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jupitercomet · 8 months

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The Boogeyman

summary - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw was ruthless, a stone cold killer both in and outside of the ring—with the belts and trophies to prove it. When a miscalculation results in a target being put on the back of his trainer's daughter, Bradley finds himself facing responsibility he never signed up for. You're a whole new challenge. And Bradley doesn't think you're one he can fight his way out of.

warnings - DARK THEMES, boxer au, language, Bradley is 6′6″ because I said so, brief mentions of blood, stalking, smoking, descriptions of scars, mentions of nightmares, no use of y/n

this blog is 18+, minors please do not interact

word count - 4.5k

there's not a whole lot of edits on this one so sorry about that, but later chapters will have more significant changes - bugs

monsters in the dark masterlist

“That’s it?” Adler’s eye twitches incredulously, his hands gesturing to the photos on the table. “All of this is happening because of a fucking jacket? Jesus, Rooster, when’s the last time you were nice to someone in public?”

Bradley bites his tongue, knowing Adler probably doesn’t want him to answer that. If he were to answer, he’d say that he wasn’t even that nice to you. That the picture makes it look way worse than it actually was. And that, really, none of this is his fault because, if Adler had heard the things Razor was saying about Nat, he would have punched him too.

But Bradley doesn’t say any of that, he just glares wordlessly while Adler scolds him like a child.

“Dad, would you leave him alone?” You seem to have gained some confidence in the time your father was chewing him out, shifting in Natasha’s embrace to get him to notice you.

“Leave him— Leave him alone?” Adler sputters, almost more angry at the fact that you don’t want him to be angry. “I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation we’re in right now.”

“I do understand, dad. But—”

Bradley raises his eyebrows in disinterest. “It’s Razor, Coach. You know he isn’t gonna do shit.”

“Of course I know Razor isn’t gonna do shit. You think I don’t know that?!” Adler’s on him again, looking about a second away from popping a vein before he takes a breath. At Bradley’s expression—or lack there of—Adler lets out an exasperated laugh. “God, you have no idea, do you? Look at this, Rooster,” he gestures towards the photographs on his desk, “you think Razor is smart enough to do any of this by himself.”

Bradley looks at the photos again. How they’re taken over multiple days, at multiple times of day, with a quality that doesn’t look like someone’s iPhone camera. Unless Razor was living out of his car and watching you for almost every second—and was way smarter than anyone gave him credit for—it might have been his idea, but it certainly wasn’t his execution.

Bradley looks back up at Adler, who seems to have calmed down slightly, but the older man still wears a grave look on his face.

“It’s not Razor that I’m fucking worried about.”

Had Bradley known that that conversation would lead to an outrageous amount of skirts being moved into his spare room’s closet, he would have fled the fucking country.

“Oh my gosh, you have fish? Dad, look, he has fish!”

“I see ‘em, kid. Would you go help Nat with the rest of your stuff?”

Bradley waits until your voice becomes distant down the hall, before he turns to Alder with a glare. “Remind me again why you’re making me her fucking babysitter?”

Like they’ve had this conversation a million times—and they have—Adler meets his glower with a dead expression. “Because you messed around with someone you shouldn’t have, and she refuses to stay with me because she doesn’t want to rope her mom into this, and if anything happens to my daughter—which, again, is because you decided you wanted to try and debunk evolution with your ape brain—I will stick Reaper on your ass so fast.”

“What is he? Your fucking dog?” Bradley scoffs lightly, which Adler matches with the single raise of a brow.

The two halt their conversation as you and Natasha each come in with a box, chatting quietly as you walk to the spare room that’s now serving as your bedroom. Adler smiles at you briefly. Bradley spares you a small nod of acknowledgement. They wait for the door to close.

“How. Long?” Bradley grits quietly.

“Until I don’t have to worry about her being used as some kind of leverage against you,” Adler says flatly, matching his volume. “Maybe it’ll teach you some impulse control.”

The door opens again and the two men stand awkwardly in the living room, silent until you and Natasha are far enough down the hall again.

“What if I say no?” Bradley challenges, crossing his arms in defiance.

“Then I’ll make sure that you never fight a good fight again in your life,” Adler narrows his eyes, the threat coming out in a tone that promises he means the threat. “I hear that Hangman’s coming back and he’s just as good as you. I’m sure he’d be happy to take all your fights.”

Bradley glares at him, but says nothing. He could argue that Maverick would never let that happen, but both men know that’s not true. Bradley could be the best boxer in the world—and, really, he is—but to Maverick, he’d always be expendable. And clearly, it seems, he’s expendable to Adler too.

“Look,” Adler drops his coach persona for a moment, letting out a sigh as he wipes a tired hand over his face. He looks older suddenly, aged. “I get that you don’t want this, I’m not exactly thrilled about it either. But you’re a good man, Bradley. And I trust you. You’re smart, and you know what to look for in dangerous situations. I just feel better knowing she has someone like you looking out for her. She’s been through enough as it is.”

Bradley’s brows furrow and he wants to ask Adler what exactly he means by that, but you and Natasha re enter his apartment with, what looks to be, the last load of your stuff. Natasha bumps her hip into him purposefully as you two walk past and Bradley suppresses an eye roll.

“Thanks for helping,” she says sarcastically.

