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ddejavvu · 10 months

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Love to Lie - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader (Part 3) / Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 4 (Final Part)

Summary: Your worst fear is recognized when Bradley’s jet goes down with him in it. You’re not sure why you’re still his emergency contact, you’d broken up two weeks ago, but when you rush into the hospital room, you discover that you have a chance to fix the mistake you’d been cursing yourself for. The only problem is, you have to lie to Bradley, and you discover that you love doing it if it means you get to be with him again.

Contents/Warnings: fem!reader, Mitchell!reader, angst, angst with a fluffy/happy ending, amnesia trope, hospitals and their subsequent medical details, memory loss, goose and carole are still alive because i say so

WC: 16.1K (again...? somehow?) / navigation / inbox

A/N: ...surpriiiise! this is not the end 😭 i'm sorry to deviate from my original plan, but life got in the way a lot, so now there will be four parts to this series, this is the second-to-last. I'm sorry to keep you waiting, it just didn't work out the way I wanted it to. The real final part to this series will be posted one week from today. I hope you all understand, and I hope you enjoy this part and all of the drama that comes with it!

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Your eyes blink open far too early. It’s due to your side, there’s a draft that’s worked its way over your skin and raised tiny goosebumps over your thigh. You’ve woken up differently than how you’d fallen asleep ,and you suspect that you’d wormed your way into Bradley’s chest again in your slumber. You can’t blame yourself, it’s a comfortable place to be.

You push against his abdomen to wriggle your way out of his embrace and reclaim the blanket that’s fallen, but his hands tug you closer in an instant. Too fast, you decide, as you peer through the darkness of your bedroom, eyes adjusting groggily to the light.

“Brad?” You whisper, “Are you awake?”

He takes a moment to answer, and you think he might be pretending to be asleep. But eventually you feel him nod against his pillow, “Yeah.”

“Oh, honey,” You strain to reach the bedside lamp from your spot in his grip, especially considering any distance you create between the two of you, he closes. Once you finally click the light on you see his bloodshot eyes, red and rosy from their lack of sleep.

“What’s the matter?” You croon, your voice still thick with sleep as you cup his cheek in your palm, “Why are you awake, did you have a nightmare?”

“No,” He rasps, something desperately sad in his voice, “I never slept.”

“What-” You whirl your glance around to the bedside clock that reads 2:30, “Brad, you’ve been awake the whole time?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” He defends, his fingers curling around your waist, “I- I don’t know how anymore.”

“Baby,” You feel a thick wave of nausea rising in your belly at his state of distress, feeling nothing but anguish for the broken boy; your broken boy, “It’s okay. You’re okay, you’re safe now, you’re home. You don’t- uh, do you remember anything new?”

“No,” He shakes his head, eyes downcast as he swallows tightly in his throat, “No, but my brain is coming up with a thousand different ways it could have gone, and I can’t stop.”

You hope his brain hasn’t conjured the correct possibility. That he’d gone down truly alone.

“Poor baby,” You whimper, somehow more choked up than he is, “Come here.”

As he settles in your embrace, his head against your chest now, you reconsider: maybe you were made for holding him, and he was made to be held by you. Or maybe your roles are the same, each made to hold and be held by each other. Whatever the universe designed for you, it’s working, as his face presses into your collarbones like a puzzle piece snapping into place. He fits perfectly, and you feel the prickle of his mustache as he sniffles, once.

“You’re okay,” You hum, hoping that the vibrations of your voice through your throat sing him to sleep. Your nails scrape through his hair, long-since dried from his shower, though still smelling strongly of shampoo. You can feel him breathing, shakily so, against your skin, and the breeze fans through the neckline of your top, warm and soft in its rhythm.

In, out. He’s alive. In, out. He’s here. In, out. He loves you. In, out. He wants you to stay.

In, out. He doesn’t know. In, out. He could remember at any second. In, out. He could hate you.

In, out. He won’t hate you. In, out. He’ll want to work things out. In, out. He’ll want you to stay. In, out. He loves you.

“Baby,” You croak, your throat thick with tears that are part anxiety, and part anguish for your poor boy, “I love you.”

His hands tighten around your waist after a split second of silence, then he murmurs against your collarbone, “I love you, too.”

“Sleep,” You insist, resuming your soft strokes through his hair, “Sleep, Brad. You’re safe, you’re home.”

“You’re home, too.” He adds, and you realize it’s an affirmation on its own. That you're together; that he didn't die alone in a cockpit.

You nod, swallowing a sob, “Yeah, baby, I’m home too. And I’m not leaving, I’m gonna park my ass right here until you get eight hours of sleep, at least. Got it?”

He laughs weakly into your skin, “Got it, babe.”

“Good,” You whisper, keeping up a steady rhythm through his hair, “Good, honey, now sleep.”

You can’t seem to close your eyes until Bradley closes his own. You feel the flutter of his lashes against your skin, Then they cease their motions and the upper strands settle over the lower ones, brushing your chest in tandem. The longer you go without feeling them twitch, the better, and you don’t stop combing through his hair until his breathing has been soft and even for ten minutes minimum. Then exhaustion creeps back over you, and the knowledge that Bradley’s finally sleeping eases you into another few hours of your own slumber.

What wakes you up for the second time isn’t the series of knocks on the front door, but, yet again, a phone call. It's seemingly a pattern of late. This time your phone rings in the kitchen though, where you’d left it last night while eating. You’re surprised it hasn’t died, but you hear the ringing fade out while you lay in Bradley’s embrace. Your brain struggles to process the past 48 hours, but you know enough about the situation to know that it’s probably Carole knocking at the door, as well as calling you when you don’t answer.

Bradley’s still sleeping, thank god, serene when his eyes aren’t open to showcase the deep anxiety they hold. You can’t imagine how he feels, clueless and terrified, like a little kid. You’re glad he’s getting at least a few restful hours, even if you’re sure his dad and yours’ voices will boom far too loud through the house the second they step through the door.

Rushing to answer the door is hard to do silently, but when your face pops into the window panes set in the wood, you hold a finger over your lips.

Shush, you warn, then with a jerk of your thumb backwards towards the bedroom, he’s sleeping.

Carole, the one who needs your warning the least, nods jovially, a pretty smile already set on her face for the day. She’s a ray of sunshine, and you’re lucky to have her at this moment especially. Nick and your dad salute you, and you’ve never let out a more exasperated sigh than the one you greet them with.

“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty,” Nick grins, barging in like he owns the place (which he did, for a while), “Brad still conked out?”

“Yeah,” You nod, opening the door wider to let everyone through. Carole’s carrying an insulated bag, your dad has a few totes of groceries, and Nick's got a heavy cooler strapped over his shoulder like a purse.

“My god,” You marvel, “Did you raid a Trader Joe’s?”

“You said there was nothin’ in the fridge,” Carole grins, “We brought stuff for breakfast, and whatever else you need, we can run out for later.”

“Thanks,” You gush, taking the bag from her despite her protests, “Is there milk in here?”

“And eggs,” Your dad nods, holding up his own bags, “And bread, and fruit, and-”

“And I wanna put this thing down,” Nick groans, heading for the kitchen with the cooler, “You talk too much, Mav.”

“Me- I talk too much?” His voice raises a hair as he heads for the kitchen in tow, and you and Carole shoot him the necessary disapproving looks, “This, from the guy who missed his flight to Hawaii because he was too busy telling the gate attendant that his son won student of the week in preschool.”

The two conveniently bicker, leaving you and Carole alone in the entryway. She sends you a questioning glance, no words needed.

“Not yet,” You mutter, and her eyes dim in disappointment, “I just- I wanted one night. One night to pretend like nothing happened at all, but I promised him we’d do it today. I told him,” You sigh shakily, pinching at the bridge of your nose, “I told him I wasn’t trying to hide from him, or anything like that, but- but that I just wanted a normal night. He said it was fine, he agreed. I wouldn’t have just gone to sleep if he pushed.”

“Honey!” She scolds, like there’s not a thought in your head, “Since when has he ever pushed you? Of course he said it was fine, you asked him for it! He'd let you run him over with a train if you asked to. You have got to stop this,” She narrows her eyes at you, the expression accompanied by various only-slightly-muffled banging sounds from the kitchen “I know it’s scary. I know it could go a lotta different ways. But you owe this to him now. Now that he knows, now that he’s askin’ questions, you’ve gotta answer ‘em. You’re the only one that can, you’re the only one that knows!”

Neither of you have noticed your dad standing in the kitchen doorway. But he’s not stealthy, and his broad frame catches your eye. You turn, panicked, but his face reads confusion.

“You’re the only one that knows what?” He queries, one thick brow raised. Carole waits for you to answer, and you build the courage in your chest.

“Nothing, dad. I’ll- I’ll talk to you about it later. In private.”

He remains concerned, his light eyes darkened in worry, but he trusts you, and Carole doesn’t fight back against your solution. He nods once, then clears his throat, “Nick can’t figure out how to work your stove. He wants to make pancakes.”

“Ooh, that man,” Carole huffs, more exasperated than upset, as she storms into the kitchen, “Honey, it’s the dial in the back!”

Technically, you’re in private now. Your dad seems to realize the same, shifting towards you, but before he can ask, there’s a thud from the bedroom.

Fear stabs your heart like a sword, blade sharp and venomous as you imagine an injured Bradley unable to get himself off of the floor. But you aren’t able to take two steps towards the bedroom before Bradley comes stumbling down the hall, nearly tripping over the too-long pajama pants you’re still matching in.

When he sees you and your dad, he freezes for a moment, posture tight. You hope he’s not embarrassed to be caught in his holiday pajamas, but you’re more concerned about why he was sprinting in the first place.

“Baby,” You call worriedly, making your way over to him across the carpet of the hallway, “Baby, what’s wrong? DId you fall? I heard a thud.”

“No, I-” He shakes his head, blinking hard for a moment, “I heard someone in the house. I don’t- I thought someone had broken in. Sweetheart, I- I didn't even realize you weren't in bed," He chuckles sheepishly, "I thought I was protecting you.”

You squeeze his arm with a fond smile, though you're still worried about him, adoration swelling in your chest alongside concern, "Poor baby."

“Sorry, Brad,” Your dad laughs softly, heading back towards the doorway to rejoin the others once he realizes you won’t be sharing just yet, “Your dad can’t find his way around a kitchen.”

“Should have known,” Bradley huffs, curling an arm around your waist, “If my mom ever left him he’d never eat again.”

You welcome the privacy that this gives you and Bradley, and your hands find the broad expanse of his chest as you stare worriedly up at him.

“Brad,” You hum, lifting one of your hands as his settle on your waist. You lay it over his cheek and he leans into the contact like a touch-starved puppy, “Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed really freaked out. And- and your ribs are still broken, don’t they hurt? I think you should get back in bed. We can-”

“Hey,” Bradley murmurs, mustache tickling your palm as he lays a kiss to the heel of your hand, “It’s alright. You’re spiraling, babe. I’m okay.”

You like that about him, the way he kisses you anywhere. It doesn’t seem to matter if he catches your lips, your hand, your elbow; it’s all there for him to love on.

“I am not spiraling,” You defend weakly, “I just want to make sure you’re alright. Did you hurt yourself?”

“No,” He shakes his head, and when you move to pull your hand away from his face, one of his own flies to catch it. His hand fits just as well against the back of yours as it does the front, and you let him cradle your palm to his cheek.

“I’m okay,” He repeats, a promise that reassures the deep ache of worry in your chest, “Thanks for helping me sleep last night, honey. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You swallow the weight of his words, feeling them settle like boulders in your stomach. They’ve tangled strings around your heart, tugging and yanking at the organ until it sinks low in your body. Today’s the last day you can pretend you’d never walked away.

“You’ll have me forever,” You hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips that you hope distracts from the tears in your eyes. You sigh shakily against his mouth, relishing the feeling of his lips against your own. It’s comforting, and he keeps it chaste but meaningful, humming sweetly into you. When you break away only your lips part, foreheads and noses still flush like snapped-in puzzle pieces.

There’s some inexplicable force sticking you together, blood magnetized to each other’s from how long your hearts have beat as one. You let your eyes slip shut in his hold, hoping with everything in you that today isn’t the last time you’ll get to hold him like this. There’s a countdown ticking away in your brain, one that makes your blood run cold and your stomach churn, but the smell of pancake batter tears you away from watching the numbers run out.

“Pancakes,” You whisper softly against his lips, “You wanna eat?”

“Yeah,” He nods, but he makes no move towards the kitchen. He’s standing still, like you’re a cat that’s decided to snooze on his lap and he’s afraid of spooking you. His hands are still holding your waist, dragging you into him and supporting your weight against his own. It’s comfortable there, serene as you breathe in tandem, drinking each other in after a rough night. You’re glad Bradley’s gotten even a little bit of sleep, and with a nap later, you’re sure he’ll be well-rested enough to talk, even though you wish you didn’t have to. This is a fantasy you want to get lost in, one that you wish wasn’t starting to crack and splinter under his discerning gaze. It’s endearing that he knows you well enough to know that you’re lying to him, but not now that you want them to be the truth.

“You still haven’t remembered anything?” You ask, grateful to be cupping his cheek where his hand holds your own.

“Nope,” He shakes his head as much as he can with it pressed to your own, kissing at your top lip. It doesn’t require reciprocation, it’s barely-there and fleeting, “Doctor said it could be weeks.”

“He also said it could be minutes,” You mumble, voice hazy with worry, “Let’s go eat, Brad. Our parents brought along a buffet.”

It’s only now that either of you finally move, hands sliding across each others’ skin to join together. You walk as your fingers intertwine, and he holds back to let you step into the kitchen first.

“There he is!” Nick cheers at his son’s dramatic entrance, “Hey, Brad, watch this!”

He yanks the pan off of the stove, standing with his shoulders squared and his knees bent, like he’s preparing to bat at a softball. He jerks the pan up and out, dislodging the pancake from its resting place and sending it into the air when he pulls the pan back down again. It flips gracefully, but Nick catches it less so, half of the gooey side of the pancake landing on the rim of the pan and splattering onto his hand.

“Shit,” He hisses, and Carole buries her face in her hands with a sigh, “Mav, get me a paper towel.”

“Nice one, dad,” Bradley drawls, letting you stifle your laugh into his shoulder, “You could go pro with that.”

“If you make fun of me I’ll spit in the batter,” Nick grumbles as your dad swipes away the batter dripping inches away from his watch, “Thanks, Mav.”

The paper towel and pancake mishap are forgotten as you chat in the kitchen, standing around like a proper family. You’ve always been one, and you hope you always will be. You find an easy home tucked into Bradley’s side, feeling his thumb stroke at your waist and his lips press to your hair every few minutes. The pancakes go surprisingly fast, and Carole refuses to let anyone help her slice fruit, which is probably a good idea, at least for your dad, who’s fond of showing off knife tricks he hasn’t yet mastered.

Bradley’s perfectly capable of dressing his own pancakes up, but you feel the need to. Maybe it’s girlfriend duty, maybe it’s the fact that his ribs are still achy, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re trying to overcompensate, but whatever it is has your hand delving into the bowl of freshly washed blueberries, grabbing a handful and sprinkling them over Bradley’s buttered stack of pancakes. Then you take a banana, leaving Carole three more to slice up into the salad.

