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sometimesanalice · 1 year

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Days Like This

Summary: When your day goes from bad to terrible to worse, Bradley is there to help pick you back up.

Warnings: a lot of feels and a soft ending. Minors DNI

Length: 7.2K

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw X Female Reader

The traffic on the highway getting home from where you worked was particularly disgusting for 2pm on a Tuesday.

The tint on the darkest pair of the many sunglasses you kept in your car wasn’t doing anything to help with the migraine that has started out at work as a whisper but had steadily built to a full roar. The California sun glaring down on you through your window wasn’t doing anything to help the pressure behind your eyes or the pain radiating throughout your head.

You wanted to be home.

The day started out nicely, perfectly even. Bradley’s lecture for the day had been pushed back, so he was still there in bed with you when you had woken up. And the two of you got to enjoy your coffee and breakfast together al fresco under the foliage of the tree that was built into your outdoor deck, soaking up each other and the morning sun before it got too hot.

All of Bradley’s bronze skin was on display in the sunlight as he had only been wearing a pair of sweatpants, his soft UVA t-shirt missing since it was on you instead. The neighbors were probably getting an eyeful, but the chances were high that they’ve already seen you both in much less.

His eyes had lit up and he had let out a low whistle when you came back down the stairs in the outfit you had worn for going into the office. It was just a formfitting navy pencil skirt and striped cotton button down, but that didn’t stop him from crowding you up against the white marble counter. His hands gripping your hips as he pressed himself against you.

“Bradley,” you sighed leaning back, letting his broad, warm body support you, “I can’t show up to work all wrinkled.”

You could feel the outline of him through his heathered gray sweatpants, and it worked for you.

Everything about him worked for you.

“Can’t have that, now can we?” he murmured in your ear. His hands sliding around to the exposed zipper in the back, fingers playing with the pull tab there, “Let’s take it off then.”

And you were tempted. So, so tempted as he teased his mustache along your neck.

“I’m going to be late,” you said, spinning to wrap your arms around his neck. The taste of coffee on his tongue was better than anything out of a mug.

“C’mon, kid,” he coaxed against your mouth, his voice pure seduction, “Let me give you a proper send off.”

His hands had found the top button of your blue and white striped shirt, slipping it out of its buttonhole to expose a couple more inches of your skin to his eyes.

You didn’t have any meetings until later in the morning, and his mouth was your favorite kind of distraction. Especially the way he was lazily working his way along your jawline.

“You always smell so good,” he hummed into your skin. Those sly and precise hands undid another button before sliding one under your shirt. His finger tracing along the line of the scalloped line of your bra.

And then you remembered just what exactly you were wearing under that button down and pencil skirt that was driving him so crazy. If Bradley were to discover what you had on, you would have definitely been late for work.

That was a surprise for him to find later.

He tugged on the collar of your button down to get another glimpse of you and at what secrets resided beneath your top.

“Bradley!” you laughed swatting at his hands you tried to pull away. Working quickly to rebutton the ones he had managed to get undone while you had been preoccupied with his mouth.

“You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he winked at you, still running his hands along your body.

“No, of course not,” you tease, rolling your eyes in amusement, “However, I do reserve the right to blame you if I am late for work.”

“You could always just tell them you were late because you were doing your patriotic duty. Don’t they give you paid volunteer hours at that place?” he asked with a wicked smirk before letting you go with one final squeeze to your hips.

“I don’t think me volunteering for another round of patriotic sex on the kitchen island is what they meant when they gave us those paid community hours. Even if it is technically in service and support for the property of the US Navy.”

You leaned in for one more quick kiss, coping a quick feel of his ass as you darted out of his reach and towards the entryway before he could pull you back in again, “Please send my thanks to Uncle Sam.”

He chuckled, as he leaned against the counter with his legs crossed at the ankles with his mug of coffee back in his hands, “Have a good day, kid.”

You gathered your things and were almost out the door when Bradley called out to you.

“Hey! You forgot something.”

You paused to check your bag, confused about what could have possibly been missing. Once your laptop, phone, wallet, and keys had all been accounted for you turned back towards him to see what had been overlooked in your haste to get out the door.

“I love you, sweet girl.”

Oh, he was so gone for you.

You didn’t think you would ever get over how handsome Bradley was, especially when he was smiling at you with such warmth and affection.

“I love you too,” you grinned back at him, before sauntering out the door with a cheeky salute, “See you later, Lieutenant Commander.”

And then you hit every goddamn red light possible on your way into work.

You wanted to be home.

You wanted to be in your bed.

Things had gone from bad to worse in the few minutes it had taken you to walk through the main door of your building towards your office.

There hadn’t even been time to make a stop at the fancy espresso machine that was in the break room before your work nemesis, Grace, was charging at you in the hallway to rant about the derailed timelines for a project that you were both assigned to for one of the biggest clients on your company’s account roster.

It was clear as you looked over the spreadsheets she had printed out, still holding your heavy work tote on your shoulder, that there wouldn’t be any way to salvage the mess and that the deliverables wouldn't be ready in time for the client’s target deadline.

When she left in an angry huff marching towards the direction of your boss’ office, your stomach was aching from the twisted knots that had formed in your lower abdomen. The idea of the coffee you had been looking forward to was now the last thing on your mind, not that the caffeine would be good for your elevated levels of anxiety.

Both you and Grace were in the running for the same promotion, and you knew without a doubt that she was going to try and pin all the poor planning on you.

As if she wasn’t the one who’d essentially elbowed you out of the way for this portion of the project claiming that she had been further along in the planning process and that “it would be redundant and a waste time and resources for us to both work on this.”

She had dodged your attempts to collaborate, stonewalling you at every possible turn. You had been excluded from important meetings multiple times and had been asked to do duplicate work even though your own plate was already overloaded from all the slack you were picking up. You had found so many errors in what little information she had sent your way, that you were having to redo most everything as it came to you.

While you had been debating going to your boss to inform her of the ongoing issues, you had held off because even though you kept things professional at the office, it wasn’t a secret that the two of you weren’t exactly the best of friends. And you had been worried she might have brushed it off as interpersonal issues rather than Grace’s clear attempts to sabotage you.

So, you couldn’t say you were surprised when you were called into an emergency meeting with both your boss, Joanna, and the bane of your existence less than forty minutes later. And even less surprised when Grace pointed the finger at you in that condescending manner of hers that had gotten under your skin from the very first day you met her.

However, you had come prepared. You listened tolerantly as she listed off all the things that you’d allegedly done wrong before speaking up.

“To my understanding, all the things you just listed fell under the portion of the project that you claimed responsibility for,” you stated, trying to keep your voice from sounding tight and clipped.

What she didn’t realize as she tried to place the blame on you was that your receipts had receipts. And you proceeded to hand over the file folder of all the email correspondence you had saved and collected during the project to your manager.

“And am I allowed to know just what exactly that is?” Grace demanded.

“Of course, it’s simply our emails. So the content of that file won’t come as a surprise to you,” you replied as neutrally as possible.

You had highlighted all the important requests that were denied or ignored completely, the obvious errors, and the work that she had claimed credit for that was actually yours.

And the smoking gun, was a message you had received a notification about on Slack that was clearly posted to the wrong channel where Grace was all but admitting that she was purposefully giving you wrong information to work with. And while she had been quick to delete it, you had been quicker to get a screenshot of it.

You had conveniently placed that bit on the top of the pile to be the first thing your boss would see.

“I’m sorry for not coming to you sooner about this,” you said sincerely to your boss, “I had no clue things had spiraled out of control this bad until this morning. And after you review that file, I am sure you’ll see why.”

You tried to keep your fidgeting under control seated in the boucle chair as she skimmed over the first couple of pages, glancing between you and your work nemesis. The tension palpable and oppressive in the room.

Normally you loved being in Joanna’s office, it was tastefully chic with a white lacquer desk and a large Fiddle Fig tree in the corner. And your boss was always the type to indulge in a little pop culture talk, the two of you had had many a coffee break in there together, but at that moment you couldn’t wait to get back to your own office and away from Grace.

“The two of you are dismissed for now while I review this. In the meantime, I expect you both to work on finding what solutions we have at our disposal to get this back on track.”

You wanted to be home.

You wanted to be in your bed.

You wanted to be under your soft green comforter.

The migraine came on steadily after that meeting. From the stress or the lack of sufficent caffeine you couldn’t say.

Your heart had been racing since you had left Joanna's office, and not in the fun way that Bradley was usually responsible for.

God, what had you been thinking to turn down more morning sex with Bradley Bradshaw? Even if it would have ruined the surprise you had planned, at least the additional post-orgasm endorphin high might have helped you get through the day better.

Maybe you definitely should have let him have his way that morning.

You were feeling on the brink of an anxiety attack an hour later when your boss called you back for a follow-up meeting.

Popping a couple CBD tablets and wiping your damp shaky hands on your sleek navy skirt, you saved the minimal amount of work you’d been able to get done while you had been spiraling before getting up to stop by the restroom before your one-on-one.

In the quiet of the bathroom, you disrobed enough to work the pretty yet impractical one piece you were wearing down your body when you realized the stress alone wasn’t the only reason for why your stomach had been hurting all morning.

For a moment you felt nothing. And then you felt everything.

No. No. No.

The tears prickled behind your eyes, and you had to bite your lip hard to keep from crying. Your day had already gone from bad to terrible to worse, and now this.

You wouldn’t cry. You couldn’t cry.

No.

You wouldn’t let yourself cry.

You wouldn’t cry and Bradley wouldn’t get to see the surprise you had planned for him because the gusset of that more-expensive-than-it-should-have-been delicate and lovely sheer white French lace bodysuit you had secretly bought and slipped on this morning was stained a bright crimson red.

Steeling yourself against the swell of emotions that was threatening to drag you down, you perfunctorily folded up a wad of toilet paper and placed it in the center of the lining as you shimmed the formerly-stunning-but-now-ruined lingerie back up.

Just another thing that had gone wrong today. Just another problem to be dealt with later. Just one more thing that made you wish you’d never got out of bed this morning.

Tucking your shirt back in, you pushed everything out of your mind. You would not be the woman showing up to your boss’ office with streaky make up and puffy eyes.

After washing your hands and giving yourself a critical once over in the gold rimmed mirror and straightening your skirt just so, you had made your way to your over to Joanna’s corner office.

She didn’t keep you on tenterhooks for very long, letting you know that she had passed along the folder of information you had given her to HR and that Grace had been sent home for the day. While the clients were unhappy with the delays, she had managed to convince them of the merits of pushing back the project by a few weeks, giving your team the opportunity to clean up the mess.

For the time being, she would be taking over the project account until the internal investigation was completed by HR, but she anticipated being able to turn the reins back over to you alone very shortly. And then in the strictest confidentiality within the sanctity of her cozy yet aesthetic office, she had all but confirmed that the promotion you had been working so hard for was always going to be yours.

While she reassured you that she was on your side, you still couldn’t help feeling like you’d let her down. And then with a nod and an edict to not worry about anything, she also sent you home for the day too.

You wanted to be home.

You wanted to be in your bed.

You wanted to be under your soft green comforter.

You wanted to be on Bradley’s side of the bed.

The drive home felt like the longest fifty minutes of your life.

The traffic was always terrible, but today it was worse. You would never understand why Californians couldn’t figure out how to merge on the highway. It was supposed to be a zipper, not a game of chicken to see how close you could get to someone without actually hitting them.

And then seeing the man who was too old to be selling flowers on the cement divider in the middle of the road at one of the red lights you had been stuck at only added another bruise to your already battered heart.

