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halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months

Text

Black Metal and Bourbon (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.1k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, drug usage, mentions of sex & intimacy, dark jokes/dirty jokes, rumors, gossip, past toxic relationship, a shitty Ex, protective!Simon, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You slapped the damp rag back into the bar top, the fabric heavy with spilled alcohol and other fluids that you didn’t even want to try and think about.

“Jesus.” Your muscles ache, neck stiff from having to try and slap a dart from the ceiling where some jackass had been too drunk to attempt and hit the target. The thing was still up there, as you weren’t about to spend your entire night fruitlessly attempting to fix someone else's blurry mistakes.

You glare over your shoulder, seeing the unconscious form of the man in question being dragged out by his friends presently, his slurring chuckles making him sound like a drowning elephant. Intoxicated yells of goodbye attached to your name make you roll your eyes slowly as they begin being said; you push through the waist-height door to allow you behind the front counter. Your middle finger flips the patrons off before boisterous flirting hits the air.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that—!” Is cut off by the slam of the front doors and you couldn’t be more happy that your boss hadn’t gotten the bolts tightened.

“Don’t get paid enough…” You grumble, eyes slithering over to the tip jar and seeing the overflow of bills and coins as your fingers wrap the neck of a bottle of Vodka.

The profit would be split with your coworker even if she’d been gone for more than half a night getting railed by her new boy toy. You can still remember the look she’d given you as she’d walked out during rush hour, her sharp smirk and smug sheen of ‘you won’t say anything, will you?’

Grumbling under your breath, you slip the Vodka back into its slot on the wall racks, while telling yourself you can’t drink on the job; trying to forget the face of the man that had been attached to hers before they’d stumbled to the back alley.

“Graham Whitaker, you’re such a five-cent sell-out,” you shake your head, sighing heavily into the air that smells like booze and sweat.

Graham Whitaker—your Ex in every sense.

You decided to tell your coworker, if she ever showed back up, that the only reason she was getting dicked-down was because it was that man’s plan to try and make you jealous. As if you’d be caught with your pants down over a prick that had cheated on you more times than you could count before you threw his ass out.

“Not my problem anymore,” your hands move to display themselves in a motion of a settled disagreement before wiping them on your black pants.

It was late now, of course, with the dart-drunk and his friends being the last patrons that you had to serve. But you’d been in this town a long, long time.

Sorrel the construction worker came in an hour, Miss Anna-Lee accompanying for her nightly Gin and Tonic before she talked about her late love from the seventies. From there it was three more regulars before closing activities and fighting to get up tomorrow by noon only to do it all over again.

Over and over and over.

You lean back on the counter and look across the brown wood and warm overhead lights, behind you, the illumination from the drink rack gives off a dead glow.

This was your workplace since you'd been of age, and over the years that seemed to drag, here is where you’d stayed. Nothing ever changed in this town—the biggest shock was when you’d broken up with Graham; people hadn’t stopped talking about it for months.

This place was like a prison of slow death and abandoned dreams. Safe to say this was not what you had envisioned for yourself.

You scoff, pushing off the back counter and snatching your rag back up before you can spiral once more.

The stains weren’t going to buff themselves out.

Maybe it was chance that the mechanics shop across the street had shut down, too few employees and too many drug busts. Chance, or fate, whichever it was you chose to believe in that still-air Sunday, it was still a shock to you when you looked out the front window as Sorrel called goodnight through his heavy accent.

‘SOLD’

“Sold?” Sorrel pauses with one foot out of the door, and he chuckles when he sees where you’re looking in shock, your hand holding a dirty glass.

“Haven’t heard, then? Few newcomers snuck in under our noses—they’ll be running the place; mechanics!”

“New?” You laugh. “Who in their right mind would come here of all places?”

Sorrel shakes his head, grumbling as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “You’ll just have to meet ‘em, Doll. Sure you’ll leave a glowing impression.”

“Take that shit outside, you ass. You know I hate the smell.” A smirk graces your dead eyes.

“Like I said. Glowing.” You glare, but the man slips out of the door quickly and his form passes by the window outside to climb into his truck parked in the street. Two honks from the horn and the older man is off, grizzly-like beard gone just like your boredness.

New arrivals?

You blink at the blackened shadows of the street, illuminated by the lights and their tall tree-like bases—the sway of the planted bushes in the boxes outside. Your head tilts at the abyssal building that was once in working order.

It was a shitshow now, years of abandonment not giving it any helping hand regarding upkeep. The concrete was cracked, the garage door was hanging off of one side, and the front windows had been broken by your Ex’s buddies when they had gotten into a fight like the three-year-olds they were.

You hum lowly. A hard-chucked set of keys, you recalled. You’d seen it from here easily enough. Hadn't lied to Sheriff Russel when he’d come knocking, and, you suppose, that was why even now the immature posse still tried to scare you by following you home at night to this day.

As if everyone didn’t know where everyone else lived already.

But back to the current interest for the night.

“Let’s have a little look-see, then,” you breathe, knowing Miss Anna-Lee would be a good while away like always. You could chance five minutes—it was just across the street after all.

Shuffling outside, making sure to hold the door until it closes slowly, you step down the single step and stick your hands into your pockets. The night wasn’t hot or cold, simply there like a metaphorical cut on your palm; it wasn’t surprising the more you lived with it, but it still made your skin itch.

Feet padding, you cross the dead street and take in the long stretch of unkempt grass, stepping onto the broken curb as your shoes crunch broken glass. Long-gone cigarette butts are scattered here and there, the occasional stray bit of metal or trash. Your eyes shift slowly from one brick that makes up the frame to another, the peeling blue color that could use touching up.

The mural you had painted in middle school had faded a long time ago, just like the great expectations of going into an art career. The eyes of a great gray wolf are only a dark outline that you can’t help but stare at as if a cancer was growing in your brain, hidden behind the reach of green ivy.

Ripping your eyes away, you ignore the cry of tires from across the town and the pop of an exhaust pipe—the roar of either a car chase by the repeat offender Irene Chaney, or by some stupid kid related to Irene Chaney.

“She’s gonna wreck one of these days,” you breathe, looking down at your object of intention—the sold sign in all of its red and white glory.

Your hand snakes out and grabs the cheap plastic, stopping its swaying with a creak and a tilt of your head.

You just couldn’t understand it—who in their right mind would buy this place? The only thing it would be good as is rubble, at least then some rabbit could make its very dusty home here.

Sorrel had mentioned multiple people too.

“Must be up at the B&B then,” your voice carries over the space, the stars twinkling above you as a shadow stands at the end of the cracked driveway. Its hands are in its pockets, tall form bulky with the dark brown leather jacket around its intimidating form. You’re none the wiser, letting the sign drop as you put your hands to your hips. “They better not be fuckin’ dickheads—”

“Mind explainin’ to me why I came to get a drink and now I’m talkin’ to some Bird on my property?”

You startle, gasp peeling out of your lips as your head swivels as if attached to a string which, in turn, tracks back to the source of a heavy Manchester accent. Grass breaks under your feet, as the gravel of the tone makes you cringe. Your eyes lock on the man who looks like he just came back from a warzone.

The first thing you noticed was the balaclava and the skeleton detailing, of course, how could you not—the lower half was an inch below those October eyes of the deepest shade of brown you’d ever witnessed.

Your spine straightens in cautious surprise, hiding the way your hands had clenched as if ready to swing on your Ex if he so happened to be there instead of…this person.

“Excuse me?” You say, quickly, as if it was forced out instead of a scream. Your face pushes that stern expression back to your face as your throat clears out the hoarseness.

A covered head tilts with its small sliver of pale flesh visible to you—the strong bones of his nose bridge and hidden jawline. The bulk of large muscles and thighs spoke to hard labor, and his booted feet shifted below loose black cargo pants.

The mask alone caused you a hint of worry in those few seconds of fast study of this phantom’s anatomy.

He blinks at you slowly, raising the small corner of a dark brow from a respectable distance away.

“Said you’re trespassing, yeah?” Your face gains a sheen of heat, and you glance at your bar behind the stranger, at the bright burn of the lights.

Taking a stiff breath, your lips pull into a frown as you try to hide your embarrassment.

“Well…a holler would have been just fine.” A fake glare is put on. “What’s with sneaking up on a woman in the middle of the night? Are you some creep or something?”

Those dark eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment you don’t know if you’ve encountered a statue or not because he doesn’t speak for a moment.

A puff of breath from his nose.

“You the bartender, then?” You motion to your nametag above your left breast and grunt. His gaze homes in before he simply says, “Good.”

Without another word, the man turns stiffly before he steadily begins making his way back to the bar; crossing the street with a swift check of the road. You watch him saunter off, jaw slackened and your cheeks hot. The span of his shoulder blades levels out as he rolls his shoulders.

Where did this guy even come from? The answer was simple, the bed and breakfast was only four buildings down and to the left. Guy must have come in for a late-night serenade with a bottle.

A quick glance is thrown back to the rundown property behind you before you growl and hurry after this individual who currently pushes open the faulty doors of your work. Jogging across the asphalt, you catch the thing right before it closes and slip inside with a puff of air and a shoved-down snap of a sarcastic ‘thanks’.

Yet, the man is already pulling back one of the bar stools and easing into it when you make it behind the counter. You study him yet again.