You slice the fruit towards your thumb, the blade pressing gently to your skin as it cuts through the banana. It doesn’t hurt, but Bradley reaches for your hands, pulling the knife away and holding the affected thumb.

“Don’t do it like that,” He explains, raising your thumb to his lips. He kisses it once, his lips pressing to the smooth pad of your finger, mustache tickling your skin, “I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

“I was careful,” You insist, but the last thing you want to do is pull away from Bradley, so you let him curl his fingers around your own, interlocking them as he holds your hand.

“I’ll cut it,” He squeezes your hand, leaning in to peck softly at your lips, “You’ve done a ton for me these past few days, babe. I can cut my own banana.”

You worry you’re coming off as smothering, that you’ve suffocated him with care. But the thought of never being able to do it again, and being deprived of the option to for weeks, has made you more of a helicopter girlfriend than anything.

You let him cut his own banana, just in case he’s feeling resentment towards you for being so overbearing. But you don’t think he’s angry, not as he slices the banana down onto the cutting board and takes it between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it out for you, right up to your lips like you shouldn’t even be asked the effort of leaning forwards to eat it. You take it carefully from his hand, and you lament the fact that you’ll get banana mush on his thumb if you try kissing it.

The fruit is flavorful on your tongue, but it’s a small slice, and you finish it quickly. You let the aftertaste linger in your mouth as you head for Bradley at the counter, pushing your face into his back and slinging your arms around his waist. You’re careful to keep pressure off of his aching ribs, and he leans into your touch instead of flinching away.

You settle your cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt, head turned so that you’re facing your houseguests. They’re all smiling at you, Carole most of all, and you offer them a sleepy one back.

“So, Brad,” Nick muses, plating the final pancake with a flourish that, thankfully, doesn’t send the stack toppling to the ground, “What are you gonna do today?”

“Nap,” Bradley blurts, and he uses the time that your family chuckles in unison to slip you another banana slice. It’s an awkward angle that his arm has to achieve, but you take it from him happily, jaw working to munch on the fruit while you nestle against his back once more.

“I dunno,” He hums, nearly through chopping the banana, “Maybe a movie or something. Hey, we could finish season 5 of The Office.”

“Mm,” You nod with a mouthful of banana against his back, “Yeah.”

You’ve been watching the series together, having finished Friends already. It’s a good show to watch before bed, because it gives you something to snuggle up together and giggle at. You’ve only got a few episodes left in the season, so you should be able to finish it in no time with Bradley’s extensive bedrest.

“Alright, my loves,” Carole croons, dropping the last two pieces of watermelon she’d been cutting into the bowl, “That’s the fruit! Are we ready to eat?”

A round of excitement circles the kitchen, and you cling to Bradley for as long as you can. He lets you, doesn’t try to shake you off as he drizzles syrup over his pancakes.

“You wanna split ‘em?” He offers, and you nod. He can’t see you, but he feels the movement against his back, and even if he wasn’t able to, he knows you well enough to know you’ll want bites of the food. You reluctantly let go of his waist when he picks the plate up, and you trail behind him to the dining room. He’s finally able to see the decorations you’d hung, and he stops to admire them in the doorway.

“Welcome home,” You coo, leaning your head on his shoulder.

Carole stands proud beneath the banner, “Do you like it, baby?”

“Guys-,” Bradley chuckles sheepishly, setting the pancakes down at his place just beside yours, “I love it. Thank you, even though I was only gone for two days.”

“It was the longest two days of my life,” You gripe, but you suppose your days have been unpleasantly long for weeks now, “That’s what I was referring to, by the way, when I said your mom was scarily agile. I came out from the bedroom to find her standing on both the couch and the table.”

“Jesus,” Bradley huffs, bewildered. Nick looks a little concerned, Carole bashful, and your dad impressed.

Eating around the table together reminds you of when you were younger, dinners and breakfasts and lunches alike being shared around the table. It didn’t matter who’s, you could turn a Denny’s booth into your home with a few plates of food and the laughter that’s never in short supply within your family.

Bradley cuts his pancakes himself, probably happy to have something to do with his hands. He’s eager to return the favor of feeding you, grabbing chunks of pancake on the end of his fork and guiding them into your mouth. You’re reminded of a picture you’d passed up in the photo album yesterday, of Bradley spoon-feeding you as a baby. His utensil-airplane impression was probably scarily accurate thanks to his dad; you wish you could remember it. Maybe, if you don't break up tonight, you'll see him feed your own kid that way.

You’re happy to sit and be fed, even letting him wipe syrup off of your chin like you’d done for him. You’re sure the only reason he doesn’t kiss it off of you is because your dad is there, and his, too. They have a tendency to make fun of you, even if it’s all good-natured.

“D’you need more groceries, baby?” Carole points her fork in your direction, pointedly swallowing her mouthful of watermelon before speaking.

Her husband doesn’t offer you the same courtesy, speaking through a messy mouthful of eggs, “Pro’lly not. We damn near bought out the store.”

Before Carole can reprimand him for his less-than-perfect etiquette, you nod, “We need produce. We might be okay on fruit if there’s any of this left,” You gesture to the bowl of fruit salad, “But we need vegetables. And eggs, we probably used them all. I’ll make a list later, once I clean up.”

“Once we clean up,” Bradley corrects you, “I’ve been in bed for two days straight, I need to do something.”

“You’re gonna need to be in bed for a lot longer than two days,” You narrow your eyes at him, “You need rest, baby,”

“I’m rested! And I’m gonna rest later when we watch our show,” He pleads, “Just let me help?”

“Why doesn’t he help me with the dishes?” Your dad intervenes, scraping his last bite of pancake through a sticky puddle of syrup on his plate. It’s boysenberry, and a drop nearly falls to your tablecloth as he brings it to his mouth.

“You wash, I’ll dry and put away. That way you can keep your arms down. Deal?”

“Fine by me,” Bradley nods, and you shoot your dad a thankful glance.

“I’ll sort through the fridge then,” You decide, “Nick, Carole, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“We’re gonna keep bummin’ ‘round here ‘til you stop feeding us,” Nick decides, “Whaddya say honey, ‘think we can move into the guest room?”

“Oh I’m sure they’d love that,” Carole plays along, a wry drawl in her voice, “They’d have to hear your snoring all night.”

“He snores, too,” You jerk an accusatory thumb at Bradley who doesn’t even try to deny the allegation, “Like father, like son. It must come with the mustache.”

“Speaking of my mustache,” Bradley’s hand flies to his lip, feeling cautiously at the patch of hair atop it, “Did they- shave part of my mustache?”

A guilty look is shared around the table. You speak up in a meek voice, “Yeah, baby. To get the breathing tube in there.”

He groans, “Next time, just let me die.”

“Don’t say that,” You hiss, stomping on his foot beneath the table. The yelp that he lets out is almost comical, but Carole’s face is still scrunched in a disapproving frown at her son.

“I’m sorry!” Bradley cries, “I’m sorry, jesus, are you wearing steel-toed boots under there?”

“No, but if you keep making jokes like that, I’ll put some on and kick you in the balls.” You threaten, and Bradley thinks it might be a promise.

“It’s not funny,” Carole insists, voice weaker than yours, “Brad, you- you almost did die.”

“Mom-” He sighs weakly, posture deflating, “I’m sorry. Really, it was a bad joke. I won’t do it again. Are you okay?”

She takes a minute to think, blinking at her plate instead of meeting anyone’s eyes. Then she stands, nodding hastily, “I’m alright. I just need a minute.”

Bradley tries to follow after her but Nick stands at the same moment, waving him back down into his seat.

“She’s okay,” He promises, smiling sadly at his son, “But she really was scared. I’ll handle it, you finish eating.”

Bradley slumps back into his seat, the sinking feeling in his gut at making his mom cry probably similar to the one in yours from lying to him. You’ve become scarily fond of this temporary life of yours, where you’re still dating Bradley, and you’ve got a family again. Lying comes easy now, and if you don’t think about it, you’ll forget you’re even doing it. You’re the actor most dedicated to their craft, believing even your own performance because it means you get Bradley back.

Lying is much easier when you love doing it.

You hear a rogue sniffle from Carole down the hall, and you clatter your fork against your plate to cover it up. It probably doesn’t work, as Bradley stares forlornly at his own almost-empty plate, and you don’t think he has the appetite to finish it.

“Are you done?” You nudge his knee, and he glances up dazedly at you.

“Yeah,” His throat is dry and his voice is weary, “You want the rest?”

“I’m okay,” You shake your head, turning to your dad, “Dad? You all finished?”

“Yeah,” He smiles weakly, trying to break the awkward silence, “Ready to clean up the kitchen, Brad?”

“Alright,” He hums, standing from his chair. His movements are slow and sluggish, and you don’t think he’ll be at his best until his mom comes out with dry cheeks and a smile. In the meantime, you dig in the cupboards for a tupperware to put the fruit salad in.

Cleaning is tense, even if you and your dad try acting like nothing is wrong. Bradley’s not talkative anymore, and you resort to going about your business silently, packing the fridge with what little leftovers there are and making sure Bradley isn’t straining himself at the sink.

When Nick and Carole emerge from the bathroom, peering tentatively into the kitchen, Bradley nearly drops the last plate he’s washing into the sink. He hastily dries his hands, moving in for a hug from his mother while she smiles sheepishly at him.

“I’m sorry,” He repeats, and Nick smiles on. You try not to stare, not to ruin their moment, but you can’t help it; you and your dad share a happy grin.

“I know, baby,” She promises, combing a hand through the back of his hair, “I know, I just- I just get worried about you, s’all. ‘Specially when you land yourself in the hospital.”

“No more jokes,” Bradley promises, and she gratefully parrots him, adding 'and no more crashes,'.

“Alright,” You hum, when it’s appropriate to speak, “I’m gonna run to the store. Brad, you should get back in bed, but- uh, again, you’re all welcome to stay for longer, if you’d like.”

“I’ll go with you,” Your dad steps in, almost too close to be casual. You realize why, and that sinking feeling you’d been trying to ignore the entire morning comes back; He wants to know your secret.

“Okay,” You nod, trying to keep your composure even if your hands suddenly feel sweaty, “We won’t be gone long. Babe, get some rest, I mean it.”

You narrow your eyes at Bradley, then turn to Nick and Carole, “If you stick around, will you be on babysitting duty? Don’t let him wander around too much.”

“Will do,” Nick nods once, firmly, “Come on, Lieutenant, you heard your orders.”

“Alright, alright,” He gripes, rolling his eyes exasperatedly as Nick pats his back. He moves towards you, stepping across the kitchen tile to kiss you goodbye.

“Get me some cheetos,” He pleads, face only inches away from your own. He leans in and his mouth moves against yours as he speaks, “The jalapeno ones?”

“Okay,” You giggle, dragging out the last syllable. You use his lips to chase away your nerves, letting his sweet touch drown out the thoughts in your head. You kiss him briefly once, then twice, and send him off to bed with a quick nudge of your nose against his own.

“Bye,” Your dad flashes one hand in a quick wave as you call, ‘Be back soon!’.”

He doesn’t make his move the second the door shuts, he waits until you get going down the road in Bradley’s Bronco before opening his mouth.

“So,” He tries coming off as casual but you wouldn’t buy it in a million years, “What was Carole talking about earlier?”

“I didn’t want to tell you,” You confess, suddenly very invested in checking your blind spot even though it’s clear, “I wanted to keep it private. I didn’t even want her to know.”

“Well, she knows everything,” Your dad shrugs, discerning eyes glancing at your own guarded ones through the mirror, “And I’m usually out of the loop. Can we change that just this once?”

“Dad-” You scoff at his persistence, running a hand over your face and slapping it back onto the wheel, “Something happened between Bradley and I before the crash.”

“Something happened,” Your dad muses, brain trekking heartbreakingly positive routes, “You… paid off the cars? You bought a pet? You- oh god, don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

“No!” You gush, but it’s not for a lack of sex, merely your use of contraceptives, “I- um, he asked me to marry him.”

You feel cruel when you see his face light up. It’s like the inflation of a balloon, features rising in joy until his eyes shine like the sun, “Oh, honey, that’s amazing. Congratulations! Have you set a date, or- or a venue, or-”

“I said no.”

The balloon deflates slightly. A tiny puff of air escapes it, like you’ve released your fingers around its spout for only a second. His eyes dull slightly, and his smile is cautiously still stretching his cheeks.

“What?”

“I said no, dad.” You repeat, voice aching in your throat, “I said no, and I left him.”

“You left him?” Your dad’s voice mirrors your own, bordering on shaky as his brain reprograms its image of you two, “You- you said no and you left him?”

“Yeah,” You whimper, the word coming out far weaker than you wish it did. Your mouth turns down so that you can bite the inside of your bottom lip, desperately withholding a sob.

“Why?”

That’s the million dollar question. The one you know the answer to, but don’t want to admit to anyone. You left because you were scared of getting hurt, and now you’re lying to everyone because you’re scared they’ll see you as a coward. You’re scared they’ll think you’re scared.

You’re scared they’ll know you’re scared.

You want to tell your dad that you don’t know. You want to tell him that it had been a fit of insanity, that you’d been cured with a walk around the block and that you’d kissed and made up just that night. But you swallow your nerves, squaring your shoulders as you make a right turn, “I was scared.”

You’d admitted it to Carole in the hospital, but she’d seen right through you, she’d forced your confession. Doing it now, by choice, makes you feel like you’re taking a step forward. It’s like you’re actually cracking down on the promise you’d made to yourself days ago, that you’d stop running just to self-destruct. You’re not facing your dad in the seat but it feels like you’re facing off with some sort of formless, panic-driven entity that encapsulates him, and slowly you’re chipping away at it.

“I was scared because marriage seems so much more than dating does. We’ve been dating- forever. The only thing marriage would have changed was that we’d have a paper telling us we loved each other. I mean,” You laugh, but the sound is reminiscent of a sob, “-we always joked about being too lazy to get married. That we didn’t do it for 20 years because we already practically were, and we didn’t wanna waste gas money for some preacher to tell us we were. But- but anyways, after Javy’s crash, I was remembering Nick’s, and I started worrying about Bradley. I was sad and scared for Nick and Javy, I couldn’t imagine being in that situation with Bradley. So when he asked me to marry him, it felt like if I said yes I’d be signing onto that. I- I know that’s dumb, and that’s not what saying yes meant. But I had this awful panic running through my head; that he could crash at any point in time, and if I didn’t get out soon, I’d be heartbroken and terrified like everyone else was, and I didn’t wanna go through that again. So I- I said no, and I told him I couldn’t love him anymore, and I left, because I thought that I’d be okay if I just didn’t marry him. Like I could have- moved on in the two days I wasn’t living with him, or something. Like if I just wasn’t formally dating him, or married to him, I wouldn’t be hurt if he was.”

“And-” You break away, voice trembling and nose running, “It didn’t even work. I walked out, and he still crashed, and I still got hurt. I didn’t solve anything, I- I made it worse. I made it so much worse, dad.”

You’ve turned into the grocery store parking lot, and a terrible, stiff, heavy silence hangs over the car while you park it. You wait until you shut it off, engine puttering out and body no longer humming, to look at him.

