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CHATGPT IS NOT A SEARCH ENGINE

CHATGPT IS NOT A SOURCE OF INFORMATION

CHATGPT IS NOT STUDY NOTES

CHATGPT IS NOT A WRITING TOOL

CHATGPT IS NOT YOUR FRIEND

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𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧

Clark is so completely oblivious to your flirting that you start to wonder if he even understands what flirting is. (He does, and he can prove it.) fem, 3k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hey, Kent.”

Clark’s answering smile is enthusiastic, but little else. “Hey. How are you, how’s your morning going?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

He takes this more seriously than you’d expect. Or, exactly as you’d expect apparently, because this is Clark you’re talking to. “No one’s made you a cup of coffee?” 

“Well, Jimmy offered, but, alas. Nobody has hands as skilled as yours.”

He nods like this is a given. “I can make you one. Decaf?” Clark laughs loudly at your crestfallen expression. “I’m kidding. Be right back.” 

With caffeine and Clark Kent, your morning promises to improve. It was destiny, fate, and one kind boss that put you in the desk to the right of Clark’s. He’s made good out of a bum deal sandwiched between his desk and a pillar, having turned the pillar into a home for his corkboard and sticky notes. You study him often, his hair kissing the wall each time he leans back to watch the office television. 

You just need to say the right thing to him. To get him to notice you. If he rejected you, you’d stop, of course you’d stop, but Clark hasn’t so far acknowledged your flirting, and even that would be enough to put you off the whole thing if Jimmy hadn’t fanned your flames a few weeks ago. 

He definitely doesn’t know you’re flirting, Jimmy’d said, mouth half full of popcorn, the other half milk duds, that’s what happens to boys when they come from a home on the range, my friend. No game. 

You’d laughed at his grand bravado and kept that information stored away. Clark does seem a little… inexperienced, when it comes to adult life. He’s perfectly normal as things go, but he’s hopeless when it comes to dating. A few weeks ago, a woman at the bar closest to work had asked him if he’d buy her a drink and Clark, all manner of sympathy in his eyes, had asked if she lost her wallet.

So you assume him unknowing and carry on valiantly. “Kent,” you say now, resting your hand on his shoulder, “can we have lunch together?” 

“When, now?” 

“Whenever’s best for you, babe.”

He quirks a smile. “I’m always hungry.”

“I know. I brought you something.”

“You did?” 

“Mm-hm. Put your monitor on standby and come find me.” 

He doesn’t let you get far, his hand pressing lightly to the small of your back as you break for the office kitchenette. “What sort of something?”

“Sorry?”

“What did you bring me?”

“A special treat for a special boy,” you murmur, mostly joking, ever so slightly salacious, and far too much for the setting. 

“You’re leaving me in anticipation here.”

“Is there any other way to leave you, Clark?”

He gives a well-meaning shrug. “Sure, you usually like to leave me hanging.” 

“Don’t be mean. I’ll keep your treat for myself. You know I will.”

Clark chuckles. The sound never fails to light you up from the inside out, has you rushing to the fridge to get your two Tupperware boxes for sharing. You hand one to Clark, the other housing your boring dinner. He slides his arm under yours before the fridge door can close and effectively boxes you in as he grabs his own lunchbox. Your faces are close enough to kiss. 

You take the proximity gratefully, cataloguing the gentle lines of his face. His eyes are beautiful, and light, a warm blue that refuse to dip down to your lips as yours fall to his. You give them a longing stare. Clark collects his lunch and backs away from you. 

He leads you to a table together while shaking the box you’ve given him. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“It’s not like it’s see through, or anything.”

He grins, eyes averted. “I’m going to guess what it is by sound.” Clark turns the box on its side. “Too soft a noise for cookies. If it were fairy cakes again, I’d hear the paper. And we’ve sworn off of caramel after you almost lost your incisor.” 

“So?”

He sniffs. “Brownies.”

“Cheater.” 

“I’m not cheating,” 

“You are! You’re smelling them, I know you are, they’re chocolatey enough. Just the way you like them, if you even care.”

“Of course I care,” he says, finally letting himself look down at the Tupperware, eyes lit with joy. “Oh, these look beautiful.”

“Well, I tried my best.”

“You didn’t have to go to all the trouble,” he says, even as he pops off the lid and lets out a pleased, decadent sigh, like a king looking over a vast sea of riches rather than four dark squares of fudgey brownies. 