He grunts. “You're welcome.”

“Yeah, thank you!” You smile at him genuinely. “Your place is really nice.”

Bradley can’t tell if you’re doing this on purpose or if you’re just stupid. Because it’s pretty obvious that every other person in the room—for one reason or another—isn’t exactly jumping for joy about this new living arrangement. And it’s even more obvious that Natasha was being entirely passive aggressive, but you seem completely sincere.

Bradley opts to give another nod instead of responding, though you don’t seem offended. Too sweet for your own good.

“Is that everything?” You wouldn’t be standing in Bradley’s living room if it wasn’t, but Adler asks anyway.

“Yep!” You lift the box in your hands slightly. “These are the last ones.”

Adler’s eyes flit over the box. “And you’re sure you have everything you need?”

“She does. And if she doesn’t, she can just ask Rooster.” Natasha answers for you.

Bradley wants to furrow his brows in protest, but he stops himself. With the amount of stuff you’d moved in, he doubts you’ll need anything. Bradley spares a glance at you, to see you already smiling at him, and he looks away quickly.

“Alright then, Rooster, you and I will talk to Mav about all this tomorrow. I doubt he wants to get the cops involved,” Adler sniffs. “We’ll… regroup after, I guess.”

Bradley clears his throat. “You’re leaving?”

Again, it’s Natasha who opens her mouth, looking at Bradley with a shit-eating grin and he can already tell what she’s thinking.

Natasha and Callie had been attempting to set him up for months now, after he complained once about the groupies always waiting for him after a fight. After that it was ring girls, or bar tenders, or friends of friends. He weaseled his way out of it every time, so he’s sure Natasha is loving this. Why she thinks trying to play matchmaker for him and his trainer’s daughter is a good idea is beyond him, though.

“We wouldn’t want to intrude on dinner.”

Bradley genuinely doesn’t know how he’s stayed friends with this woman for so long.

“Oh, I can make pasta?” You offer.

“No, that’s fine,” Natasha raises her eyebrows at him like she’s daring him to disagree. “Rooster can make something.”

He knows there’s a part of her that’s still mad about how he handled things with Razor, especially now that it’s resulted in a threat to your safety. And Bradley hadn’t ever actually apologized yet for doing the exact opposite of what Natasha asked him to, so he can imagine that forcing him into the role of “welcoming host” is giving her some sick sense of justice. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction though, so he just nods, staying quiet until both Adler and Natasha leave.

“Are you sure? It’s really no trouble if I make something,” you turn to him almost as soon as the lock has clicked in place. “I won’t even tell Natasha, I promise.” You hold your pinky out, though Bradley promptly chooses to ignore it.

“It’s fine, toots,” Bradley shakes his head, reaching for his phone to order something off of a food delivery app before thinking better of it and instead grabbing his car keys. “You like burgers?”

Knockouts was an establishment that felt like it had been around for almost as long as Bradley had. It was one of those “blink and you miss it” kind of buildings, having the misfortune of being placed next to a significantly nicer looking Denny’s. Freddie Kasinski, Knockouts owner, would be the first to remind anyone that “Knockouts was here first. And you don’t wanna eat any of that corporate bullshit. All nice on the outside, empty on the inside”. Bradley supposed there was some truth to that given that, with the option of them both readily available to him, he still chooses Knockouts.

You’re bouncing with excitement in his passenger seat, taking in the accents of light blue on the outside of the building as well as the flickering, cursive, neon sign. Bradley’s only mildly surprised you’ve never been here before, but you look like the type who’s put together enough to make home cooked meals so he guesses it isn’t as much of a stretch.

Bradley glances over the cars in the parking lot, taking brief note of any that look out of place. There’s no truck with dried blood on its side mirror so Bradley locks his own car, only making half acknowledging noises as you ramble beside him about his burger order and whether or not he likes pickles. He opens the door for you, his hand finding its somewhat familiar position on the small of your back.

“Hi, welcome to Knockouts. Are you dining in or taking out?” A waitress greets them politely, two menus already in hand.

Bradley glances around the various patrons of the diner. “Taking out.”

There’s an older couple in the back left, speaking to each other quietly over a single basket of fries. At a booth near the door is what looks to be a group of high schoolers, passing phones over various burgers and fries. Two of the girls are turning into each other in hushed whispers, sending him quick glances behind emptying milkshake glasses.

Subtly, Bradley flexes his fingers against your back, pulling your attention away from the menu above your head and you shoot him a smile. “What do you usually get?”

“Their cheeseburgers are good.” He says simply, deciding to just ignore the giggling girls to his left. He lets his gaze fall to your waiting eyes. “Do you want a milkshake too?”

“Yes! I was looking at their oreo one! Have you ever had that?” You light up at the suggestion, continuing to ponder over the flavor options Knockouts offered as Bradley’s eyes dart to the teenagers again.

“Oh shit, I think he has a girlfriend.”

“He’s so tall though…”

“He also looks like he’s 30 fucking years old, Kendra. Don’t think you stood a chance anyway.”

“Shut up, Devon!”

The waitress returns, somewhat of a grimace on her face as she makes her way to the cash register with a slight limp. You frown and before she can even open her mouth to ask for your order, you’re speaking.

“Are you alright?”