He’s staring at his lap, crystal-clear tears sliding down his cheeks. He isn’t looking at you, but you’re sure he knows you’re looking at him, and it turns your stomach in a nauseous whirl.

You stare for five seconds before he speaks. Five agonizing, soul-crushing, terrifying seconds where you think you might be on the verge of being disowned.

“I was never good at commitment,” His small voice breaks the silence, and the breath that he drags in to push the words out is shaky, “And- neither was your mom. Obviously. So I shouldn’t be surprised that it runs in the family. But- but Y/N, you left? You have been in love with Bradley since before you could say the word, I mean he- he was the only one that could get you to stop crying before your naps as a kid! You wouldn’t sleep unless he was in the room, I’m surprised Nick and Carole didn’t move him in with us.”

“I know,” You croak, but he’s not finished.

“I- I understand your thought process.” He assures you, “It’s flawed, but I understand how your brain conjured it up. You were trying to save yourself, and I understand that instinct. I just can’t believe it happened between you two. I mean, you were fated, I thought you two would set the world record for longest relationship. You were gonna go gray together, you were gonna have a thousand kids, and-”

“Dad!’ You cry, a sob shaking your chest, “I know. I get it. You’re making this worse.”

“How could I possibly make this worse?” He laughs incredulously, but there’s not a shred of humor in his voice, “Y/N, I-” He lowers his voice, cutting some of the exasperation out of his tone, “I don’t even understand, why is he- oh.. my god.”

“He doesn’t know,” Your dad concludes, head knocked back against the headrest, “He doesn’t know you left him because he has amnesia.”

“Yeah,” You confirm, voice meek and shameful, “I- I was gonna leave after I knew he was okay. But then- then Carole figured us out, and she said it would be better if I pretended for now, because he was probably scared and he needed my comfort in the moment. She said to just let him remember on his own time and then address it, to- to not overwhelm him with a plane crash and a breakup.”

“But I- I thought he’d have his memory back by now,” You sniffle, wiping your nose with your hand, caring little about the mess, “The doctor said minutes, I didn’t think it’d go on for days. And now I’m starting to get worried, will- will he ever remember? Am I supposed to lie to him for the rest of my life? Or am I supposed to leave again, to confess and break his heart a second time? I don’t know what to do, dad!” You feel like a little girl, sobbing in her father’s lap, “Please, I- I don’t know what to do.”

You’re immensely relieved when he reaches over to take your hand. You’ve spent the last two weeks disgusted with yourself, and for your dad to react the way he did, you were afraid he felt the same. But he squeezes your hand tight, and you’d complain about how it squished your fingers together if it were any other situation.

“Honey,” His voice trembles, and you recall the only times you’ve ever seen him cry. After Goose’s accident, of course, when you’d broken your arm at the park when you were twelve, when the dog he’d gotten for you as a birthday present passed on. He’s a man of very little tears, so seeing them now moves you.

“I love you,” He promises, and you’re glad that hasn’t changed, “And I’m always going to, even if you do the wrong thing. And this was wrong, that- that was the wrong thing. But I think you can make it right again, and if you need my help doing that, it’s yours.”

“Thanks, dad,” You gush through a faceful of tears, a wet mess sliding down your chin and soaking through the neckline of your shirt, “I- I want to make it right. Carole thinks he’ll take me back if I apologize. And I want to, I want to apologize.”

“Yeah,” Your dad’s brows raise and he sniffles, wiping a tear from his face, “Yeah, that’s a good start. I think he’d forgive you for just about anything, I- I don’t know that you could ever drive him away.”

“That’s what Carole said," You recall, and you feel guilty for the hope it gives you.

“But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt him.” Your dad reminds you, and you nod.

“I’m gonna grovel.” You decide, “Like, hardcore, begging on my knees, ‘I’ll-do-anything-for-you-to-forgive-me’ groveling.”

“I think that’s your best bet,” Your dad lets out a huff of laughter, smearing away another tear, “I think you can do it. But I can’t promise it’ll be easy.”

“I know,” You lament, “But- but I don’t care. I’ll do it even if it's hard. He’s worth fighting for.”

“That’s my girl,” Your dad grins, squeezing your hand. It feels like you’re back on the peewee soccer field at age four after scoring a goal. You squeeze back, and have a sudden hankering for orange slices.

“Okay, let’s stop fucking crying,” He breathes, wiping at his eyes overzealously and sniffling hard. You should have known he’d pump up the dramatics, even in serious situations.

“Alright,” You laugh wetly, the sound infused with hope you wouldn’t feel if it weren’t for your dad, “Do you think they’ll be able to tell we were crying?”

You share a quick once-over with your dad, clocking his red eyes, puffy towards the bottom, and equally rosy nose. You’re sure your face is just as swollen, and he cracks a grin.

“Nah,” He shakes his head, “Definitely not.”

The next thing you share is a laugh, cranking the car’s AC on high so that your tears dry up quicker. Maybe they’ll even freeze right on your cheeks, so that you can save them and defrost the memory later to feel your dad’s love again.

“You heard the lady,” Nick calls to Bradley when he reaches for the dish he’d abandoned in the sink, “Head to bed, Brad. I’ll finish the dishes.”

“It’s one plate!” Bradley gripes, but Carole’s dangerous glances towards him works just as effectively as it had when he was younger, and he grumbles, “Fine.”

“Sweet dreams,” Nick jeers after him as he shuffles back to your shared bedroom, but Carole nudges him towards the sink with a scoff.

“Stop teasin’ him, and get to work, busboy. I expect the counters wiped, too!”

“Call me goddamn Cinderella,” Goose grumbles, but he’d wipe down the floor before every step she took if she asked him to. He gets to work with no protest.

Carole treads carefully down the hallway, hoping her son is dressed sufficiently for her presence in the room. She finds him swapping out his pillow for yours, and she lingers in the doorway with a careful smile.

“Hey, babycakes. Gonna nap?”

“Maybe,” Bradley nods, hair already mussed from the pillow, “Thanks for staying, mom.”

“Of course, baby,” Her heart aches for her son, being on the brink of death and not even remembering it. Being so close to losing his life and not knowing how it felt. Just knowing that it happened; knowing that it didn’t happen.

“You told me when you were twelve that you were too old for me to tuck you in,” She pushes off of where she’s leaning against the doorway, coming around the bed to Bradley’s side to fuss with the blankets, “But you’re probably still weak from the crash, and you couldn’t push me away if you tried.”

He lets out a laugh, one that’s rife with exhaustion but genuine all the same, as she digs her hands beneath his sides, tucking the comforter beneath him. She braces her hands on the mattress to lean down and kiss his forehead, and when she does, the tips of her fingers are pricked by the sharp corner of something she can’t see under the pillow beside him.

“Ouch! What-” She hisses, nearly face-planting over Bradley’s shoulder as she lifts the pillow. She stiffens when she realizes it’s a picture of you, framed in black wood and probably missing from his nightstand.

“I- I’m sorry.” She mumbles as he lays frozen and awkward in place, “I didn’t mean to pry. It just- it was sharp, and I was confused. If I'd known-”

“It’s alright, mom.” Bradley promises weakly, clearly embarrassed by her discovery, “Don’t worry about it.”

Carole is worried. She moves in again for the forehead kiss, letting it linger against Bradley’s forehead for a second longer than she needs to. She fights back tears when she pulls away, barely able to muster a smile.

“She’s just goin’ to the store,” She teases sweetly, “She’s not shippin’ off to war. That’s your job.”

“Yeah,” He laughs weakly, “I know. I just miss her.”

She agrees as she combs through his caramel-colored hair with one hand, “Yeah? Tell me about it, baby. What’s going on?”

She wants to hear it from him. She wants to know exactly what he’s thought of your careful deception, and see if she can offer him even miniscule relief towards your possibly suspicious behavior. It’s hard playing a double agent, but she loves you both too much to pick a side.

“Mom,” He takes a long pause before speaking, gnawing on the inside of his cheek like it’s gristle he’s working through, “I lied.”

She racks her brain, were the pancakes not good? Did he not want her to tuck him in? Does he wish they’d gone home so that he could have a moment of silence?

“Oh, yeah? About what, baby?”

“I…” Bradley starts, looking like the words are making him nauseous, rolling his stomach as they crawl out of his mouth, “I remember everything.”

Carole’s the one that’s going to be sick. Her stomach has only dropped so fast twice in her life, receiving the news of both of her boys’ crashes. It’s the hardest thing in the world to keep a straight face, but she allows it to drop slightly so that it looks like she’s just shocked by the news.

“What?" Perhaps her voice is louder than it should be, but she can't control it, "Your memories are back?’

“Yeah. I- I remember it all. And Mom-”

“Brad,” Nick calls from down the hallway, barreling into the room in his typical dramatic , “You- she said your memories are back?”

They freeze like he’s torn an irreparable hole in the delicate conversation. He’s always had a habit of bringing life into a room, but the subject matter had been killing them both, and his energy is the opposite of what they both need to finish it.

“Yeah, dad.” Bradley breathes, a sheen of uncontrollable tears glazing over his eyes that he prays no one sees, “I remember everything.”

“That’s great!” Nick cheers, giddy demeanor slowly dying as no one else smiles, “...Isn’t it? What’s- why are you crying, Brad?”

Carole turns to see for herself, and swallows a sob as she reaches over to wipe the single tear away that had managed to escape down his left cheek. At her touch his face crumples, and what must be a million more tears flood his face.

“Woah, hey,” Nick sits at the end of the bed, face finally drained of all happiness, “What’s the matter, Brad?”

“S’okay baby,” Carole promises, her own voice shaky, “You’re okay, Bradley. You can talk to us, you can tell us anything. What’s the trouble?”

“She left.” Bradley whimpers, overhead light illuminating every single crystalline tear that rushes in a waterfall down his face. He gasps for breath, choking on a cry when he tries to speak over it, “She- she left me!”

“Bradley,” Carole rushes to soothe him, smoothing her hands over his cheeks and slipping one behind his neck, “Sit up baby. Come here, sit up, talk to us.”

He lets Nick help her tug him off of the mattress, and he slumps forward into Carole’s embrace when she pulls him into a hug. He doesn’t even turn his head to bury his face into her shoulder, he just cries against her, limp like a ragdoll.

She presses rapidfire kisses to his temple, tears flowing down her own cheeks. She heard your side of the story first, she knows you had your reasons and your fears and your regrets, but watching Bradley fall apart is planting an ugly seed of anger towards you within her chest. She hates it because she loves you, but she wants her son to be okay again.

“Brad-man,” Nick splutters warily, “Y/N? Bud, she just went to the store. She’ll be back in, like, an hour, tops. No need for tears, son.”

“Nick,” Carole hisses, wishing she wasn’t so angry with him for not knowing the truth. She shouldn’t either, so she pets Bradley’s hair down to distract herself from giving anything away, “Baby, what do you mean?”

“She left,” Bradley repeats, crying defeatedly, his posture slumped and his tears thick and plentiful, “I asked her to- to marry me, and she left.”

Nick is finally silent. His spine stiffens, and Carole guesses a shiver ran up it. He looks at her bewilderedly, bordering on horrified, and she stares back, wishing for the third time in her life that she could turn back time.

“Brad,” Nick starts carefully, voice weak, “Do you- do you think you might be misremembering things, bud? I trust you, and- and obviously this means a lot to you. But that- maybe your concussion’s messin’ with your head. Are you sure that happened?”

“I’m sure, dad.” Bradley had the option to respond with a lot more malice than he chooses to, the words coming out miserable instead, “She left me, and now she’s pretending she never did, because she thinks I don’t remember.”

“She left you,” NIck repeats, still skeptical, “And she’s- she’s lying? Why would she-”

“I hope she never stops,” Bradley croaks, throat raw from sobs, “I hope she lies to me forever.”

Carole’s breath is knocked out of her chest. She manages a soft, teary, ‘What?’, and Bradley straightens up from where he’d been lying in her embrace.

“She left two weeks ago,” Bradley recalls, a stray sob bouncin his chest, “And- and it was hell. I lived in hell for two weeks. I thought she’d stay with Phoenix or something, but I- I checked, and her location was always some cheap motel. At first I thought- well, I was worried she was seeing someone else, or something. Y’know, motels have,” He sniffles, “-bad reputations. So I didn’t go see her. I thought she was over me or something. But she’s- that’s not her. That’s not my girl. So I was going to show up on Friday, give her until the end of the week to cool off, and bring her flowers. Chocolates, ice cream, movies-” He rambles, “Whatever. I wanted to make her fall in love with me again. But- I mean, that didn’t fucking work, did it?”

Carole’s too distraught to scold him for his language. He deserves it, he deserves to climb onto the roof and shout ‘fuck!’ as loud as he wants. The situation is truly fucked, there’s no other word for it.

Her chest ripples with a sob, and Nick’s hand comes to rub her back. Up and down, in soft, soothing motions that remind her why she fell for him.

“And- and then I woke up in the hospital, and my head was fuzzy, and my memories were gone. And the doctor told me I had amnesia, and she- she freaked. She ran off, she made that shitty bathroom excuse. I thought she was just going to cry, and- and didn’t want anyone seeing her. But everything came back to me while you two were outside,” Bradley glances guiltily at Carole, “-and- and I was gonna beg her to stay when she came back. But then- she asked to kiss me,” He whimpers, face held tight in a twisted grimace as he tries not to sob again, “-and I had a choice. I realized she was pretending, that- that it never happened. And I could choose to confess to remembering the truth, and lose her all over again, or-” Bradley shuts his eyes, squeezing a tear out of the left one, “Or pretend I didn’t know. And I wanted her- I needed her, so I pretended. I let her kiss me, and I let her-” He sniffles hard, “I let her hold my hand, and I let her feed me, and I let her lie to me. I loved it,” He cries, shoulders shaking with sobs, “I loved it when she lied to me. And I don’t want her to stop. At- at first, I thought she’d confess. That she’d tell me so that we could forgive and forget, or- or at least move forward. Because I want to, I want to forgive her, I already have, but she just won’t tell me anything happened. She was so-” He considers, voice heavy with despair, “So sweet in the hospital. It felt like nothing had happened at all, and I thought we could go back to that. We got so damn close,” He recalls, “We were- we were in the hospital room, alone, and she was just starting to tell me, and a fucking nurse walked in. We were this close!” Bradley sobs, fingers held a few tantalizing centimeters apart, “But now- now she keeps dodging the questions, and I started realizing that she-” He sniffles roughly, “-she might not want me back. She might leave if she knows I know. She’s doing it out of pity,” He chokes on his words, “So now I can’t tell her. Now I have to lie unless I want to lose her.”

Nick looks sick to his stomach, and Carole feels the same. They’re sharing horrified glances, but neither wants to berate him for lying to them. Nick reaches out to hold Bradley’s hand, and he squeezes it reassuringly.

“I get it, Brad. I do. I- if you don’t mind me asking, why did she leave? I thought-” He trails off, picking back up with even less confidence, “I thought you were soulmates, or something.”

“Yeah.” Bradley breathes, nodding, “I did, too. But she- she told me she couldn’t love me anymore. And I didn’t want to make her.”

“She told you she couldn’t love you anymore?” Nick rears back to stare questioningly at Carole, “What does that mean?”