“I don’t mind, Clark. I like doing things for you.”

He eats his brownies. He eats his lunch. You press your ankle to his under the table and smile when he doesn’t pull away, again when he washes your plastics and returns them to you towel-dried for your bag. He says, “Thank you for my treat,” with a small pat to your shoulder. 

Hours pass slowly, but then it’s your long awaited home time and you’re not interested in being alone just yet. 

“Could I ask you something?” 

Clark eases the loop of your tote bag back onto your shoulder. “Always.”

“Would you walk me home?”

“Today?” He holds your arm. “Everything okay?” 

“Would you believe me if I said I’d just really like your company?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. We can beat the rush on the tramline if we hurry.”

You don’t beat the rush hour traffic on the tramline; the tram stations are all lined with people two-thick, so you take the slightly longer way on foot from the office to the quieter residential area where you live. The sky is moody, though the sun stays eager, following the backs of your necks past Metropark and Mr. Caleb’s corner store. 

“Wanna get shaved ice?” Clark asks. 

It may be warm, but it’s getting dark already and the idea of eating shaved ice in the dark is unpleasant. Still, he’s so charming, you end up shaking your head while you weave your arm through his. “Lucky you’re pretty,” you murmur. 

“We don’t have to. We could get coffee.” 

“You want to?” 

“I want you to be less sad,” he says. 

“I’m not sad.”

“No? You seem… I don’t know. You seem sort of defeated. Did something happen at work today? You aren’t acting like you would.”

“How do I usually act?” you ask curiously. 

He wrinkles his nose at you. It’s a fond gesture. “Like you. You’re so yourself. I don’t like seeing you down.”

“I’m not down, Clark. But I don’t know, maybe I’ll ask you something.” 

“Sure. Anything, I’m an open book.” 

You size him up. 6’ ridiculous (or 6’4 if he’s to be believed) and brazenly kind, even the look of him, a nose that’s pleasing to see, would be better to kiss, the lines in his cheeks from his smiling and his crow’s feet crinkle right at the corners of his eyes. His dark grey suit and the skinny red tie you occasionally tug between two fingers. Clark isn’t an open book. He is notoriously hard to get a read on, and he should know this. He drives you crazy. 

“Ugh,” you mumble, rubbing the space between your eyebrows. 

“It’s okay, honey.”

You narrow your eyes at him around your hand. “Clark, are you hard of hearing?”

“What?” 

“I’m genuinely asking. I know it’s a very rude thing to presume about someone out of the blue, or, to ask about, but I figured maybe you have an audio processing issue or something?” 

He doesn’t recoil as some might, or get offended at the question, as personal as it was. “I’m not hard of hearing. Why are you asking me that? Do I miss it, when you’re talking to me?”

“It’s like you aren’t hearing me, yeah.”

“I always hear you.”

“But… I say so many things, and your answers are so– neutral?” You frown at the deep confusion etched between his brows and catch a different thread. “When I said I wanted your company, earlier, you rolled your eyes. Why?” 

“You were joking.”

“Was I?” You untangle your arm from his to get a better view of his expression. “Why would I joke about that? Why else would I want you to come with me?”

“I don’t– I don’t know, you joke so often.”

“When?”

“Like, in the mornings. I ask how you are and you always say you’re better now you saw me.”

“That is quite genuinely true, Clark.”

“But it’s, like. You’re kidding. It’s like play-fighting, only…”

You wish you and Clark could’ve had this conversation sitting down. It would’ve been nicer somewhere quieter, but there’s comfort to be found in the quiet hustle and bustle of the tramlines whirring in the backgrounds, the single train track further from the main city, even the bump and beeping of Metropolis traffic. And there are people everywhere, chatting, walking, occasional laughter filtering through bursts of sound. You smile at Clark as someone out of sight lets out a roaring burst of giggles, enamoured with his own twitching smile, like even the hint of someone else’s joy is enough to bring colour to his day. 

“I could never put my hands on you, handsome. You’re too precious,” you say, almost shy. “Not play-fighting, by the way. I’m flirting with you, Kent. I have been.” 