Not even when you finally pulled up to the house you loved so much had helped to ease the pain of the day. You weren’t hit with the same rush of delight as you usually were when you arrived back to the home you shared with Bradley.

You didn’t know it was possible for such a fairytale home to exist in San Diego, but it did and it was yours.

The charming 1930’s white Tudor had a set of four diamond paneled windows in the front that were warm and welcoming. The large cement pavers up the slope of the lawn lead you to a black door that had an abundance of vintage character.

The house was situated picturesquely under a large Tipuana tree. Bradley was always complaining about the little yellow flowers when they littered the lawn, but you loved the cheerful floral confetti. Which is probably why he left them there for you waiting until they were withered and brown before blowing them into the street.

It had absolutely stolen your breath away the first time you saw it.

The two of you had been driving around in the Bronco one afternoon with Van Morrison playing on the radio just enjoying the afternoon sun after a week of rain. You had gasped when he drove by the house as the agent was attempting to put up the For Sale sign.

Other than the time at the seaside restaurant when you and Bradley had decided to go all in on each other, you had never been so struck with a feeling of such resolute surety. It was meant to be your house.

Your home with Bradley.

He must have felt it too because he’d barely gotten the Bronco in Park before he had leapt out of the car jogging up to the agent, the car still running and the keys in the ignition.

You’ll never know what he said to the woman as he helped her to get the post for the sign situated in the corner of the lot since you had been trying to actually turn the car off before getting unbuckled and out of the car yourself.

Maybe it had been his words. Maybe it had been the flight suit. Maybe it had been kismet. Whatever it was it worked, since she ended up giving you both an impromptu viewing of the home right then and there.

And 30 minutes after that you and Bradley were putting in an offer on the house, one that was accepted a couple days later.

Your movements were mechanical in the way you get out of your car and into your home. Not bothering to move your heels from where you kicked them off by the door or to pick up your work tote from where it had fallen over.

All you could focus on was moving from one task to the next, determined to not let yourself fall apart. Tossing your clothes in the laundry room as you made your way to your bedroom to close the blinds, finally giving your eyes the break from the light they had needed all day.

Bradley’s well-worn shirt was still where you had left it in the bathroom earlier from when you had changed after your perfect breakfast with him. Before your day had imploded.

Pulling it on over your head, letting Bradley’s scent wash over you, as you finally crawled into your bed with a ragged sigh.

You were home.

You were in your bed.

You were under your soft green comforter.

You were on Bradley’s side of the bed.

You wanted Bradley.

With that as your final thought on repeat like a lullaby of longing, you finally let yourself slide away.

Nothing could wipe the grin from Bradley’s face as he drove home with the California sun shining down on him.

He was still buzzing from the adrenaline of the successful hop he had completed earlier in the day.

As part of the training for the newest batch of Top Gun students, he and Mav had been tasked with demonstrating some advanced technical maneuvers before participating in a dog fight exercise. Where he had successfully gotten a lock and pulled tone on his friend and mentor for the first time in a long while.

The glimpse of white lace he had caught earlier that morning in the kitchen when he had sneaked a peek down your oversized shirt had been on his mind all day. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, wondering whether or not his eyes had been playing tricks on him.

Either way he couldn’t wait to find out.

He had even already queued up all of your favorite dishes for the Chinese food delivery he was planning on ordering a little later in the evening. You were going to get his full attention tonight.

There was nothing he loved more than getting creative and putting that canopy bed to the test, and so far the overpriced-but-well-built bed hadn’t let him down.

He was going to enjoy his time taking you apart bit by bit.

Normally, he was the one to always beat you home, so he was surprised but elated to see your car parked in the drive way. He might need to order that food earlier than he expected, now that there was more time to work up an appetite and you both would need your sustenance for what he had planned.

Whistling to himself as he got out of the Bronco, he unzipped his flight suit and tugged it down tying the arms around his waist, he knew what you liked. And he’d be damned if he wasn’t the star in all your fantasies.

The door was already unlocked, which wasn’t like you. He imagined you probably forgot to lock it in a haste to get inside to grab a cold glass of rosé before catching up on some reality tv on the couch.

He hoped you weren’t watching the newest episode of Below Deck without him. He wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet, but you had gotten him hooked on the show. Captain Lee reminded him of one of the Commanders he’d had during flight school.

Walking in he was a little annoyed to find your shoes and bag littered on the floor of the entry. He likes to keep things tidy, while you like to keep things “lived in”. Bending down he undid his shoes and picked up your things. Putting your bag in the coat closet for you, out of sight out of mind. He knew you didn’t like to bring work home with you if you could avoid it.

Your heels were dangling from his fingers as he turned the corner, expecting to see you curled up on the oversized gray sectional, but you’re weren’t there.

Huh.

As he stands in the living room and listens. He can’t hear the sound of the tv from the bedroom either, the house is silent. Trying to ignore the feeling of wrongness that was taking up residency in his chest, he made his way to the bedroom. The driving need to find you, to check in on you, was the only thing on his mind now.

He opens the door to your bedroom quietly. The room is darkened, but there are faint rays of sunlight making their way past the edges of the blackout blinds he had installed. And he feels instant relief when he sees you curled up on this side of the bed, head pressed against his pillow.

Being mindful of the edge of the rug, trying to not disturb you, he carefully approaches you kneeling in front of where you’re resting. Your face is still clearly holding the strain of the day, and your eyebrows were knitted together. He lightly brushes the hair away from your face, and even in sleep you seek his touch, head moving slightly to chase the feeling of his fingers.

The pressure in his chest lessening, seeing you safe and sound in your shared bed. He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek before he stands up putting your heels back in the walk-in closet, and makes his way to the bathroom.

He wanted to rinse the smell of sweat and jet fuel off before he laid in bed with you. Undoing his flight suit the rest of the way he kicks it off, and his eyes snag on the open box of tampons sitting on top of the bathroom counter.

He is quick to undress the rest of the way, and rushes through his usual post-work shower routine doing just the bare minimum. Just some soap and shampoo, he wouldn’t be waiting the five minutes that was recommended on the back of your conditioner bottle that he liked to use sometimes to keep his hair soft.

Once he is dried off enough to pull on the pair of sweatpants he had worn earlier that morning, he makes his way back to you. Lifting up the covers on your side of the bed to slide in behind you. Wrapping an arm around you as he pressed himself closer to you, and you sighed lightly at the contact.

He lets his eyes drift close as he holds you. He didn’t know exactly what kind of a day you had had, but all that mattered to him was that he would be there for you when you woke up.

You’re warm.

You’re warm and there’s an arm draped over your waist.

You’re warm and there’s an arm draped over your waist and a solid chest pressed against your back.

And for the first time since you’d left the house this morning things didn’t feel as overwhelming as they had been when you were on your own.

“Bradley?” you whisper in the quiet of your bedroom.

You so desperately want him to be awake, you just want him right now.

Please be awake.

“I’m here, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and the relief that washes over you is strong and immediate.

You turn over, needing to be closer to him, wanting to lose yourself in his warmth and to never leave this bed again.

He opens his arms for you, smoothing out some of your sleep-matted hair behind your ear as you drape yourself over him. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, your throat thick with emotion.

He’s looking at you so softly, so tenderly. A crease between his eyebrows as he searches your eyes, as he reads you in that way that no one else does. And you know he knows.

There’s no stopping the cry that erupts from deep in your chest. There’s no holding back the tears that have been prickling behind your eyelids all day.

His gentleness is the thing that ends up being your undoing.

Bradley just pulls you closer, tucking your head into the safe space in the nook of his neck, as you shake with the sobs that reverberate throughout your whole body. Quietly shushing you soothingly as he kisses the crown of your head.

And when he picks up your left hand and kisses the pair of rings that have a home there in an unspoken vow, it only makes you cry harder.

The Toi et Moi engagement ring had never left your ring finger since the day Bradley put it there. Carole’s round diamond nestled next to your mom’s oval shaped one were fixed together permanently in gold. It was only fitting that you carried both of them with you always, a reminder of how their friendship was the beginning of you and Bradley.

Your wedding band had been forged from the melted remains of that symbol of love between the man you never met and the woman who had loved you like a daughter, the people responsible for bringing the love of your life into the world.

Through the sounds of your weeping, Bradley’s quiet murmurs made it to your ears and his words wrapped themselves around your heart.

The delicate I’m sorrys, the soft I’m heres, the gentle I’ve got yous, the tender I love yous.

You heard every single one of them as he repeated them over and over again as you gave yourself up to the tidal wave of emotions that you had been fighting to suppress all day.

You and Bradley had been married for a little two years. You were perfectly happy with your life. Bradley was perfectly happy with your life. And that was all that mattered.

You didn’t feel that ticking clock that seemed to follow women over a certain age around like a dark cloud. Neither one of you was in a particular rush, more than happy to enjoy the process and to take full advantage of that large canopy bed in your bedroom.

There was time, you had time.

However, seeing that stain on the pretty-but-now-probably-ruined lacy lingerie had hit you harder than you ever could have expected.

You and Bradley had only been trying for a couple of months. And logically you knew better, knew that it might take some time to happen.

You knew better, yet your heart hadn’t been given the same message.

And with all of the work drama lately, you really should have thought about how the stress might have played a role when you were a few days late instead of letting yourself get ahead of yourself. You had already been planning on stopping by the convenience store after work to pick up a box of tests, and instead you had come home with a new box of tampons.

Before Bradley, you had never given much thought about being a mother or starting a family. But being with Bradley? Thinking about how he would be the best partner and best dad to a child that was half him and half you, there was nothing more that you wanted than that future.

You wanted it. Oh, you wanted it.

You can feel the burning trail of every hot tear that made its way down your face as Bradley rubbed small circles on your back with his large hand in the sanctuary of your bedroom.

Crying over the work shit that you hated bringing home with you. Of how it felt to be so viciously thrown under the bus and then the relief of knowing your boss sided with you.

Crying over the elderly man selling flowers on the street corner you had seen on your way home and the sad hunch of his back.

Crying over the pretty lace bodysuit that was soaking in the sink of the laundry room that might not never be the same again. And the fact that Bradley never got to see you in it.

Crying over what wasn’t meant to be. At least not right now.

You cried over all of it. All at once. All while Bradley held you, cradled you, loved you.

In your home.

In your bed.

Under the soft green comforter.

On his side of the bed.

His chest ached at the sound of your sobs.

It was agony to feel so helpless as you cried into neck, as he felt your tears on his skin. He would have given anything to be able to take on your pain, it was a burden he would have willingly carried for you.

So he did what he could: he held you.

Held you as you wept. Held you when the sobs tapered into sniffles. Held you as your tears dried on his skin.

When he was sure you were done crying, he pulled back a bit so that he could see your face, to be able to look in your eyes. They were red and swollen, but you were still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Using his thumb, he carefully wipes under your eyes to remove the few teardrops that still cling to your lower lashes.

He leans in to kiss you gently, his lips lingering on yours as he breathes you in, before climbing out of the bed.

He didn’t want the shadows of the day to drown out your light any more than it already had.

“Come on, kid,” he says holding out both of his hands to help sit you up at the edge of the bed.

Walking to your shared closet, he sheds his sweatpants and pulls on a pair of jeans and t-shirt. He riffles through the dresser in there, the one he had bought for you a few years ago when he wanted you to move in with him, until he finds your softest dress. Stopping by the bathroom on his way back to you to grab a cool, damp washcloth.

You’re sitting there so despondently, your eyes still holding such sadness. He motions for you to lift your arms up, and he pulls his old UVA shirt up and off your body, replacing it with the dress he had fetched for you. Picking up the towel from where he had set it on the nightstand, he runs it softly over your face. Across your forehead, down the line of your nose, taking special care to be gentle around the delicate skin under your eyes.