“She’d been weird lately,” Bradley admits, “Sort of withdrawn. She wasn’t as enthusiastic in the mornings, when I’d go to work. But she always seemed fine when I came back- great, even. And I just figured she wasn’t sleeping right. But- but since Coyote crashed, I've been... scared. I had this sort of epiphany, that I could die any day and she’d be left all alone. I could die before we got married, I could die before we had kids, I could die before I got to grow old with her. I mean, I knew it was a risk,” He reasons, “But that was real. I watched that happen, and I watched his girlfriend sob in the waiting room, and I realized that could be Y/N. And I didn’t want my girlfriend terrified outside my hospital room, I wanted to say goodbye to my wife. So I thought-” He wipes a tear from his cheek, rough enough to leave it stained red, “I thought if I married her, things would be better. More secure. And she’d know that even if I died, I’d love her forever. Because that’s what marriage is, that’s- that’s what we were.”

“So I ignored the way she was acting,” Bradley laments, “I- I pushed it aside as sleep deprivation, and I pulled out a ring, and I asked her if she’d marry me. And she- she just flipped. Her eyes got all wide, and I kept waiting for her to say ‘yes’, but- but she stood up instead, and she said no. She said she wasn’t ready, that- that she couldn’t do this. That she couldn’t marry me, that she couldn’t love me anymore. And I was-” He breaks into a sob, “I was so confused. I was so hurt, because- because what? What- where did that come from? I thought she loved me,” He cries, “I thought she’d love me forever. And all of a sudden, she just can’t anymore? What happened, did- did she not want to be with me forever? Was twenty years not enough? To convince her that I was enough? I was so terrified, and I had this disgusting, sinking feeling as she was rambling about it, and she headed for the door, and I- I panicked.”

Bradley pants between sentences, breathing heavy and labored as tears spill down his cheeks. “I followed her, and I caught her by the door, and I- I begged her not to go, I told her that we could work it out, that we didn’t have to get married, that I’d make everything okay again. But she still left,” Bradley cries, “She still left me, and she didn’t come back.”

“Bradley,” Nick breathes, a hand on his knee, “Shit, Brad. I’m sorry.”

“Baby,” Carole croons, leaning in to brace her forehead against his temple, “Baby, I’m so sorry. She’s- I wish she hadn’t done that.”

“Me too,” Bradley laughs, a humorless huff after he’s gotten enough control of himself to where he doesn’t sob, “But- but she’s pretending now. And if I confess to remembering, she’ll stop. And she’ll leave. She’s- she’s doing it out of pity,” Bradley drearily repeats, “Because she doesn’t want to drop a bomb on me after I fell out of the sky. And I know it’s not right to take advantage of it, to- to lie, but if it’s what I have to do to keep her with me-”

“No,” Nick shakes his head, “Brad, you can’t lie forever.”

“I can,” Bradley insists, “Dad, I have to.”

“You can’t,” Nick urges, “Brad, think about it. You really think she’d be kissin’ you if she didn’t love you? You think she’d have slept in here with you last night if she didn’t want to? You listen to me, boy. I don’t know why she left. I don’t know why she ‘couldn’t’ love you all of a sudden. But I know it’s bullshit, ‘cause she does. Something happened, and you need to talk about it with her. But spending your entire life living a lie isn’t right. That ain’t fair, to you or her. Tell her, Brad. Tell her you know.”

“I can’t! Not yet. I’ll- I’ll make her fall in love with me again. I know I can do it, I know I can convince her I’m worth it. That she can keep loving me. I’m not going to hold her captive, I just- I just want enough time to make her fall for me again, and then she won’t be lying about the love, then it’ll be real love, and that’s what I want. I can’t tell her yet, not until she really loves me again.”

“You have to tell her now, baby,” Carole concludes softly, gentle with her son’s broken heart and panicked brain, “Wouldn’t it be better if she knew? Then you could talk, and- and kiss and make up, that sort of thing. This is- a lie, Bradley, even if it's only temporary in your mind. You’re both lying to each other, and that’s not love."

“It’s all I’ve got,” Bradley breathes, tilting his tear-stained, blotchy face towards the light overhead. His eyes are shut, delicately so, and his lashes are clumped with tears. He sniffles, nose scrunching, and takes a deep breath before looking back at his parents.

“I know she said she can’t love me anymore, whatever that means. But like I said, I’m gonna win her over again, mom. I need her to love me, and if my options are letting her lie to me, or losing her, then I’m gonna let her lie to me until she doesn’t have to anymore. Until it’s real.”

Carole wants to scream at her son. She wants to sit you down beside him and scream something along the lines of ‘Would you confess already? Tell each other the truth, and get married!’. But she chooses a gentler approach, leaning in to wipe away what she hopes is the last of Bradley’s tears.

“I don’t think you should avoid it, baby,” She hums, keeping her voice soft and sweet so that Bradley takes it as friendly advice, and not a mother’s nagging, “I think you should tell her that you remember it all, and ask her what went wrong. Ask her why she felt like she couldn’t love you anymore, figure out what the problem was. Because if you know what the problem was, you can fix it.”

“But what if I can't-?” Bradley hums, and Carole snaps.

“Oh, of course you can fix it.” A residual dry sob splits her thought in half, “You two could fix world hunger if you did it together. Your dad’s right. She still loves you, even if she thinks she can’t. You might have to help her see that she still can, Brad. That she still does.”

“But I could lose her.” Bradley concludes glumly, “And I can’t lose her. So I can’t tell her the truth. I- I thought I lost her today." His shoulders tighten as he remembers, "I was trying to stay awake the whole night, just in case she tried slipping out before morning. But she caught me, and she-” He lets out a sob that hurts his throat, “She held me, and she lulled me to sleep, and I’ve never felt safer. But then I woke up, and she was gone, and the bed was empty, and- and I ran out to see if I could find her, and she was just in the hall. Talking to Mav. But I thought-” He can’t finish his sentence, shaking his head instead and starting over, “I can’t tell her the truth yet. I’ll lose her.”

They’re all running in circles, and it’s making Carole insane. She bites her lip to stop from confessing, then rises to her feet, Nick following after her.

“Sleep on it,” She suggests, smoothing out the bedsheets where she’d sat, “And she’ll be back by the time you wake up. I think you should tell her,” She repeats, “She loves you, Brad. Goodnight.”

Nick takes his leave as well, nodding at his wife’s words. Bradley slumps back against his- your pillow, one hand already snaking beneath the opposite one to retrieve your picture.

Nick barely waits until Carole’s shut the door behind her before turning on her, “What the fuck?”

“Move,” She urges in a hissing whisper. She grabs his bicep, dragging him away from the door. She doesn’t feel safe talking anywhere in the house, paranoid that Bradley could hear, but she pushes NIck down into a seat at the table, and huddles close to him to murmur, “I knew.”

“You- you what?” Nick’s voice goes up in volume, and Carole is sure she spits a little bit when she shushes him.

“I knew,” She repeats, “I knew she left him. She told me at the hospital.”

“Why am I never in the loop?” NIck groans, looking thoroughly confused, “Wait, so you knew the entire time? Like, from day 1?”

“Day one of the hospital,” She nods, “She didn’t tell me when it happened, she waited until I asked where her ring was after his crash. I knew he was gonna ask her, but he told me to keep it a secret ‘cause he wanted to do a big reveal. But I noticed she didn’t have it on in the hospital, and I asked, and she burst into tears. Started ramblin’ about how she was freaked out, and how she fled, and wasn’t ever brave enough to come back.”

“Why,” Nick presses, “Why was she freaking out? What’s the ‘can’t love you anymore’ bullshit?”

“She got scared after Javy went down,” Carole recalls, “She said it took her back to your crash, and she realized all of a sudden that it could happen to Brad, too. And she didn’t wanna do that again, 'didn’t wanna sit in a hospital chair and wait to see if someone she loved had stopped breathing. So she’d been freakin’ out since Javy crashed, then all of a sudden Bradley proposes, and- bam,” She sighs, “Everything fell apart. I mean it was a recipe for disaster, the crash made her pull away, and it made him want to be closer than ever, and they never addressed it, so when they clashed, it just-” She rubs her temples, staring up at Nick through her lashes, “Unraveled. But this is good. This is- this is really good, Nick. He wants her back, he wants another shot. And so does she. We’ve been talkin’, and she wishes she’d never left in the first place. I told her she should confess later tonight, now- that was before I knew he already knows, of course. But- but they’ll talk tonight, and she’ll tell him what happened, and she’ll ask to fix things, and he’ll want that, too. It’s gonna be okay, Nick, they’re gonna be okay. They’ll be fine by the end of the night, I guarantee it.”

“My head is spinning,” Nick scoffs, dragging a hand down his mustache and tugging lightly on the ends, “So- so they both know, they just don’t know they know, but we know that they know, and we know that they don’t know they know, and-” He gives up, “I don’t know.”

“That’s about right,” Carole nods, eyes bugging for a moment before she heaves another sigh, “I think she’s tellin’ Mav about it now. He overheard us talking about a secret, that secret. So when he volunteered to go shopping with her I figured he was gonna ask. And I don’t think she’d lie to him, I don’t think she could if she tried.”

“This is all so goddamn complicated,” Nick laments, clearing a crumb off of the table, but ultimately just flicking it onto the floor, “We were easy, babe. I mean, we locked eyes and I was having visions of you in a white dress.”

“Stop,” Carole gushes, but a smile is growing on her face, “Love is complicated sometimes! Doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

“I’m just glad none of this shit happens to us,” Nick grins, holding out a hand, “You and me, honey, we’re easy love.”

“Don’t say it like that!” Carole gushes, though she gives him her hand willingly, “What are we, hippies?”

“I said easy, not free,” Nick laughs, “Nothin’ about our wedding was free, baby.”

“But you’d pay it all again, for me, wouldn’t you?” She narrows her eyes unamused at him, and he squeezes her hand.

“Honey, I’d spend every cent to my name just to be able to marry you over again.” Nick swears, and it’s the truth, they both know it. Carole gives him one of her sweet smiles, the one he’d fallen in love with, and each has renewed hope for you and Bradley. You’re in love just the same as them, and if they’ve got it worked out, so will you.

Grocery shopping with your dad is harder than you’d remembered, because now you’re the adult paying with your own money, and he’s the child throwing cookies and chips galore into the cart. You’re surprised you have any money left when you exit the supermarket, but you’re sure to pack 3 bags of Bradley’s cheetos into your stash. You wonder how he’s doing; if he’s asleep, if he’s fighting his parents to stay upright while they try to get him to rest, if he’s suddenly remembered everything he’d forgotten and now they’re helping him pack his things.

The thought of him leaving you makes your stomach burn white hot with fear, and you consider speeding home. But the load of groceries you’d gotten might have depleted any money you’d be able to pay the fine with, and you’re not keen on going to prison. So you and your dad drive home within the speed limit, and he helps you carry the bulging bags inside.

You’re simultaneously desperate to see Bradley, and hoping that you don’t when you walk in. On one hand, you hope he’s resting, napping in your bed like you’d asked him to. But on the other, if you don’t see him when you walk in, that means he might not even be in the house, and maybe you were right to catastrophize, maybe he’s gone, maybe he’s left you and asked his parents to drive him to the airport, and maybe he’s blocked you and told his teammates how awful you are, and-

And his parents are sitting on the couch. They turn back to smile at you when you come in, and both stand to help you with your bags. Your dad insists that he can manage all five that he’d lifted out of the car, but you’re eager to let Nick steal two of yours, and Carole takes the last one even though you tell her you can manage.

You busy yourself with putting the groceries away, and your dad busies himself with raiding the bags for the snacks he’d picked out. You’re sure he’ll slip a $20 into your purse later, he’s never let you pay for him, but he loves teasing you like he’ll dine and dash.

“Alright,” He announces, with hands full of junk food, “I’m outta here. I’m gonna head back home, I need to stock my pantry, then make dinner.”

“And that dinner wouldn’t be mint chip oreos, would it?” Carole raises an unimpressed brow at him and his junk food stash, and he rolls his eyes fondly at the woman.

“No. Penny has requested a very complicated pasta dish for tonight that I need at least three hours to make in case I mess up the first batch and need to restock ingredients to try it again. I think she’s testing me.”

“Good luck, buddy.” Nick claps your dad on the back, “Hope you pass.”

“Yeah,” Your dad’s eyes go wide, a sigh escaping him, “Me too. Y/N, uh-”

“Tell him.” Carole cuts in, eyes as intense as you’ve ever seen them despite the smile on her face. You know she means business, and you don’t blame her.

Nick doesn't look confused by her cryptic, vague statement, and you assume she’s filled him in. You suppose it’s only fair, because your dad knows now, too, but you hadn’t planned on making it a public affair. Nick doesn’t seem to despise you, though, in fact he sends you a reassuring smile as he herds Carole to the door.

“We’re going, too. He’s asleep,” He nods toward your bedroom, “Tell him, honey.”

Your suspicions are confirmed; he knows. You nod hesitantly, watching them pile into the entryway and take their empty grocery bags with them. All except for your dad, of course, who packs his snacks into one. You’re hit with an overwhelming sense of being blessed, not necessarily with divine miracles, but with people who just might be them. They’ve come, they’ve given you food, love, and encouragement, and they’re leaving so that you can have a chance at fixing up the best part of your life.

If they notice your teary eyes when you wave goodbye, they don’t mention it.

The groceries are put away, and you have no desire to take down the decorations. Not when you’re aching with fatigue, not when your emotions have gotten the best of you for two weeks. You don’t have much energy for anything anymore, and you haven’t since you’d left Bradley. You wonder, if the worst happens, and he doesn’t forgive you, will you ever stop being tired? Is it Bradley that energizes you, is it the love that he’s so ready and willing to give you that keeps you going?

You’d like to think you’d be able to pick yourself back up, dust yourself off, and move on with your life, but after twenty years of loving Bradley and being loved back by him, you know this is the only life worth living.

You drag your exhausted limbs down the hallway, cracking open the door to find that Nick was telling the truth - he’s fast asleep.

He’s on his stomach, his cheek squished sideways against the pillow. He’s snoring lightly, a sound that you should despise, but that prompts a grin over your face. You feel nothing but soft, sweet love for him in this moment, your snoozy boy.

You’re more than happy to crawl in beside him, barely remembering to take your shoes off before getting beneath the sheets. It’s warm beneath the blanket, the safe kind of warmth that draws you in with the promise of drowsy cuddles and whispered proclamations of love. You do just that as you snuggle up to Bradley’s side, adoring the way that he moves in his sleep to curl around you even if he doesn’t know you’re there.

“I love you, Brad,” You whisper against his temple, kissing his hairline and the prickly whisps that sit at its border. He’s roused from his sleep from how close you’d spoken to his ear, and it looks physically painful for him to open his eyes. He does, though, lifting his face so that his chin perches on your chest. He blinks blearily at you, once, twice, probably drowsy out of his mind.

“Hm?”

His voice is groggy, thick with sleep. It’s the most endearing sound you’ve ever heard, and you crane your neck forwards to bump your nose into his as you repeat it: “I love you, Brad.”