“Sorry?” The waitress looks down before she seems to realize what you mean. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. These shoes are a little small,” she chuckles awkwardly. “I, um, I haven’t gotten around to getting new ones yet.”

You nod in understanding. “I know this great secondhand store on Myrtle street. It’s where all the rich people live, so they’re always donating really nice stuff.”

“Oh, um, thank you?” The waitress blinks.

You seem to be rearing up for more conversation, while your waitress looks more like a deer in the headlights. Partly for her sake—and also because he wants those high school girls to stop staring at him—Bradley clears his throat to order.

“We’ll have three cheeseburgers and one oreo milkshake.”

The waitress nods, clearly relieved, taking a ticket back to the kitchen. Bradley stops himself from pulling out his wallet when he notices that you’re frowning again.

“What?” He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have ordered for you. Natasha always said that women never liked guys who talked over them on a date.

Not that this was a date. Bradley just didn’t need you hating him and snitching to your dad who had already threatened to ruin his fight schedule.

“You didn’t want a milkshake?” You question and Bradley doesn’t really know what to say because, up until this point, he’s been operating his life under the assumption that he doesn’t look like the type of man to ingest milkshakes.

“It’s okay,” you’re smiling again and Bradley wonders if your face muscles are sore from how much you use them. “You can have some of mine.”

“I don’t drink milkshakes, toots,” he grunts.

You laugh. “Everybody drinks milkshakes, Bradley.”

He grunts again.

The waitress comes back with your food, taking Bradley’s card for a brief transaction before she hands over the to-go bag. She looks hesitant, her lip caught between her teeth as she passes the bag over to Bradley, and he’s almost positive she’s going to attempt to ask for his number. Which would fit in perfectly with how the rest of his day has been going.

Instead, she turns her attention to you. “Um, I just wanted to say thank you again for the recommendation. I’ll check it out.”

“No problem!” You smile brightly.

Bradley doesn’t know if he should feel embarrassed or relieved. But you don’t give him a chance to figure it out, turning back to the entrance with a final wave to the waitress. Bradley’s shoulders drop tiredly and he follows after you.

The door shuts behind him, the bell ringing to signal your departure, and a man looks up.

He’s sitting in a booth in the far right corner, under a hanging light that flickers every so often. He doesn’t stand out against the retro theme of the diner, clad in deep blue jeans and a leather jacket. He should be entirely forgettable. He knows he isn’t though, not with the jagged scar on his left cheek.

His eyes stay on you until you get into Bradley’s car. He watches, sitting in a booth in the far right of Knockouts, until Bradley’s antimatter blue Bronco pulls out of the parking lot. He watches until it’s just tail lights in the distance.

He picks a french fry up between two fingers. The fries are greasy, so much so that he’s gone through a fair few napkins, but they’re salted enough to make up for it. If he looks, he can see the salt granules coating the fry. But he doesn’t look. He watches that antimatter blue Bronco drive away.

Bringing the fry up for a bite, the salt stings at his chapped lips and his nose twitches. Another bite. He finishes the fry. He wipes his fingers on a grease speckled napkin. He takes a sip of water.

“Excuse me.”

The waitress walking by his table halts at his words. She turns around with an expectant smile, though it falters when she takes in his face, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the thick, pinkish line that cuts from his cheek bone to the corner of his lips. His own eyes flicker down briefly to read her name tag. “Malory”.

“Can I smoke in here?”

Malory shakes her head, recovering from her surprise and plastering a pleasant smile onto her face, brown hair bouncing on her shoulders. “‘Fraid not, sir. But you can smoke outside if you like.”

The man nods, picking up another fry as his eyes drift back to the parking spot that once housed an antimatter blue Bronco.

“Shame,” he says.

Maverick scratches at his cheek in thought, looking over the photos again. “Well, I can tell you it doesn’t look good.”

“Thanks for the insight, Pete. Real helpful,” Adler deadpans. “Remarkably, we were able to figure that out for ourselves, so if you’re ready to actually be useful, that would be great.”

Bradley’s eyebrows raise almost undetectably, if only because he’s never heard anyone talk to Maverick like that.

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell was a man that always fell on the cusp of being nefarious. He paid his fighters well, didn’t take advantage of them, but you have to be a certain kind of person to get into the business of parading young men around like show horses. He cleaned up messes, no questions asked, but he also made a fair amount of messes. Most importantly, in this instance at least, Maverick had connections.

Maverick leans back in his desk chair. “I am being useful, Joe. I’m sayin’ that, if you’re saying this is Razor, Abnesti’s not involved.”

“You figured that out from a coupla pictures?” Adler crosses arms, unconvinced.

“No, I got it from Abnesti,” Maverick rifles through a desk drawer, pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. “Steve Abnesti is the kind of guy who’s good at keeping secrets, but isn’t good at keeping that he has a secret. If he had any part in this, he’d have said something to me by now.”

His lighter flicks on and he holds it to a cigarette, before wrapping his lips around the rolled paper and sucking in a breath. Bradley’s nose wrinkles at the smell, but he doesn’t flinch, unmoving as Maverick blows smoke into the air slowly.

“You’re makin’ a mess,” Bradley notes, sparing your milkshake-covered lips a glance after he’s swallowed a bite of his burger.