“You’re one of the new mechanics?” Brown-Eyes blinks at you.

Without missing a beat, he goes, “Bourbon—Kentucky.”

“I asked a question,” you cross your arms, not even for a moment looking away as the silence of the bar sneaks in around you and this strange creature. “Least you can do for a lady is answer it when you act like a damn cat and sneak up on her.”

“You were on my property.” This is leveled out through a grunt, and after a moment of staring, you scoff.

“I was curious about who had bought such a piece of junk. Guess I have my answer.” Your hand grabs the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, the amber liquid inside sloshing as you turn back and put it into the wood. There’s a fraction of a dead tease that makes the man seem more human than he looks.

“Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?”

“I prefer a solar flair.” You comment dryly and set an engraved glass next to the bottle. Something flickers past the mechanic’s eyes, a quirk to the fabric of his balaclava.

“On The Rocks or Neat?” Your brow raises and you tilt your head.

“That even a bloody question? Neat.” You snort, splaying your hands before you grab the bottle as he watches you blankly.

“Sorry, it's kind of my job to ask.” Your hand shifts and you pour a reasonable amount into the glass, knowing exactly when to stop. As you shift the bottle away, you leave it on the bar top and gently push the beverage to him as his gloved fingers take it up. You repress a small smile at the matching bone gloves to go with the detailing on his balaclava.

“Bartenders always have this much attitude?” The glass is kept in front of his person, carefully held in his large grip.

Moving back, you go to lean on the back counter. This night was quickly taking an interesting turn. “Only if they’re me.” You sigh. “You have a name, then, Brown-Eyes?”

The individual snorts at the title, but his eyes narrow on you at the same time as if he was held hesitant at the ability for you to make him. He had an air of casual tension around him, like a dog on a thin leash that can only just manage to meet others and stay his fangs.

Danger, you pinpoint. The man felt like danger. A riptide; surface tension.

Then why was it that you felt more and more intrigued by the second?

“Simon Riley,” he eases, staring with those numb eyes of his before he tips the glass slightly your way. With the thumb on the same hand that holds the bourbon, he hooks it under his face covering and pulls it up until he can connect the glass to his lips and take down a sip as his Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow.

On the way back, his thumb drags the fabric back to its previous position as if nothing had happened. The image of pale skin and stubble sticks with you, and your eyes shift away quickly without you realizing it as the glass is returned to the counter.

“Well, Simon Riley,” you mutter, “welcome to nowhere.”

The man hums, eyes looking you over in a single glance before the gaze shifts to the wall behind your head. He says nothing, and the door opens to the next three familiar customers as you move to take their order. As you slip out from behind the barrier, you grumble under your breath before you slip past Simon to the corner booth.

“For the record, Riley, I do enjoy seein’ that old place getting taken on. Don’t run it into the ground, would you? And if you need a fresh coat of paint, for the love of all things holy, don’t go down to the Schafersons’ place, you come right to me.”

Walking casually, you greet the three ladies from the downtown library with a smirk and an easy comment about if their husbands knew they were out so late, to which you promptly got cursed out on good faith. Sharing a few chuckles, you get them started on what they need, all the while feeling those brown orbs now following subtly from the side of their sockets, intrigued.

Simon wasn’t sure what to make of you, and the same could be said about this town as a whole. A woman with such a future trapped behind her eyes, adventure in her blood, why were you here in a place with nothing promised for it except dying businesses and old faces? This was a place where people came to hang up the coat, not try and rip it off of its peg.

The children born here with ambitions leave, that was the common denominator. Even Simon could see that. But you? Here you were.

The man peels his eyes away, taking up his glass again and re-hooking his thumb to his mask. Amber liquid seeps into his mouth, pulling the scars on his lips and cheeks as he swallows it down as easily as water. The bourbon pools in his stomach, sending its honied effects to the back of his mind; it would take much more to get drunk, but that wasn’t what Simon was looking for.

Perhaps he was just out tonight wondering why he’d left the military for a mechanic’s job and come out here—asking anything for a sign that this was the right decision even as his head echoed with the screams and the gunfire.

And then he’d seen you standing in front of the fuckin’ worst mechanics shop he’d ever seen that he’d signed the property deed for not three hours ago. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at the place before buying it—Price was responsible for the official financial actions, and the man had made him swear that it was worth it.

But fuck, he’d just needed a way out of the city. Too loud, too unpredictable in that previous shop of theirs right by the busy street. MacTavish and Garrick had been easy to convince; they’d all served together before and had no family over here either.

A new start thousands upon thousands of miles away.

Your head pulls up from where you chat with the librarians, hearing the slam of the door as the draft wafts in from outside—a small breeze has picked up.

Inside walks in your very ruffled, and very well-pleased, coworker, Celina Bell.

She brushes down her top and black skirt, blinking around with blown pupils until her eyes lock on you. A poisonous smile meets your eyes as you raise a brow slowly—Lord, if this girl didn’t realize that fucking your Ex over some workplace squabble wasn’t something to be proud of, she was really a lost cause.

Simon only glances over his shoulder before turning back around and tapping his fingers against his glass absentmindedly.

“You alright?” You ask out of due diligence, sparing the ladies an apology look for them being interrupted.

“Better than alright,” Celina chuckles, walking over with a limp in her step. “Just scored Graham Whitaker.” She fake pauses, blinking as if in realization that a child would know was taking the piss. Your face is stuck in the expression of boredom. “Wait…you two were involved for a few years, right? Oh, I’m really sorry—I had no clue.”

“Yeah,” you look her up and down and blink at the disheveledness. “Sure. Quite the score.” A pause, her lips pulling back into that smug smirk that reminds you of a weasel. Yet your next words leave her face devoid of blood. “You know he got Chlamydia from Stacy Green a week ago, right?”

A pin could be heard dropping. Brown eyes are firmly stuck to the scene, unsure what to make of it. The ladies stifle their laughter.

“...W-what?”

“Y’know,” you motion a hand to her lower body, walking past her back to the bar. “STD. Chlamydia. Results in—”

“I know what the fuck an STD is, you bitch.”

“Woah,” you whistle, “language.” Your body returns to the counter as loud stuttering is left behind you, the frantic patting of a pocket to look for a phone before enraged feet rush to the exit. “Need a refill, Riley?”

“It can wait,” Simon utters slowly. The door slams shut.

You chuckle, shrugging. “Alright, suit yourself.”

The man takes the names you drop and files them away, slotting them into his mental database for when he needs to work with these people. Yet, there’s already a sour impression just off of comments alone. Who better to get your news from than a bartender?

You know everyone's dirty little secrets.

You diligently serve the drinks to the librarians, placing them down carefully before Simon once more has a re-filled glass of his drink. He moves it slightly up in a cheer and gives you a stare as you wipe your hands with a clean rag.

“Seems you know everything ‘round ‘ere.” His accent is what draws you in, and you find yourself eager to hear more from him.

“I’m easy to talk to,” you respond, shrugging and leaning on the counter a foot or two away as you both watch the other. A smirk overtakes your features. “And I am the one that gives people the drinks.”

“So, what I’m hearing,” Simon raises a brow. “Is that you get ‘em dunker than a man on his execution date.”

You click your tongue, tilting your head in a teasing manner while maintaining a serious face.

“Afraid you’ll spill your secrets, Riley?”

His eyes flash at you, and his lips flicker into a smirk you can hear in his voice.

“It’ll take more than two glasses of Bourbon to get me talking, Sunshine.”

Your face shifts away, but the sudden fight with a smile leaves you nearly breathless.

Who is this man?

“Why are you here,” your question meets his ears as he takes back the last of his drink, stomach filled for the night and his searching, for the moment, abated.

The glass meets the bar top.

He grunts. “Needed a drink.”

Your lips pull in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re terrible at answering questions.”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Fuck off,” you grumble, shaking your head as a low chuckle makes your insides swirl.

A stack of bills is placed on the counter, and the man stands, grabbing the hood of his black sweatshirt and pulling it up. His gloved hands go to the pockets of his leather jacket with a roll of his wide shoulders. From under the hood, the white of the painted mask glares out from under the shadows that now shroud him.

You both sneak a glance at the mechanic's shop—a clear view from the front window.

“See you around, then?” Your head is tilted at him, blinking. You hum under your breath. “I’m going to keep asking you why you showed up in this town, Riley, and I won’t stop until I get an answer.”

Simon quirks a brow, eyes glinting with interest. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this outside of his boys?

“Look forward to it,” he utters slowly. With a blink and one more dead look, he’s already out the front door and walking back down the street—disappearing like a ghost the same way he had appeared.

Picking up his cash and counting through it, the librarians across the way snicker, and one calls out, “So, the new mechanic, huh?”

“One more peep and I’m doubling your tab.”

But…you did have to admit, he had been charming…hadn’t he? At least someone here could juggle your attitude.

—

Three days pass with no sighting of Simon Riley, but just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean you weren’t witness to his aftermath.

The shop across the street was practically fixed up while you were asleep.

Where there had been overgrown grass, there was now a cut lawn getting watered by the reach of an angry sprinkler. The fast movement of the spray reaches the sidewalk that was, somehow, still there under all that trash hiding away like a criminal. Stray bricks are gone and stacked into a pile as you pause outside the bar, staring wide-eyed with your breath caught in your throat in the late morning air.