When he’s done he tosses back onto the nightstand and crouches in front of you so that his eyes are level with yours. Reaching out he cradles your face tenderly between his hands and asks, “You with me?”

He takes the way you turn your head to place a kiss his palm as a yes.

“Good,” he whispers as he presses his lips against your cheek, “Let’s go.”

Threading his fingers though yours, he leads you out of the darkened bedroom and into the golden light of the late afternoon sun that was flooding into your living room through the diamond paneled windows. He makes a stop in the kitchen to grab you a cold water bottle from the fridge, passing it to you with the hand that wasn’t holding yours.

He helps you with your shoes before sliding his own on, and grabs his wallet and keys. At the Bronco he is the one to help you up and that buckles you in. Rummaging through his glove box to find your sunglasses, he slips the on your face for you before putting on his own. And then with an arm tucked behind your sea, he backs out of the driveway.

There is only a glimmer of an idea in his brain, all he really knew is that he couldn’t stand to see you looking so heartbroken for a second longer.

He is attempting to make a left hand turn when he hears you say, “Bradley, please not this way.”

Unfortunately, he heard your request too late. He was stopped at the light with the traffic lining up next to him and behind him. He turned to ask why you didn’t want to go this way, but you were looking intensively out your window and purposefully away from his direction.

He is confused for a moment and then he is hit with a stroke of brilliance when he sees an elderly man on the set up on the concrete divider surrounded by various buckets of flowers.

He hears you call his name as he jumps out of the car to approach the vendor, he is a man on a mission.

In the vows he spoke when he made you his wife, he promised to be the one person in this world you could count on to make you happy, to be the one person who would love you the way you deserved to be loved.

And that’s what he intended to do.

The hunched over man cheerfully accepted all the bills that he had in his leather wallet in exchange for what was left of his stock. And Bradley was happy that this meant the man could go home for the day and that you would have all the flowers he could get his hands on. It seemed like a more than fair trade to him.

He waved off the older man’s offer to help pile them all in the back of the Bronco, grabbing as many of the cellophane clusters as he could before making his way back to you.

“Bradley!” you laugh almost disbelievingly as he approaches, you’re wearing the first smile he has seen from you since you left the house this morning, and it makes his heart soar. “We’re going to cause a riot here.”

The light is green now and the cars behind him are clearly irritated, but he still another armload to go get, “Let them honk, sweet girl. We’ve got all the time we need.”

Once he has the rest of your flowers loaded in the back, he makes his way to your favorite taco stand. And then your favorite burger place, followed by the place two blocks away with your favorite fries.

And of course, he stops at the milkshake place, ordering a chocolate cherry chip shake for you and a peanut butter one from himself before driving towards the sunset and the beach.

You almost feel like crying again when Bradley parks in the lot at the public beach he has taken you to, but this time you know they’d be happy tears.

“Think we can manage all of this in one go?” he muses jokingly gesturing to the various take out bags that were piled in between your feet.

“I’d bet money on us,” you smile back at him.

“I would too, sweet girl,” he leans in to kiss you before he moves to get out of the Bronco. He rounds the car and opens the door to help you down.

He grabs the Pendleton blanket he keeps under the seat and tucks it under his arm. Then hands you the milkshakes and grabs the rest of the bags before nodding his head towards the beach.

“You know I can carry some of that too, right?” you tease pointing to his overloaded arms.

“Of course you can, sweet girl, but let me take care of this. I’ve got it,” he assures you, although you know he means more than just the bags, “Plus those are our most valuable pieces of cargo, I wouldn’t trust anyone else with my milkshake.”

His affectionate grin was the only balm your heart would ever need.

The two of you only make it a few steps towards the beach before he tells you he forgot something as he doubles back to the car.

Wondering what could have been left behind, you watch him as he sets down the takeout bags down to reach into the back of the Bronco pulling out one of the many brightly colored wrapped bouquets resting in the back. He tucks that under his other arm before gathering the rest of the items for your impromptu beach picnic again and jogs back towards you.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

While you’re enjoying the spectacular show the sun is putting on for you as it starts to set as you stroll along the shore with Bradley, you realize that you’re feeling much lighter than before. That the inescapable heaviness that had settled on you over the course of the day no longer felt like it was resting entirely on your shoulders anymore.

And you know without a doubt that it has everything to do with your husband.

The two of you find the perfect spot in the sand, a little pocket of peace away from the noise of the boardwalk, he stands there for a second with an adorably concerned expression when he realizes the issue that he has created for himself by carrying all the items for your picnic in his capable but overloaded arms. And you laugh as you adjust the milkshakes in your hands to help offload the various bags in his hands so that he can lay out the blanket.

He smooths out the sand some before he opens up the blue geometric blanket. Once it is spread out to his liking, he takes the bags from you putting them in the corner, your only responsibility now to safeguard the milkshakes.

He seats himself down on the woven blanket, patting the space in front of him for you to come join him there. And once you are nestled between his propped legs, he pulls you back to rest against his chest.

You are surrounded by all of your favorite things: your husband, the best of San Diego’s drive-thru culinary offerings, the ocean, and the flowers you didn’t know you needed until Bradley got them for you.

And in that moment, you finally feel at peace as you and Bradley dig in to your picnic as you watch the sun inch closer down to the horizon.

You still had the rest of the week to get though. You knew there would be a mountain of work for you to deal with when you went back into the office tomorrow, that man with the flowers would probably be back in his same location tomorrow his buckets full of new bouquets to sell, and you would still be waiting and hoping for your maybe someday soon.

But you could face anything since you had Bradley by your side.

The food might be cold, the fries a little soggy, and the milkshakes were half melted now, but everything about it is perfect.

You let him support you in more ways than one as you settled more fully against him after you were both done eating. It was easier now to talk to him about your day, about the things he knew about and the things he didn’t as you watched the waves roll in and out along the shore as the tide came in.

You felt him tense up when you told him about your disaster of a day at the office. You felt him squeeze you in celebration when you told you about your unofficially official promotion. You felt him as he kissed your cheek when you told him about the equally ruined surprise and lingerie.

The other part you didn’t need to speak the words for, he knew your heart.

You would always have Bradley, and he would always have you.

That’s how it had always been back when you were kids forming the foundation of your friendship, and that’s how it was now as adults navigating the hardships and joys of this life you were building together.

A life where there was always someone there you could count on to pick you back up when you needed them the most.

He kisses your shoulder and rests his chin there as he takes in the view, gently rocking you side to side.

“I love you,” you murmur softly, resting your head against his, “Thank you.”

You know he hears what you are really saying.

Thank you for treating me the best. Thank you for knowing me the best. Thank you for loving me the best.

“It’s going to be ok, sweet girl” he promises against your mouth.

And you believe him.

Thank you so much for reading! If you need a virtual hug my inbox is always open!

This is a one-shot for my 'Like I Can' series.

Here’s a little moodboard for this fic too!

You can check out my other stories here!

Tag List:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @top-hhun-main @itscheybaby @prettylittlelauraa @startrekfangirl2233 @marantha @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @itsizzythebell @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @boltgirl426 @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @torres-espana @uzumegui @dont-talk-me-down @fandomunite2107 @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pariahsparadise @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @nina-sj @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @misty-inferno @angellwingsss @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @mrsdaamneron @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @melllinaa @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @mandolin22 @imaginecrushes @soleilgrec @keyrani @finelytaylored @phantomxoxo @viridianphtalo @chicomonks

#bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster x female reader #rooster x you

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hometoursandotherstuff · 5 months

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Frank Lloyd Wright's own 1927 home & studio is on the market in West Hollywood, California. The theme of the 3bd, 2ba home is desert/cacti and the textured sculptural cement is an abstraction of the cacti. $5.995M.

The interior concrete cacti is tinted green, as you can see in the entrance hall.

The living room opens to a private walled courtyard with furniture, matching the house, made out of cement.

The current owners have placed a sofa in front of the fireplace that is is a simple design framed in a green cactus strip.

Closeups of the cement work.

This room appears to be the studio.

As you can see, the decorative cement covers the windows and is also on the vents in the ceiling.

Next to the dining room is an interior atrium space with a door to the courtyard.

There is another, differently decorated, fireplace in the dining room.

The kitchen cabinetry is painted green to further the home's motif. Note the little cactus painted on the sink doors.

In the primary bedroom there are 3 garden doors, but they probably just function as windows, b/c the cement work is blocking them.

Very simple MCM bath in shades of green.

Bedroom #2 is similar to the primary bedroom.

There isn't much outdoor space b/c the home is built on a 3,580 sq. ft. lot.

#frank lloyd wright's home #mid century modern home #MCM architecture #house #house tours #home tour

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grimoireofhayley · 9 months

Text

Of Friends and Horror

Stu Macher x Fem!Reader x Billy Loomis

WARNINGS: Graphic content, eventual Smut (MINORS DNI), Language, Talks of SA (rape), Cheating, Obsessiveness, Gore, 18+ content, Stalking, Possessiveness (let me know down below if there's more to be added, please and thank you)

Word Count: 1.4k

Tag List: @ev3ningrain

A/n: Oh my gosh, I didn't think the first part would get so many hits already! Thank you so much for reading this current series! I've decided that this story is going to be my main focus and I'm putting the others on hold for now. Let me know in the comments below if you want to be added to the tag list. Also, keep in mind this story takes place in SCREAM 1996 (The Original) so some or a lot of the plot will be in it. Thank you :)

All chapter links 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

OF&H Masterlist

Chapter 2

Monday, the first day of the week, the day that everyone dreaded. It meant the end of a great Weekend and the start of a long and exhausting forthcoming week ahead.

You pulled into the driveway of Woodsboro High school, your ‘67 Chevy glistened in the sun’s light. You rolled the windows up, opened the door and stepped out, grabbing your bag in the process.

Double clicking your keys’ button, your car beeped, indicating it was now locked.

The parking lot was littered with News Vans, Journalists and their Cameramen, along with police cars and Officers. You narrowed your eyes, confused, seeing all the commotion.

“What the fu--” You uttered, cutting yourself off, seeing the auditorium sealed off.

“(Y/n)! Over here!” You hear Tatum shout and you jerk your head in the direction.

“Hey, Tate..” You trailed, seeing Sidney next to her, “Hi, Sid..” You nodded, greeting them. “Do you two have any idea what is going on?” You asked, gesturing to everything around you.

Just as Tatum was about to answer, Gale Weathers, and her annoyingly pitched voice began talking.

“The small town of Woodsboro, California, was devastated last night, when two young teenagers were found brutally murdered.” Gale took a breath before continuing her speech in front of her cameraman. “Authorities have yet to issue a statement, but our sources tell us that no arrest has been made, and the murderer could strike again..”

Your head was filled with questions, who were the students that were killed? What if you were the next victim? Why hasn’t the killer been found yet?

You gulped and your face tinted pink from nerves.

“Do you believe this shit?” Tatum suddenly spoke, jolting both you and Sidney from your thoughts.

“Tatum what is going on?” You and Sidney both asked in unison.

“I was going to answer earlier, but Gale seemed to have your attention more.” Tatum licked her lips, and adjusted her bag over her shoulder. The blonde glanced at you and Sidney, “Wait, so you really don’t know?” She asked, her eyes wide.

“Yeah, no shit, why else would I be asking?” You rolled your eyes, sarcasm evident in your voice.

“Okay, okay…” Tatum mumbled, “Casey Becker and Steve Orth were killed last night.”

