiar warmth that only he ignites in me best. The soft breeze blows through my hair as I think of a reply, running through my strains like an angel's fingertips. But it's not the breeze nor the location that has me in such a calm and joyful state.

I continue to study him—the way his blonde curls blow in the breeze, the corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly to show his contentment, his biceps flexing ever so slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest. It amazes me how all the different shades of blue in his iris reflect the scene before us. It's like I could literally drown in them each time I gaze into them to admire their beauty.

"Yeah? You and your Skyline ain't so bad either." I finally quip with a small bit of sarcasm dripping from my tone after forcing myself out of where my mind has disappeared to for a short time. He smiles softly at my words, because it's evident how I really feel about him. He knows, and I know that, but I don't really care anymore.

We talk until sunrise and watch as the black sky fades into orange and pink, blending with the stars to make them barely visible. Though they are out of sight, I know they still shine brightly above us, like angels waiting for us in heaven. It's quite special—maybe even magical.

The sea reflects the morning sun as it rises from the horizon, its golden rays shining upon us as we remain on the hood of the car. It's just us out here in our own little world. If I learned anything from last night, it's not the place that makes a moment special, but the person you share it with.

I don't know where this road will take us. I know it will be a long one—with plenty of traffic and bumps ahead—but the ride will be an enjoyable one with a new friend in the seat next to me as we speed through it all. And if we happen to get separated some point along the way, I know in my heart that I'll see him again.

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

#2 fast 2 furious #brian o'conner #brian o'conner x reader #KassieBrianOConnerFanFics

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svetavorshevsky · 28 days

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REACTION: AFTER PARTY PLOT DROP.

Mentions: Konstantin, Misha, Ilya, Pavel, Vitaly, Yuli, and unknown. Part: 01/02 Where: Watched the video via her phone.

Sickness coiled in her gut, fear had now turned into undiluted rage.

"No." was all she managed.

The phone dropped from her hand with a thud, nostrils flaring while painted lips drew back over her teeth. A wholly Un-Sveta-sounding pained snarl ripped from her throat. One of their own had been...She was already looking for them: Konstantin and Misha -- it was always them before everyone else. Amongst the sea of silence that washed over them as screens blinked to nothing, coldness seeped into her very being. It wouldn't be long before this place turned into a blood bath, but his face kept replaying in her mind.

Ilya.

Butchered like a pig in a slaughterhouse.

Miami, the sentiment had been no one fucked with the Vorshevskys. And they'd just fucking done it. Snapping her gaze to her husband, looking every bit ready to run in head first, she, for just a fraction of a second knew she'd never love a man more. For that rage was lit in both of their chests, burning and twisting.

Consuming.

If they could get to Kosta's second, they could get to him and that was enough to light fear inside of a woman who often felt little emotion. After what she'd heard about the previous year's awards after-party, she felt more and more like this was a setup. To get them all into the same room, head snapping left and right. Ilya was dead, it kept coming back like it was slamming into the forefront of her mind.

Those fuckers had killed his friend.

Sveta, leveling with herself, reminded herself that she was here for more reasons than she'd initially let on. After what felt like an eternity, her gaze found Konstantin's, using her head to gesture, with fire-blazing eyes, towards the woman who was thankfully standing apart from everyone else. Brows raising, saying what she needed too: we've got a perfect fucking opening.

An eye for an eye was what they wanted? She'd take another.

"Fuck. I want a part of this." Fingers curled into her palms until she left crescent moons in her skin. Getting the confirmation she needed from across the now maddening ground, was enough to have her draw a steady breath. "I hope they kill them all," Sveta growled, hand slipping into the crook of her husband's arm, voice dropping to nothing but a low whisper. "I got the confirmation. You know what to do -- get the car out the front," scanning the room for his brother. "Have Vitaly waiting to help me. He's waiting for the signal."

Slowly, even as chaos began to consume the place, Sveta kept her shoulders back as the two parted ways: allowing herself one second to look for Yuli, scanning once, then twice before she huffed out air between her lips with a grimance. She'd have to check later, time was ticking and if she was going to get this done -- she had to move fast.

Face devoid of emotion, without little care for what was going to happen next, she opened her bag and kept her head down, ripping quietly at the interior.

#reaction: plot drop #plot drop #self para #after party ; 24 #location: berkeley estate #post plot drop #immediate

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fashionbooksmilano · 1 year

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Peter Marino One Way

Peter Marino, Text by Silvia Karman Cubina and Jérôme Sans

Skira Rizzoli, New York 2017, 140 pages, 35,8 x 37 cm, Softcover in box, English, ISBN 978-0-8478-4518-7

euro 40,00

email if you want to buy :[email protected]

This catalog documents the exhibition titled One Way: Peter Marino, opening December 4, 2014, at the Bass Museum of Art in Miami Beach. Through a selection of paintings, sculptures, photographs, films, and architectural works, One Way: Peter Marino celebrates internationally acclaimed architect Peter Marino’s connoisseurship of art and his influence on it, exploring the unique interplay of disciplines that inform his oeuvre. The exhibition, curated by Jérôme Sans, takes the viewer on a journey of influences, from Marino’s personal collection of contemporary art to his architecture and design to his relationships with some of the most acclaimed international contemporary artists. Peter Marino, FAIA, is the principal of Peter Marino Architect PLLC, the New York–based architecture firm he founded in 1978. Widely known for his residential and retail work for the most iconic names in the fashion and art worlds, Marino’s award-winning architecture, which also includes large-scale commercial, cultural, and hospitality projects, maintains a constant dialogue between the interior and exterior and has redefined modern luxury worldwide.