It’s all over your shirt too—that’s what you get for trying to take a sip while practically lying down — and you tilt your chin down to look at it. You frown slightly at the spot of cookies and cream on your front, moving your thumb to try to rub it off.

Bradley grabs the oreo milkshake from your other hand before you can spill it on yourself again—the cup tilting when you get distracted trying to clean the stain—and you smile nervously. “Sorry.”

He grunts in response, setting your milkshake down on the coffee table, and turning his attention back to the television.

After much convincing—and the condition that he could pick the movie—you’d convinced Bradley to have a movie night while you ate. Bradley had begrudgingly agreed. A movie meant he couldn’t eat his burgers as fast as humanly possible and spend the rest of the night in his room, but it also meant he wouldn’t have to talk to you.

He should have known that you’d try to talk to him anyway.

“You know, I think this is one of Matt Damon’s best roles,” you say through a mouthful of burger, gesturing to the screen of the television.

Bradley makes a small noise of agreement, keeping his eyes trained on his choice of movie—The Bourne Identity—and he regrets not ordering fries because you’re almost done with your burger and clearly can’t be trusted with a milkshake so soon there will be nothing left to keep your mouth occupied.

“Have you watched all the Jason Bourne movies?”

Bradley nods.

“I have too, but it was a while ago— Oh, we should watch them all this week!”

Bradley freezes. This was going to be a recurring thing?

“I have training early,” Bradley provides as an excuse and it’s not technically a lie.

“Oh, okay,” you deflate only slightly and Bradley thinks that maybe you’ve gotten the hint that he doesn’t want to talk. Instead he gets three minutes of quiet before you’re voicing another idea. “Well, maybe I can watch them and then we can talk about our favorite parts together?”

Smoke tickles Bradley's nose and he blinks as Maverick takes another drag off his cigarette.

“Well, if it’s not Abnesti, who is it?” Adler’s eyes are trained on the pictures of you.

Maverick also glances at them thoughtfully, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “That’s where I’m drawing blanks. These looked practiced, whoever took them knows what they’re doing. But—and no offense Rooster—I can’t think of anyone that organized who’d be willing to waste their time and resources with some insignificant boxing rivalry.”

Adler says something but Bradley isn’t listening, shifting to pull his phone out of his pocket. With a glance to check that the older men in front of him are still somewhat distracted, he unlocks it.

Bradley watches you navigate his kitchen for a quick breakfast, looking through his pitiful amount of tableware and groceries. You land on yogurt and granola and Bradley’s brows furrow when he realizes you’re making two cups.

“Give me your phone.”

You jump at the noise, turning around quickly, and it’s the first time in the past 24 hours that Bradley’s seen you look scared.

“Why?” You ask hesitantly, eyes darting between his own like you’re trying to read him. Despite your apprehension, you unlock your phone, handing it to him anyway.

He doesn’t respond for a moment, tapping away on both your phone and his before he hands yours back to you.

“So I have your location,” he explains. You insisted on going to work, even though Bradley thought it was a stupid idea. You argued it’d be stupid for you to stay at his apartment all by yourself and even more stupid to follow him around as he trained at Maverick’s, and Bradley couldn’t exactly disagree. “You have mine too.”

You look down at your phone in your hand, staring at the small dot of Bradley’s contact that’s right on top of your own. You swallow. “O-Okay.”

“Are you ready?” Without thinking, Bradley reaches for the yogurt parfait you made for him.

You nod.

“Alright,” Bradley pockets his phone, reaches for his keys, and turns to the door. All with a cup of yogurt in his right hand. “Text me when you need me to pick you up.”

Your Find My icon is still appearing at the animal shelter, just like it had 10 minutes ago. And 10 minutes before that. Bradley hadn’t realized that your Apple ID would autofill his contact photo for you—a picture of you, eyes scrunched closed mid-laugh while you’re surrounded by hyper puppies greeting him every time he checks your location. Bradley looks at it for a moment.

“I have a few guys down at the station on payroll,” Maverick shrugs, snubbing his cigarette in an ashtray as the conversation comes to a close. “I’ll reach out, maybe they’ll see something I don’t.” He gestures down at the photographs. “Can I keep these?”

Adler nods, looking a smidge more relieved than he did when they entered Maverick’s office. “Thank you, Pete.”

“You’ve saved my ass more times than I can count, Joe. We’ll figure this out,” Maverick claps his shoulder.

Bradley pulls his eyes away from your contact photo and turns off his phone.

Bradley sits up off his mattress at a sudden noise of distress. For the past half hour he’s thought he’s heard things, but this was the first time it was loud enough to confirm as real. He holds his breath, listening for anything to clue him in to what’s going on. The sounds are too clear to be coming from your room, probably the living room if he had to guess. Light dances through the crack under his door. The television is on.

There’s another noise and Bradley gets up. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s in the apartment. The floors creak no matter how light you are so he’d have heard something by now if it was someone trying to break in. Still, he’s guarded as he opens his bedroom door.

He pads past your room, the door wide open and bed empty. As he suspected, he finds you in the living room, stretched out on the couch cushions as you sleep. It’s dark, your body only lit up by the light of the muted television, so Bradley isn’t positive, but it looks like you’re wearing the hoodie he gave you.