His typical puppyish aura becomes more cat-like as he smushes his face into your own, nose smearing against your skin and forehead bumping into yours. He hums deep in his throat, happy to have you beside him as his hands wind tightly around your waist.

“Love you too, babe.” He rasps, “Gonna sleep w’me?”

“Yeah,” You whisper, smoothing his hair out of his face, “Lay down, baby, I’ll rub your back.”

His only reply is plopping his face back down into your chest, cheek chubbed up where it rests on your shirt. He’s out like a light almost as soon as you start raking your fingers up and down his back, ghosting them over his skin like you’re trying to do it without him knowing.

You know he’s sleeping by now, you know he doesn’t need you to keep doing it, but the fact that you get to feels like a gift, and you occupy yourself with the task of scrawling random designs over his back for a few minutes longer. Swirls and waves turn into a curve down his spine, and then you connect it with an identical one over his other side; a heart. One heart becomes two, then three, and all of a sudden he’s covered in them. You’re carving paths into his skin, digging heart-shaped trenches down his back like you’re walking the same path in a dirt road every single day. You wonder if he’d look good with them tattooed, an expansive mural of your love on his back for only you to see.

All of a sudden hearts aren’t enough.

LOVE

YOU

You trace letters into his back, your nail scraping slightly on every curve of your finger. He shivers slightly at the bottom half of the ‘y’, and you bite back a giggle as he nestles further into you.

You don’t stop there.

YOU

ARE

CUTE

It seems only appropriate with the way he’s snuggled up to you like a sleepy puppy, desperate to press every inch of his body against your own.

LOVE

YOU

Again, then- your breath catches in your throat as you remember.

I’M

SORRY

Tears prick at your eyes when his arms tighten infinitesimally around your waist, a sleepy hum oozing from his throat like sweet honey, slow and sugary. You’re worried he’s awake, that he’s caught onto what you’re doing, and wants to talk. You know you have to tell him, you just don’t want to.

But he settles without so much as the blink of an eye, and you wait only a quick second to start using his back as your diary once more.

I’M

SORRY

WISH

I’D

STAYED

LOVE

YOU

You feel absolutely pathetic. Tears have leaked down your face, sideways into the bases of your ears, creating an uncomfortable wet sensation that you’d rather there not be. You’re trying to hold in a sob so that you don’t wake him, but it hurts. Your throat aches from holding in your anguish, and your chest aches with the knowledge that everything you’ve done with Bradley over the past few days could be your last time doing it with him. This morning could have been your last morning with him, this nap could be your last nap with him, the kiss you strain to press to his forehead could be the last kiss you ever give him. It’s all too much, and your finger tapers off in its pursuit of tracing your love letters onto his back.

You wrap your arms around him instead, a difficult position to maintain while simultaneously trying to sleep, but all you want is to drift off in his embrace, just in case this is the last time you’ll ever do it.

Between your exhaustion and your despair, the former wins out. You finally drift off into a dreamless sleep, burdened by the ever-present threat of this being the last day you can pretend like this. You’re talking tonight, whether you like it or not, and the thought plagues what could have been a very relaxing, rejuvenating nap with your lover.

Instead you wake up possibly less refreshed than before, bleary eyes blinking despite a pounding headache behind your eyes. The sun has shifted over the blankets you’re under, and Bradley isn’t on top of you anymore, he’s by your side. You’ve swapped positions, and you don’t know how he’d managed to maneuver you onto his chest without waking you, but he’s always exceptionally careful with you, so you’re sure you’d slept like a baby the entire time.

He’s still in his fuzzy pajamas, and you wish you were, too. He’s holding his phone above your head, presumably scrolling through social media, or news headlines he’s forgotten about since his accident, and his eyes are fixed on the phone screen. You have a quick second to admire him before he realizes you’re up, and your eyes rove over his features. His lips are quirked up delicately in the corners, his mustache dipping down ever-so-slightly over his bottom lip. His eyes hold a fond look that reminds you of honey, paired excellently with his caramel-colored bedhead.

His color has returned completely; if you didn’t get the call that he’d been an inch from death, you wouldn’t know now. But you know his injuries are more internal, and you’re worried about how he’s laid you over his chest.

You’re in no rush to let him know you’re awake, so you ogle him some more. He swipes left a few times at the screen, and you think he might be looking between pictures. Of what, you’re not sure, maybe a tiktok slideshow of cute cats or of Hangman’s nieces at the playground. You’ve never met them, but the amount of pictures he sends of them makes it feel like you yourself gave birth to them.

He gets a notification and glances at it, but when his eyes drop back to the subject on the screen, they go lower than he’d intended, and he sees your open eyes blinking owlishly at him. In a second he’s forgotten about his phone, but he keeps it in his hand to avoid dropping it on your head.

His face doesn’t light up, it blooms. There’s no jarring explosion of happiness, no sudden firework show of joy, but his grin widens smooth and steady, like a vine crawling a garden wall. His eyes ooze with adoration, and you’d kiss them if that wouldn’t hurt him. His free hand tightens where it had been thrown around your waist, and he looks residually sleepy as he smiles down at you. He must not have woken very long ago.

“Hi, angel,” He hums, and you feel his slightly raspy voice vibrate through his chest. He leans forward to nudge his nose against yours, and you reciprocate like a cat in need of affection. You wriggle up by his side, peering at his screen while simultaneously nestling yourself against him.

It’s a picture of the two of you together.

You’re at the zoo, and there’s a giraffe behind you, eager to see if Bradley’s phone contained any lettuce. It didn’t, but after the animal had tested its theory Bradley’s right speaker wouldn’t work until he got it replaced. It was a very pricey snack. He gives you a moment to admire it, then swipes to the right, back to one of the pictures he’d been looking at before. It’s you pressed up against the glass at the penguin exhibit, one of the little birds curiously following your finger against the glass. He swipes rapidly now, all through photos of you, most containing him as well.

You realize he’s looking only at pictures of you, and your heart just about stops in your chest. It doesn’t know whether to swell with love for the boy, or shrivel at the knowledge that he might delete them when he knows the truth.

“Oh, Brad,” You breathe, “You’re looking at pictures of us?”

“Mostly us. A lot of just you, though,” He admits, “I’m trying to jog my memory.”

Oh.

“Oh.” You nod, “Is it-” You break off with a yawn, “Is it working?”

“No,” His smile dims, “Uh, not really. I don’t know. It’s like- I want them back, so this chunk of my life isn’t just missing. But I almost died- and,” He stops, eyes no longer focused on the screen, merely staring through it, “I don’t think I want to remember that.”

“I’m sorry, Brad.’ You tell hum, because you are. You’re sorry he can’t remember anything, you’re sorry he will remember everything, and you’re sorry you remember everything. “I’d swap with you in a second,” You promise, but it means more than you let on. You yearn for amnesia, you wish you didn’t have to remember making the stupidest mistake of your life and losing your love. You’d fall out of the sky if it meant you could forget what you’d done to him that night.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” He smiles sadly at you, kissing the crown of your head. “I’ll get through it. Whatever happens, s’long as I’ve got you.”

You hope he doesn't hear your voice tremble when you reply, “Yeah. You've got me.”

Bradley resumes scrolling through pictures, and his lips quirk up more at each image he sees.

“Remember this?” He angles the phone further towards you, “When Mav almost fell off of that fishing boat, and my dad almost fell in trying to stop him?”

“And your mom almost fell in laughing,” You grin, tucking the expression into his neck, “We should go fishing again, sometime.”

Hope blooms in his chest at your suggestion. He’s being extra endearing today, intent on reminding you just how much you used to love him. He wants to make himself worth it for you, he wants you to want to love him again, and the fact that you’ve suggested a future outing gives him hope that you might share that future together.

“We should,” He agrees, swiping to see a photo of you in his baseball cap, holding up a fish you’d caught with a giddy grin.

“Good catch,” He praises you, rubbing his arm up and down your side, “He looks surprised.”

“I would be too, if I ate a worm and it dragged me to some giants in a boat,” You shrug, “Plus, I let him go after. He was fine.”

“You’re a very ethical fisherman,” Bradley muses, “My dad only let his go because it flopped out of his hand.”

“He’s accidentally ethical,” You giggle, “The tail almost slapped him in the face.”

“I would have paid a fortune to see that,” Bradley gushes, his fingers digging ticklishly into your side, “Let’s hope he fishes up an old boot or something this time.”

“Like in a cartoon?” You rear back to laugh incredulously at Bradley, “I don’t think people really fish up boots, Brad.”

“I’ll chuck a boot in the lake just to see his face,” Bradley promises, and the giggles you two share harmonize the twang of your heartstrings.

The next photo Bradley swipes to is a New Year’s Eve one, your traditional pose with a much more confident kiss, this time around. It’s from this past year, and you marvel at how much you’ve both grown since the awkward teens you’d seen earlier.

“Oh, that reminds me,” You gush, almost kneeing him in the already-cracked ribs as you scramble for the photo album on the bookshelf, “Let’s look at these, Brad, they’re so cute.”

He almost points out the failure in your logic, even if he does want to see the pictures. He nearly asks you why you’d look at incredibly old pictures to jog recent memories, but then all of a sudden he’s hit with the thought that those might help his case, and he shuts up. He wants you to remember how much you used to love him, or, if you still do, how it was once worth it for you to do so. How once upon a time, you could love him, and maybe if you see enough baby pictures of the two of you together, loving each other since you’d opened your eyes for the first time, that maybe you’d decide you could love him again.

You rush back to the bed with the cover already cracked, though you show it off with a gooey grin, “You were enamored with me from the moment you saw me, Brad.”

“Of course I was,” He laughs, ringing his arm around your neck to hug you tight to his side while you flip to the first page. He peers at your scrunched-up baby face, vague memories of kissing your nose flashing through his mind from when you were younger, and it was the only thing that could get you to stop crying.

“You’ve always been the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” He swipes a finger over a photo of you together, stroking it along your cheek where he was feeding you mushed-up green beans. “See? I was so entranced I didn’t even notice you were about to kick me.”

He points to your tiny foot, clothed in a onesie with dogs on it, and poised ready to fire. You’d bet money that right after the photo had been taken, you had launched your foot into his knee, and you hope little Bradley wasn’t brought to tears over it.

“Sorry, baby,” You hum, voice just as sticky-sweet as your kiss is against his cheek. He leans into it, but you’re not expecting it, so you smear a bit more spit over his face than you’d intended to. However, when you laugh incredulously and try to wipe it off, he wriggles away from your shirtsleeve, insisting on keeping the mark.

“No! I fell out of the sky three days ago,” Bradley gripes, head held high, “I get to keep all of the gross kisses you give me.”

“I’d launch a gross kiss attack if I wasn’t worried about hurting your ribs,” You lament, settling back into his side, “Oh, Brad, look at this one!”

It was your first Halloween together. Bradley’s sporting a yellow hat in the picture, with bear ears on top, and a red shirt over his chubby baby belly. His pants are the same shade as his hat, and you’re the Piglet to his Winnie the Pooh as you sit in a pink onesie and matching ear-hat in his little lap.

You tug the photo out of its sleeve, reading Carole’s neat inscription on the back: Bradley cried just a few minutes after we took this, because we looked away for a second and when we turned back he was feeding Y/N a snickers bar. We didn’t mean to yell, but we freaked out and spooked him, and he wouldn’t stop crying unless we told him he could finish the rest of the bar. Winnie the Pooh does NOT like raised voices.

“Crybaby,” You tease, and Bradley groans.

“I was a kid! They yelled at me! Of course I cried!”

“Poor baby, you just wanted to feed me chocolate,” You croon, turning sympathetic at the sight of his exasperated brown eyes, “You’ve always been good to me, Brad.”

“Always,” He promises, squeezing you tighter, then pointing at the next page over, “Aw, look at this one. They dressed you up as the turkey for thanksgiving.”

“We fell asleep in front of the fire,” You recall, not from memory but from the stories you’ve been told, and the pictures you’d seen, “We were both milk drunk and stuffed from dinner.”

“Still nappin’ together all these years later,” Bradley grins, leaning in to brush his nose against yours.

“Let’s nap together forever,” You sigh as you nestle your cheek back against his arm. His confidence builds the more you suggest a future together, and he thinks that what his dad had been telling him might have been right; maybe you do still love him, maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe you do just need a little convincing, and he’s happy to show you how great he can be for you.

“Here’s my first snowman,” Bradley hums, pointing to a picture that’s exactly as it was described. You’re on vacation together and he’s the snowman, bundled in a thousand layers of winter gear and still shivering from the cold as Nick piles snow around him in three tiers. You're sitting off to his left, eating a chunk out of his icy side.

“Your little nose is so red!” You croon, nearly melting in fondness for baby Bradley, “He was so mean!”

“I’m surprised I didn’t get frostbite. I bet my mom gave him the lecture of a lifetime for that one.” Bradley snickers, “Mav probably had to take us both into the other room so she could swear.”

“She swore at me the other day,” You recall, and Bradley’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.

“What? Why?”

You realize too late that you can’t really tell him the reason, but you shake your head dismissively, “It was when we were at the hospital. She was just stressed, ‘s all.”

Bradley’s half worried about his mom, and half worried about you. He’s concerned that his accident had stressed her out enough to swear, something she never did, but he’s concerned that it had been at the wrong time for you, that she’d only made your secret situation worse by snapping at you for something unrelated.

You just hope he never finds out that she’d known from the start.

“Look,” You prompt, “There’s another picture of us napping in here, right-” You flip through a substantial amount of pages, “Here.”

Your finger lands on a photo of you and Bradley at fifteen, harboring crushes on each other almost too big to hide. It seems like everyone but yourselves had known you were going to get together, and you flash your dad’s inscription on the back at him with an exasperated smile.

Next time, I’m making them leave the door open when they study.

You’re definitely not doing anything scandalous, but years in the navy had taught your father to be hypervigilant around men. He’d rather you be with Bradley than absolutely anyone else in the world, of course, he knew the boy was kind-hearted, but he was still a boy, and it was difficult for him to be one-hundred percent on board with the situation while you were still teenagers.

You’re slumped against each other on the bed, being held up only by the other’s opposite weight. You’re balanced precariously, and if either of you had shifted slightly, you’d both have toppled. But it seems you’d dozed off while reading a Physics textbook, and you don’t blame yourself at all.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt the phrase ‘walking down memory lane’ to be more accurate. Each turn of the page, each rectangular piece of photo paper tucked beneath its cellophane sleeve really does transport you back in time, and you feel like you’re holding Bradley’s hand while strolling through your memories. You want to steer clear of the dark, gaping hole on his own lane, and to do so, you flip to his twenty-first birthday photo.

It’s not one that your parents had taken; they don’t know it exists. Bradley’s crouched beneath you as you spit a shot into his mouth, probably spilling some onto the gray fabric of his t-shirt. You had still technically been twenty at the time, and you’d had his birthday party at your mutual friends’ apartment, with much less strict of a bouncer than the one at the bar. You’d both gotten hammered that night, and he doesn’t remember much, but Bradley can confidently say no one else got their shots by drinking them out of your mouth.

“That was hot,” Bradley informs you, “We should do that again soon.”

“Yeah, I don’t think concussions and alcohol mix,” You scoff, knocking your head against his own, “Ease up on the booze, Brad.”