The ivy over your mural was peeled back—that faded wolf’s gaze locking with yours, unyielding to the calls of time as its canid body stool as a silent sentinel.

But, on the third day, as you’re going on break before the night sets in, you manage to not only see Simon again but meet two of the other men who’d moved here.

You pick up your feet and jog across the street, hopping the curb as you blink, impressed at the open garage with its fixed and oiled bay door. Inside it was still dusty—remnants of what was left behind in the corners and scattered. But it was getting there. Quickly.

“Didn’t know Simon was goin’ to sign on such a piece of rusted shite—where’s the fuckin’ outlets?” Gritted Scottish. You stick your hands into your pockets and enter the large opening.

“If I remember,” you speak, finding the two men standing slightly off to the side as the bulkier one with a mohawk carries a series of extension cords. Cobalt and brown eyes dart to you in shock—the second man of darker complexion sharing a glance with the other in swift confusion. “When you manage to find them, they’ll all be burst.”

Blank stares are sent your way.

“Kids would come by and watch ‘em spark when they were bored. No one really cared enough to stop them.” A clearing of a throat meets your ears as you study the room more.

It was small, with only one main garage for all the repairs, but that wasn’t new to you. The motorcycles were, though.

Five in total all parked and resting next to one another near the back wall, all in varying shades of black and gray. Your lips twitch at the sight, imagining your late-night acquaintance riding one of them—you dare say that it fit him quite well, and you weren’t that surprised at all by this.

Biker mechanics. It fits the script.

“Who’s this then?” The Scot asks you, raising a brow as a friendly smirk pulls his mouth up. “Can’t remember bookin’ any repairs today, Ma’am, might have to wait a few more days before we get it all up and runnin’.”

“I can see. No, I work just across the street,” you spare a friendly smile.

“So you’re the bartender? The bartender.” The second man speaks, grinning kindly as he searches through a toolbox on a small table. He hums, looking playful. “So that’s why Ghost was gone so long.”

Ghost…? Did they mean Simon?

The skeletal accents suddenly make far more sense.

“Johnny MacTavish,” A hand is leveled out ahead of you, and you take it casually with a muttering of your own name. “Soap’s just fine as well.”

Your brow quirks, but you only share an amused nod.

The other individual stands and makes his way over, tall and leaner as to where Soap’s more blatant strength is.

“Kyle Garrick—Gaz. Pleasure.”

“Just came over to introduce myself,” your hand shifts back into your pockets as you motion with your head back to the bar. “I’m on my break.”

“Ah,” Soap’s hands move the cables he holds as he loops them into a more storable shape vertically around his elbow and palm. “Last one to meet then is Price—man’s in town gettin’ lunch for us,” he grunts under his breath. “Hopefully a damn set of zip-ties, too.”

“Zip-ties, Mate?” Gaz breathes a chuckle with a fix of the backward ball cap on his head. “C-4 would bloody help more. At least then we can have a clean starting point.”

“I think we’re fresh out of C-4, unfortunately,” you huff a laugh, motioning around as the men smirk at you, Johnny snorting a chuckle. “You guys have done a pretty good job so far. I can’t remember when it looked this nice in here.”

“Well, we’re honored, Bonnie,” Soap tilts his head as he ties off the cord with one of the ends. “Makin’ me blush.”

“If Simon had just looked at the place before buying it, we might have been able to open sooner.” Gaz huffs, thinning his lips as he glances over the broken window and the peeling paint—the door to the main lobby that has a punched dent in it. “Couldn’t be worse.”

“Well then it can only get better,” you breathe, shrugging.

Gaz huffs affectionately. “Not wrong there, then.”

You lean forward, tilting your head. “You’ll find I rarely am.”

“Second time you’ve snuck on,” a Manchester accent scares you once more, head snapping to the side as the light spills in from the garage opening. “This a pattern, Sunshine?”

Simon’s brows are raised as those October eyes lock with yours. Gaz and Soap share a look, smirking before the Scot peels off to find a place to store his belongings.

“Where have you been?” Gaz asks as you glare at the masked man for once again coming up behind you.

A bag is presented, leaning off three fingers as a glance gets thrown past you.

“Down the street. Needed these made.” The bag is tossed and Kyle catches it easily.

You watch as the crinkly plastic is opened and the dark fabric of four black pairs of overalls is produced, each embroidered with their respective names.

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Johnny pipes up, brows furrowed.

“Looks like you got fuckin’ mugged in ‘em.” Simon slides his attention back to you as Johnny curses with a glint of amusement in his blues.

“Aren’t open yet.” Your face peels back to a stiff annoyance.

“I can see that, Riley.” You motion to the other men. “I was being polite.”

He grunts while walking past, muttering through a brief smirk, “Doubt that.”

Your jaw slackens, but you only growl and hold your tongue as you glance the mechanic over. He still had his leather jacket, but a loose shirt took the place of a hoodie.

“You ready to answer my question?” Simon locks those eyes with yours from over his shoulder before sliding up to the black form of one of the motorcycles.

Visible to the naked eye, you take in the lack of fairings around the frame—eyeing the pure black metal of the entire engine from any angle that you might move to you’d still be able to see. It was nice. Perfect, even; damn expensive too. While the thought was enticing, you can’t imagine Simon riding it—he seemed more rugged, more…classy.

“Negative.” You roll your eyes, but Soap speaks before you can retort.

“Finally takin’ out the CB1000R, Ghost? ‘Bout time.” The brute throws a blank look at the Scot as Gaz utters to you a few feet away before a casual ‘no’ is leveled out through the space.

“He got it months ago,” Kyle’s eyes crinkle. “Can’t seem to take it out for a ride yet. No one knows what he’s waiting on.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” your words confide. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was a fucking fortune—no use collecting dust is what I say.” You hum, shifting back to Simon who taps the seat of the CB1000R before moving past it to an older cruiser with dents and dirt along the sides. This was more him you thought. Rugged and more dated than the first; something you use on long rides to nowhere.

“Maybe he’s just waiting for a special occasion,” you guess.

“Better get on with it.” Gaz moves away with a shrug and a huff.

Your lips pull in a small smile, and you watch Simon pull keys from his jacket and insert them as he moves to straddle the larger body of the cruiser, easing into it slowly. Staring, you think about how far that bike could take you—what you could see with it on the open road of possibilities and whipping air. Where would you go? Anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere.

Eyes shifting away from the motorcycle, they widen as they softly meet Simon’s own—locked for a moment in a staring contest. His lids barely pull down, studying something. You clear your throat and exhale.

Sensing your company was most likely a hindrance at this point, you turn to leave as the engine flares—you wave easily behind your back with a call of well-wishes.

“Come have a drink one time, boys, yeah? I need stories that come from strangers for once.” A ruckus of ‘affirmatives’ and ‘will do, Ma’ams’ sparks up from Johnny and Kyle as you exit to the roar of the motorcycle behind you, your feet kicking a stray rock into the grass before you make it to the curb.

Before you can cross, a steel body blocks your path.

“I’ll be needing a drink later tonight, then.” Simon watches from atop his seat, one booted foot to the ground to steady himself as he comes to a slow halt. His fingers curl the handles, twitching.

“Let me guess,” you tilt your head, smirking, “Bourbon?”

“A woman after my own heart,” he draws numbly, October browns as dead as mulch. As dead as dirt.

“And do you have a heart, Simon Riley?” You question, blinking at him as your mind tells you to walk away. Your brain doesn’t need a repeat of Graham—you already had enough problems on your plate right now besides some attraction to this stranger. This push and pull made your heart jerk, even when you know it shouldn’t.

You’d only just met him.

The man hums, thighs shifting on the black metal frame. He says the easiest answer he can.

“A cold one.”

Pushing on the ground, he takes off down the road back into the main town for whatever errand he was on this time. Your eyes follow until the figure is no more than a memory of the smell of oil and the metallic tinge of caution.

—

You hated the smell of cigarette smoke.

Like a pregnant woman’s aversion to the scent of meat, you grew nauseous at the very hint of cheap tobacco and paper on the air—loathed the burn of it. It had to do with your Ex, of course. The man had been a habitual chain smoker, lighting up one after the other until you had to leave his house entirely to puke on the front lawn. If you thought about it hard enough, you could still taste the ash on your tongue from when he kissed you after lighting up.

But that was only one of the reasons you’d never moved in with him despite being together for years—the cheating was the other problem.

Girl after girl, broken promise after broken promise, you’d still held onto him as if he deserved it. Hell, all that Graham Whitaker deserved were the copious amounts of STDs he probably had after sleeping with as many women as he could to try and get back at you. You didn’t have ample reason to ban him from the bar—him or his loud-mouth friends, you should say—so the problem, like a bad rash, persisted. Cars following you after work and all.

But, the here, the now.

Simon had, in fact, come in for that drink that night—just as he had for the last week up until the grand opening of the boys’ shop. You’d both spoken throughout these encounters and formed some sarcastic and sly-looked bond that the other locals couldn’t understand. You had even learned about his military service.

The both of you were just…different, people said. No one else really argued with it.

You finally met John Price before the party that you’d heard from Simon that Soap and Gaz had been eager to host for the town—‘come meet the bastards that bought that old shitty building and see how they fixed it up all by themselves. You should come and give us your money.’

It was there that a proposal was offered.