“What?” Sidney began, “No way…” You finished Sidney’s sentence for her.

“And we’re not just talking killed. We’re talking splatter-movie killed.” Tatum made hand motions and began walking, you and Sidney followed her lead.

“Ripped open from end to end.” The blonde looked at you, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Casey Becker, she sits next to me in English.” Sidney gasped.

“Her boyfriend, Steve Orth, sat next to me in Drama..” You frowned, looking at Sidney.

“Well, not anymore…” Tatum sputtered.

“Ugh, that’s too bad…” You sighed, rubbing the back of your head.

“It’s so sad…” Tatum looked at the ground, kicking at a stone in her way. “Her mom and dad, they found her hanging from a tree, her insides on the outside…” Tatum placed her hands behind her back, rubbing the soles of her arm. “And Steve, God, he was found bound to a chair and his stomach ripped open..”

“Oh, my God..” You groaned, sadness lingering in your voice. “Do they know who did it?” You asked, side-eyeing Tatum.

“They have no idea. They’re fuckin’ clueless.”

You, Tatum and Sidney walked up the school’s steps.

“They’re interrogating the entire school…” Tatum exhaled before listing off people, “Teachers, students, janitors--”

You butted in, “They think it’s school related?” You raised a brow, gripping the side of your arm, nails digging into your flesh. The anxiety of it all, started building up in the pit of your stomach. You felt nauseous.

Tatum stopped in front of you and Sidney, “They don’t know…” Tatum glanced into your hues before looking at Sidney, “I mean, Dewey was saying this is the worst crime they’ve seen in years. Even worse then--”

“Tate…” You warned, gesturing for her to choose her words carefully when speaking to Sidney. Yes, you may not like Sidney as much, but she doesn’t deserve to be reminded of her mother’s rape and murder.

The bell rings, signaling the start of class, making the conversation dwindle.

Tatum sighed, jabbing her two index fingers together, out of nervousness. “Well.. It’s bad.”

You tapped your pencil against your desk, staring beside you.

Little do your friends know, Steve was also your ex-boyfriend. After you guys had a falling out, he had left you for Casey. You didn’t want to suffer the embarrassment of anyone knowing you were the dumpee and not the dumper, plus, he was secretly seeing you while he was in another relationship before Becker. You didn’t want anyone to judge you for it. You felt guilty as is, but the way he was able to charm you with his words and physical touch, you couldn’t help yourself, but keep going for more. However, as far as anyone else knows, you guys were just close friends.

You moaned, letting your head droop, “Jesus…” You whispered, drumming your fingers, trying to settle the sick feeling in your gut.

“(Y/n) (L/n), it would appear to be your turn.” The teacher said, looking at you, and the rest of the class turned their heads to meet your gaze.

You nodded, looking one last time at the empty desk next to you, where Steve used to sit.

You grabbed your books, pencil case and water bottle, shoving them quickly into your bag.

“Who’s up next?” The principal asked.

“Um, (Y/n) (l/n)..” Dewey looked over his papers.

“Wait, wasn’t she the one who found Maureen Prescott last year--” The principal began, but stopped, seeing you in the doorway.

“Ah, (Y/n). How have you been?” He asked, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m okay.” You smiled half-heartedly, sitting down on the blue-cushioned chair.

“Hi, (Y/n)..”

“Hello, Sheriff Burke, Dewey…” You inhaled, feeling the nerves begin to rile back up. You tapped your foot off the ground, shaking your leg, feeling your hands sweat.

“Uh, that’s Deputy Riley today, (Nickname).” Dewey winked.

“How is Everything?” Sheriff Burke looked you over, seeing how anxious you were.

“Um, could be better…” You mumbled, looking down.

“Huh, why’s that?” Burke leaned forward. You sank in your chair, feeling rather intimidated.

“Look, we’re gonna keep this very brief, (Y/n), alright?” The principal placed a broad hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “The police just want to ask you a few questions, okay?”

You nodded.

“(Y/n), were you very close to Steve Orth?”

‘Shit..’ You thought.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I was…” You wiped your hands off your jeans, trying to dry them off.

“How close?” Burke, scribbled down on his board, awaiting your answer.

You gulped, looking at Dewey, silently praying he’d step in, seeing how apprehensive you were, but he wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t, he was doing his job.

“We dated…” You started, “Last year for a couple months…”

“How come the relationship ended?”

“Uh, we--, um, we had a falling out.”

“What type?”

“Jesus--” You groaned, rubbing your thighs with your hands, “He was seeing me behind his then girlfriend's back, we slept together a few times, okay?” You came clean, “He wanted it to end, but I didn’t, but he ended up leaving anyway, leaving for Casey. That’s it, I swear.” You teared up, “I feel so bad about the whole situation as it is, poor Brooke, she didn’t know anything, but he left both of us for Casey..” You placed your hands over your face as quiet sobs escaped your lips. “Am I in trouble?” You peaked through the creases of your fingers, a blush forming across your face.

“For having an affair with him? No, of course not, but that does move you on top of my suspect list.”

You whined, misery coating your mind, “Why? I didn’t kill him..” You uttered, wiping your nose with your light-blue sleeve. “I was hurt, but that doesn’t mean I’d kill him for being scorned…” You trailed, meeting Sheriff Burke's eyes. “I couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a human being…”

“Uh, Sheriff?” Dewey stepped in, “I mean, she’s right, there’s no way she could do something like that.” Dewey glanced at you.

The Sheriff sighed, “We just have to ask you a few extra questions, that’s it.. I didn’t mean to frighten you like that, I should’ve worded it differently. It’s only because you were close with him, you were his mistress at one point, so it’s somewhat suspicious.” He rubbed his chin, “Mistress was upset by Steve breaking relations off, so Mistress sets a plan for revenge. You catch my drift?” He looked at you, and you slouched.

“Yeah..” Was all you could muster out, you sniffled, hugging yourself, waiting for more questions to be asked. “Alright, let’s get this over with…”

<-Previous Next->

#billy loomis x female reader #ghostface x female reader #billy x stu #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #Stu macher x female reader #scream franchise #scream x reader #scream 1996 #billy loomis #stu macher #ghostface #1996 #billy x you x stu #billy x you #stu x you #reader insert

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slafkovskys · 5 months

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how do the hughes brothers and angel deal with the media? like you know the hughes fan girls (me) go crazy so i feel like someone would def point out that she’s super close (and maybe a lil too close since they don’t know about the four of them together) with the other brothers and not just luke. or are we just pretending that the media doesn’t exist bc that can work too.

they knew that they had to be extremely careful, especially if she was going to be in vancouver during the season. she and luke didn’t post each other until a little while after they had the conversation, so then it was public knowledge one hughes was off the market, not all three.

when they’re in michigan, it’s not that hard. they have the lake house and they know where they can go and not get recognized, but with quinn and jack they have to refrain from touching her in any way that would be seen as not friendly. which is easier said than done for all parties involved.

it’s too easy to forget that they’re at a bar or a football game when one of them (usually jack) drifts over to her. she’ll be perched on a stool and they’ll have a pout and it’s like muscle memory to run a loving hand through their hair. luke comes up after a minute with a beer in his hand and shoves it towards his brother, clearing his throat as he looks out over the bar, “we’re not at home you two.”

new jersey is pretty inconspicuous as well. that’s where luke lives and her being there wouldn’t sound any alarms. she and jack will usually do grocery store dates or greasy, drive-thru food and make out in a parking lot somewhere (thank god for tinted windows) before returning to the apartment.

quinn and vancouver are the problem. we’ve established that on occasion she’ll fly out and meet him if he has a game in the states (usually the “pretty places” as she calls them, florida, california, sometimes minnesota, every new york game because she can see jack and luke in the same weekend) but she loves nothing more than being in his apartment with him.

which works out because that’s where they spend most of their time. most of their dates are home cooked meals and movie nights because the one time they got bold and quinn took her for dinner (their five months and jack was very annoyed it fell on a quinn week) they got recognized and a twitter post about quinn hughes and his little brother’s girlfriend out for a romantic dinner got a little too much traction.

#hughes bros x angel #the inbox purge

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imaginesandbandfiction · 1 year

Text

Story of Our Life

A Harry Styles Imagine

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: None

A/N: This is something a little different that was inspired by a dream I had where I was singing Story of My Life with 1D in a car... Also, I made some cover art on procreate plz don't judge my mediocre art skills lmao. Hope you like it!!!!!

Masterlist

Excerpts from

STORY OF OUR LIFE

Y/N Styles

To Louis, the best chauffeur I’ve ever had.

To Liam, who keeps us all sane. Steady on, mate.

To Zayn, who always offers a shoulder to cry on (and a cigarette).

To Niall, the king of late-night chats (and snacks).

To Harry, for everything, forever.

Introduction by Harry Styles

Before she was my wife, Y/N Styles was Y/N Y/L/N. We met in 2011, six months before we would be setting out on the Up All Night tour. Even though I had been on TV, in recording studios, and performed live on the X Factor Live Tour 2011, I was still just a shy kid from Holmes Chapel who couldn’t quite believe his luck. I think I spent that whole year in a state of disbelief, afraid that at any moment, someone would tell me that it was all a joke and I wasn’t very good at singing, actually. Every time I took a shower, I half-expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out at me from behind the shower curtain. Y/N, on the other hand, walked into the conference room at Columbia Records, sat down at the head of the table, folded her arms across her chest, and asked us each, individually, if we had read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and, if so, how did we feel about it? Immediately, I knew that this girl was going to be someone special.

Her dad, Greg Y/L/N, was going to be our tour manager. When it was time for the label to put a team together, he was at the top of the list: a goofy dad with a daughter around our age who had toured with some of the biggest musicians of the 90s. He was the perfect choice for a bunch of kids who didn’t really know what they were doing: industry experience to make sure the day-to-day operations went smoothly, and the paternal instinct to protect us as best he could (we called him Papa Bear, which he pretended to hate, but we all knew he secretly loved it).

We grew up together, spent months on end traveling the world, learning algebra on private planes and sneaking out of hotel rooms to wander foreign cities in the middle of the night. Fast forward to today. While Y/N was pregnant with Willa, our second child, she spent the whole third trimester on bed rest. Eventually, she got so bored that she scrolled all the way back on iCloud. Our older daughter, Hazel, was fascinated by the pictures of me and the band, and Y/N spent hours recounting our days on tour. I told her that she should write a book, but she refused at first. We have enough money, she said. People will think I’m making a cash grab. I told her that was bollocks, but if she really felt that way, she could donate all the profits to charity. It’s perfect, really, I said. The 20-year anniversary of One Direction is coming up, and it would be cool to give the fans a peek behind the scenes. Really, there’s no one better than you, darling, because you know the real us. She agreed, but only if all five of us were okay with it, and if all of the proceeds could go to The Trevor Project. So really, it’s actually me you should be thanking for convincing her to do this in the first place.

Anyways, here it is. The Story of Our Life: Growing Up With the World’s Biggest Boy Band, written by my amazing wife, Y/N Styles.

Chapter 5

Out of all the One Direction boys, Louis was the first one to get his driver's license in America. He spent the few months leading up to the Where We Are tour with his girlfriend in California, and wanted to buy a fancy car to drive her around in. Hence, the license. So, when the tour made its way to North America, he somehow managed to convince my dad and the security team to let him drive us from the hotel to the venue a few times. Of course, the windows were tinted (and we were not allowed to open them), we were surrounded by a security detail, and there was always a bodyguard in the backseat, but it didn’t matter.