07/01/23

orders to: [email protected]

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#Peter Marino #art exhibition catalogue #Bass Museum Miami Beach 2014 #paintings #sculptures #photographs #films #contemporary artist #architectural works #designbooksmilano #fashionbooksmilano

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jonathanferraragallery · 1 year

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MICHAEL TOLE is a figurative painter currently living in Tempe, Arizona with his wife and two daughters. Born in 1979 in Dallas, Texas, he graduated from UT Austin with a BFA in painting in 2000. A year later, he became the youngest artist ever represented by Dallas’ Conduit Gallery where he showed for 15 years. For the first half of his career, he created photo-based paintings of retail interiors that explored issues of class and the relationship of painting and photography. After relocating to Tempe, his work experienced a significant shift to fantastical figurative inventions based on pop culture imagery he has encountered via his two daughters’ taste in music videos, as well as his new proximity to the twin capitals of America’s fantasy industrial complex - Hollywood and Las Vegas. The new work attempts to contextualize their brand of Disney-esque hedonism within a broader historical view of Western visual culture. Tole has been exhibited nation-wide, including New York, Miami, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Dallas, and New Orleans. He has won several grants, including the $50,000 Hunting Art Prize, and the Kimbrough Grant. His work has been reviewed in Art Forum International, San Francisco Chronicle, Dallas Morning News, and Hi-Fructose.

#michael tole #Revisionist history #figurative painting #contemporary art #jonathan ferrara gallery #jfg artist

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floridapainting · 1 year

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johnzollerart · 2 years

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Percolating Grey #JohnZoller Acrylic on Canvas 48 x 48 inches 2022 #painting #paintings #painter #arte #fineart #modernhome #contemporaryart #moma #artgallerynyc #grey #interior #artlovers #luxurydecor #luxurylife #luxuryliving #worthavenue #palmbeach #palmbeachrealestate #miami #miamibeach #wynwood #miamidesigndistrict #bridgehampton #hamptons #pace #antwerpen #greenwitch #roma #architecture (at Worth Ave, Palm Beach Island) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd-bjfCueW3/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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honkyccat · 1 year

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( jesse williams, 41, cismale, he/him ) DARCY SAWYER has been living in Point Place for FOUR YEARS. Their favorite song is PAINT IT BLACK BY THE ROLLING STONES. They’re currently up to MANAGER AT CHARLIE’S BAR, but they’d rather be AN INTERIOR DESIGNER. First impressions usually stick around here, and others describe them as INDEPENDENT, UNCOMPROMISING, ALOOF . Stick around to get to know the real them. ( jack )

tw below: war, loss of limb/disability

• 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄. darcy richard sawyer

• 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄(𝐒). just darcy

• 𝐀𝐆𝐄. fourty-one

• 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇. feb 14th

• 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍. miami, florida

• 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒. cismale ; he/him

• 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. homoromantic, homosexual

darcy was four when he entered the foster care system and eight when he was adopted by a loving family. his father was a teacher and his mother ran a daycare, although they’d never been blessed with children of their own. not until darcy, at least. he fit right in immediately, and they were good to him. they loved him and cared for him and really truly wanted the best for him. but their love was conditional and him falling in love with a man was too much for them. they kicked him out at sixteen, refusing to pay for his college or even help him find housing. with nowhere else to go and the korean war in full swing, he lied about his age to enlist. surely they had to know he was just a kids, the way his hands shook in training and how he cried himself to sleep every night. but suddenly, he wasn’t alone. he wasn’t the only one scared, with nothing left in the world but the men in the cots next to him. they became his new family, and he became theirs.

much to darcy’s luck, he fell in love with one of his squad mates. it was hard not to, they spent all their time together. and as long nobody found out, they could be together. the threat of what would happen if they were discovered hung over their heads like a guillotine, but it was worth it, as long as they had each other. at least, that’s what he thought. the war ended and they had made it out alive, so clearly that was a sign. they stayed in the army together, on the same team, stealing moments away to be with each other. however when darcy got shot and the wound on his leg developed a severe infection, his love was nowhere to be found. when the infection was spreading, and the leg had to be removed, he would beg god, any god, even gods he didn’t believe in. but still, his love didn’t come, and darcy was left wondering if he was even still alive. once the leg was gone, darcy was sent home, but he wrote letters every day, and every day he waited for a response. but none came, not from the one person he’d wanted to hear from.

suddenly on his own for the first time in 20 years, with nowhere to go and no one to report to, he decided to head back to miami, check on his family, but they had replaced him. they were happy, with their new children, and it seemed as if they had never given him another care after he left. he jumped around from there, trying to figure out how to live his life with one and a half legs. while he had once dreamed of being a teacher, like his father, he now had to find a new dream. so when his best friend from the army returned stateside and mentioned moving to wisconsin, he didn’t really have a reason to stay. so he followed axel here and got a job at a bar and is studying design in the hopes of one day doing interior design for restaurants and clubs.

#𝔻𝔸ℝℂ𝕐 𝕊𝔸𝕎𝕐𝔼ℝ — ♡ intro #tw: war #tw: injury/loss of limb #tw: disability #70s.intro

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