He raises a hand to his neck, scratches. Lets it flop back down, his lips parting in surprise. “You are?” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “It’s not a joke, Clark. Honey. I’m sorry if I never made that clear for you. I definitely wasn't trying to make a joke out of things. Don’t get me wrong, I love teasing you, and sometimes I’m being hyperbolic, but I mean everything I’ve said. I hope you… hope you don’t mind.” 

You watch in real time as Clark goes a rosy shade of pink. Spreading across his nose, glancing up his cheekbones, a heated stain to evidence his embarrassment even as his lips stretch into a smile that’s unfailingly, untouchably pleased. His eyes go soft, his fingers tickling the back of your hand as he finds it, turns it, and grabs your fingers. Too impatient to thread them together. 

“Oh,” he says, giving your joined hands a sway. You watch him mouth it again. Oh.  

“Clark?”

“When we went to dinner, after Perry’s party, I should’ve paid,” he says. 

“What?”

“And– and there are so many doors I could’ve held for you.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, sounding, for a second, genuinely agitated. It’s a stark contrast to the way he treasures your hand in his, rolling your fingers nicely. 

“Clark, I’ve been trying. For weeks. If anyone’s going to be annoyed right now, it’s me.”

He glares at you. That glare quickly softens, turning to more of a stickied, almost playful smile you fail to place on him. 

“What?” you ask. 

He takes a step into your space. “What?” he asks back. 

“I asked you first.”

Clark takes you in as you shift your weight from one foot to the other,  an uncomfortable warmth spreading over the back of your neck.  

“What?” you whisper. 

“Just looking at you.” 

You flare with embarrassment. “Do not,” you warn. The bite you’d tried for is more of a whine. 

“Don’t what? Look at you? How could I not?” 

“Clark, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” 

“Dead ridiculous,” you murmur, tail end of your words a breathy, harsh exhale as Clark leans into your space and presses his lips to your skin. 

Anticipation tightens every joint. Your brain catches up slowly, finds his mouth on your cheek, your cheekbone, and the corner of your eye, three soft kisses that threaten to bowl you over in the middle of the sidewalk, despite his hand clasped over yours and the other guiding your face toward his kissing. He presses a final kiss to your temple, takes a breath of you, and lets you fall away. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, before,” he says, rubbing the back of your hand sympathetically, “but I know now.” 

You do your best not to stutter. “Sure. It’s okay.” 

“Yeah, it will be. Where do you want to go for dinner?” 

—

Clark has to confess to bone deep elation. Bordering childish, wildly grown up, he cannot contain or restrain the force of his affection. 

In less pretentious terms, Clark Kent is falling in love. You might’ve had the head start when it came to the whole courting side of things, but Clark would argue he’s pined harder, and for far longer, to the point of delusion: every flirtation was thought to be a joke. Some days he’d believe you, and others he’d go home thinking about a flirty, lovely girl who just likes to make her coworker smile. 

He can’t say he’d believe this, now. Picture you here, sure, achy mornings scrolling his phone in frustration, before tossing it aside to clutch a pillow to his chest, his nose in the case, trying to find your smell. What is it you always smell like? Your perfume. He’s awful at this stuff, knows so many smells but can’t make it out. 

Clark —lucky Clark, in there and now, elated— slips his arm over your chest and pulls you easily into his front. You’re practically weightless to him. 

“Mm…” you mumble. 

He shushes you mindlessly. 

Unfortunately, the sound only serves to wake you more. You doze weakly in his arms, a touch unsettled, all his fault for being selfish, so Clark rubs your back delicately and tries to repent. Wordlessly, he adjusts his arm under yours to hold your stomach in his palm, inching you backward, waiting for a sign. 

You let out a long, low sigh and fall mostly asleep again. 

Clark rests his nose in your hair. This is hard-worked but perhaps unearned, considering all your heavy lifting, but Clark will be damned if he hasn’t tried to make things up to you. The best, worst thing about you is that you find it all endlessly funny; Clark brings you flowers and you tickle him under the chin with their petals; he takes you out for dinner and you sneak off (unsuccessfully) to pay the bill during dessert; he tries to flirt, voice low and warm and pleading, and you ask him if he’d like to play fight. It’s your favourite joke. That’s if you aren’t blatantly pretending that Clark isn’t flirting. 

And you’re here now because… well. You haven’t fucked. Clark has —offered you things. Never wanting to take too soon, but needing you to have. And you’ve let him spin you around some, but tonight was because you just didn’t want to leave. Who was Clark to let you? You should have everything you want, including him, and including this. He’ll lay here stretching an ache out of your back all day if it’s your wish.