On the night of the second show in Detroit, we all piled into a tricked-out Toyota Sienna, the best minivan on the market in 2011. Louis and Liam sat up front, I was squished between Harry and Niall in the middle, and Zayn and the bodyguard sat in the way back. We had the radio blasting and were singing along to some absolute bangers, like Party Rock Anthem and Super Bass, when the first few notes of Story of My Life started playing. Louis groaned and reached over to change the station, but I leaned forwards and slapped his hand out of the way before he could, turning the volume up a few notches.

“Written in these walls are the stories that I can’t explain,” I sang along with Harry’s voice, turning to look at him with a mischievous smirk. He was mouthing along but bit his lip as soon as I caught him. Liam piped up with his part and I shook my head, laughing.

“Do you guys seriously only ever sing your parts?” I asked. Next to me, I felt Niall shrug.

“Feels wrong to sing someone else’s, even off stage,” he said, before chiming in on the background vocals as Zayn jumped in on his part.

“Well, you should do it anyway, just for fun.” Liam turns around and lifts his eyebrows in a silent challenge. Harry and Niall jumped in, and soon we were all belting out the words to every part.

When the final chorus came up, I turned to rest my head on Harry’s shoulder, singing his part back to him. He was usually the shameless one, but his cheeks were tinted pink and he stopped singing for a few seconds. His green eyes were wide, but they never once left my own. I felt his chest rise and fall in a deep, steadying breath before he began singing again.

From that moment on, Story of My Life was our song. Every time they performed it, he turned towards the side of the stage during the last chorus, where I sang along. On the rare occasions that I sat in the audience, his eyes always managed to find mine. We sang lines to each other all the time. Our favorite thing to do, much to everyone else’s dismay, was yell Zayn’s pre-chorus to each other from across a room.

“And I’ll be gone, gone, tonight,” one of us would start.

“The ground beneath my feet is open wide,” the other would respond.

“The way that I’ve been holding on too tight,” the first person would say, before we both shouted, “With nothing in betweeeeeeeen!” That line was always the loudest, and we always dragged out the last syllable until we couldn’t breathe anymore.

Chapter 9

When Harry’s solo album dropped, I was in class, taking my Algebra 101 final. My test-taking nerves were multiplied tenfold by the fact that I knew people were listening to it right now, and I wasn’t. We had kept in touch after One Direction broke up, mostly over text but occasionally, when he was in LA, he came to my house to have dinner with me and my Grandma (and Dad, if he was home).

I listened to it all the way through on the drive back home to Pasadena after I finished my exam, and as soon as I pulled into the driveway, I texted him.

I signed up for a presale code, and refreshed my laptop continuously for five straight minutes in order to get tickets for his LA show. Harry was furious with me. When I texted him that I was officially coming to the show, he called me in the middle of a meeting with his tour team to yell at me. Something along the lines of, “I put you on the VIP list, you dumbass! And invites to the afterparty were just sent out yesterday!”

To be fair, I just wanted to support my friend, and to this day I still feel uncomfortable asking for free tickets from anyone when I have the means to pay for them. I think it’s all the guilt from five years of attending One Direction concerts for free. But anyways, that next fall, I found myself backstage at the Greek Theater with a VIP badge around my neck, feeling intense deja vu as security led me to Harry’s dressing room.

“Y/N!” He yelled as soon as the door opened. I had no time to react; I was nearly knocked over by the force of his hug. His mom and sister were there, too, and I was passed around for more hugs before settling next to Harry on the couch.

“So, how’s it going? How’s school?” he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. That’s one of the things I love most about Harry; no matter how long it’s been since he’s seen someone, he always picks back up like no time has passed. He is scary good at keeping up with what everyone else is doing, even when his own life

“Kicking my ass already and it’s only been three weeks,” I said with a chuckle. “But better than last year, that’s for sure!” Harry’s brows furrowed and he waited expectantly. “Did I not tell you that my original roommate was psycho?”

“No, I don’t think that’s come up before.” I pulled up a photo on my phone and handed it over to him without a word, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes wider than they were in that moment.

“Holy shit,” she said.

“I wanna see!” Gemma whined, leaning across the coffee table to snatch the phone from him. “Oh my god, Mum, look!” She handed the phone to Anne, who frowned down at it.

“This was your dorm?”

“For all of three days, yes,” you answered. “I’m not sure what creeped me out more, the life-sized cardboard cutout of Harry watching my every move, or the fact that she threatened to blackmail me if I didn’t introduce her to you.” Harry was doubled over with laughter with tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

“What are the chances of you, of all people, rooming with a crazy One Direction fan in college?” he asked, struggling to breathe enough to support his vocal chords.

“The school investigated and they found an invoice for a private investigator on her computer in a folder with a bunch of my personal information and photos of me that looked like they were taken from behind bushes and trash cans. Apparently, she gave him that paparazzi photo from the week we were in London during On the Road Again and he was able to track me down.”

“He was able to figure out your identity from that photo?” I nodded, and Harry looked impressed, yet mildly disturbed. “She must’ve paid a fortune.” The photo in question features all five members of One Direction on their way into the O2 arena, and in the background, you can see the blurry back of my head as I slipped into the back door ahead of them.

When it was time for Harry to get ready, a security guard led Anne, Gemma, and I to the VIP section and we settled in for the show. He killed it on stage, and it was great to see him back in his element, joking with the fans between songs and waving to everyone he made eye contact with. He performed What Makes You Beautiful and the cheers were so loud, even in the small-theater setting, that I knew I would probably have trouble hearing tomorrow.

“Alright, now normally I’d go straight into Kiwi, but there’s someone special in the audience today and this next song means a lot to the both of us, and she was the one who told me to sing all of the parts even though it feels weird, I hope you’ll forgive me for making you wait a few more minutes,” he said with a smirk, knowing that no one was going to complain about an extra song. My smile widened and Anne wrapped an arm around me, squeezing my shoulder, to acknowledge how special this moment was about to be. Just like old times, Harry looked straight at me as the intro music started to play.

“Written in these walls are the stories that I can’t explain,” he began, and immediately tears started welling up behind my eyes. I joined in, leaning my head on Anne’s shoulder for support. When he got to the second pre-chorus, he yelled out “And I’ll be gone, gone, tonight!” and held out his mic for the audience to sing the next line, but I caught an almost-imperceptible wink as he smiled up at me and I knew that he could care less if anyone else chimed in.

“The fire beneath my feet is burning bright,” Anne, Gemma, and I screamed, hoping that we were loud enough for him to pick our voices out of the crowd.

He sang the next line, and so did the audience, but I kept my mouth shut and joined in on the last line. He dragged out “between” so long that he had to jump back in on “I take her home.” I was the only one still singing along with him at that point, and the audience let out confused laughter, looking back and forth trying to figure out why he wasn’t moving on yet.

Chapter 11

We’ve never talked about how we got together, and once the gossip magazines found out that I was the daughter of One Direction’s former tour manager, they just filled in the blanks themselves. I try not to read those things, but I do remember seeing a few headlines like “CHILDHOOD SWEETHEARTS RECONNECTED!” over that grainy paparazzi photo of us in Holmes Chapel before the Manchester Love on Tour stops. Others spun the fact that I was doing PR on the tour into a fake “HARRY STYLES KISSES EMPLOYEE” scandal, and it just spiraled out of control from there. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When the pandemic hit, I was at home in Pasadena with my dad and grandma. We had no other “bubble” because my grandma was immunocompromised. Needless to say, I got very bored very quickly. It got to the point that I would cycle through the contacts on my phone, Facetiming everyone in alphabetical order by last name until someone picked up. Harry was one of the only people who answered every single time. We ended up calling each other almost every day, sometimes to chat, or just to have someone there, in the background, while we went about our days. He was with his band, working on what would eventually become Harry’s House, and I spent many days listening to them work through different lyric and melody combinations while curled up in my childhood bedroom with my work laptop. He even interrupted a Zoom meeting I was in, once, excited to play part of “Music for a Sushi Restaurant” for me.

I was working remotely for a PR firm, after graduating college in 2020, my options were limited and, in the end, the place only gave me an offer because they worked with Columbia Records and knew my dad. I mostly wrote copy about movies to be put on Wikipedia or IMDB, which was super boring, so Harry seriously saved my life by letting me listen in on his studio sessions, or to the audio of whatever show he was watching and his commentary.

By the time he was able to start prepping for Love on Tour, I was working at the firm’s office building on Sunset, just about ready to quit my job and sell foot pics online.

“Come on tour with me,” he said, (seemingly) impulsively, during one of our Facetime sessions in which he patiently listened to me complain about how Mark from accounting wouldn’t stop coming over to my desk to “chat” every hour on the hour.

“What?” I answered, laughing a little.

“Seriously, Y/N, it’ll be just like old times! We can race on the dolleys they use to bring the speakers in, and I’ll even let you win this time.” I rolled my eyes.

“It’s not really winning, then, is it?”

“Okay, fine, I won’t let you win. But I am serious, Y/N. You should join me on tour.”

“What am I supposed to do, just follow you around the world like some sad, desperate groupie?”

“I mean, you are a bit sad and desperate.” I flipped him off, to which he responded by cackling with laughter.

“I’m sad because my job sucks, and desperate to get away from Mark, not to get into your pants.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be my mistress, you’d be doing PR for the tour, obviously.” Harry’s cheeks flushed with the slightest hint of pink,

“Well, maybe you should have led with that!” I started laughing, too, and it took a while for either of us to be able to speak again.

“Okay, sorry, I’ll start over.” He took a deep breath to calm his giggles, but still couldn’t manage to keep a straight face. “Y/N Y/L/N, I would like to formally request that you join me as my PR Manager for Love on Tour. My publicist is about to give birth, like, any day now so she obviously can’t go gallivanting around the world. Really, you’d be doing me a favor, and who better than someone who already has my dressing room requests memorized since half of them are actually yours.”

“You still have the same dressing room requests?” I gave him a skeptical look.

“Old habits die hard.” He shrugged. “And even though I don’t drink Diet Coke, having it in the fridge makes it feel like you’re there with me.” The pink was now red and I bit my lip to keep myself from smiling too wide.

“Alright, Mr. Styles, you have a deal.”

Like he said, old habits die hard, so even though we were now adults and my dad wasn’t on tour with us, we still fell into our old routines. Back in the day, I was never allowed to be alone in a room with one of the boys, but we had our ways around it. Usually by walking through the hallways of the floor of the hotel everyone was staying on, checking in with the guards stationed at either side on every loop. So while we could have hung out in our rooms, more often than not, we walked through the hotel hallways in circles just like we used to.

The night before the Pittsburgh show, Harry showed up at my door at 10pm with a bag of sour gummy worms.

“It’s not Haribo, but it’s close enough,” he said with a shrug, flashing me his trademark “Harry Styles” grin. And just like that, we were off to wear a hole in the carpet, or so I thought. We hadn’t even made it through one full loop before he pulled me through a random door marked “Employees Only” and dragged me up three flights of stairs.

“Are you taking me somewhere private so you can murder me?” I asked as we trudged through the dirty stairwell.

“Something like that,” he answered. But when we reached the top, he opened another door and we were on the roof.

The view was gorgeous, the moon was bright and cast a cool glow on the Pittsburgh skyline. I turned to Harry with wide eyes.

“Scoped it out earlier,” he said with a sheepish smile on his lips. “Just thought we could use a change of scenery.”

“It’s perfect,” I said, reaching out to squeeze his hand in thanks. “As much as I love hotel hallways, this is better.”

We sat on the edge of the roof, dangling our legs over the top of the building next door, and passed the bag of gummy worms back and forth as we talked. We were out there for so long that my eyelids started to get heavy and our conversation slowed down. I leaned my head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around me, huddling closer for warmth (or so I thought).