Another whimper takes him out of his thoughts and your face scrunches in anguish. Bradley doesn’t know what to do, nightmares had never been an issue for him, even when he was a kid. He can also recognize that waking up from a nightmare to see him looming over you would probably be more terrifying than whatever you were dreaming about, so he knows he needs to do something to ensure that you don’t wake up.

Wordlessly he sits on the cushion that is being occupied by your feet to get out of your line of sight. A more panicked whimper leaves your lips at the movement and Bradley’s hand shoots out to your ankle instinctively. He freezes as soon as he feels the soft skin of your ankle bone, holding his breath as his eyes trail back up to your face. Your brows are still furrowed, but strangely you’ve quieted.

Bradley swallows, his thumb tracing soft circles against your ankle before he fully realizes he’s doing it. A minute passes. And then another. And then your face begins to relax. Your features soften and your breaths even out. The light of the TV dances across your cheek bones and casts shadows onto the crevices of your face. It has Bradley’s breath catching in his throat. You look like one of those renaissance paintings Bob tried to show him once.

After another minute of peace, Bradley carefully gets up, giving you one last glance before he heads back to his room. He feels strange, like there’s a piece of this puzzle he’s missing. Maybe it’s just because you fell asleep watching The Bourne Supremacy, he tries to reason. But deep down, Bradley knows that isn’t right. Maybe you just have nightmares. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he’s overthinking all of this and should go back to sleep.

His hand hasn’t even reached the door knob of his room door before another whimper cuts through the silent air. Bradley sighs.

“Alright, toots. I hear you,” he grumbles quietly as he turns back around, though it’s entirely void of its usual bite. More of a mumble, if anything.

He sits back down by your feet, settling into a comfortable position as his fingers resume their patterns on your ankle and he feels you relax under his fingertips. Bradley picks up the remote with his other hand, turning on the closed captions of The Bourne Supremacy and rewinding to start it from the beginning. He watches the movie with his hand on your ankle.

Every couple of minutes, his eyes can’t help but fall to your sleeping features.

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jupitercomet · 4 months

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The Nightlight

warnings - DARK THEMES, boxer au, violence, language, no use of y/n, brief mentions of dead bodies, talks of previous abuse, talks of ptsd, mild gore, smut - (daddy kink, pussyjob, subspace kind of, praise, size kink, minor trauma response to sex, aftercare), Bradley is 6′6″ because I said so, stalking, brief mention of smoking

this blog is 18+, minors please do not interact

word count - 4.1k

monsters in the dark masterlist

For a Wednesday evening, the Target on Powers street is fairly empty. At least, that’s what Bradley notices as he steps through the automatic doors of the red and white building. Almost immediately he’s confronted with a bikini-clad mannequin, rows of bathing suits hanging behind it, and it’s like some strange, capitalist groundhog that reminds him that spring is approaching and stores are all moving their bathing suits to the front.

Bradley walks past the mannequin without another glance, not even bothering with a cart or basket either as he starts walking through the brightly lit store. It’s one of the first times in a while that he’s shopping by himself—you’re spending the day with Natasha as a much needed distraction—and he finds himself almost anticipating your usual chatter. He keeps waiting for you to tug on his hand and point out some cute shirt on a rack or try to sneak random junk into the basket when you don’t think he’s looking, even though he always catches you. He wonders when he started to get used to that.

After everything with Razor and Elias, you were understandably pretty shaken. Sleeping in Bradley’s bed became a regular thing, though space was always left between the two of you, and, yet another thing Bradley was still getting used to, was sleeping on the left side of his bed as opposed to the middle. You had yet to actually wake up from your nightmares again, but that didn’t mean you didn’t wake him up with your soft sounds of distress. Bradley has only found one thing that seems to help with that.

Bradley stops when he finds the aisle he’s looking for, scanning the shelves before he finally finds what he needs. He grabs it, turning to walk back to the front checkout, and pulls out his phone to check your location. It’s late, so you should be home by now, and, as he suspects, you are. He stares at your contact photo for a moment longer as he gets in line for the self checkout.

“I got you something.”

You perk up with surprise when Bradley enters his bedroom. Through the confusion you feel a wave of relief that he’s back. Natasha is your best friend, and you know she’d do anything for you and more, but you’ve always felt safest when you’re with Bradley. Still, that thought is overshadowed by the fact that Bradley is setting something down on the bed. Something he got for you.

You look down at it with furrowed brows. “A nightlight?”

“You get scared when all the lights are off in my room,” Bradley explains bluntly.

“I— Oh, I didn’t... I’m sorry,” you feel your cheeks heat up and you keep your eyes trained on the packaged nightlight on the blanket to try to stop yourself from crying out of embarrassment. “I can go back to sleeping in the guest room. It’s probably annoying having to sleep with a bunch of lights on.”

Bradley doesn’t seem to fully pick up on your shame, moving to grab pajamas from his dresser. “If I thought it was annoying, I wouldn’t have bought it.”

He opens one of the drawers to grab pajama pants, further solidifying how little of an issue he perceives this to be and you can only open and close your mouth a few times. Logically, you know this isn’t a big deal—not to Bradley, at least—but you don’t know when it became such a big deal to you. You almost hate that you now need people to convince you that you deserve things. That it’s not enough for Bradley to just do something nice for you, he also has to hold your hand through it the whole time too.