“Simon says you told him to come to you about paint.” John was late thirties, keeping a well-trimmed beard with a mustache that was the same shade of brunette as his head of hair. Tall, as well as built, he had found you as you were closing up the bar early for the town-wide party, Celina having already slipped out.

You were dressed in a long skirt and a nice shirt for the occasion.

“John Price, I’d imagine,” you comment, stuffing your keys into your pocket as your purse hangs from your shoulder. A throaty grunt tells you all you need to know as you move down the step. “Yeah, I did say that. Do you need some?” You look over his shoulder to the still peeling color on the outside of the bricks as the men are dragging out folding chairs and long tables. There was the clatter of laughter and loud calls.

John’s blue eyes shift behind him, and he raises a brow slowly.

“Thinkin’ we’d just hire you,” a side-eye. “If you’d be interested.”

That was a surprise.

You begin walking across the street, the man beside you and awaiting your answer.

“Hire me?” Your voice asks, but you aren’t against the idea. “How do you know I’ll be any good at it,” you chuckle in question.

“Simon says he found your initials next to the mural—the wolf.” Your feet pause, stuttering for a second before you catch yourself. The blood on your face stops its circulation in shock. “Not a bad piece, then.” John grunts. “...Think you can do a skull and wings?”

So, you sat with your sketchbook in front of the wall, a portable camping chair below your bare feet as your legs folded under you. Your slip-on sneakers rest in the green grass, kicked off with a sigh. Blinking, the chatter and mumble from the party surround you in a sheen of community and calmness. You can pinpoint every voice, every story being re-told as if new news when it goes in one ear and out the other like a breeze on the wind.

Humming under your breath as the sun is low in the sky, you hear the silent feet still from over your shoulder. A smirk flickers your lips.

“Snooping, Riley?”

“My building.” He grumbles, “Seein’ what you plan to do to it.”

You snort, looking over your shoulder and smiling. “If I recall, you’re the one who took up my offer and told Price about it.”

Simon was dressed in cargos and a compression shirt pushed up to his elbows, the swell of his forearms on full display along with the scars and…tattoos. You blink at them, the swirl of black skulls and guns; barbed wire and dog tags—the dark images that fit him as his motorcycles did on his left limb. Brown eyes flicker from yours to the painted wolf.

“Good at that,” the man says, balaclava shifting.

Your expression slowly shifts to something far softer than you can remember it ever being; inside of your chest, your heart tightens.

“Thank you.”

He levels you, the corners of his eyes easing out of the numb nothingness to show something akin to shielded affection. Molten sunlight on the side of his face, making the color of his irises glow amber. Simon nods to your sketchbook, clearing his throat.

“I able to see it, then, or is it some secret?” You huff.

“Come here,” your hand motions, palm brushing away eraser shavings as your fingers get stained with graphite. The shadow comes closer, leaning over you as the scent of oil pools in your gut. You blink at the side visage, swiftly looking back down to your sketchbook as a slight wind ruffles your skirt.

“Price was talking about a skull with wings beside it—later on he made mention of a sword through the top.” While you explain the concept, you inadvertently study the tattoos on the flesh beside you, one scarred hand coming out to lightly grab the armrest of your chair as Simon leans even closer.

As your face begins burning, breath caught in your throat, he blinks down at the image as he looms, head tilting.

Simon breathes, chest rising and falling as his eyes go far off. You know the symbol means something, though you also have a good guess that it’s related to this group’s time in the service.

He hums, and you see his lips open, the rough grate of his vocal cords as he begins to form words for you.

“It’s—”

Your name is loudly called from across the way, both Simon’s and your heads snapping back as you both realize exactly how close you two have become. The stealing of the other’s warmth like wraiths of hidden longing ceases when you wrench your attention to the man you wished would leave you alone.

Graham raises the dark bottle of a cheap beer from the dollar store in your direction, walking over. Now, your Ex wasn’t anything spectacular, but even you had to admit it was the best you could do around here if you didn’t want to date men only five years from the grave. Graham was tall, strong, and heavy-willed like a bear. In the day hours, he worked as a farmhand down the way.

Your body tenses, eyes going tight. Simon sees.

“Who’s this,” he asks slowly, fingers twitching.

“Ex,” you mutter, grimacing. “He’s going to make a scene.”

Already gazes had started drifting over, conversations lapsing into mute silence as orbs shifted to three different individuals all stuck in the same storm.

Simon grunts, standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, legs shifting below him and thighs trading weight. His moving leaves half of you kept firmly behind him and your eyes study his stance as you notice that fact. You blink, and feel something stir in your ribcage, blooming like a flower.

“Hey, Bartender!” Graham takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it as his fingers fumble over the neck of the bottle. “Though I’d seen you over here missing all the action. Nothing’s changed I see.”

Your face pulls in with disgust.

“Graham, you’re drunk. Go home.” It was true—his words were slurring, his limbs loose with drink. He smirks at you, taking a drag of his cancer stick and puffing it directly at you. Your hand snaps to your nose to try and cover the horrendous smell.

“Nah,” he breathes. “I’m here with Celina, see’s a pretty nice lookin’ broad don’t you think? Not as good of a fuck as you, but, hey, I take what I get.” His expression shifts to hidden anger and Simon takes a heavy step forward before he can finish the rest of his sentence, hands shifting to grasp his biceps harder. Those browns simmer with low ferality—a warning.

The air gets heavy.

“Pretty good little lie you spread about me gettin’ that shit from Stacy.”

“That was a lie?” You drawl lazily and watch your Ex’s eyes flash with rage. But he should know you don’t take shit from him anymore. “Oh,” your fingers tighten over your flesh and make you sound stuffy. “Maybe I heard wrong, you’re right. You don’t have Chlamydia.” You glare. “It was Gonorrhea, wasn’t it?”

“Bitch!” Graham barks, moving forward, but before anyone can realize it, Simon already has him shoved back with a stone-like push to your Ex’s chest.

“Not smart, Mate.” The former soldier utters, arms falling back to his sides. The party by this point had entirely halted in sharp gasps and bated breath.

Graham’s beer bottle shatters as it hits the ground, the grass not able to absorb the way it slams down to dirt. Your wide eyes stay stuck on Simon’s figure, who’s now entirely hiding your view of your Ex—the wide expansive back that shows the writhe of his shoulder blades and how his spine shifts under the tight shirt.

Your hand lowers from your face.

“What the fuck?!” Graham spits. “You made me drop my fucking drunk, man!”

“Be thankful that was all, yeah?” Simon’s dead voice is a cold chill on a winter evening. Any sane person would turn and leave immediately. “Cut your losses.”

No one breaths for a long minute, and you can see the other new mechanics inching closer from the sides. All of the locals are deep into the scene, fingers to their lips in surprise. There’s going to be talk tomorrow—the bar will be busy.

“Graham,” you try to sway the pig-headed man once more from behind Simon. “Go home.”

“So this is what I get,” your Ex spits, head trying to peek over the larger man’s frame to look at you. Simon’s hands clench into tight fists. “I’m with you for years and this is how you treat me? I gave you everything!”

“Those are years that I never want to think about again,” you say with a stiff finality. “And it’ll be a cold day in hell before you ever see me worrying about where you are or who you fuck.”

Knowing that the situation is over and done with, Simon takes a single step forward and leans into the man.

“You heard ‘er,” he levels, unblinking. “Scatter.” Simon’s accent made it sound more like a threat, but maybe it was.

Graham growls and takes a long drag from his cigarette, staring Simon down.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” But all he does is turn sharply on his heel and stomp away, crossing the street to his truck before he opens and closes the door with a violent slam. From across the way, Celina gasps and calls his name, but the engine has already started and Graham is down the road with a roar from the exhaust.

Everyone is watching you and Simon, and the staring peels back your skin until Simon grumbles and grabs your arm.

Blinking in shock, he only gives you a moment to steady yourself and slip on your shoes before he drags you inside the garage. You huff and look up at him as you close your sketchbook–trying to not look at those tattoos again. Your finger wanted to trace them—to study the ink down to the layer of skin where it ended and became red flesh and weeping veins. How far up his left arm did they go? Did they only stay at his forearm, or up to his shoulder?

Inside he lets you go, head slightly tilted to the outside as the sounds of hushed whispering pick back up; hurried and filled with electricity. Simon grunts, blinking.

A heated silence encompasses the two of you, and as your eyes lock, neither can speak for a moment.

“Sorry about that,” you glance at your feet. “Should have guessed he’d show up and do something.”

“Don’t apologize,” Simon crosses his arms again, boots righting themselves. “That’s not your fault that some bastard can’t act right, yeah? Forget about it, it’s all nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have to be involved—”

“Bloody cut it out, would you?” Simon glares, brows pulling in. “I said it’s nothing.”

He was very passionate about this, it seemed.

You sigh, shaking your head before a tiny chuckle makes the mechanic blink in confusion. “Suppose I can call you my guard dog now, huh?”

“Piss off,” you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand while your eyes narrow down. Simon's own crinkle along the edges, lowering his hands to push them into his pockets.

A second leads into another, but neither of you has any particular interest in re-joining the others, even if Soap is smugly passing looks and Price smirks into his drink. Gaz fixes his hat while he tips back a beer bottle, hiding a glint of amusement.

Simon’s voice lowers, seeming to hover closer.

“You alright, then?” You nod, face heating up as you stare at his shadow-tainted visage and how the face-covering obscured him from your eager eyes.