“Wanna listen to some music?” He asked. I nodded and he pulled his Airpods out, sticking one in my ear and the other in his own.

Story of My Life started playing and my heart rate sped up, pulsing adrenaline through my body. Suddenly, I was wide awake and hyper aware of every place our bodies were touching (thighs, hips, my shoulder to his chest, his shoulder to my head, his arm on my bicep).

I lifted my head up and turned to look at him.

“Do you ever get sick of this song?” I asked. My voice was quiet because I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to know the answer.

“No,” he replied. His voice was low and raspy and it made my stomach flutter. I felt myself leaning in, unconsciously, as he continued. “It reminds me of you, and I could never get sick of you.”

He brought his free hand up to my face and rubbed his thumb in soft circles on my cheekbone, and his eyes flickered down to my lips. The distance between us closed as if we were replaying something that had already happened in slow motion. Eventually, I could just barely feel the soft brush of his lips against mine. My mouth fell open just a bit in anticipation of what was to come, but Harry paused.

“It’s you, Y/N,” he whispered.”It’s always been you.”

Feel free to cross my name out and write in your own, I won’t be mad. I get it; what really happened was better than any self-insert fanfiction.

Chapter 17

I’m going to keep most of the details of our wedding private, but I will tell you about our first dance, because it ties into a lot of the other stories that I’ve written about. If you haven’t noticed by now, Story of My Life is sort of the underlying theme of this book, and that’s because it’s been the underlying theme of my life, the soundtrack to my relationship with Harry.

After dinner, and some absolutely mental toasts, Harry and I were eager to get the party started. Even though he’s not the best dancer, I have never met anyone who dances with as much joy as Harry does, and I love getting pulled into his wild, spontaneous routines. But our first dance was different. The fairy lights surrounding the garden were twinkling in the moonlight, and Niall, Liam, Louis, and Zayn stood on the sidelines to sing, you guessed it, Story of My Life. We swayed in circles, gently, without trying to put on a show or impress anyone else. It was a beautiful, full circle moment, and the boys even dragged out “between” just a little bit to tease us.

Life is funny. One minute, you’re sixteen and screaming “The fire beneath my feet is burning bright,” at your best friend and you think that this is it, you will be touring the world with your friends forever, and the next you’re twenty-seven and in a wedding dress, leaving mascara stains on the shoulder of his suit. But I wouldn’t change a thing, because I think it was written in the walls all along.

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cyb3rscoups · 1 year

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Pretty Woman Attoye AU

Watched pretty woman last night and can not believe i forgot how good it is. There will be a part 2 and maybe 3. Enjoy love 🙃

NSFW MDNI 18+

Full Collection

She should’ve worn stockings atleast but sneaking out of her apartment to avoid the landlord had been the only occupying her brain when she escaped down the fire escape. It was 45 degrees, windy, and not the ideal night to try and make her rent. But as always, Okoye had no choice.

“I’m fucking freezing.” She grumbled at Nakia as she shivered in her faux fur, her heeled boots shuffling along the graveled sidewalk.

“You wanted to be out here all late.” Nakia lit a cigarette with a scoff. “Not my problem.”

“But it sure is your fault. Had you not smoked our money away I wouldn’t have be here! We live in California for fuck sake so when has it ever been this cold!”

Nakia sucked her teeth, letting the cig rest between her lips as she picked at her afro. “You know you’re really uptight lately, Ko. Chill the fuck out. You’re hot as fuck and if you got rid of that tired ass dress, you’d make twice the rent in 20 minutes.”

Okoye crossed her arms over her chest, scaling a look down her attire. “Fuck is wrong with my dress?”

“Nothing…if you a 1997 hooker.” Nakia chuckled, picking at the loose fabric of the mini dress; black, lacy, and barely covering anything past her ass. “How long you had this thing huh?”

“Go to hell.” Okoye rolled her eyes and turned back to the street, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she did.

It was so grimy on the boulevard. Okoye often found herself itching to get past the streets that made up her life. Whenever she tried, there seemed to be an inevitable force that pulled her back and pushed her flat on her ass.

“I mean-“ Okoye cringed at the drunk group of boys that whistled at her as they passed. “Don’t you want to get out of here one day?”

“Here we go..” Nakia took a hit and slumped against a traffic light pole. “Get out of where Okoye!? Where would we go worth anything?!”

The woman huffed as she opened her mouth to speak again but was abruptly cut off by a roaring engine coming to a stop, right where she was standing.

She peered down at the car, pitch black and windows tinted the darkest they could go. Way too expensive a car for the person to live around here.

Tentatively, she walked up to the window, tapping on the glass softly.

It rolled down only half way, revealing a man, looking quite distressed and disheveled. In need of some help she presumed.

“You lost, baby?” Okoye softened her voice as she took her estimate of the man. He wore a suit, his hair back into a ponytail and his cologne seeping out, invading her nostrils. Obviously, he knew how to spend a dime based on the car alone. He was a goldmine.

“Uh- yeah.” The lost one tried his best to keep eye contact with Okoye as her breasts nearly spilled from her bra. “How do I get to Beverly Hills?”

“Oh I can show you. Let the window down some more.” Her red lips parted revealing the smile that seduced and tempted many before him.

“I won’t be doing that. Just point me in the right direction? My phone is dead and this gps is sending me into circles.” He huffed.

Okoye shared a glance with Nakia, who watched the interaction with a smirk on her lips.

“Fine. I’ll show you for five bucks.” She offered.

“No-“

“Price just went up to ten.” Okoye sucked her teeth and the man scoffed.

She leaned her body quite comfortably on the car, running her hand across the roof in awe as she waited his answer.

With a groan and a roll of his eyes, “20 bucks.”

Nakia let out a snicker and Okoye ducked her head to the window again. “For 20, I’ll show you step by step.”

She tugged on the passenger handle and invited herself into the vehicle where her body was enveloped in heat and she let out a soft moan, barely noticeable to the man beside her.

“Here.” He pulled a 20 out of his pocket and Okoye made a show of stuffing it into her bra, adjusting her cleavage extensively.

“Turn right on this corner.”

Okoye reached to rest her hand on the nape of his neck but he flinched away rather harshly. Sensitive much, she thought.

“Look I really just need directions.”

“And I’m giving them to you. Besides, you haven’t paid me nearly enough to really get up to something. Make a left here.”

He was tan, strong features and a hint of stubble growing on his chin. The look of concentration on his face made her gush with arousal. Fuck rent, she’d let him hit for free.

The way he shifted in the chair, squaring his shoulders and adjusting his position at least every 30 seconds. His head grazed the ceiling of the vehicle, roughing up his ponytail just a bit.

“This isn’t your car.” Okoye chuckled at how uncomfortable he seemed in it. His brows furrowed as he glanced at her.

“No. It’s not. It’s a friend’s.”

“You still rich like him though?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You really are all about the money huh?”

“You come from where I do and you gotta be.”

A moment of silence as he recognized the gap between them. Here he was, waltzing out of his own party, pissy about a breakup and she was fighting for her life on the streets, selling her body just to live.

“What’s your name?” He asked curiously, his thighs flexing when she grazed her nails over the one closest to her, teasing.

“What do you want it to be?” She smirked.

“Seriously?”

“Well if you’re not gonna fuck me, I could at least have some fun right?”

He approached a red light, taking the idle state of the car to give her a disbelieving look. Okoye sucked her teeth, removing her hand from his space again.

“Ko-ko.”

“No. Its not.” He squinted his eyes as the light changed.

“How you gonna tell me what my name is?” She grew rather irritated of his arrogance.

“What’s the name on your lease, your fucking taxes? What’s the name your parents called you growing up?”

“Bold of you to assume I have parents anymore.”

Another awkward wedge between them and a tense silence as she told him to turn again.

Okoye chewed on her lip as the neighborhood got nicer and the people walking the streets started to reduce. It never really occurred to her that rich people preferred the daytime. “Okoye. You?”

“Attuma.”

“Where the hell does that come from?”

“Don’t know. I don’t think it fits me anyway.”

The car squealed to a stop in front of the hotel he stayed. Shifting the gear in park with a soft sigh, he looked her over. Her legs were crossed as her foot tapped nervously against the floor.

“You’ll be okay?”

“Mhmm.” She spared him a small smile.

“Catch a taxi back to your place?”

“Well, back to the corner at least. You only gave me 20 bucks after all.” She opened her door, stepping out into the cool air again with a groan.

A bittersweet departure it would be and she would only get away with enough money to catch a ride back to the gutter. She almost felt pitiful.

Attuma stepped out of the car as well, a valet eagerly grabbing the keys from his hands.

“How much do you make a night? On average.” He prompted

“100 an hour..” Okoye shrugged, taking her phone out of her pocket.

Attuma couldn’t believe the wave of sympathy that came over him. God, just look at her. Skimpy thin material barely covering the expanse of her legs, her boots worn down and she was still shivering in her excuse for a coat.

“How much for you to stay the whole night…in the hotel?”

“With you? Yeah right. I think I’ll save myself the humiliation.” She scoffed, turning her attention back to her device. Maybe she could walk.

“We can go through the back?”

“Even worse.” Okoye scoffed, sending a quick text to Nakia and letting her know there will be updates. “400 dollars the whole night. You give me that coat to wear so the fact that I’m a whore won’t be obvious.”

With a nod, Attuma shrugged his coat off, draping it over her shoulders. She slid her arms through and tied it to her waist, snickering at how large it was compared to her.

“You are quite the man, Attuma.”

“You have no idea.”

———

His room, the penthouse, was unlike anything she had seen before. It was clean, there was room to breathe. Most of all it was huge and easily costed more than she could dream.

Attuma watched as she explored every inch of the room, laughing as she insisted on inspecting the corners for rat holes just so she could point out a flaw.

“Champagne?” He held up the bottle of bubbly liquid and a bowl of strawberries.

“Allergic to strawberries, don’t drink on the job.”

“You’re not on the job yet.” Attuma popped the bottle anyway, dumping the bowl of strawberries to the trash. He filled two glasses as she shedded her shoes and coat, just left in her dress hiking up her thighs as she sat on the bed, legs crossed.

“Here.” He handed her a glass. She took it cautiously, inspecting the liquid with a keen eye.

Attuma sipped at his glass and Okoye sat with hers.

“I appreciate this whole seduction thing you got going on but trust me, you put that money right between my tits and I’m a sure thing. What size condom you wear?”

Attuma couldn’t help but laugh as he set his glass down. He tugged at his ponytail, finally letting his hair free to fall where it felt. He loosened his tie and dropped his jacket, not breaking the eye contact with the Okoye.

“How about we talk a little bit more?” He popped the buttons to his sleeves, rolling them up to his forearms.

“When do I get my money?”

“Okoye-“

“Uh Uh. You can’t do that. It ain’t right!” Okoye shot up from the bed, resting her hands to her hips.

“I have to pay you to talk to me before you try to hop on my dick?”

“Yes. You paying for the whole night and trust me Mr. man I meant the whole night. Talking and sappy shit included.”

Okoye held her hand out to him as they stood chest to chest. He smelt so good she could just melt. Attuma scoffed, picking up his jacket and going for his wallet.

He pulled out four crisp hundreds, straight out the bank. Okoye beamed, crumpling the money and stuffing it into the side of her bra.

“What do you want to know?”

“Where are you from?” He leaned forward, taking in her faint vanilla scent.

“Oh for fuck sake.” She rolled her eyes, plopping her ass back onto the bed with a bounce.

“No don’t act like that. I paid you. Talk.”

“Brooklyn.”