“Oh, you’re such a worrier,” He teases, knowing full well you’re correct, “Look, there’s graduation.”

The college photo of you two is printed smaller here, and if you were an artist, you could draw it from memory. Every detail, the sprig of grass stuck to Bradley’s left sleeve, the slight squint to your eyes from the sun, everything is memorable because you’ve stared at it so many times.

“This is the one I keep under your pillow when you’re deployed,” You admit in a soft murmur, “It’s my favorite.”

Bradley means to respond to that, he really does. But there’s nothing he can think of saying that would be sufficient, nothing that could possibly convey the love and adoration he feels for you. Nothing that could tell you how lucky he is to love you, and to have been loved by you for all these years. And how terrified he is to lose you. The word deployment strikes a sour chord in his chest, and all of a sudden he’s wondering how he ever left you in the first place. Being at home while you were at the grocery store sent him into a spiral, he doesn’t know how he ever made it months without seeing you, hearing you, holding you.

“You gave up the Naval Academy for me,” You recall when he doesn’t respond, your voice quivering like a thin rope stretched tight, “I told you I was scared to go by myself, that I'd miss you, and you withheld your application from the academy. For me. Brad, you gave up your dream for me.”

It doesn’t take him any time at all to respond this time around, because the answer is easy and honest: “That’s not true. You were my dream, angel. You still are.”

“Brad,” Your face crumples, and you have to bury your face in his shoulder to withhold a sob. You clutch at the fabric of his shirt sleeve, heaving a heavy sigh once you’ve collected yourself, “I love you, Bradley. I- I want to fill out the rest of this book with you,” You reach for the pages, sticking your thumb into the spot between them where the album goes thin. You flip to the empty pages, “I want to sit in a home with you and stuff this book full with pictures of us all old and gray.” You sniffle, “I want to be with you forever, I- I want our grandchildren- no, our great-grandchildren to take the last pictures in this book,” You blubber, “I- I just love you so much.”

I love you.

I want to fill out the rest of this book with you.

I want to be with you forever.

I love you so much.

He hadn’t planned on rushing it. He wanted to draw it out, spend the next few days, weeks even, showing you how loved you are, and hoping you crawl out of your shell again, reciprocate the way you used to. But he can’t wait anymore, not now that you’ve told him you’re in this for life.

“Sweetheart,” Bradley gropes for the first drawer of his dresser with a blind, frantic hand. He locates the ring in no time flat, his other arm nearly crushing you into his side as he yanks the jewelry free of the sock it had been hidden under. He shoves it towards you, unceremonious, rushed, and messy, but with all the tender sweetness in his heart: “Y/N- Marry me?”

just a reminder in case you didn't read my author's note: life got in the way and I wasn't able to include their big talk in this part, but i've just extended it to a fourth part that will be posted next week! i'm sorry to keep you waiting longer, some very heavy stuff has gone on in my life lately and it was very hard to work on this. i hope you enjoyed, and i hope you understand! i'm sorry again for not finishing it when i said i would </3 buttt did you see the plot twist coming? i'm eager to hear what you think >:))))

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

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morallyinept · 5 months

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Thrash Metal - A Dieter Bravo One Shot

Summary: When you arrive home, Dieter has a surprise for you.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 5.4k-ish

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Explicit - Oral F receiving/fingering/anal play/squirting/lots of spit & saliva/masturbation/mild dirty talk.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

Author’s Note: Dieter, what dat tongue do? 👅 Alright, he's heeeeere. Tongue pierced Dieter. Woot.

Tagging @for-a-longlongtime @sp00kymulderr @ravensmadreads @whatsnewalycat @agentjackdaniels @chronically-ghosted because of stud-gate this week 😜

Has Frankie found a contender for title of 🐱👑??

MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

“D, has something happened to your teeth?”

You narrow your gaze at him as you regard him standing before you, and there’s something... off.

He shakes his head. But keeps his mouth closed.

“Oh shit, you’ve not lost a tooth have you? Let me see.”

He shakes his head again; that fluff on his crown swaying, and steps back from your reach deliberately.

“Uhm-uhm.” His lips are rolled tight against each other.

“Dieter, what's up with you? What’s wrong with your mouth?” You say, trying not to smirk at his odd behaviour. But then again, that’s a fucking understatement where Dieter Bravo is concerned.

You’ve been back all of five minutes, jet-lagged to hell and needing a shower, and already there’s some quirky drama unfolding before your eyes.

Attempting - and failing at - nonchalance, he had greeted you with a seemingly forced smile as you stepped in the bedroom with consternation brewing around your temples, but his rapid eye blinking betrayed the subtle nervous energy lingering beneath the surface. It stopped you in your tracks as you lugged your case in.

You knew immeadiately something was up.

And as you try to engage in conversation now, his attempts at passive behaviour are punctuated by occasional fidgets, a breakdance of twitches that hint at a hidden unease, an untold secret.

The same look a dog gives you when they’ve shit all over the floor.

“Are you high?” You question speculatively. Ask a stupid question and ye shall receive a stupid answer, right?

The bedroom echoes with a delicate, yet rabid symphony of Dieter's astute nervous ticks - a restless tap of the foot, a darting glance toward the window and back through red, tired eyes; a momentary pause as he tries to control the involuntary movements. Fingers cracking silver metal bands against one another.

Despite his efforts to appear at ease, there's an undeniable undercurrent of tension, like a tightly wound spring threatening to unravel. A constant hungover spiral in his eyes.

Then Dieter shrugs with a lazy eyebrow cock and sheepish smile. Busted. He’s probably been high all fucking weekend.

You giggle. “What have you been up to?”

You cast your eye about the bedroom, nothing too telling or untoward to witness. The bed is unmade, nothing new there, and there’s no evidence of any bodily fluids in lumpy puddles that you can obviously spy.

When you ask the question, the room becomes a stage where he struggles to perform the role of casual indifference anymore; a two and fro between concealing and revealing the subtle nuances of his nervous twitches.

Do you even want to know?

But then, he beckons you over, with his two fingers and a smile that keeps his lips sealed shut like gummy glue.

He’s not said a word to you. Not even greeted you when you came in, despite you calling out to him repeatedly like a parrot. Just standing silently in the bedroom waiting for you.

An oversized sweatshirt, with the sleeves bunched around the elbows, hangs off of him. Baggy Harem pants sit lazily on his paunchy waist, with a pattern that makes you dizzier the more you look at it.

Hard to believe sometimes, that this man is an Emmy nominated actor, and not some vagabond that’s crawled in off the street looking to warm up.

He looks wildly uncouth, like he’s just rolled out of bed, and probably has, you deduce. You've learned that Dieter, although a fully grown man, doesn't do much when you're not around.

Almost like he's lost his inner compass and twirls in stuck circles of bad decisions, waiting for you to come back and set his navigational dial right again. You're his magnetic pole.

His hands are knotted behind his back and channelling an innocent little boy, rocking back and forth on his heels, who’s just done something suspiciously naughty. Like throw up in your Louboutins again.

Dieter doesn't answer your questions. He just offers nods or shakes of his head, with puzzling mmm’s or uhm’s being tossed at you, as you regale him with ranty anecdotes about your flight back from hell.

But you soon catch on that all is not well in the Bravo mansion as he remains suspiciously tight lipped.

“You’re being weird, why are you being weird?” You narrow, as you reach him.

You don’t want to panic or suspect the worst, but he’a giving you little recourse as it prickles at your scalp.

Past experience tells you that each time you leave, you come back to some sort of carnage. The man can't help it; anarchy sticks to him like Peter Pan's shadow. And Dieter has never been truly ready to grow up and vacate Neverland.

You feel his arms wrap around your lower back, his chest presses taught against yours as he pulls you in. Stacked shoulders mountain over you as one of your hands peak the summit, squeezing gently. You reach under the hem of his bobbling sweater with your other and rub his soft tummy affectionately.

“What did you do this time?” You probe looking into his chocolate browns. They’re a little tired and bloodshot. Puffy, with aging skin dried out a little up this close.

Dieter waggles his eyebrows and then leans in for a welcome kiss.

You avoid it, swerving, as he grazes your cheek; his breathy chortle ebbs out from behind his teeth clamped shut.

“I’m on to you, Mister. Something’s incredibly awry here.”

Smirking, he growls at your playful resistence, grabbing your chin and planting one on you, and your resolve instantly melts down your legs.

You moan gently as he places his lips on yours, delicately at first. As you inhale, he smells like Rasinettes, peculiarly. Dieter plants soft, little pecks that morph into hungry nips, and they soon have you wrestling for the deep trench of his mouth.

God, you've missed this quirky doof.

You slip your tongue in; your hands in the nape of his neck. Fingers curling around the unruly fluff there, matted with styling product that’s probably days old.

He whines into your mouth, clutching onto you tightly with a strength that lights fireworks inside your chest.

His warm tongue slithers against yours, and you gasp when you feel something cool and hard run across it suddenly.

You baulk, breaking the kiss.

"Is that... what I think it is?” You question, bewildered and instantly smirking.

You watch as the pale, pink flush of his lips shifts into the apples of his cheeks, lighting them up a neon magenta. Glowing, like a sleazy, back alley strip joint.

He didn’t… no way.

“Show me,” you cajole, your fingers trying to pull on his bottom lip eagerly.

Dieter slowly protrudes his tongue out at you; it's so long it reaches the end of his chin with ease. Towards the bottom of his tongue, nestled in the pink, wet velvet, lies a silver metal ball.

You start laughing. You can’t help it. It kind of just rolls up the back of your throat and out into his sheepish face.

Then he laughs, his hands rubbing up and down your back. His nails cragg down against the fibres of your top, your spine, and entice your nipples to wake up and pebble in response.

You can see your reflection in it; a cleverly crafted, hidden secret which you can’t stop staring at, despite your animated heckling.

He sucks his tongue back in and you shake your head incredulously.

“Are you having a midlife crisis?” You ask, trying to compose yourself.

He shrugs as though it’s no big deal. “I was high.”

You notice his speech is a little slurred. The foreign invasion in his mouth is somewhat difficult to navigate around basic colloquialism it seems.

Dieter with a lisp is inherently cute, you decide. You can feel your skin coming alive with goose bumps as a wave of delightful shivers dances along the hairs on your arms.

Eager neurons fire, creating a wave of exhilaration. It's a visceral experience, a fusion of giddy butterflies and a magnetic pull towards the rogue source of your body amping up - that darned piercing.

Every heartbeat seems synchronised with the rhythm of your sudden enthusiasm for it, orchestrating a melody of hedonistic anticipation that resonates within your sweat glands as you feel it trickle across the back of your neck and under your arms.

Your clit is standing at full attention.

Your mind is polluted with lewd imagery on a static screen, and you want to pause them all and zoom in so you can get off to them. The bedroom suddenly feels stifling.

“Let me see that again.” You sway.

Smirking at you, Dieter’s tongue rolls out of his mouth once more and you examine it closely.

The slight dip and rise of the barbell certainly hints at some drugged up rebellion. You can only imagine the state he must have been in to embark on such a perilous, and stupid, endeavour. His agent will be pissed.

But you’re not surprised in the slightest that he’d try something wild like this. It’s almost as bold as the kiss print tattoo on his ass cheek. Fucking idiot.

“It’s coming out, it fucking kills, babe. I swear, I’ve chipped a tooth already.” The rhythmic clinks of the stud against his gnashers creates a distinct soundtrack to his words.

“Can you see?” He opens wide and points to his back molars. “Ack ere,” he mouths.

“No, no chip.” You confirm. Nothing but pink gums and filled molars.

“You sure?” He sucks in around his cheeks ungraciously, like he’s got wadding in his mouth from a horrific visit to the dentist, and is trying not to drool from numbed out lips.

“D. Why did you do this?” You ask, pecking at his scruff and nuzzling into him.

He shrugs. “I woke up with it three days ago... Went out. I don't remember. Can’t eat solids. I bit down on it and almost shit myself. Hurts too much.”

You can't help but titter again. “Then why didn’t you just take it out?”

And despite his inert melancholy, and some possible resentment about it, he shifts. His stance and his facial expression mould into something all too wildly familiar.

And you feel it too as he tunes into that x-rated channel hopping in your mutual, debauched hive mind to pick something he knows you'll both enjoy.

“Because,” he says with that shit eating grin getting wider “I heard it can be fun.”

As he speaks, the metallic gleam of the tongue stud catches the light, accentuating his confident, brash words with a hint of flippant audacity.

Yeah, baby. You know you want me.

Each subtle movement from the sly smile to the now thoughtful pause, draws attention to the unconventional accessory that whispers a sordid tale of some narcotic imposed masochism. Chaotic alignment in all its glory, punctured right through that fleshy muscle that clicks in his mouth at you.

Calling you out, persuading you to join the darkside, because your partner now has a tongue stud. Fuck.

“Fun you say?” You query with another smirk brewing.

“Yeah,” he tightens his grip around you and pulls you closer, fingers slipping down onto your ass. You can already feel what kind of fun hardening between his legs.

“For you, I mean.” Dieter clarifies.

You swallow and grin, and the room sways as you register the whiplash from such an impulse. Anticipation wraps around your veins like a tightly coiled spring, ready to release a burst of energy at the slightest trigger.

Your senses heighten, capturing every nuance in the air that crackles like electric. Time seems to stretch, elongating moments as you eagerly conjure and play out every scenario that can, and will more than likely go down.

And you can see he’s pulling it apart too. Mentally jacking off to the sights it envokes.

Your imaginations play like a vivid movie collection, building suspense with each scene of that infernal tongue, sheathed with a metal counterpart added into your foreplay.

It's a crescendo of excitement, a cacaphony of heightened awareness and the sweet agony of expectation that makes your cunt clench wildly.

“Are you telling me you mutilated yourself so you could eat me out with a tongue stud?” You put to him.

“Don’t act like you’re not intrigued, babe.” He sucks back the fluid pooling in his mouth again with a wispy slurp.

“Oh, you can colour me fucking intrigued, D.”

“I thought so.” He croons with that razor grin coming for you like a chainsaw.

He slips his tongue back into your mouth and your own vies for the stud, sliding over it smoothly, and waking something carnal with lacquer claws inside you.

Tongues flicking and sliding over one another, you can taste the herbal, ashy remnants of a probable joint on his. You suck on his tongue feverishly; each of you braying with one another to choke the other on those twisty muscles.

“Ah Jesus.” He whimpers.

“Did I hurt you?” You ask, pulling back.

You cup his cheek, fingers reaching to fiddle with his earring glinting in his lobe, affectionately.

He’s always had a flair for flouting the conventional. A man of his advancing age with tattoos and piercings has a great appeal. You often admire his body art with curious fingertips, or a swirling tongue that traces the patterns, making his skin shiver.

“No, that actually feels better. Do it again.” Dieter prompts.

You run your tongue gently around the circumference of the stud in his mouth as you kiss him once again.

“Mmm,” he sighs into your cheeks. “Yeah, like that.” His grip on you becomes tighter, desperate.

You suck gently on his bottom lip and he crushes your head in his giant hands, guiding you backwards, clumsily, to the uncouthly made bed.

His tongue licks deep to get more of that sensual relief from the aching pang, as your breathing muffles around his mouth.