“I’m used to his drama. I have no problem giving it back.” Simon hums, October browns glinting like Halloween lights.

“Seems so.” He pauses, and pushes out a joking, “Not surprised, Sunshine.”

“Good, Brown-Eyes,” you lean back on your heels and smirk. “I’d be offended if you were, with all we’ve been talking to one another.”

“Getting familiar, Bartender?”

“Of course, Mechanic. Haven’t you heard?” He tilts his head, prodding you on as his eyes soften that candle-like smidge. “I keep everyone’s secrets—and you still have to tell me yours.”

Simon chuffs a low chuckle, and the fabric of his mask pulls as he shakes his skull. “Maybe one day, yeah? Need to stick ‘round to know ‘em.”

Then perhaps this town was worth wasting away in.

—

“Bastard won’t cause any problems, will he?”

“No, no, he’s too much of a coward to try and get back at anyone. He won’t do anything.”

TAGS:

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tiaramania · 1 year

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TIARA ALERT: Archduchess Sophia of Habsburg-Lorraine wore Princess Maria Anna of Bourbon Parma's Diamond Tiara for Le Bal des Débutantes at the Shangri La Hotel in Paris on 26 November 2022.

#Tiara Alert #Archduchess Sophia #Habsburg #Habsburg Lorraine #Austria #Austrian Imperial Family #tiara #Le Bal des Debutantes

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ereardon · 1 year

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Part One: The Night Before

Summary: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw has been your best friend for a decade. He’s also your fiancé’s best man. So when he shows up at your hotel room the night before your wedding, it’s just because he’s your friend, right?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader

Warnings: Angst, pining, weddings, cursing

WC: 2.9K

Series masterlist here; part two here

There was a knock at the door.

You sighed and stood up from where you had been sitting at the desk writing your note to Jeremy for tomorrow.

Maybe it was Anna with the steamer for your veil. Or your dad asking about the schedule for the forty-ninth time. Or your mother with an emergency that definitely wouldn’t warrant her reaction: the florist only has medium pink not light pink roses or the wedding planner accidentally wrote cream china instead of bone-colored china and now the three-hundred person reception hall would be wrong.

Except you didn’t care. You didn’t care about any of the details.

Not anymore.

The knocking continued.

“One second!” you huffed, scurrying barefoot across the bridal suite. It was enormous and you simply flung the door open without looking through the peephole first. “Rooster?”

Bradley gave you a small grin. He was still wearing his jacket and tie from the rehearsal dinner, but the tie was now loosened and hanging around his muscular neck. “Hey Ace. Can I come in?”

You nodded and stepped to the side of the door. Bradley stepped inside carefully, walking into the living room of the suite.

“Shit, nice room,” he murmured.

You shrugged. “Dad said to do whatever I wanted. And how many times do you get married? One night in a hotel suite isn’t going to break the bank.”

Rooster nodded. “Yeah.”

You crossed the room, brushing a hand over his back as you grazed past him toward the wet bar. “Want a drink?”

“Sure. What do you have?”

“Wine, gin, bourbon, vodka, whiskey, soda, champagne. Whatever you want, babe.”

“Bourbon on the rocks.”

“You got it.” You grabbed a rocks glass and dropped in a few large cubes from the built-in ice maker before splashing a generous pour of Blanton’s over it. Despite the fact that you had promised yourself you were done drinking after the rehearsal dinner, you poured yourself a glass of champagne and sunk down on the couch next to Bradley, holding out his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Bradley whispered, tipping the glass back and pouring half of it down his throat. You sipped carefully at your champagne flute, eyes wide.

“What’s up, Roo?” you asked softly, hand reaching out on the back of the white silk couch, touching him. He curled his fingertips around yours.

“Do you remember the night we met?” he asked.

You laughed. “Of course I do. You spilled an entire tray of tequila shots on my shoes.”

It had been a hot June Saturday. You were out with a few girlfriends. You had just finished your junior year at Georgetown and were back home in Annapolis.

You were standing at the bar, ordering another round, when the oaf next to you turned too quickly, taking down a waitress and her entire platter of tequila shots. They rained down on your feet. Thankfully you were wearing sneakers, so no glass penetrated your skin, but you smelled like the inside of a Mexican brothel.

“Dude?” you exclaimed, looking up at him.

Bradley Bradshaw looked back with wide eyes, cheeks flushed with pink embarrassment. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed and before you realized it, you were swept into his arms and he was carrying you bride-style into the unisex bathroom in the back.

“Hey man?” you asked, tapping his shoulder. “Want to put me down?”

“Sorry, yeah,” he said, setting you down gently. You tugged at your denim shorts and gave him a funny look.

“Why’d you do that?”

“In case there was glass,” he said softly. “Didn’t want you to step on it and hurt yourself.”

You peeled off your white Keds, which were soaked and now a faint yellow color, and lifted one leg to dunk your foot into the gross sink. “You just go around pouring tequila on girls and then scooping them up and hauling them into dark bathrooms?”

“I, uh,” Bradley stuttered and you laughed. He caught your gaze in the mirror and laughed with you. “I’m Bradley.”

“Y/N,” you said. “Now are you gonna help me wash my shoes or what?”

He picked up the Keds from the floor and took them to the other sink, rinsing them under cold water and pressing soap against the cloth sides. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see that waitress standing there.”

You shrugged. “It’s fine. Not the first time I’ve had a drink spilled on me. I’ve been to my share of college parties.”

He grinned. “Where do you go?”

“Georgetown,” you replied and he raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be a senior in the fall.”

“Georgetown,” he repeated. “Impressive.”

“Not really.” You switched feet, lathering the cheap pink soap over the toes of your left foot. “How about you, tequila boy? What’s your story?”

“Naval Academy,” he said and you peered at him. It made sense, you guessed. He was tall, lean, and muscular. He had deft hands, you could tell just from the way he was cleaning your shoes. And he had a quick reaction to scooping you up and hauling you into the bathroom, despite your protests.

“Just at the bar trying to sleep with townies?” you asked.

Bradley practically choked on his own spit. He caught your cackle in the mirror and turned to you with a grin. “God, you’re something, aren’t you?”

“I’m drunk is what I am,” you replied.

He held the shoes under the automatic hand dryer and you watched in silence as Bradley rotated them evenly. After a few minutes, he held them out to you. “Not perfect, but it’ll do.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, reaching out and grabbing them. You leaned against the cool white porcelain sink to slide each shoe on, bending over to tie the laces. When you straightened up, Bradley was staring at you. You crossed your arms in front of your chest, leaning back against the sink. “So, sailor,” you said softly and he grinned. “Buy me a drink to make up for the truckload of tequila you dumped on me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bradley placed his hand on your low back and steered you out back into the bar. Someone had cleaned up the tequila catastrophe and you stepped right back to where you had been standing before the incident, Bradley’s fingers still warm on your back. They slid off as he went to grab his wallet to open a tab and you looked up at him. He was attractive in an entirely unexpected way. There were small scars that peppered the left side of his face and you wanted to reach out and trail your fingers over them.

He handed you a glass — a vodka soda this time — and you smiled at him. Bradley smiled back.

And then a hand appeared on his shoulder and you looked up. A guy with the whitest teeth and perfect Dr. McDreamy hair stared back at you. “Bradshaw, who’s your friend?”

He was gorgeous. You felt your blood freeze for a moment.

And then Bradley’s voice pulled you out of your coma.

“Y/N, this is Jeremy. He’s my roommate at the academy.”

Jeremy smiled and you felt your heart speed up. “Nice to meet you.”

You left that night on Jeremy’s arm. He brought you back to his room at the academy; you were staying for the summer with your parents and bringing a boy home that you had met two hours earlier would have sent up red flags to your father.

After, you got dressed and left Jeremy asleep on his bed. You cracked the door open carefully, closing it behind you with a soft thud.

And then you almost tripped on a leg jutting out into the hallway.

“Fuck!” You stumbled but righted yourself at the last moment. Bradley gazed up at you with tired eyes. “Bradley?”

He nodded and stood up, wiping at his eyes. His Hawaiian shirt was rumpled and it looked like he had been asleep against the wall.

“Were you sleeping?”

“Just closed my eyes for a second,” he whispered.

You looked down at your watch and groaned. “Shit.” It was almost four in the morning. Your dad would definitely be looking for you. You looked back at him. “I’m sorry.”

Bradley shrugged. “It’s fine. Happens.”

You looked back at the door, forlorn. So it happened a lot. You shouldn’t have been surprised. You had slept with Jeremy after three rounds of drinks. Why would you think that wasn’t a regular occurrence for him? You nodded. “I see.”

“Y/N,” Bradley reached out and grabbed your hand. You looked up at him. “That’s not what I meant.” He sighed. “Jeremy, he’s a good guy. You should know that.”

You smiled. “I needed to hear that. Thanks.”

Bradley smiled back at you. “Well, I should probably get some rest.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I should go.”

“Do you need a ride or something?”

“I’ll just get an Uber.”

“I can wait with you.”

“You’d do that?”

Bradley squeezed your hand. You hadn’t even realized he had never dropped it. “Of course.”

The two of you stood in silence outside the dorm building. You were cold in the early morning fog. You shivered and Bradley shrugged out of his ugly Hawaiian button up and handed it to you.