“How long in California?”

“Long enough. What do you do to get this rich?” Okoye fired back.

“I’m asking the questions.”

“I have a feeling you do that a lot. Stay in control. You like being in control…daddy?”

“Stop.” Attuma crossed his arms across his chest, his muscles bulging as he flexed them sub consciously

“Why? Is it working?”

“Okoye-“

“Quit saying my name like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m in trouble or something. You say it right or you don’t say it at all!”

Attuma took a breath. Did he have to pick up such a difficult woman. “Alright. I’m sorry. I-I just don’t do this.”

“Take directions from prostitutes and take them back to your hotel for the night.”

“Exactly.”

“There’s a first for everything. Just like this is the first time I actually want to suck a customer off and he won’t let me.”

“You really want to?”

“So badly.”

Attuma made work on his belt and pants, dropping them to his ankles as his hard on peeked past his boxers.

“Well isn’t that just delicious.” She smiled and dropped to her knees, crawling up to him and gripping the length through his boxers.

“I think I hit the jackpot.” She giggled, tugging down on the elastic. “Now, don’t pull too hard on my hair.”

“Got it.”

She made quick work to cover him in her smeared lipstick and saliva as she kissed down his expanse. A moan left her lips as she captured his tip, sucking softly.

Okoye could feel his body tense when she took him deeper, nose nuzzling against his pelvis as she rested there. He hadn’t grabbed her yet, resorting to clenching his fists at his side for the moment.

“Shiiit.” He groaned as she swallowed around him, her hands resting on his thighs to ground herself.

Bobbing her head up and down, she hollowed her cheeks and stroked what she couldn’t reach. Spit dribbling down from her lips and makeup smearing his cock from tip to base.

Sloppy and wet sounds filled the hotel room as Okoye found joy in sucking him to climax

She moan softly around him sending a vibration through his bones and making his knees weak. Finally, Attuma reached for her head, forcing her down until she gagged and sputtered around him. His moan was loud and pornographic. Okoye squeezed her thighs together as another pool of arousal warmed her belly.

Never had she gotten the chance with someone so sexy let alone just as rich. It made her pussy throb with need because if his ability in bed matched his wallet, she was fucked.

“Fuuck…God where do you learn this stuff?” Attuma grunted, his grip on his head tightening with every soft whine that left her lips

Okoye focusing her attention on his tip, red and leaking with precum.

She sucked him hard as her hands covered the rest. His stomach caved in and he braced his hands on the table beside him.

“Holyyy fuuck! You gonna make me cum!” His eyes screwed shut as a vein popped from his neck.

She let him up with a pop and a smile. “Give it to me daddy..” Not a another word before he covered her face in the thick white substance. She stroked him lazily to the end, smearing his seed across her lips for a taste.

He slumped against the table as his chest heaved. Okoye giggled. “Come on, let’s get it up again.”

“No..do not touch me you demon.”

“Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already, Mr. man.” She rose to her feet and pulled her dress off.

“Look, It’s been a while.” Attuma opened his eyes to find spots in his vision.

“How long of a while?” Okoye wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her self against him. He grunted at the contact, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Years. Alright?”

“No one to do it with?”

“No I’ve been busy.”

The woman sighed, letting him go reluctantly. He tugged his pants back up as he relished in how light he felt.

“Hm.” Okoye pulled her dress back over her body and went to retrieve her shoes.

“You can still stay the night.” He offered, letting himself plop onto the bed.

“So you can leave me horny and empty. No thanks.” She shrugged her coat back on and adjusted her hair.

“Stay Okoye! Do not walk out that door.”

Okoye rolled her eyes. Her mind was telling her to go. Take the money and get the fuck out of here right now. But the bed..had she ever slept on something so comfortable and soft?

“Let me use your tub in the morning.”

“Okay.”

#attuma #attoye #alex livinalli #attoye fanfic #black panther #attuma x okoye #danai gurira #wakanda forever #mcu okoye #okoye x attuma #attoye smut #pretty woman #attoye fluff #ceo attuma #attuma smut #okoye smut

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separatist-apologist · 1 year

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Neon In The Nighttime

Summary: It's the end of the word as we know it. A west coast baker and the drummer of a metal band team up in Boston, MA thinking they're one of the last few people left alive after a viral outbreak turns those infected into blood hungry monsters.

Their destination: Los Angeles, California- the last place Lucien's eldest brother was living while gearing up for a presidential run. Lucien is desperate to escape the memories of his past life and what he had to do when his wife, Jes, became infected. Elain wants to try and reclaim the fractured pieces of the life she remembers before everything went to hell.

Read on AO3

Before:

Something was blocking the tunnel.

Tapping her fingers against the steering wheel of her car, Elain wondered how much longer she’d be trapped in the dark. The orange glow of the lights bounced off her tinted windows, casting long, looming shadows against the dark interior. She’d turned the radio off a good ten minutes before, frustrated with the upbeat pop music pouring through the speakers while she remained frozen in place growing more frustrated by the second.

She had no cell service in the tunnel that might have passed the time. No way to tell her father she was running late or to call a friend and complain. Just Elain and her thoughts—and lately, Elain had been trying to avoid those, too.

Everything was falling apart. Trapped in the dark, she supposed now was as good of a time as any to reflect on her many failings. Elain had mapped out her entire life when she’d been ten years old. Sure, she’d done it in glitter gel pen and maybe she’d had to adjust some things—she was never going to be princess of any country, and thank God for that—but for the most part, those loopy scrawled plans were tattooed on her brain.

Finish school.

Get married.

Have kids.

She’d finished school, she’d gotten a rather good job at a museum which had helped her finance her even better job at the bakery she owned. And she was supposed to be getting married, too. That was where the shiny paint on her shiny life started to peel away. Graysen wasn’t a bad man. Not really. Disinterested, sure. And married to his tech job, absolutely. He was also very obviously in love with his best friends girlfriend, though he would have denied it if she’d accused him of such.

Again.

Her father was sick, had picked up some virus he couldn’t shake and Elain hadn’t complained at all when Feyre and Nesta had called, asking if she’d go check on him.

He’s getting old, Nesta had said, her implications clear. Maybe he needed more supportive care now that mom was gone. Someone should arrange that. And though both Nesta and Feyre were far closer to their fathers Virginia Beach home up in New York City, it had been Elain, all the way from San Diego, who’d flown back to handle it.

She hadn’t even been mad like she might have been in the past. Elain needed to clear her head of Graysen and her impending marriage. Did she want to be married to a man that couldn’t remember her birthday but could drop everything to pick up Laura from the airport on a random Tuesday afternoon? And did she want to always be competing with someone so effortlessly beautiful? What happened when Laura and Tom broke up? Would Graysen throw their marriage away, kids and all, for a shot at his dream girl? She felt insane. Pressing her forehead to the steering wheel, Elain accidentally honked at the person in front of her, which led to a rolled down window and a middle finger pointed right at her.

She deserved that. Sighing, Elain fiddled with the radio, ignoring the static until finally there was music again. California Girls could blow her, actually. She didn’t change the song, though her mood only worsened. Uphead, someone laid on their horn, likely just as furious as she was becoming.

There was traffic and then there was whatever this was. Someone going too fast, staring at their phone, and now they had to wait for a tow truck to make its way in. Elain missed nothing about this place. Three cars ahead, someone had opened their door and was yelling something at another driver.

The song ended abruptly, sooner than she remembered. Only half paying attention, Elain didn’t catch the first part of the of the radio jockey’s joking words.

“...Chesapeake Bay Bridge is still closed due to a pile up. If you can, take another route, folks! It doesn’t look like it’s gonna clear anytime soon.”

Elain emitted a soft scream, shaking her steering wheel beneath her white knuckle grip. Of course there would be an accident, and while she felt for the people involved, she also hated them a little, too. Elain might have voiced this somehow, might have joined the people just leaving their cars had the strangest thing not have happened.

Someone was running. Weaving through traffic without a shirt and stained with a substance Elain couldn’t see well. The guy who’d left his own car a few up shouted something at that bare chested woman.

And in true, New England fashion, she screamed in return. High pitched and furious, garbled from whatever substance she’d likely ingested. Elain was surprised when the woman lunged for him, slamming him up against his car.

“Did she…” Elain watched, heart pounding as the strangers mouth latched to the angry mans neck. Shaking her head, the woman shook him around like a dog with a rabbit, ripping his throat out with her teeth. Too late, Elain realized it was blood staining her bare chest.

“HEY!” The guy in front of her got out of his vehicle, brandishing a gun. “Lady! Get off him!”

Elain screamed when that gun was pointed, when the sound of a bullet echoed through those dark tunnel walls. He was close enough he’d aimed well, hitting her square in the chest, for all the good it did. She lunged again, teeth sinking against his forearm.

“BITCH!” he roared, shooting again. Elain couldn’t drag her eyes away from the way her head seemed to cave in around itself or how blood splattered in every direction, including her windshield.

The man in front of her turned, wild-eyed and terrified, still holding the gun in one hand. His arm dripped blood to the asphalt below.

“I…” Elain only shook her head through the window, wincing when more shouting and more bullets echoed from somewhere in the distance. What was happening? Dread prickled along the back of her neck, keeping Elain strapped beneath her seatbelt even as another blood soaked interloper raced through the parked cars in the tunnel.

That person was shot down, too. More people had begun to flee their cars, turning back the way they’d came rather than wait to see what—or who—might step from the darkness. Elain hesitated. Leaving seemed foolish—she had miles before she was above ground again, and beyond that, this was a rental. But on the other…there were three dead bodies now lying between her car and her destination, and no possibility she was going to see her dad that day.

And when the man with the bleeding arm pounded against her driver side window and said, “You and me, lady. Let's go!” Elain unbuckled herself, cut the ignition, and got out of her car.

“You’re not a nurse by any chance?” he asked, eyeing her hopefully.

“Baker,” she said, not daring to look too close at the bite wound on his arm. She might be sick if she did. “What was that?”

“Fuck if I know,” he replied, wincing as he pressed at his skin. “There was nothing in those eyes, though. Just…she was like some kind of fucking zombie. Never heard of a drug that did that to people.”

Neither had Elain. “Should we leave our cars?”

“Look, it’s your funeral if you stay,” he said, looking over his shoulder. Fear laced his every word, and though this man looked like he could handle himself, something about the way he clutched that gun made him seem small somehow. “But I’m not sticking around to find out what that bitch was on, or if she brought more friends.”

His words were punctuated by the sound of loud, terrified screaming and more bullets from people like the man standing in front of her. How many people in the tunnel had brought a gun? And how many would use it before the day was over?

“My name is Elain,” she told him, slamming her car door behind her. An exodus of people was happening as others, clearly shaken by the death happening so close to them. It was easy to fall into step with the others, to wind among the cars still hoping to get to their destination.

“George,” he replied, wincing again. “She fucking bit me good.”

“Let’s get you out of here,” Elain told him, glancing at her cell phone. No service still, which shouldn’t have surprised her. “We can call for 911 when we’re above ground.”

“You’ll tell them—”

“Yeah,” she agreed, catching the relief flood his face. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Always wondered what it would be like,” he confided. Orange gilded the guilt not lining his weathered face, casting him in a near demonic light in the dark. “Killing someone, I mean. Used to think it would be like the movies.”

She was going to be sick. Forcing herself to keep walking, Elain pressed her lips together.

“It’s not,” he confided, his voice cracking. “It’s nothing like the movies.”

A cruel part of her wanted to tell him that anyone with a brain could have guessed that. Of course there was a peculiar kind of horror to taking another life, deserved or otherwise. It wouldn’t have helped the man beside her, pallid and slick with sweat as he was. He looked as though he might fall to his knees and begin sobbing, and Elain didn’t think she was equipped to help him.