He tries to dial back the philosophical. Presses his nose further into your head and closes his eyes again. He’s tireder than usual, but that could be down to the late nights with you. He likes calling you, knowing you’ll answer. He likes listening to you talk, and he loves the casual flirtation you throw at him. Better now, because you know your crush is reciprocated. 

You smell incredible. Clark could fall to pieces about it. 

You wake up, then, Clark’s not sure why, holding his arm off of you to spin beneath it to face him, before forcing yourself under the curve of his chin to hold him. 

Clark doesn’t say anything in case you’re trying to get back to sleep again. He just waits, letting his fingers tumble the length of your back as it rises and falls. 

You don’t fall asleep again. 

“Hey,” you murmur. 

“Hi.”

“Good morning.”

“Better,” Clark says, tipping your head back by the nape of you, something right about it as you follow his hand back to show him your sleep-rumpled face, “now that you’re here.”

You turn your face into his arm. Clark can feel the heat of your skin, and thanks whoever there is to thank for the way that shyness and heat go hand in hand. You’re warm as a hearth against his skin, like a stripe of sun laid down and resting. 

“Steal all my best ones,” you mumble. 

“Best what?” 

“My pick-up lines.”

“Honey, I’m not flirting with you. Is that what you thought?”

He says it in a mumble. Presses it right into your mouth. 

Your first kiss had been somewhat of an oddity. No flirting before or afterwards, no pretenses, only a kiss. You’d been shy the day after your impromptu dinner and Clark hadn’t loved it. ‘Cos you’re adorable, but it had bordered too harshly on unsurety. Like you were waiting for Clark to take things back. 

His hands under your face to hold you. A wading of a kiss turned biting turned pleading, two shades of desperate and third pathetic. Clark had put everything he could into it. Translated months of longing, and the permanent ache that had come with your teasing.

This kiss is nothing like that. It’s melding your mouth against his with ease, meeting you halfway there as his hand carries you inward. Chest to chest, your little smile a lance against his own. 

“M’not flirting,” he murmurs. 

“Why not?”

“‘Cos you have me, baby.” 

You grumble weakly against his lips and take another kiss. “I like the flirting,” you say. 

“That’s too bad, huh?” He presses your shoulder to the bed, watches your eyes widen and then fall shut. “Maybe I can be persuaded.” 

“Flirt with me.”

“Nicer.” 

Your attempt to hide a triumphant smile fails. Clark doesn’t mind. 

“Please?” you murmur. 

He mouthed beautiful into the side of your neck. There’ll be time for the rest. Not that you’ll enjoy waiting —and not that he’ll mind giving in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Thank you bec for proof reading!!!!♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

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💖💖💖

For the Plot

Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Length: 7.7k

Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh

Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.

The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.

In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.

You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.

And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.  

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in. 

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own.  “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.  

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.  

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind���s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it.  But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 �� 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[handflexlibrary]

how would clark react to shy!reader wearing cute panties around him for the first time? 

cw: mildly suggestive, fem In the privacy of his own home (and mind), Clark calls you his sweet girl. It’s the perfect way to describe you, and while others may find it saccharine or infantilising, he knows you appreciate it for what it is. A sweet girl given some tenderness back. 

You’re sitting on the arm of his sofa with your socked feet brushing against the floor, in pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that cloaks the shape of you. He’s making you a cold lemonade in the kitchen, and if his senses weren’t as sharp as they are he’d have tipped half of it onto the cool tile below. He can’t stop watching you. 

You laugh at the TV. “Clark, you’re missing the best part,” you say. 

He could knock you back onto the couch and kiss you dizzy when you laugh like that, only he’d never be so rough with you.

“I’m coming,” he promises. “No patience at all. You could’ve paused it for me.”

“I’ll rewind it, if you want.” 

Clark couldn’t care less about the movie. What he wants is to be sitting with you again, to pull you into his lap before the sun starts to go down. He needs to get his hours in. They’re owed! 

Clark presses the lemonade into your hand, a kiss to your head, catching the click of your jaw from a poorly hidden yawn. 

“Oh, honey, are you tired?” he asks. He’d had no idea. 

“No, I’m fine.”