“Here.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You slid it on. It smelled like suntan lotion and beer and it was warm from where it had hugged Bradley’s boxy form.

A Honda rolled up slowly and you checked your phone, reading out the license plate.

“This is me,” you confirmed. Bradley nodded. You stepped to the curb and pulled open the door. “Hey, Bradley?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He smiled. “I hope so.”

“Why is that what you’re thinking of?” you asked softly, taking another sip of champagne.

Bradley leaned back against the white couch, sliding his arm down to his side. You combed your fingers through his hair at his temple and he shut his eyes. “How’d we get here, Ace?”

“Get where, honey?” you asked.

Bradley sat up and looked at you. “Here, Y/N. With you marrying my best friend tomorrow, in the ballroom downstairs.”

You reeled back. There was a fire in Bradley’s eyes. You had seen that look before. “Brad,” you whispered. “What’s going on?”

“Why are you marrying him, Y/N?” he asked. “Why him?”

Your mouth popped open. Suddenly, it felt like the entire suite was devoid of air. You wanted to gasp but there was nothing to suck into your lungs. All that existed in that moment was Bradley.

“Roo? You’re not gonna believe it.”

Bradley took a deep breath. “What is it, Ace?”

“Jeremy asked me to marry him!”

He looked at your face. How fucking estatic you were. It had been seven years since the night the three of you met. Well, since the night you and Bradley had met, Jeremy had shown up out of the blue. Swooping in. Stealing the girl. Doing what he had always done.

But this time had been different. You were different.

You should have been his.

“Bradley?”

He looked up into your eyes. “What did you say?”

You rolled your eyes. “I said yes, Brad. Of course I said yes.”

And then you launched yourself into his arms, his hands wrapped around your waist, your fingers pressed tightly around his neck.

You whispered into his ear. “I’m getting married, Bradley. How crazy is that?”

He pulled you in closer. “It’s insane,” he murmured against your neck. “I can’t believe it.”

“What did you say?” you asked, aghast.

Bradley’s eyes were trained on yours. There was a hardness in his features that you recognized from all the times the two of you had been in difficult spots before. The first time he and Jeremy deployed together and you held both of them on the tarmac, tears in your eyes, your voice hoarse from spending the entire night before crying. It was the same look he had when Carole died and you had stood in a black wrap dress under an umbrella in the rain next to Bradley as they lowered her casket into the ground. It was the way he looked at you when you said the doctor found a mass on your ovary, only for them to remove it and confirm it was benign a few weeks later. It was the way he looked the night you had fought when he accused you of throwing your life away to follow him and Jeremy around the country from base to base.

You had never been able to let him go. It was always the three of you. It had always been the three of you.

Even when it was supposed to just be you and Jeremy. Bradley had always been there, in the shadows, never out of reach. It’s how you wanted him. It’s how you needed him.

“Brad?”

“Don’t marry him,” Bradley said. “Please.”

You had loved Bradley Bradshaw for years. He was the best friend you had ever had. He fit so seamlessly into your life that you could barely remember a moment when he wasn't in it.

He was the person holding your hair when you drank too much on your twenty-fifth birthday in Las Vegas. Bradley was there when you ran your first marathon. He was there when you and Jeremy bought the house. He was there the day you brought home Buddy, your labrador rescue. Somehow every single memory over the last decade has Bradley on the edges of it.

He was also Jeremy’s best friend.

“Most of you know me. I’m Bradley Bradshaw, best friend of the groom and best man.” Bradley paused while there were cheers from the tables of other Naval aviators. You grinned up at him from where you sat next to him. “But you might not know that I’m also a best friend of the bride’s.” He gazed down at you. “Y/N isn’t just the best thing that happened to Jeremy. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, too. So it’s the greatest honor of my life to be here with you all as they commit themselves to each other. I’ve been the third wheel for most of their firsts.” There was laughter in the audience but Bradley didn’t notice. His eyes were still on yours. You held his gaze, unblinking. “Tomorrow is just another first for these two. Here’s to a lifetime together. I love you both.”

Finally he lifted his gaze from yours and raised his glass.

“A toast to Jeremy and Y/N. Thank God I spilled tequila all over her shoes a decade ago or we wouldn’t be here now.”

More cheering. Bradley gulped down his entire flute of champagne and sat down. You leaned over and wrapped your arms around his neck. “I love you, Roo,” you whispered into his ear.

His hand came out and brushed against the white silk of your dress where it sat on your hip. “I love you too, baby.”

Bradley’s soft brown eyes bore into yours. You suddenly felt exposed in your thin white lace nightgown that you had been wearing when you answered the door. You stood up and crossed the room, shrugging on the matching robe, cinching it tightly around your waist. So tight it hurt.

Everything hurt.

“What are you saying?” you whispered. “I’m getting married in less than twenty-four hours, Bradley. Why are you doing this?”

Bradley stood up. “Because I can’t watch you get up there and walk down the aisle to him.”

“Why?” you wailed. “Why the fuck not, Bradley?”

“Because it should be me!” he shouted and you froze. Bradley froze. The air in the room froze.

“What did you say?” Your voice was barely a whisper. It was so thin it could break. The way Bradley was breaking but you just couldn’t see it. Maybe it had always been like this and you had never seen it.

Bradley strode across the room until the two of you were only inches apart, his hands on your neck, tilting your head up to look at him. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you since that very first night at the bar. I kick myself every night for not making you mine before Jeremy could.”

“Bradley.”

He dropped his hands and took a step back. You felt tears start to well behind your eyes. “I wanted to tell you, Y/N. I started to. A hundred times. A thousand. But then I saw how happy you were with him and I stopped myself. I care more about you being happy than anything else in the world.”

He paused. You wiped at the tears beneath your eyes, the heavy diamond on your left hand grazing your cheek.

A reminder.

Bradley took a breath. “I’ll walk away, Ace. I’ll go back to my room and pretend I never came here. And tomorrow I’ll stand up there next to Jeremy and watch you walk down the aisle like the most beautiful bride on the planet and I’ll try to forget that I’ve loved you for a decade and nobody else can compare to you. I’ll do all of that, if you can answer one question for me.”

You raised your eyes to his.

“Does he make you as happy as I would make you?”

A/N: This is a two-part series!

Please remember to turn on notifications on my library page @ereardonlibrary as I will likely be moving to that system instead of a tag list like below. Thanks!!

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#bradley rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun x reader #rooster imagine #rooster top gun #rooster fanfic #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x y/n #bradley bradshaw x y/n

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everythingroyalty · 9 months

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do you think other teen royals will be at christians birthday? and who?

It's really difficult to say because the DRF can be really weird about things like that. Like with QMII only inviting the other Nordic countries to her jubilees and stuff.

I'd say there's a chance? But I'll almost guarantee you we won't see Estelle and Oscar (or petit Charles 🥰) at Christian's gala like we did at Ingrid's 😅 The DRF is way too boring for that and I think QMII feels very strongly that kids don't belong at galas – which is why I also don't think we'll see Bella and the twins at the gala dinner either. I do so badly want it to be a teen royal get-together though 😂

If the DRF extends invitations to young royals, I'd say these are most likely to attend:

Ingrid Alexandra (barring like... illness, I think she's the only one who'd be 100% given – AND it would be the first time we'd see her wearing a foreign order! 🎉)

Maria-Olympia, Constantine-Alexios & possibly also Achileas and Odysseas (would this family ever pass up an opportunity? 🙄)

Maria Carolina and Maria Chiara (same as above 🤡)

Élisabeth & Catharina-Amalia (if they're invited, I think they'd go – probably with one or both of their parents)

Also a possibility:

Alexia (barring the Scandi royals and the Bourbons, I think Alexia is the only other young royal we know for a fact Christian is friends with so I don't think it's totally impossible we'll see her there!)

I wish:

Richard & Ingrid (placing them here because even though Richard had turned 18 by Frederik's 50th, he wasn't at the gala dinner)

Arrietta, Anna-Maria & Carlos Morales (I just feel like it would be nice for all the cousins to be gathered 🥲)

Gabriel and Emmanuel (to even out some of all the gals!)

Leonor (let me preface by saying I don't think she'd go even if she had turned 18 and the fact that she doesn't turn 18 till like a week later solidifies it, methinks, but I think it would've been so neat given that her and Christian are so close in age)

#chrille fylder 18 #inquiring minds #anonymous #re. drf

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thefreelanceangel · 8 months

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FFXIVWrite 2023 (#4 - "Off the Hook")

"I've already refilled it, you're off the hook."

Innocuous words, without a hint of threat, and yet Seifer froze when his wife spoke. He looked at the decanter he'd been reaching for, the bottle he'd remembered to pick up on his way home still in his left hand.

Sure enough, the decanter held bright green liquid, Anna's favorite crème de menthe.

Fuck.

He didn't say it aloud, but Seifer carefully, cautiously put the sealed bottle on the shelf, plucking the decanter down as casually as he could manage. One broad white-furred ear turned slightly to keep Anna in range--the soft scratch of her pen nib against paper, the whisper of silk against that ivory skin he loved to mar, the flick of pages as she referenced one book against another.

She said he was 'off the hook.'

Which meant he was about to either be set on fire, struck with lightning, or have some other highly unpleasant spell launched at him.