They lapsed into an uneasy silence. No one spoke as they walked, eyes focused straight ahead. More people joined, leaving car doors open to walk with the crowd and when the sound of bullets echoed behind them, shoulders tensed and children wailed, but not one person said another word.

The man beside her had begun to shuffle by the time they’d reached the entrance. Elain was exhausted and wrung out, checking her phone every few seconds, desperate to get a text to her sisters.

Something is wrong in Virginia. Someone attacked a man, ripped out his throat. I’ll check on dad another day, planning to come home. Can one of you meet me at the airport?

Beside her, the man doubled over, grunting as he slammed to his knees. Elain hated how she hesitated, hated even more that part of her wanted to leave him there. She wasn’t the only one. The crowd parted around them like water against a rock, though she and a few others had halted, trying to decide if they’d drag him out or not.

“Are you okay?”

He looked up at her, the sunlight casting his pale face in stark relief. Only his eyes were illuminated, the rest hidden in the orangy darkness of the tunnel.The blue of his veins seemed to bulge while his eyes, once a lovely shade of green, seemed to be bleeding red.

Elain took a step back while he slid that gun between them. The metal bounced off her flats, resting between her two legs.

“Kill me,” he whispered, eyes locked on her. “Do it.”

Elain shook her head back and forth, bile rising in her throat. The people who had stopped to help were now backing away from them both, their own fear so stark, so pungent she could taste it on her tongue.

The stranger—George, his name was George—lunged for her, mouth open and Elain screamed. Elbows slammed violently to the asphalt, jangling every nerve in her body. Elain reached for the gun, pressing the barrel to his forehead as he came atop her. In the daylight, Elain could see how red his gums were, how stained his teeth had become, or maybe always had been. Like he’d spent a lifetime smoking or something was rotting him from the inside out.

He snapped his jaw shut, the tendons in his neck practically bulging.

“Please,” he growled, his voice hoarse as if he’d been screaming. “Please, before I—”

Whatever light existed, whatever soul people possessed, winked out like a light. If she hadn’t been sprawled out on the ground, she wouldn’t have seen it. Elain didn’t think the people in the semi-circle around them had caught it. But George—the man who’d killed already and come to regret it, vanished and left behind nothing but a shell. Blood tinged teeth snapped at her like a rabid dog desperate for nothing but a taste of her skin.

She didn’t let herself think about it. Finger on the trigger, Elain squeezed, eyes closed tight. George fell to the ground, still twitching, eyes still wide open and staring.

And he’d been right.

Killing was nothing like the movies.

Now:

LUCIEN:

When the world went to shit, it had the decency to do it all at once. There was no soft whimper, no slow decline but merely a burning wildfire that spread hot through cities and killing indiscriminately. Lucien recalled those early reports of a virus and the warnings to isolate, to stay indoors and wear a mask whenever they needed to go out. And he remembered the endlessly opining of politicians, unconcerned with anything but reelection and their own bank accounts, getting on television to argue it was the end of America if they had to shut down for even a day.

How right they’d been, in the end. America as Lucien knew it was over.

A month after the first reports of what had happened in Virginia, the lights went out on the east coast and never came back on. He’d been touring with his band, The Exiles, at the time and had been desperate to get back to his wife. Lucien had driven until he couldn’t and walked the rest of the way—all the way to Boston, where Jes had been waiting.

Infected.

And Lucien would never forgive himself for what he’d had to do. Vacant, lifeless and yet still moving, still seeing—she’d tried to rip his throat out and Lucien had killed her. Had left her body bleeding in the kitchen of their shared apartment, bought with the money his label had given him when they’d sold their record.

He hadn’t known if he could touch her long enough to bury her and in the end, he’d simply left her behind. And for months afterwards, he’d camped out in the building across the street, alternating between wishing he had the guts to kill himself, crying and screaming and destroying the now empty walls he was trapped in, and devising a plan.

The last time he’d seen his elder brother had been in Los Angeles. A Senator of California gearing up for a third run and thinking of presidency, one day, Eris had urged Lucien to relocate to California.

It’s safer out here.

Eris had been one of the few people in those early days arguing it was better to be safe, to distance socially rather than lose lives needlessly. And if Eris had survived the early days, Lucien knew he’d still be alive now. A year had passed since Lucien had come back, a year since he’d last looked at Jesminda’s empty brown eyes and pulled the trigger of the gun he’d stolen off a body in Georgia.

He couldn’t keep going like this. Jes wasn’t coming back, and the life he’d once fought so desperately for wasn’t, either. This new world was something else, something new and terrible and still beating its putrid, stinking heart.

And fate, if such a thing existed, had decided to spare him. What good was it to sit in an apartment that had once belonged to someone, staring out a window missing the wife who had died while he’d been fucking around on tour? There was no saving Jes, and maybe no saving himself, either.

But he couldn’t kill himself, and he couldn’t spend another New England winter without heat. The streets had been empty for weeks by the time Lucien stepped into the muggy, summer weather. The scent of rotting sewage was overwhelming, gagging him the moment he was outdoors. Pulling the neck of his black shirt up over his nose, Lucien made his way down the sidewalk toward a parking garage. He had keys in his hand, stolen from the family apartment he’d been squatting in.

He prayed for anything but a minivan, and in the end was rewarded with a black pick-up truck that had three quarters of a tank still. It wasn’t enough to get him to California, but it was enough to get him the fuck out of Boston.

He’d always liked camping. Maybe he’d get a tent, fuck off to the wilderness, and hike his way to California when he ran out of gas. The thought pulled Lucien from his self-loathing just long enough to convince him to stop at a large box store for supplies. He had no money, and needed none, either. The lights were off, the door barricaded, and the parking lot long abandoned. Lucien was used to it.

Prying open the sliding glass doors, Lucien didn’t bother offering a greeting. He’d used to in the early days, back when people had taken to squatting in stores where there was an abundance of available food. Violent gang wars broke out over non-perishable items and anyone with sense moved on. There was no sense in losing your life over shelf-stable green beans, after all.

Lucien exhaled, ignoring how the store smelled like mildew and how light didn’t penetrate through the filthy windows anymore. There had once been a deal on strawberries—two for five—back when you could walk in and get a plastic container on your way home from work. There was no produce left, either eaten or rotted away to nothing. Flies buzzed around his head, swatted as he continued down the aisles, ignoring food in favor of a rolled up sleeping bag and somehow, a rather nice tent untouched, and yet dusty, in the box. Lucien pulled it all apart just to be sure there were no missing pieces and when he found there wasn’t, he almost smiled.

Almost.

Because behind him, the sound of a hammer pulled. He hadn’t heard whoever was lurking until he felt the cold kiss of steel against his temple. Swallowing his fear and the urge to thank this person for putting him out of his misery, Lucien very slowly raised his hands. “No harm done.”

“Yet,” came a delicate female voice. “Turn around. Let me see your eyes.” Slowly, Lucien turned only to be confronted with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t her. She looked as if she should have died in those early days of chaos and the gun still pressed to his head seemed wildly out of place in her fair, slender hands.

Brown eyes flecked with gold surveyed him, her full lips pressed in a thin line. Her golden brown hair was twisted off a, frankly, stunning face with a pretty pink ribbon. Tight, black leggings and an oversized Who's Your Laddy shirt told Lucien this woman had likely been living here a while, picking through whatever was left—which seemed to be the seasonal clothing, if nothing else.

It worked for her, though.

Still crouched to the ground, Lucien waited for her assessment. “How do you feel?” she demanded, eyes sweeping over his form.

“Besides the gun against my head?” he asked pointedly. She didn’t bother to look sorry, though she did pull it away. Lucien didn’t even blame her for it—this was how she’d survived, surely.

Shoot first, ask questions later. “I’m not sick.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she replied, her bottom lip wavering a little. He rose, drinking her in as he showed her his hands.

“Want to check me for scratches?” “If you’re lying, you have maybe an hour. Two if you’re lucky. I’m so tired of killing, just…just go,” she whispered, looking up at him through dark, thick lashes.

“I’m not. I promise,” he added, unsure why it felt important he do so. “My name is Lucien.”

“Elain,” she replied, tucking the gun beneath her arm. Lucien was tempted to take it from her and didn’t want to risk a bullet between his eyes.

Elain took a step back while Lucien gathered up his open tent box and the rolled up blue sleeping bag. There was a purple one just beside it, the last one on the shelf. He grabbed that, too, just for good measure.

“Elain,” he repeated, wondering if she’d join him in California or he’d leave her here. A slithering sense of relief filled his empty chest at the thought of company—of someone to talk to after a year of raging silence. “Where are you from, Elain?”

That bottom lip quivered again. “San Diego…or Virginia Beach, technically. I was visiting my dad when…”

Lucien tried not to think of the horror. Ships of infected sailors had come in through naval ports, while travelers had tracked it through airports. Major naval bases had been hit just as hard as major cities, and Virginia Beach was still considered point zero for the outbreak.

“Ah.”

She fell into step beside him, trailing him toward the now empty registers where he could leave his equipment and grab some food, too. “How did you end up here?”

“I caught a ride with someone,” she admitted, her pretty eyes glassy in remembrance. Another friend she’d had to kill? “My sisters were in New York City.”

Lucien doubted they still were. One of the last images he’d ever seen was the chaos in the city—the infected running after screaming civilians, ripping people to the ground with their teeth. Eating them alive, feasting on the living. Lucien closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to banish the memory. He didn’t want to think about it, or what had happened to Jes while he’d been away.

“I doubt anyone is still in that shit hole city. Even the rats have probably gone by now,” Lucien said with a shrug. Elain trotted after him, grabbing red plastic basket helpfully.

“Where are you going?” she asked him.

“California. My brother was out there—I’m going to find him.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

Lucien sighed. “Eris is like one of those nuclear bomb proof roaches. There’s no way he’s dead. If anything, he’s probably the leader of some doomsday cult.”

“My sister Feyre was like that. Maybe they found each other.”

Lucien could only shrug. In a different world, a different life, he might have offered her a shred of hope or comfort. Now, though, all he had was frank honesty. Her sisters were probably dead, just like his brother, and only the fear of being alone kept them from admitting it to themselves.

“You want a ride?” he asked before he could think better of it. Elain reached toward a dusty shelf and slid every can of pinto beans into her arms before letting the cans tumble into the basket.

Lucien took it from her, certain it was miserably heavy.

“To your cult leader brother?” There was a hint of humor to her words that almost made him relax.

“Or to start our own,” he replied, offering her half a smile. “I’m not picky.”

“What are you, then?” she asked, peering up at him with curiosity. Her gun was still tucked beneath her armpit, a reminder that for all the sweetness oozing from her lithe form, this woman was a killer.

A survivor.

“Tired of talking to myself,” he finally admitted. What else was there to say? Lucien didn’t know what he was or even who he was anymore. A drummer in a band that no longer existed. The youngest son of a dynasty that could be traced further back as far as most European royalty. A husband who’d taken the life of the very woman he’d sworn to protect.

Was he a survivor, too? He didn’t feel like it, but maybe he was. Maybe by virtue of standing before her, arm laden with beans and the gun she carefully set atop her cans, Lucien, too, was a survivor.

He knew he’d be disappointed if she said no, though.

Elain offered him a shy smile. “Alright, Lucien. But I get to lead the cult. None of this co-leader stuff.”

He grinned.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

#elucien #elucien fanfic #this is JUST LIKE holy ground except everything is on fire and everyone is suffering

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