“Fuck, you’re making me so hard,” he whines. You reach down and give him a gentle squeeze over his jazzy pants and another grunt tumbles out of him.

“You need something, D?” You tease, stroking the obvious tenting. There’s already a wet patch blooming into the material.

He catches his breath, his lips shiny from your kiss and nods his head quickly and excitedly. “But you first.” He smirks.

Your breath becomes a frantic, rhythmic cadence, syncing with the anticipation pulsating through you. The warmth between your thighs radiates, burning you up.

Dieter reaches for your jeans and tugs them down as you sit backwards on the bed. You jostle with your panties, almost comically as you fumble around your desperateness - the elastic getting caught round your toes.

You roll them up and chuck them at him. Catching them, he brings them to his nose and sniffs in deep, emitting a low growl. You watch, as he brazenly stuffs them into the front of his pants, wrapping the flimsy silk of them around his cock.

He jerks himself, once, twice, three times with them before climbing in between your now spread wide legs.

“What a welcome home,” you grin as he smooches up your inner thigh.

He eyes your cunt, sopping and glistening at him. “Touch yourself,” he mutters.

He sucks the saliva down his throat again and it makes you giggle rambunctiously at the sound.

“It’s.” Kiss. “Not.” Kiss. “Funny.” Kiss.

“It’s a little funny.” You titter as his dark eyes flick up at you, hungrily.

Your fingers find their way, slipping into your folds as Dieter hums out in praise as he continues kissing up your thigh.

“How good does that pussy feel?”

“So good.” You moan as you slip over your clit and feel the delicious pang of sweetly mixed pleasure that aches. "I'm so wet for you, Dieter."

“Yeah, you’re soaking.” He agrees, gawping at it, lips dragging closer. "All because of this?"

You watch, in breathless awe, as he rolls his tongue out again; the gleam of the stud flashing at you, and then disappearing from sight as he lowers his head.

You hitch your breath in anticipation, your own fingers removed from your apex, and waiting eagerly for the moment.

You can feel his breath, so warm and moist against you already. So fucking close, but he lingers.

You feel him blow gently and you shudder with the alternating warmth and coolness against you.

“D! Don’t tease me,” you gasp.

“What?” He muses innocently as you feel his breath waft against your lips again. The very slight, tiniest probe of his tongue is felt at the bottom of your slit.

“Oh my God.” You whine.

You hear him laugh, snuffling around his breaths with his tongue still hanging out. A throaty wheeze reverberates as he tickles you ever so lightly, barely ghosting over you there.

Another tiny little prod of his tongue and he withdraws quickly. “You taste so good.” He moans, sucking in again with the hypersalivation.

“Please.”

“What, babe? Tell me what you want.”

“You know what I want.”

“I want to hear you tell me. Slut it up for me.”

You roll your eyes and sigh. “You want me to beg?”

“Yah. Pretty much.” He confirms with a smirk. “Beg me to tongue fuck you.” His eyes almost appear jet now. His fingers feel absorb into your skin. “Tell me.” He grizzles.

“I wanna feel your tongue fucking the shit out of my pussy, D.”

“Yeah!”

“Mmhm. I wanna come all over your face, I want to see it dripping down your chin.”

“Oh, that’s amazing, so hot! I love it when you squirt all over me.”

“Wanna see you soaked. Want to smell it in your beard...” You hum. "Fuck I want to taste myself in your mouth, D."

“Drown me in it.”

“Just please... eat me, Dieter!” You wail, reaching forward for his head and shoving it against your cunt in desperation.

He immediately clamps his mouth over your mound, and you feel that tongue delve into your folds. Running his lips over your outer labia, then wiggling that uneashed tongue deeper inside.

You feel the stud, probing against you in a contrasting coolness, despite it being nestled in the warmth of his plush mouth.

“Mmm, God.” You groan, fingering through his scalp; scissoring tufts of his ratty hair between your fingers.

You can feel the soft prickle from the scruff above his lips tickle and graze as he plunders in further, teasing the outer well of your entrance with the pointed tip of his tongue.

You hiss, head becoming slack on your shoulders; a weightless ball with no pivot, as you shudder.

He pushes in, fucks you slowly and deviously. Lapping, you can feel the stud rub deliciously against your honeyed insides.

“Mmm, fuck. I can feel it,” you smile blissfully. “Oh wow!”

“You like it?”

You nod dreamily, with blown pupils like you’re tripping balls. “Feels really good, D… ah yeah.”

He pulls you apart gently with his fingers, spreading you to reveal the shiny layers of glossy skin. Your clit’s raised and swollen out of its hood as he teases across the tip with the point of his tongue.

Then he lets you feel it; lets the ball of the stud roll over it with ease in a slippery stroke.

Your thighs twitch at the sensation. The slight weight of it - swift and fluid as it skates effortlessly in your slick - makes you groan deeply.

You watch it, how it brushes and knocks against you. Watch how he watches you back, knowing that he’s just utterly fucked your shit up.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“Yeah? Watch me tongue you.” He smirks as he flickers back and forth, looking back at you with those deep browns.

Watching you watch him as he suctions his lips fully over your clit, sucking like a man starved of water in the desert. Then he lets it go, and flicks his tongue and the stud over that hard, buzzing nub again.

“Yeah!” You pant. "Yes, yes!"

Your eyes cloud over, your vision steams around the edges. It feels so good, so tight and bunching as the ball end runs delicious, chaotic circles around you, making your thighs ripple with each stroke.

Dieter pauses momentarily to swipe into your fleshy ribbons; strings of your slick break from his tongue as he pulls back and observes the mess he’s making of you, with your gloss smeared across his greying, prickly cheek.

You reach forward and run your thumb over his lip and suck it off, tasting yourself. He mouths the word fuck at you in stunned awe as you do so.

He’s relentless as you start moaning, your pants becoming strangled in your throat, fists wrenching in the sheets. Hips lifting and pushing further into his face to seek more, more!

God, you fucking need more!

He works you up with his tongue, relentlessly stroking, licking and sucking all over your saturated cunt. The tongue stud adding to the heightened sensations; the giddy thrill and pleasure of it all builds as glittery phosphenes start to blind you.

He knows you’re so close, so easy to shunt over that edge right now with a mere jab in your lower back. And you’ll be free falling, diving head first into an ocean full of electrical waves.

And he’s enjoying your show of moans and whispers of his name so much to deny you of a good push, or two. Hell, maybe even three.

Dieter speeds up, tongue going twenty to the dozen on your clit like it’s battery operated. The metal ball thrumming against you with just the perfect amount of pressure.

He only stops to suck you up; swallow the glassy slick that pools and leaves tracks, and then he’s settling back into that giddy pace of bubbling annihilation.

“God, your fucking tongue, D!” You wail beside yourself. Legs akimbo and up in the air as though they’re resting in stirrups.

He leans on his elbow, head cocked and resting against your thigh. Insipid tongue wiggling all over your clit ferociously.

You start shaking; your hole already contracting, yearning for his cock to squeeze around. Bearing down on an empty space as you clench and tighten; all of your coils about ready to snap.

And the son of a bitch knows it.

Dieter is wild; like a rabid dog drooling all over you. He shakes his head back and forth crazily as his tongue sweeps side to side over that juicy, swollen clit, humming in delight as he suckles and licks it.

He pulls on your labia, sucking and popping it out of his mouth in lewd squelches.

“Look at you, all spread open for me.” Dieter croons with that slick, sticky smile.

He spits on your pussy and you gasp, biting your lip as his eyes flicker up to you darkly.

He runs his saliva with his fingers all over your cunt. He holds eye contact as he leans in again and sucks on your clit; your body jerking wildly in response.

“Oooooooh fuck!” You cry. “Yeah, oh don’t stop…”

The tongue tornado he’s blasting you with now is making you shake and see ultraviolet stars, sewn like sequins into the back of your eyelids.

He stops licking and sucking, and slips his fingers into you; index and middle right up to the base of his rings.

With his other hand, he pinches your clit out of the hood and runs the ball of the stud around it relentlessly as he fucks you with his fingers curling inside of you.

An insidious puppet master controlling his marionette as you dance on your giddy strings before him.

“Holy shit!” You gasp and cream like crazy.

He can feel you contracting around his fingers as he continues the lick job. Your legs shake violently like in the throes of a demonic possession.

“Fuck, fuuuuuuck! D, I'm coming!”

With your legs spread wide, Dieter, Dieter pussy eater, draws back to watch you come, pulling his fingers out. Just watching with rapt attention as that slit of wet, drenched lips pulses like it’s breathing of its own volition.

Your hole flexing and contracting like a small mouth breathing; the nib of your clit jerking and pulsing as though headbanging to thrash metal.

He marvels, with a wide grin, as your body shakes, the smarmy bastard, and then dives right back in to taste you and repeat the carnage all over again.

You try to shut your legs, crushing his chin and cheeks into your thigh meat, but he keeps you anchored. Preventing you from squirming away, despite how intense it now feels as he continues gnawing on your over-sensitized clit and knocking the stud against it like thunder.

You’re panting now, breathless. Choking on the sensation of his name being lodged and wrenched from the back of your throat.

"D... Oh fuck, Dieter."

And he's got you there again; pulls you up and balances you on the ledge once more, to simply push you off and watch you fly.

As you come again, it froths around his lips. Bubbles of your slick squelching and catching in his scruffy ‘tache, and Dieter hums deeply in satisfaction as he swallows it all down.

He licks you through it, barely settling his pace as he pushes you towards overstimulation. You try to squirm away, but his hands anchor your thighs open and apply the pressure. His eyes flick up to you, flaring brilliantly.

I’m not done with you yet, babe.

He smirks around his tongue hanging out, flashing the fucking audacity of that stud at you as he waggles it about on your clit, and watches you shake with every zap it causes.

“Oh-fuck-fuck-don't-stop-please-D! Fuck!” You blabber.

And then he places a kiss on your pussy, a gentle little mwah. The sweetest of smooches before he dives inside you with his tongue again.

“Dieter!” You holler.

His hands wind under your thighs and rest on your stomach, slowly massaging and squeezing the soft fat there.

“Mmm,” he whines. The tip of his nose grazes your clit as he slides his tongue in and out of your hole.

You feel him go lower still and run his tongue around the tight knot of your ass.

“Mmm,” you coo as you gasp.

You feel the stud run over that puckered, tight flesh and back up again as he detours to your ass, and you feel the tip of his tongue circle it teasingly.

Tracks of his saliva and your slick have slid down to your ass and they glisten at him as he pulls back. His cock twitches in exasperation to just rub himself all in it.

It takes every inch of restraint not to pull himself out and splash you down with his come already. But he wants you to enjoy this; savour the piercing whilst it’s still in because after this, that bitch is coming out.

He works through the pain, that dull throbbing, and for a while forgets about it completely as he drowns himself in your folds.

He wants to fuck you so bad. Just get his cock wet inside you and feel you gush all over him. Shit, it’s a fucking drug. He’s addicted to this pussy, can’t give it up.

Just one more hit. Just one more hit.

He reaches down and gives himself a squeeze, feels your panties still stuffed in there around him and pumps. He grunts into your hole, fluttering around his tongue.

He wants to cover you with his come. Paint you with it. Watch as it seeps through your lips and down to your ass.

Flood you with every bit of him and lick it all up after.

“Oh, fuck.” He growls audibly around your pussy at the thought; his cock pulses in his grip and he swears he’s almost there himself. A few more pumps and he’ll be spilling liberally in your panties.

The best part is when he’s come, and then he slips himself back inside you; feels your mutual wet warmth and carries on thrusting gently. Sometimes, and when he’s not completely whacked out of his gourd, Dieter can get fully hard again inside you doing just that.

Just feeling the gentle pulsing of your walls post-orgasm, twitching around him, brings him back from the brink of a floppy death. Building himself up and spraying you down again and again.

The sex between you lasting for hours. Just fucking you with his come all over your mound, sticking in your thighs and on his belly. Watching in intense awe as that cream pie pearls out of you.

Yeah, fuck that’s nice.

Dieter thinks about the way in which he fucks you; flexing his hips upwards in a circular motion to hit directly on that spot that makes you go cross-eyed every damn time.

Your reach forward through your legs, feeling your stomach crunch as you weave your hand through his hair again, subtly crushing his face to your centre, grinding up against it and he thrashes back and forth.

“I want you to squirt, babe. You think you can do that for me?”

“Make me,” you plead, hoarsely and nodding.

He circles, teasing up and down; sweetly sinful licks as he brushes the hub of you with the bar. He runs his fingertips gently over you; your clit bobbling under the pads of them and you groan before he slides back and inserts a finger into you, pulling it out and dragging the gooey slick over it.

He teases those swollen pussy lips around his tongue as you buzz wildly.

“I love how soaked you get. Fuck.” His eyes twinkle as you glance down at him.

He slips in another finger, down to the hilt, and pulls it out; rubbing them together and feeling the silky wet of you around his thick digits.

“Come all over my face. Soak me. Soak me!” He instructs. He pluders his fingers deep inside you, stroking fast against your spot. The metal batters against your clit as he flicks his tongue back and forth over it.

“Oh fuck, D!” You wail, arching and writhing as he increases his speed and the pressure of his deeply buried digits. “Holy shit, that’s so fucking good! Keep going, baby! I'm almost there!”

You hear him quaff in; the wetness of your cunt sucked to the back of his throat as he thrashes his tongue about like in the throes of a mosh pit.

The beads on his wrist clack together in a fast tempo as he finger fucks you hard. Those two fingers sluicing in and out of your hole as the stud flicks back and forth, sending you soaring, higher and higher.

Frothy, cream foams in your lips. And he tastes it all in his mouth, groaning for more.

You can feel it, rushing into your core, bearing down and contracting. The weight felt against your bladder like a shock. Your core muscles tighten and weigh heavier as it builds.

And he pulls it out of you like an incantation.

You go momentarily deaf; your body feels like it's rising, floating off the bed entirely in those few seconds before it hits.

Before the wave crashes through your core and gushes out of you.

“Oh my God, oh shit! DIETER!!”

You give him what he wants, you utterly soak him. Wet splashes of you spray his face and sluice down his chin. You soak the front of his sweater as he draws back to watch you squirt buck wild as you explode.

“Fuck yeah!” He’s utterly beside himself and can feel his cock pulse wildly as he immeadiately spurts around your panties too.

Thick, pearly strings congeal around your labia as he breathes out groaning, and licks up and down your slit slowly and languidly.

The stud hits your overly sensitised clit and you flinch like you’ve been tasered.

He pants as he licks you clean like he’s just run a marathon. He runs his chin up, smirking as your slick catches in the fuzzy hairs of it, and he leans up and plants a kiss on the soft skin just under your belly button, gently making out with it.

“Mmm,” you groan languidly with heavy lids. He climbs up your body and rubs his sticky chin and lips across your mouth and cheeks, as you giggle and wail at him to get off you.

He chuckles and rests up over you on his palms; broad shoulders hunched and his sweater riding up over his belly. You can feel the jab of his thick cock against you.

“Show me that tongue,” you prompt and he sticks it out at you, craning his neck down into you so you can suck gently on the end of it; taste the stud inside your mouth and the sweet tang of your cunt.