Seifer knew how to (mostly) avoid his wife's malicious temper. If Anna'd been waiting for most of the morning to deliver that viperous little statement, he'd be dodging a spell regardless, but perhaps the crème de menthe had only just arrived.

Collecting cognac, the crème de menthe, a clean glass, he swiftly mixed her preferred cocktail and checked to be sure that his favorite bourbon (as well as the sealed bottle he'd brought home) were safely out of blast radius. Glass in hand, he bypassed going directly to Anna's narrow writing desk.

No, he needed that wardrobe open so he could quickly access one of the numerous lengths of silk rope hanging within.

"I said you're off the hook, there's no need to butter me up."

"I hadn't thought of using butter, but it's an idea. You'll complain when it stains the sheets though." Seifer set the freshly mixed stinger down on her writing desk, leaned down to kiss the back of Anna's smooth neck. "Is it going to be fire, ice, lightning, or are you going to wait and work yourself up into a proper rage?"

"I hardly have to 'work myself up' into a rage and you know that," Anna said, reaching up to bat him away from her. She glanced briefly at the drink, reached for the glass to take a sip, and turned her attention back to the diagrams she'd drawn.

Magic and all the accompanying studies weren't Seifer's forte. He preferred playing with social ties, manipulating the weak, exploiting openings in foolish reasoning, or wielding a heavy axe. However, he'd been Anna's husband and partner long enough to recognize quite a bit of her work. "An interesting combination," he said, one hand working into her hair. "Will it work?"

"Depending on the aether I can siphon and the location, yes," she said, one crimson-furred ear twitching when Seifer's hand massaged the base. "Are you going to continually pester me or let me finish this?"

A brow arched as he drew his hand from her hair. "You really are focused."

"I said you were off the hook and I meant it," Anna said, already opening another book, paging to the flow chart she'd prepared earlier that day. "At least for now. Anger me in a few hours, and we'll see."

Seifer made a noncommittal noise. Moving to the wet bar, he poured himself a measure of bourbon and reflected on how telling of their marriage it was that being 'let off the hook' came with a small measure of disappointment.

#Annalei d'Latu #Seifer d'Latu #FFXIV #FFXIVWrite2023 #Married Life

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annbourbon · 5 months

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Just a little reminder:

Please don't forget to check my other social media if you're interested on my activities. In a way, I'm like the wind, or dandelion seeds, always flying, always in a different place.

I'm currently on Tumblr, some days I'm making an appearance on Twitter (oh nowadays it's called X right? Poor bird...) and Instagram.

I'm editing my stories on Wattpad, and posting some of them on Quotev too. I'll be back on Amazon as soon as I can get my account back. And once I finish working with my stories, I'll be back on FF.net to keep writing because I truly love the way fandoms work.

My life doesn't change that much, I'm constantly learning, studying and working. If you want to know more about me, try tracking me, or watch my most recent video or post (?)

If you like the idea of seeing my drawings and art, please visit my DeviantArt (I'm also posting my stories there, from time to time), but quick fact here: I'm a beginner rn and I'm not exactly good (for now!)

I love TikTok but it's so easily to lose track of time there. So I'm keeping my interactions at minimum on that platform.

Sometimes, college is keeping me busy, that, my ballet classes, ice skating (sometimes) or languages: I love to study languages.

But despite all this long story, I'm sort of a private person. So I would appreciate to be left alone while I'm creating things for you to enjoy. Your support, constructive criticism and cheers are welcome. But please try keeping this place healthy. I don't appreciate negativity.

We're humans. We're always looking for something to do. Something to see. And most of the time, when we talk about our likes and dislikes, experiences and the world that surrounds us, we don't realize that it is a mess. A beautiful one though.

This is why I refuse to change anything in the way I present myself to you all. I'm a mess. A mix of different interests. Something you can't control. Something you cannot label. Because, we're humans. I'm human. We're not meant to be inside of a box. We're not dolls. Like life itself, we're meant to be somewhat chaotic, but also creative. And that's what this is about. Me being me and sharing everything I like or dislike. Things that I've learned. Ideas I have. It's miscellaneous. And I wouldn't want it it in any other way.

Soon I'll have a place for y'all to buy me a coffee (if you want! I don't want to force anyone to anything.) But for now, just be happy and enjoy my content please!<3

Love,

Anna.

Right now I'm working on Fit or Die. I'll be back after finishing up the story. So, see you later! Please don't abandon me just because you're watching this blog become a bit inactive. I'll be back. 💖

★☆★☆★|| Paypal ||★☆★☆★|| Ko-fi ☕ ||★☆★☆★

#annabourbon #faithdante #faith dante #anna bourbon #danteann

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comtessezouboff · 1 year

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Louis XIV's Gallery of Beauties

A retexture by La Comtesse Zouboff — Original Mesh by @thejim07

This set of 20 portraits was comissioned by the king himself in the 1650s to Charles and Henri Beaubrun (except for a portrait of Henrietta Anna of England, Comissioned to Nicolas Mignard) The portraits comprises the queen, royal princesses and ladies of the court. They hanged at the king's appartments at Versailles. In the 1670s the paintings were progressively relegated to the king's minor residences, but in 1837, Louis-Philippe, King of the French turned Versailles into a museum and rejoined the paintings, in the Louis XIV Rooms, where they remain.

The set includes 20 portraits, with the original frame swatches, fully recolorable. The portraits are of:

Anne Genèvieve de Bourbon, Duchess d'Estouteville and Longueville

Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart (later, Marquise de Montespan)

Anna Martonozzi, Princess of Conti

Anne Louise Boyer, Duchess of Noailles

Anne Marie Gonzaga, Countess Palatine

Anne de Rohan-Chabot, Princess de Soubise

Catherine Henriette d'Harcourt, Duchess d'Arpajon

Catherine de Neuville, Countess d'Armagnac

Charlotte Catherine de Gramont, Proncess of Monaco

Charlotte Isabelle Angélique de Montmorency-Bouteville, Duchess of Mecklenburg-Schwerin

Elizabeth of Orléans, Duchess of Guise and Joÿeuse

Françoise Madeleine d'Orléans (née de Valois) Duchess of Savoy

Françoise Mignot, Mareschalle of l'Hospital

Françoise de Neufville, Duchess of Chaulnes

Gabrielle-Louise de Saint-Simon, Duchess of Brissac

Henrietta Anna of England, Duchess of Orléans

Madeleine-Charlotte d'Albert-d'Ailly, Duchess of Foix

Marguerite Louise d'Orléans, Grand Duchess of Tuscany

Marguerite-Louise-Suzanne de Béthune-Sully, Countess of Gyche

Marie Thérèse of Austria, Queen Consort of France and Navarre

Found under Decor > Paintings for 940 §

Retextured from the "portrait of Anne Marie Louise d'Orléans", found here

Table, torcheres and floor by @thejim07

Rest of the decor by @joojconverts

Drive

(Sims3pack | package)

(Useful tags)

@joojconverts @ts3history @ts3historicalccfinds @deniisu-sims @katsujiiccfinds

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

#the sims 3 #ts3 #sims 3 cc #portrait #s3cc #sims 3 #sims 3 download #sims 3 cc finds #palace of versailles #sims 3 decor #wall decor

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simshousewindsor · 9 months

Text

FIRE AND ICE

[Royal Lodge, Buckingsimshire 9:19 PM WST]

Deon Waters [Crew]: Captain, power is off in the other two units. We’re clear.

Jermaine Askew [Captain]: Great. Bring the truck back up now. I’ll do the final all clear on this one with Shaun.

Princess Lara: I’m so glad the rain stopped.

Queen Katherine: Had the fire gotten worse, the rain may have helped.

Princess Lara: Either way, we were just vacated from our home due to a fire! Had Anna and Marsh not invited us to dinner, we would have been here!

Prince Rainier: This could have been much worse, Kate.

Jermaine Askew [Captain]: I agree, Your Majesty. These townhomes had been vacant for so many years, a fire like this was bound to happen. Thankfully, this unit was vacant. A thorough inspection of all three is highly recommended.

Queen Katherine: (somber) Mom was planning to move here next week. This is a disaster.

Princess Anna: (somber) The children are going to be devastated we have to move again. I do not want to go back to Kently with my parents, and Leo and Jazmyn.

Queen Katherine: You’re all staying at the palace tonight. We’ll sort the rest out in the morning. I’m sure there are options!

Prince Rainier: I’ll call the palace to have rooms prepared.

- - - - - THE NEXT DAY - - - - -

[Buckingsim Palace, Buckingsimshire 8:56 AM WST]

Princess Lara: I’m going to tell Kate we’d like to go back to Broderick House. It makes more sense now!

Prince Anthony: They made us move last year because it was too expensive. What makes you think anything has changed now, especially with every dollar being watched to cover the coronation.

Princess Lara: Broderick House was gifted to us by daddy!

Prince Anthony:...but we can't afford it, Lara! We only receive §1.1million simoleons a year from the Duchy. Security, alone, was §250k!

Princess Lara: I’m going to request an increase from the duchy. Time’s are changing and it’s only fair. Kate expects me to help her with so much but not allow me time to do any of my own charities. You can't even take photography clients anymore!

Prince Anthony: You always let your family run over you. What makes you think Kate won't bully you into taking your request back or worse, bully you into something bigger?

Princess Lara: I know how to say no!