“Sure. Okay, but we could finish the movie in bed, right?” 

You take a sip of lemonade. Grin at him like he’s perfect when you swallow. “I’m really not that tired.” 

“Humour me?” 

And oh, don’t you let him take you to bed. He guards your shoulder unnecessarily, pulls the sheets back to help you in while you grumble about being spoiled. Clark puts your movie on and slips into the bed next to you, deciding this is better than the spooning he’d planned on the couch. It would’ve taken ages to convince you that he doesn’t mind your weight. Here in bed, he can lie right beside you without preamble. 

You drink your lemonade, nothing so endearing to him as your sips and the way you wipe the condensation from your glass each time rather than let it wet the bed. Clark turns into you, in part due to low self-control, but more because you’re warm and soft to the touch. He puts his forehead on your shoulder and his hand to the hip furthest him. Under the blankets together, you are perfectly cocooned. 

Which makes it harder for him when you insist on getting up. 

“Where you going?” he asks. 

“Just to the bathroom. Gonna freshen up.” 

To freshen up, he thinks, and not to brush your teeth. Is he going to presume himself a lucky man from turn of phrase alone? No. But does he sit in bed waiting anxiously for you to return? Yes. Clark wouldn’t say it’s hard to get you out of your clothes, euphemism or otherwise; you aren’t uncomfortable around him anymore, just your tentativeness remains. He has to be gentle with you, and he doesn’t mind. 

He isn’t surprised to find you fully dressed when you return, smelling noticeably of lotion and something else he can’t name aptly as you stop at your side of the bed. His stomach flickers with heat as you switch off the bedside lamp, leaving the TV as the only light source. 

“Okay?” you ask softly. 

“Perfect, sweet girl,” he says, matching your tone, almost lost under the sounds of the movie. 

You nod. 

His breath catches and stills as you reach for the edge of your shirt and pull it off. 

Then you slip your shorts down your hips and Clark’s mind takes time to catch up. Like, a ridiculous amount of time. 

You’re not not cute, he wants that cemented in the record forever. You are a darling. In whatever plain white panties you deign to show him, in your simple t-shirt bras and especially out of them, you’re a wonder. Clark can’t believe you’re of earth, sometimes, until he thinks of course you are. You are charmingly, broadly human. 

Right now, you’re wearing the cutest matching set he’s ever seen, his mouth immediately cottoned with longing.

They aren’t ‘sexy’, objectively, a fake satin that looks perfectly comfortable to sleep in. The panties have a lettuce hemming, pink fabric, and his entire body has started to fill with a telling heat following the lines of you. “Are those strawberries?” he asks. 

You pull the sheets back and set yourself down beside him. Your little ankle socks stay on. Fuck, his blood is practically boiling in his veins. 

“Honey, you’re gonna have to let me see,” he says lightly. 

“No, ‘cos you looked at me too long. You’re done.”

You’re serious and teasing at once. 

“How was I supposed to not look?”

“Practice your restraint,” you say, really joking now. If Clark concentrates he can hear the patter of your heart picking up. Anticipation sends a flush over your skin. 

“Let me see you again,” he says, warming your thigh through the sheets. “Please.” 

You lay further down in the bed and breathe deeply. “Kiss me first,” you say, and there, he can hear the thread of your nerves, how much courage it actually took you to stand there and shimmy out of your clothes, knowing it was a big change.  

“Yeah, I will,” he promises, raising a hand to your cheek. “You– I don’t know how to say it. You’re–” He takes a calming breath as you had. He could be far more gentlemanly about the situation if he tried. “Fuck,” he groans instead, tapping his nose against yours, hovering for a kiss. Sweet girl.

You laugh, self-satisfaction new and wholly delightful on you as you tip your chin up to meet his lips. 

Clark pictures the feeling of satin under his fingers and presses eagerly into your mouth.

[handflexlibrary]

I watched this movie for the first time in ages and remembered how obsessed with it 13-year-old me was 🫶 I kinda wish I could show this to little me, she'd be freaking out over it tehe

[handflexlibrary]

a boy who’s jacked and kind 💪

[handflexlibrary]

Lois didn’t expect Clark to actually listen

(Based on the Archie Comics panel!)