Bradley glances over at you, you can feel it, but you can’t look back at him. You’ve been trying not to cry since you realized why he bought you a nightlight and now that’s piling on top of everything with Elias and the dead man you received in the mail. You don’t want to cry though, so you keep your eyes trained on the nightlight.

He picks it up, opening the packaging and taking the small light out before plugging it into the outlet on the right side of the bed. It lights up in a soft yellow glow. “Is that good?”

Your throat feels thick, so all you do is nod.

Bradley seems to take that at face value, leaving wordlessly to go change in the bathroom. The setting sun filters through his window, keeping the room light enough that the nightlight hardly has an effect. But you know it will. Because everything Bradley has done for you has had an effect.

You still haven’t moved when he comes back from the bathroom, knees to your chest and eyes on the nightlight, and Bradley turns off the overhead light before moving to his side of the bed. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you could say anything you wanted and nothing would change. The kind of quiet that keeps secrets.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m gonna be this way forever.”

Bradley stills.

A tear rolls down your cheek, but you don’t even feel it, a hollow emptiness taking hold of you as you numbly stare at the soft yellow glow emanating from the nightlight. “Like, what if I’m just… incapable of being in a healthy relationship? What if I’ll only ever know how to be with guys like Elias?”

Again Bradley is silent. But you know he’s listening. You can feel him looking at you

“I hated him for what he did. I think a part of me still does. But... I think I hate myself more. For, like, letting that happen, I guess.” You wipe at your cheek harshly. “Because, sure, he was the one who— who did everything, but I let him, you know? I kept forgiving him and giving him chances. Even though he never once gave me a reason to believe he’d change. He just— He makes me feel so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Bradley says finally. He clears his throat softly. “You’re not stupid.”

“I can’t even listen to a trash can drop on the ground without acting like I’ve been to war,” you argue with a small scoff.

“And what’s that got to do with anything?”

“I—” You huff in frustration. “You don’t get it.”

Bradley sits up. “No, no, I get it just fine. I think you don’t get it. Plenty of people go through shit, that’s just how the world works. And you know what they do? They fucking blame everybody else for it. And they put everybody else through shit because why should they be good to other people if no one’s been good to them? But you don’t. You talk to fucking dogs or, I don’t know, offer people milkshakes or some shit. Because, when choosing between still trusting people or blaming them for everything, that’s what you pick. Not because you’re stupid, but because you know shit sucks and you choose to have faith in it anyway.”

Suddenly the nightlight is just a background thought, your mind consumed with Bradley as you stare at him with parted lips.

“I don’t know everything that happened with you and Elias, and that’s fine, you don’t ever have to tell me. But I do know that I’ve seen guys lose teeth for less than what he did to you. Hell, I’ve knocked out teeth for less than what he did to you. You don’t do that shit, you’re not resentful like the rest of us— He didn’t fuck you up, or break you, or whatever else you think the problem is. It doesn’t matter if you end up ‘being this way forever’ because there’s nothin’ wrong with you.”

This is the longest Bradley has actually spoken consecutive words to you and all you can think is that there’s something so real about him. Sometimes you think that Bradley is incapable of lying—which you know is silly and far too trusting—but, truly, Bradley doesn’t lie. Bradley doesn’t lie because he doesn’t care enough to. It hits you that maybe this is what Bradley looks like when he cares.

“And you got plenty of healthy relationships,” he continues. “You got Nat, and your dad, and me—”

You don’t think. It’s not even a thought that registers in your head before you act on it. One second you’re sitting on Bradley’s bed with tear stained cheeks and surprised eyes and, the next, you’ve planted your lips on Bradley’s.

It only takes a third second for you to realize what you’ve done and you scramble away from him with wide eyes. “I’m so sorry! I— That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have—”

Your words are lost against Bradley’s lips as he surges forward and cups your cheek resolutely. His mouth moves against yours, strangely tender, as he dips forward to lie you down on the bed, never breaking the kiss. You pull away for air, but it’s fruitless, as you can hardly breathe when he’s nosing along your neck, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere he can reach. His hands travel under your shirt, stroking your skin with calloused fingers as he explores your body.

He nips your neck lightly, soothing the area with his tongue, and one of your shaky hands gets lost in his curls, a breathy gasp escaping you.

“So fucking pretty,” Bradley murmurs against your skin. One of his hands reaches the underside of your bra and he traces it with his large thumb slowly.

Your back arches and your sleep shirt rides up, exposing your bare midsection as Bradley’s hand trails down to your thigh. “Please,” you whimper, but Bradley seems to understand, lifting you to pull your shirt off.

His own shirt follows quickly behind, but that’s the only other clothing item discarded as he can’t keep himself from your body for any longer than that. Bradley kisses you again, his hands now exploring under your pajama shorts tracing delicate patterns on your hips. You lift them at the feeling and Bradley curls his fingers over the waistband.

Under the yellow glow of the nightlight, Bradley pulls away from you again, illuminated in soft light as he pulls your shorts down. Your head is starting to get fuzzy, but it’s a nice kind of fuzzy, the kind that makes you feel light and calm. Your tongue feels loose in your mouth, so relaxed just like the rest of you. It was never like this with Elias—you’d almost forgotten it could be like this.