You smile at him, completely blissed out through heavy eyes, that same relaxed glassiness about you when you’ve just taken a deep drag of dope and cuddle up with him to watch Weekend At Bernies.

“Maybe I should keep it, the stud?” Dieter suggests with that hint of a lisp again.

You giggle and toss a pillow up at him. It boffs the side of his face and he chortles, trying not to drool once more.

“Maybe you should,” you smirk as he plants a fat, sticky kiss on your mouth.

You reach down inside his pants to give him a squeeze and feel how wet it is in there.

“Couldn’t help it,” he says to you bashfully as you grin at him. “That was too fucking hot.”

Dieter smirks, sticking his damned, metal filled tongue back out at you again.

Thanks ever so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed some tongue time with Dieter! 👅🖤

MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

#dieter bravo #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo the bubble #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo trash panda #dieter bravo fanfiction #jett's writing #dieter is a menace

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heli0s-writes · 7 months

Text

forget your perfect offering*

summary: Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken.

a/n: Hi hi!! Guess who's back on the Nomad Steve angst/smut train after 5 months??? 3k words. Please stop reading if you're not 18+ This is very Clumsy adjacent.

Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken. Going dark on the United States government when it’s put a price on your head will do that, he supposes. He’s even picked up a new habit of flinching at shadows despite maneuvering in them for eternity.

Not eternity, but he’s dramatic and full throttle. Never once learned that some things can be half-measures, can be compromised on. He’s got his handful of soldiers—friends— and he can’t forget that they’re friends because soldiers are pawns and friends are crucial.

Back then, he was just a newly reanimated statuette, a votive figurine to justice rendered flesh and bone and so damn brittle. And how could he believe it would last? The entire thing fell apart within a few years—a team scattered to pieces; an entire nation’s vision discarded on the side of the road.

A lot of Americans are angry with him for that, and most days he tries not to be angry at himself, which is stupid according to you and Sam and Nat. But being angry at propaganda and history and circumstances is too intangible to do much with, so at least being angry with himself means he can kneel into a fight, leave too little in the tank for the trip back, find a way to be punished for his transgressions.

He’d always been reckless, but it’s becoming a flag much to red to ignore.

You tell him he’s got a death wish. Plain and simple: keep it up and you’ll die, and nothing more, leaving the jet ride in silence, everyone averting their eyes. But he just wipes the blood out of his mouth and says, “Hasn’t seemed to work out for me yet.”

Back at the house—the house, not his house, or anybody’s house, certainly not a home in its unremarkable exterior, interior, living spaces cobbled together with rickety, mismatched furniture and chipped ceramic kitchenware—he returns to his book. Sinks himself into the reading nook and opens it up to a page he’s been pretending to pay attention to.

Natasha showers first, Sam crashes into his bed face-down, and you linger by the old T.V., poking at the adjacent radio.

“Hey, death boy.”

He looks up, startled. “Death boy?”

“Yeah,” you grin, glancing over your shoulder. “Death boy. Your new superhero name.”

You say it breezily, eyes half-mast because it’s been a real dog-shit kind of day and even Steve can hardly focus.

Sam’s dead to the world and Nat’s going on 30 minutes under water, so it’s a fair estimate to say that it’s to the point where he can feel how powered-down his brain is, and that if he tries to speak more than three phrases at a time, it’ll hardly make any damn sense. Or, inevitably, make matters worse.

He tries for controlled, comes out not so much. “It’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

You gasp, scandalized. “Silly me, you haven’t been morbid at all recently. Gosh, it’s not like you were trying to get gutted—he was swinging so wide and slow, how could I think you’d manage dodging in time?” You clasp your hands over your mouth dramatically, “How could I suggest—”

“That’s enough.” Steve pinches his nose-bridge with one hand and closes the book with the other. He’s going to drown himself in the bathtub when Natasha’s finished—go drama—but he’s grinning a little bit, not dumb enough to hide when he’s been caught out.

You punch a button on the radio, tune it to a station that’s only slightly screeching with interference. There’s a discernible piano melody but he doesn’t know the song. You tap along, feeling out the rhythm, and then you cast your eyes to the reading nook he’s crushed into before pointing at the middle of the floor.

For all his miserable ruminating he always forgets to account for you at the end of the day, standing there and waiting for him like he’s got any choice. He declares all sorts of bullshit about how making the right decision can feel like no decision at all when it’s inherently justified; reason should feel like reflex, ethics an extension. But lately, the only reflex he’s felt is closer to vanishing.

He’s disappearing from view a little more each night, reduced to a crumbling idol of an endangered faith because humanity’s stopped believing in him and part of him is following the same course. He’s become an old relic chipped away in the flow of time, and some days he’d rather just be good and gone.

Keep it up and you’ll die.

Part of him already has. Part of him’s already in the ground.

“Come on,” you say with a surprising amount of patience, eyes soft and hand extended. “Are you gonna get up or am I gonna have to drag your ass again?”

The song is plunking away, cutting in and out intermittently, notes quivering on scratches of static. Nat’s started to dry her hair, the sound like a tornado alarm trapped in a bathroom but it’s persistent, fighting the wailing blow-dryer for an audience. She’s probably freezing cold because the house’s water heater is shoddy at best and Sam can fix that but he’s been exhausted lately and no one’s going to complain because they’ve never complained about their situation-- not once.

He bites down, frowns a little deeper, but then he’s on his feet, giving chase like you could take him somewhere whole and unbroken. Somewhere he’s been craving for. His hands around your waist are careful, resting his chin on top of your head as you nuzzle in.

He asks through gritted teeth, “Listening for a heartbeat?”

“I know where your heart is.”

He’s so goddamn maudlin, can’t stop the bitterness from lashing out. “Where’s that?”

“With us, death boy. With me.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, dismissive and very, very rude of him, but he’s on a roll and won’t be appeased. You lazily read the lines of his face with stunned eyes, then touch your nose to his bearded chin as you lean up.

You stroke his scalp, spinning the feathery ends of his long hair. “You want to be hurt so bad, don’t you?” Your nails rake down the length of his strong neck. “Is that what you’re used to? Is it more comfortable that way?”

“Enough,” he murmurs faintly, but makes no move to push you away, only stepping in time, rocking along. When your hand tightens into a fist to pull at him, he bites down, shuts his eyes. You do it again, harder, and then let go, letting your fingers spread at the base of his skull, cradling it like a child.

“You want to be beaten within an inch of your life, want to be pried open so you can check if you’re still capable of dying.” Cold words, but your breath is hot, and he’s starting to feel it—that telltale shiver at the base of his spine at the way you won’t break eye contact.

“I know, I know,” you coo, “it hasn’t happened yet.” You move away, smiling big and dark and glistening with promise. “But listen, Steve, all you have to do is ask.”

He can’t tell what expression he’s making, only that your pupils open to swallow him. You’re staring at him, not through him. Taking in his flesh and the warm blood cascading down his face.

The night is taking its toll, it seems. Collecting on long, hard hours, making the both of you reckless.

He thinks about months ago, and the complication of ethics in the way.

Not sleeping with teammates, not losing the fucking plot no matter how much he craved losing it for a couple of hours. There were several weeks before it went sideways, before Bucharest and the Accords, where he spent doing nothing but dedicating himself to daydreaming. He sank into the quiver of his own body as he imagined you and everything he wanted to know by touch.

There were dances, like this. Swaying back and forth in Sam’s backyard and gala celebrations, onlookers getting a few ideas about what his eyes were communicating when he’d trace the curve of your shoulders or the delicate insides of your wrists. How everyone else might follow Captain America into the jaws of death but he’d follow only you, headlong, beyond, and into the goddamn afterlife if you asked him.

But there was a line he couldn’t cross. A soft, tangerine horizon much too far out of his reach when the dark was at his back, beating him to the ground. Making him flinch from warmth because entanglement was too complicated and love was too kind.

Tony asked him what it felt like to fuck up so astronomically. Nat only clucked her tongue, more disappointment in a single sound than Steve had heard from many grand lectures.

Because you would have been vibrant and glorious, damn it. You would have giggled— giggled— when you made love, crooned his name like a songbird and touched him everywhere, all at once. You would have kissed fire back into him, licked your way into the center of that votive figurine and traced his broken heart. You would have excavated him, clawed him out clean, led him into the light.

So, he knows. He knew then, knows now, knows for the rest of his days when he’s let a beautiful thing slip through his fingers.

But sometimes, this happens and his hands feel like they’ve still held on despite his attempts. Sometimes you brush his knuckles, smile at him small and sweet and come into his makeshift room, sit on the side of his bed and exist side by side. Sometimes there wouldn’t even be conversation.

But when you linger by the door, gaze slowly raking down the length of his body and his throat, his mouth, all ten of his fingertips—god, what he wouldn’t give then, to take you to the floor and declare fuck it.

Fuck ethics and fuck his entire life, if needed, because there was only you, only what he’d been needing for ages, only that brilliant and terrifying afterlife awaiting him.

The reflex, then, is not to disappear anymore, but to kneel in.

You say, both hands come to rest around his throat— because you’ve seen him now, seen him the entire time, “If you want it that much, Steve, I can give it to you. A hundred tiny deaths, so sweet and good, until it hurts so bad you really do feel like you’re dying.”

He gulps, Adam’s apple catching each of your fingers on the way up and back down. Says, “Yeah,” before he even registers it. He blurts, going cold and hot and shell-shocked, “I’d let you do anything you want.”

Just then, the bathroom door clatters open and Natasha steps out, towel wrapped around her as she pads across the living space toward her room.

She looks from you to Steve, briefly studying the single foot of distance between your faces, the forgotten music, the way he can’t seem to keep his breathing in order.

The way you’ve got his throat in your hands.

She doesn’t even stop as she passes by, carding her fingers through her hair for a final act of detangling. “Wilson sleeps heavy,” she yawns, which implies, I don’t, so keep whatever the hell it is you two are doing down.

Then she’s gone with only pressure left in her wake. Only his breath fighting with his lungs, his belly tight and hot and his flavorless mouth so fucking starved for yours.

You raise a judgmental eyebrow after he does nothing for a beat too long, too lost in potential backpedaling to advance the plot. “That’s not asking, Steve.”

He’s stupid, dizzy, like he’s been dropped on his head, but not that stupid. He can’t keep his eyes off your mouth. Doesn’t even know if he says it, but tries anyway, “Will you please,” and the rest goes out the window. You lean in. You kiss him better than he could ever have imagined.

He’s living the teenage years he never had.

You kiss him like you’ve got all the time in the world—like it isn’t past four in the morning and the both of you are one silent minute away from slipping into unconsciousness. You kiss lazy and slow and sublime. You press a thumb at the corner of his mouth, touch inside of him, and he wants to do it back. But he wants it right.

“This,” he starts, almost whimpering when you run your teeth beneath his ear, molding your body to his, the two of you staggering into the wall and the end table and poor Natasha across the house must be digging up her earplugs. “I’m not good with—casual—”

“Yeah, you don’t think I know that?” You only pause for enough air to hassle him before taking his hands, your own so small over them, so much power over him, and place them on your waist. “You don’t think I know you’re an all-in kind of guy?”

Of course, you know. Of course, anyone who’s ever heard of Steven Grant Rogers can figure it out. It’s always going to be full throttle for him. Casual isn’t a word that exists in his dictionary, and he won’t compromise on that. He couldn’t do this any other way because now he wants to do it all—to feel you, inside out, across time and the universe and infinity.

He shucks off your clothes, doesn’t mind the grit of the day on your skin, wants it even, to know what you’re like every hour of every day. He tears off his own tac gear, can’t keep his mouth off yours for even a second as he stumbles across the floor.

When he reaches the bed, you climb on top, warm between your legs and so perfect over his thigh. He’s rocking his hips against yours, mouthing at your breasts, grabbing your ass and waist and snarling into your neck like an animal. Lazy and slow twists into frantic and desperate, him throbbing and throbbing against your skin.

He leans back, takes you down with him, bra strap limp at your elbows, panties to the side and he wedges back between the space of his thigh and your sex. He wants—wants.

“You’re warm,” he breathes.

When he pulls out, there’s a sloppy noise following your moan and he rubs his fingers together, awed at the glistening web slipping down to his palm.

One finger becomes two, the coat of slick up to his knuckles and he’s using too much tongue when he kisses you but you don’t mind that at all.

He’s not any kind of virgin but he really feels like one. In the sense that he’s turned on by everything. Too much stimulation. On his skin, in his brain, he’s immersed in one second while predicting the next, seeing the possible ways it could go. Too much pent-up desire swells up the length of his cock as he palms and presses it against the underside of your thigh for contact. His chest is heaving, breath stuttery, eyes wild and unfocused.

You grab his face, pull him away from your collar. You’re only a slight mess, but Christ, what a sight. He must be about fifty times worse because you’re grinning wide, looking him up and down as he arches forward to get you back.

You tut, “If I really wanted to kill you,” you say, “I’d leave you right now.”

“Please don’t,” he manages hoarsely, the fire in his belly lashing out.

“Because I’m so nice.”

“Yes.” And suddenly, his sunny face turns overcast, all the joyful cacophony from before muting. “Yes, you are.”

“Steve,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead with your hands for something to do with them.

He hauls himself up on his elbows, starting to feel upset.

You lean back on your palms, head lolling between your shoulder blades, aggrieved.

“Sorry,” he recants.

“Steve.”

He can’t make eye contact, but you don’t ask him to again, only touching his jaw with a finger and erasing the last few minutes with a nuzzle of your nose to his, like saying don’t worry about it, it’s okay.

Then, more kissing, more of that touch he dreamed about and he wants to kick his past self for missing it, for even daring to fantasize when the real thing is so much more.

The night melts away, each hour lasting a blink or an eternity—he can’t be bothered by it now. He figures the sun’s coming up, though, because there’s that haze of early morning past the gauzy, frayed curtain.

Your palms are on his chest, pawing at him for leverage each time you grind down, each time you swallow him back inside of you. You push, like an act of resuscitation— one, two, one, two— a rhythmic, electric, life-giving staccato beat that has him gasping for air, has him keening and groaning without any thought to how loud he might be.

And, fuck it, fuck it all. He is, admittedly, loud.

Sorry, Nat, he winces mentally before his brain’s wiped clear of all thought.

There’s nothing but you, and you, and you.

And that poor, broken heart inside of him, crushed to fine powder, being reworked into brilliance.

He lies there afterwards, gazing into the ceiling as he breathes back down to calm. There’s the thrall of exhaustion behind his eyes but it’s being overridden by a terrible, traitorous voice that’s telling him how he can’t seem to stop fucking up.

He can’t breathe suddenly, the room collapsing into a pinhole, darkness threatening the edges of his sight.

And then you say, because you always know what to say, “It’s okay to be a little broken,” you stroke his chest. “Baby, that’s how the light gets in.”

And the morning is breaking through fully now, streaks of it clearing up his eyes, cutting him to pieces beneath you.

“Yes,” he agrees and meets you for another lengthy kiss, every shrapnel inch of him raw and searing hot. All his exposed parts—the grief and agony and self-hatred—turned to gold. You touch his dark edges with your fingertips. You trace a new dawn’s light in his hair.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers angst #steve rogers smut

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