[handflexlibrary]

ugh imagine reader accidentally breaking or ruining something important to Hotch and panicking because they feel so guilty and think he’s going to be so mad when he gets home and he’s just such an angel and Hotch is more upset that reader is so upset than that something broke

in pieces

how sweet 🥺🥺 cw; fem!reader, established relationship, comfort and fluff <333 wc; 1.1k

"I'll see you soon."

Your voice wavered on the other end of the phone, Aaron didn't miss the nervous tone.

It was a huge contrast from the usual excitement, knowing you wouldn't be separated for much longer. The team had just landed; a case had taken them to Delaware for a few days, and he always called before coming home. This served a double purpose: to not freak you out at the sound of someone unknown entering the apartment, especially in the dark of night. And to let you know he was simply, finally, 30 minutes away.

But before he could inquire if you were alright, you disconnected the call, leaving Aaron with nothing but the sound of a few fading beeps.

He didn't speed on the way home, per se, but he succeeded in shortening the drive by a few minutes. Luckily, he was experienced enough with slightly riskier driving.

And once he entered the apartment, he hadn't even had the chance to remove his jacket. One foot inside the door and you had enveloped him fully.

Your arms squeezed his middle tightly, yet there was the lightest bit of hesitancy in your embrace. As if you feared he wouldn't reciprocate, or it wouldn't be long-lasting.

"Hey sweetheart, I missed you." Aaron spoke into your hair, turning to kiss the side of your head. The moment your body met his, it was as if the world stilled - like someone had gently flipped an off-switch for everything else. No longer did he have to be stoic professional, just Aaron. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry," you mumbled into his shirt.

He pulled back to meet your gaze, his hands remaining on your waist. A thumb grazed your hip comfortably, "What're you sorry for?"

He was certain that no matter what it was, it wasn't as bad as you thought.

"Your mug slipped out of my hand as I was taking it out of the dishwasher." You admitted, your eyes dimmed by the weight of your guilt.

Aaron blanched slightly, causing your heart to drop further. "The one Jack painted?"

Messily painted, but that was part of its charm. A project during an art summer camp Jack attended.

You nodded sadly, biting down on your lip.

It had been his favorite mug, a staple since - and before - you met him. The one that made you think back to the sleepovers early in your relationship; sitting on the counter in his kitchen in your (his) pjs, chatting and laughing softly together as he poured each of you a morning helping. He would then find himself standing in between your legs, kissing you and leaving you breathless with the bitter taste of coffee in his breath.

It hadn't taken you long to fall in love with him.

Aaron took a step back, keeping his hands on you as he looked you up and down, scanning for anything out of place.

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" He released you only to grab your right hand, turning it, and then repeated the motion with your left. Absent were any cuts or gashes, your skin as soft and familiar as always.

"No, Aaron, I broke it. It shattered everywhere." Your admittance ended with a small huff, clearly upset with yourself. The visual of it broken into multiple fragments across the kitchen floor made you sick to your stomach. You couldn't even salvage the pieces, ruined beyond belief.

The whole thing could've been avoided too, that was the worst part. You shouldn't have tried to juggle multiple mugs at once. You should've gripped onto it better. You should've just gone to bed instead of being proactive, leaving emptying the dishwasher until tomorrow morning.

You'd tried to catch it too - he knew that without having to ask. Hence, why he was so worried you'd injured yourself in the process.

"But you're okay?" He clarified, his eyebrows furrowing gently into a line.

"I'm fine," you insisted sharply, slightly annoyed he kept changing the subject, but you weren't focusing on what he was saying. His concern for you outweighing the casualty. Tears began to pool at your waterline, blurring him. "But it's broken. And I'm so sorry."

"Hey," he shushed you gently, attempting to soothe you. "Don't worry about it."

An exasperated tilt of your head, "but..."

"It was an accident, sweetheart." Aaron shook his head dismissively - at the situation, not you. "A mug is replaceable. Being chronic caffeine drinkers, we own plenty of them. Your fingers, however, are not. I care much more about those."

Along with his seriousness, he was still trying to coax a smile from you, and it was working. But the light shift of your face caused a singular tear to roll down your cheek. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb before it got too far.

"I was worried you'd be mad." You sniffled, throwing your arms around his neck. "You use it practically every morning. I know how much it meant to you."

"I feel worse that you had to fret over the whole thing." A sympathetic chuckle shook through him, although his eyes remained somber. Aaron's expression was so understanding, you couldn't help but instantly feel relieved, the regret that had been haunting you fading away. "When did this happen?"