Bradley's eyes travel down to your panties, a large hand keeping your thighs spread open for him as the other plants itself flat against your pelvis, fingers splayed. “So small,” he breathes as he looks at it.

“Brad—” You cut yourself off when his thumb presses down on your clit through the cotton fabric, rubbing it in soft, pressured circles, and your eyes squeeze tight. You bite down on your lip, clamping down on your tongue, and Bradley quickens his circles. “Bradley...”

Bradley dips down to kiss you again, letting his hand cup your pussy as he does so and you grind your hips against his palm slowly. He grunts at the feeling, applying more pressure with the heel of his palm. You feel your tongue getting looser, your mind slipping.

He stops suddenly, his mouth hovering over yours. You can feel the puffs of air he’s letting out against your lips. “Tell me you want this.” It comes out low and gravely and, strangest of all, almost hesitant. Like he doesn’t know if he’s about to go too far.

“I want this,” you assure Bradley breathlessly, arching upwards to desperately take your bra off as if that will persuade him into touching you again. “Please, Bradley, I want this.” For a moment, you almost don’t say it. And then it slips. “I want you.”

Your words linger in the air, frozen against the soft, yellow light of the nightlight. You watch Bradley’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, the scar against his neck catching in the light.

“Alright,” he says finally, then again, once more, “Alright.”

And then he’s kissing you again and you feel yourself sinking deeper into him. Your brain feels hazy, but the good kind. The kind you feel when Bradley takes you grocery shopping, or wipes bits of milkshake from your face, or really does anything because Bradley’s always made you feel safe. You can’t help but think about how much he takes care of you as his lips travel to your neck and his hands move up and up and up your thighs. About how he’s big and he’s strong and he’s there. And he listens to you and understands you and just seems to know you in all the ways you need him to.

It’s only when he coaxes one of his thick fingers inside you, large and long enough to reach that spot that has you seeing stars, that the word slips out as a shaky moan. “Daddy, please!”

You both freeze, your hips and Bradley’s finger stilling. Your mouth drops open, as if waiting for words of apology to climb through, but nothing comes out but a soft, strangled noise. Bradley lifts himself up to look at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

Suddenly his eyes darken. “Say it again.”

You swallow, squirming under his gaze and only able to meet his eye for brief seconds. “Daddy,” you whisper.

“That’s right,” Bradley breathes, the words coming out rough and raspy. His finger pumps in and out of you again as he watches your face for your reactions. “Good girl.” The title is lustful rolling off his tongue, dominance so heavy in his tone you feel yourself sinking deeper.

Words feel like too much and not enough all at once, your brain unable to string them together, so you just paw at his pajama pants with a whine. Bradley gets the message though, sliding his finger out of you to undo the drawstring.

The sun has gone down, leaving the room a kind of almost-dark-but-not-quite as yellow light glows off Bradley’s bare muscles and brow cinched in concentration. There’s something figurative about it, something you can’t fully describe, especially not in this state of mind. But something about Bradley being lit up by your nightlight just makes sense.

Bradley finally slides both his pants and boxers off, turning his attention back to you. His lips quirk up slightly when he sees you already staring up at him. “You alright, tootsie?”

“Yeah, daddy.” He lowers himself back on to you and your arms wrap around his neck.

Bradley hums, pressing a kiss to your lips before he reaches down to feel how wet your panties are. The cotton is sufficiently soaked, so much so that it’s sticking to your folds, and Bradley rubs you through it a few times before lifting the fabric and sliding his shaft underneath it. You both let out soft sounds of pleasure at the feeling of his heavy cock against your clit. Bradley grunts at the sight of your panties straining against his length.

“Fuck, you’re so small, tootsie,” Bradley starts dragging his cock through your glistening folds. “Probably couldn’t even take half of me before you’d start talkin’ about how full you were.”

You mewl as his strokes become more consistent, you’d probably agree with anything he said if you could keep feeling like this. The head of his cock catches against your hole and you let out a louder moan, one of your arms throwing itself onto the bed as you fist the sheets.

“Fuck.” Bradley bends to kiss you again, another grunt spilling from his lips. If you could think about anything but the sensations moving though your body, you might be surprised at how loud he’s being. But right now all you want is to hear his raspy, gruff baritone talk more. “Feel so fucking good.”

His dick slides through your panties, wet, lewd sounds filling the room as he coats the underside of it with your slick. His head slips inside you again and your eyes roll. “More. More, daddy. Please.”

“Not yet, toots,” Bradley shakes his head, shushing your whine with another, longer kiss.

You want to argue more, but a particularly well adjusted stroke of his cock distracts you and your back arches as you reach for his hand instinctively. You never did that with Elias. You never did any of this with Elias. He didn’t care about your preferences—what you liked and didn’t like. He didn’t make decisions based on your comfort or take care of you. He didn’t hold your hand.

Bradley’s fingers entangle with your own and something inside you snaps. Your back bends off the bed as euphoria explodes inside you, the knot in your stomach finally unraveling as choked moans and gasps leave your lips. Somewhere in the back of it all, you can register Bradley finishing on your pelvis with a guttural grunt. But there’s something so overwhelming about the feelings crashing through your body that you don’t even fully realize that you’re crying until Bradley’s wiping the tears from your cheeks with soothing thumbs.