Prince Anthony: Someone’s gotten a little fire inside of them. If you say so, Lara. You love your sister too much to tell her no.

- - - - - LATER - - - - -

Princess Lara: I still can't get over how well the remodel looks, Kate. Why did daddy never approve this?

Queen Katherine: He never got around to it. I had so much free time while on maternity leave at Beaverdam to catch up on all of his plans and finally make overdue decisions like approving the remodel.

Princess Lara: All of his plans?

Queen Katherine: Daddy had plans outside of just being sovereign.

Princess Lara: (hesitant) okay...

Queen Katherine: I’ll catch you up over breakfast. We’ve been so busy since I got back, we haven't had alone time long enough to catch up since Christmas. The fire has, at least, given us a day to stop and do that. I also have some other things to discuss.

- - - - - LATER - - - - -

Prince Anthony: I can't believe His late Majesty had so many awards.

Prince Rainier: Along with personal treasures he amassed, he kept his awards up here! As Prince of Brindleton Bay, he was a huge environmentalist.

Prince Anthony:...and as sovereign he wasn't?

Prince Rainier: (laughs) You know what I mean. That was before the Crown didn't allow him to be as vocal about certain issues, like politics. Neutrality and all.

Prince Anthony: Are those journals of Edward I? That’s his cypher, right?

Prince Rainier: Yes. There is also a journal of Albert II up there. The larger collections are housed in the royal archives.

Prince Rainier: Let’s have a drink in the billiard room. I’d like to discuss something with you.

Prince Anthony: (shocked) It’s not even noon.

Prince Rainier: So, that’s a yes! Bourbon or Hennessy over ice?

- - - - - LATER - - - - -

Queen Katherine: ...so, daddy may have found something important the night before he died about where the stone is, and now the Grand Duchess of Glimmerbrook wants to meet with me.

Princess Lara: Oh, daddy! What was he thinking? He hid this from everyone. No wonder mom has stayed in mourning for so long!

Queen Katherine: I still can't believe Royal Lodge caught on fire! To think, had this happened next week mom would have been living in that vacant unit.

Princess Lara: Yes. Speaking of, Anthony and I...

Queen Katherine: Oh, Anthony! I know how happy you both had been there, and being close to Anna. It doesn't appear we will get approval for occupancy on the two units that weren't harmed until renovations are complete on the one that was.

Princess Lara: Anthony and I think it would be best if we went back to Broderick House. Daddy gifted it to us on my wedding day. Why not now?

Queen Katherine: Didn't parliament deny the request last year for additional security, and the duchy decline the increase requested to pay for security?

Princess Lara: Yes, but...

Queen Katherine: Daddy and I actually discussed this after parliament denied the request, and why his hands were tied. You see, as a Countess you receive the maximum amount allowed from the duchy. What he wasn't allowed to do then, I am allowed to do now. I can elevate Anthony’s title! The Boykins title was always meant to be a dukedom not an earldom designated to the monarchs fifth son, and since I’m done birthing children.

Princess Lara: (excited) Really?

Queen Katherine: Of course! A dukedom would be entitled to a larger amount from the duchy, and after my approval, be able to assume Broderick House as residence. You’re the only sibling to the monarch, and I’m going to need you and Anthony supporting Rainier and I now even more than ever!

Princess Lara: (somber) Oh! I... I’d need to talk this over with Anthony.

Queen Katherine: Rainier is talking to him now!

Previous | Beginning | Next - continue Heir Ascent (story)

Previous | Beginning | Next - continue Second Place Countess (story)

#simshousewindsor #simshousewindsor ts4 #simshousewindsor story #simshousewindsor monarchy #simshousewindsor simblr #simblr #ts4 story #simshousewindsor Queen Katherine I #the sims 4 story #TS4 #ts4 simblr #ts4 royal simblr #ts4 royal family #sims 4 royalty #sims 4 monarchy

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dxncingxnmyown · 7 months

Text

@frvgcleternty | Valencia and Alistair, The Evening of The Kidnapping

Something is off in the all-too human noise the French soldiers make. It's an odd congregation; the military advisor to Russia, the Sultan and consort of Iran, and the English King's right hand man. But together, the pieces of uncertainty fit together. And in the wake of it? A cold chill settles in, as whispers and moves are determined. This needed to be handled with discretion. And fortunately Alistair, despite the heavy drink of the past few days, is a sharp thinker even with blurred edges. He makes the proper moves, duty bound by his friendship; he informs the King and secures the Windsor's in their chambers. He ensure Meredith and Robert are well in hand. He accounts for anyone caught in the main hall. And after duty is done, he is fast on his feet, storming into the Holland's Apartments. Whatever occured between him and Valencia clearly does not travel to her lady's, who allow him in. "Call your guards back to duty, and man them at the door." Alistair commands in the sitting room, before pushing through the all-too familiar doors he has many times before.

If there is a moment of missing, a moment of regret... It is awash in seeing Valencia, still standing strong. No harm has come to her, at least. For a moment, he is speechless, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. It's the first time he looks at her since their last conversation, and his chest tightens with longing. And just as quickly, it comes undone, pragmatic in times of grave darkness. "There is danger." Alistair informs her, approaching closer as his eyes remain unmoved. "It's a conspiracy, and everyone at court is caught in it. The Palace is under siege. The Bourbon's royal guard has fallen to imposters. No one in, no one out." He places his hands on her shoulders before thinking, a somber look upon his face. "They are keeping a handful of royalty locked in the main hall... Including your sister, Anna." Alistair's eyes dart about her room, looking for her things. He drops her shoulders, a man of action rather than sentimentality when it comes down to the wire. "You need to get dressed. Now. Your cloak. Your riding boots." Alistair lists off, pulling them from her trunk of clothes on by one. "You must prepare to run if it comes to it."

#muse: alistair #(valencia and alistair)#frvgcleternty

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thefoulbeast · 2 years

Text

Pathologic characters as alcoholic drinks

Straight drinks rather than cocktails, though I might be persuaded to aliken them to cocktails as well at some point. Included are all the adult characters about whom I have a good enough gauge on their vibe, so some are left out (sorry Georgiy and Oyun its nothing personal i just don't know you like that).

Aglaya – white wine. Exudes a sombre feminity, and can be quite cold.

Alexander Block – vodka. Straightforward, blunt. He loves the zakuski also – gotta have a pickle with the shots.

Alexander Saburov – cognac. Stern man, stern drink.

Andrey – chacha. A Georgian brandy ranging from 50% to 85% alcohol content. Very potent, it sort of… punches you when you drink it.

Anna – advocaat. It’s a Dutch liqueur made from eggs, sugar and brandy. Very thick, almost sickly sweet, sort of cloying at the back of your throat.

Artemy – Riga black balsam or another kind of balsam. Herbal and rich, warms you up.

Aspity – Campari. Herbal and bitter, rarely drunk straight.

Daniil – bourbon. Classy, straddles the line between sophisticated and simple.

Eva – prosecco. Light, airy, easy on you but easily can take you by surprise. Bubblies aren’t strong alcohol but they can leave a wicked hangover if overindulged.

Katerina – cough syrup (old school). Herbal; the ethanol content bites at the throat strongly, but soon is soothed when the codeine kicks in.

Lara – mulled wine. Warming and cozy with a certain spiciness about it.

Mark – dark spiced rum. Creative and chaotic.

Maria – cranberry liqueur, especially the kind that’s bottled with whole berries in it. Sweet but with a pleasant bitter/sour undertone. Also it’s red.

Peter – absinthe. No comment needed.

Rubin – gin. Strong, herbal (some have an almost overwhelming juniper flavour to it); most people can’t/won’t drink it straight because it’s rather unpleasant unless mixed in a drink.

Vladimir Olgimsky the older – mead. Well known, simple but all the more comfortable and demanded for it.

Vladimir Olgimsky the younger – hard cider. Fresh, fruity, summery.

Victor – whiskey. No comment.

Yulia – calvados. A French brandy made from apples or pears. Despite an overwhelmingly pleasant aroma has a very strong bite.

EDIT:

Oyun - tarasun. An alcoholic beverage drunk by the Buryat people of Siberia. Tarasun is a "highly alcoholic colourless liquid" prepared by distillation and fermentation of a mare's milk. It is described as a form of "milk whisky". (suggested by @qawerian)

Note: these are all my personal opinions about the drinks. if you have a different view, id love to hear it /gen

#pathologic #patho #alcohol

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vympr · 9 months

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idk why but zara’s apple juice being the single cheap perfume i own, remembering your post about targets lost cherry dupe (which inspired me to get it for my sister)….i feel scentually(?) connected to you…can i ask your favorite perfumes? or scents in perfumes?

omg we are literally scent sisters.... do you have other favs yourself

for me, i like citrus-y and cardamom and "clean" scents for hotter weather (mermaid fantasy by Anna Sui, cloud musk from mix:bar in target, and applejuice from Zara), almond and cherry and vanilla scents for cooler weather (not another cherry by finery from target, vanilla bourbon by mix:bar from target, and very rarely i like a tobacco scent like jazz club from replica)

a #cheapgirl hack is also that i just keep a ton of those tiny little perfume sample bottles that you get for free from sephora or ulta on me (in my purse, in my toiletries, in my car) and just spray myself as needed 😌 you can also buy the sample packs of perfume for this purpose so you try out new scents and you get to use them up

#fragrance #perfume

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