He doesn’t say anything as he discards your dirty panties, picking you up and holding you to his chest as he takes you out of the bedroom. His cum is smearing along your stomach and your thighs feel uncomfortably sticky, but you can’t seem to stop crying as your body comes down from its high.

Bradley cups the back of your head as you wrap your arms around him tightly, shaking in his grip and, in between your sobs, you hear the bath being turned on. Bradley kisses your temple gently and whispers something in your ear but you can’t hear it over your own thoughts. Because you’d forgotten that sex could feel like this. That you could allow someone to take care of you and they would.

Bradley lowers the both of you into the bath, but he makes no move to clean you once you're settled, only holding you to his chest as the warm water wets your skin. He strokes your back softly, tapping on your spine in three tap patterns.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs gruffly. “You’re okay.”

It takes a couple more minutes for your tears to lessen to shaky sniffles, but once they do, you give his chest three taps back. You’re rewarded with a kiss on your forehead and Bradley shifts you so that he can start cleaning you gently.

You know there’s still things you both have to talk about. That this has marked a very distinct change in your relationship that will affect almost everything about the two of you. But you finally feel calm, and sleepy, and relaxed. You rest your head against Bradley’s shoulder, blinking slowly. Maybe it’s okay to just let him take care of you tonight. Just for tonight.

The rest of your bath is quiet, only filled with the occasional soft and short praise from Bradley, and then he’s wrapping you up in a fluffy towel and changing you into some of his clothes. You sit on his bed somewhat anxiously, watching as he changes into his own clothes and then leaves to drain the bath. Was this over? Does Bradley want you anymore? Would he roll over and fall asleep on the left side of the bed now that he got what he wanted from you?

You wait for him to finish checking the apartment locks like he always does. The soft glow of the nightlight keeps you company as you wait for him to come back.

“C’mere,” Bradley quells your fears, opening up an arm for you once he’s settled himself in bed. You curl yourself into his chest, getting encompassed by the feeling of him as he rests his arm on your hip. He lifts your chin up gently with his other hand to meet him for a lingering kiss before he fixes the blanket. “Go to sleep, tootsie.”

A small smile makes its way onto your face as your eyelids droop from exhaustion and you snuggle closer to his chest with a sleepy murmur. “G’night, Bradley.”

Bradley’s out alone again. It’s more usual for him as of late, because he doesn’t want you to be a part of anything he’s doing. No, instead he drops you off at the shelter or your friend’s house and then he goes to Mav’s to meet with Jake Seresin and Bob Floyd.

The man with the scar knows this because it’s his job to know this.

He knows that the waitress and the package have done little to deter the man. That, if anything, it’s made it worse. Razor was an oversight he hadn’t fully been expecting, but conveniently made his job switch gears. The man with the scar believes he now has more of a purpose than to play hide and seek with a bunch of children. What started as bullshit has spiraled into something far more urgent.

The man with the scar knows this. What he doesn’t know is how much Bradley knows.

He watches as Bradley parks his antimatter blue Bronco and gets out, scanning the parking lot suspiciously. He’s alert, the man with the scar can give him that, but he’s been following Bradley for weeks now without the other man suspecting a thing. Because that’s his job.

The man with the scar wipes his hands on his tight, blue jeans, waiting a minute before he gets out of his own car. Bradley is a few yards ahead of him, weaving through pedestrians on the sidewalk, but the man with the scar is in no hurry to follow him. That’s what people get wrong about professions like his—you never follow someone. If your course of direction is determined by someone else, they’ll figure you out. No, you walk all on your own, give them nothing to notice.

He shoves his hands in his leather jacket pockets, walking leisurely on the sidewalk. It helps that Bradley is unusually tall, sticking around a whole head or more above everyone else. It makes him hard to miss. So even now, as Bradley gets farther and farther from him, he’s still easily noticeable.

The man with the scar follows him across the block, and then the next. They should be coming up on Maverick’s soon, it’s in the middle of the next block, and if the man with the scar is right, Jake and Bob will be waiting for him.

The crosswalk turns to a red hand, stopping Bradley, and the man with the scar is able to make up some distance. He’s only a couple feet away from Bradley when it changes to the white walking figure and the man with the scar watches as Bradley crosses the street and walks up to Maverick’s Gym and Boxing. And then past it and into the alley between the gym and the other building to its left.

Oh? That’s new.

The man with the scar wonders if perhaps they’ve gotten more secretive—instead of speaking so openly to each other in restaurants and gyms. Perhaps Bradley has finally realized that the people he works for are very, very dangerous.

He moves to walk past the alley first, get a look at what’s going on before he turns straight into it. He isn’t stupid, he knows there’s nothing more suspicious than a man such as himself turning into an alley for no particular reason. Maybe he could pretend to be going for a smoke—

The man with the scar gets pinned up against the alley wall.

He blinks.

A dull throb flares through the back of his head.

Bradley’s heavy grip is pinning him to the white brick wall by his shoulders, anger radiating off of him visibly. His eyes have been swallowed entirely by rage, something the man with the scar imagines is a fairly common expression for Bradley, but not one he’s familiar with as he’s only really seen him around you. The two stare at each other for a moment as Bradley takes him in.

“Who the fuck are you?” He seethes.

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