Your bottom lip protruded. "The night after you left."

"Honey," his words exited him in a soft breath. "You worried about this for almost a week?"

You nodded, and Aaron felt horrible he hadn't picked up on your unease through your short calls and texts. He was also saddened at the fact you hesitated to bring it up, wary of his reaction.

"You're sweet." He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss on your pout. "I'm not mad. Far from it."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"You're not just saying that?"

"No sweetheart," an amused chuckle shook through his chest, his hand roaming your back. "It's okay. Genuinely."

You sighed, feeling eased. Aaron threw an arm around your shoulder, tucking you into his side and kissing your temple.

"I missed you too." You said gently as your palm found his torso, your fingertips toying with one of his shirt buttons. A trace of light humor was present in your tone, "And I may have already taken Jack somewhere for a replacement. Not to spoil the surprise, but I wanted to make it up to you as quickly as I could."

"See, how could I ever be mad at you. I'm looking forward to having a new favorite." He shifted so he was facing you, pressing his lips against yours, soon smiling into the kiss. A soft giggle exited you. "C'mon, let's go to bed."

[handflexlibrary]

Ok this isn’t Halloween but I would love to see a fic of the first time r spends the night at Aaron’s and she changes into her pj which r these super cute delicate tank and shorts set and Aaron goes crazy!! Like he’s a gentleman obvi (or trying hard to be) but he starts opening my flirting with her and she’s so confused bc usually he’s much more subtle

thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

cw adult theme mdni

You don't bother changing in the bathroom. It's not an attempt to come onto him, though you're wondering if he might want that, but a realistic practice. If Aaron wants to be intimate with you tonight he's going to see much more of you than your bra.

He returns from the bathroom as you're pulling down your camisole. It's a simple pair of pyjamas but made of a more expensive fabric, the shorts bordering immodest and the camisole cupping your breasts with enough support that a quick glance in the mirror tells you what you'd wanted to know; you look cute. 

Aaron smiles at you, something unreadable in his expression. His brows lift ever so slightly. "Nice socks." 

"I get cold feet sometimes," you say, pressing your fuzzy heels together. 

"Yeah?" he asks, pushing his hair out of his face. "Me too." 

"What side do you sleep on?" you ask. 

"What side do you sleep on?" he asks back. "Go where you want." 

You pick a random side, too nervous to think about it in depth. The sheets are crisps to the touch and smell freshly laundered, soft against your naked legs. You feel a little like you're playing make believe all cleaned and washed yourself, your heart in your wrist as you squeeze it, watching him flick off the big light and cross the carpeted floor slowly. His room, his entire apartment, is smart but cosy, ambient lamp light and open space. 

"Do you wanna watch TV?" he asks, putting the remote in your lap as he shakes out the sheet and slips in next to you. His body heat is immediately felt. His knee brushes yours as he leans in. "Hold that button down." 

Despite what you'd said about cold feet, you're nervous and he runs warm; by the time you've found something to watch on TV he's sewn his arm through yours and you're practically running a temperature. You have to take your legs back out and lie atop the sheets. 

You pull a knee up. The shorts ease down. 

Aaron sinks into the bed with you, his head just a touch higher than your own. "I'm really happy you're here," he says. 

"I'm happy too," you say, turning your face to his. Nervous, sure, but this is a milestone for your new relationship you're ecstatic to achieve. 

Even if he doesn't have any seductive intention tonight, you're eager to spend the night in his arms. He's older (impossible to ignore), more gentlemanly as a consequence, and during the course of your relationship there have been more important things than sex, like establishing trust with one another, and making sure that your relationship could withstand his constant working. 

"I'm really happy," you say, lifting your chin and fireworks erupt in your chest as he leans down to meet you, kissing you gently. 

"Is this…" His hand trails to the soft of your stomach, pink brushing your thigh where it's hiked. "Your usual nighttime attire?" 

"This is the wanting my boyfriend to like it attire," you confess, because he already knows. Aaron knows everything. He could tell you where you bought them if you gave him long enough.

"Consider them true to form," he says, hand sliding like a heavy, hot weight across your stomach and leaving a worse heat behind. "You look amazing." 

"Yeah?" you ask. 

His lips skin your cheek. He nudges you with his nose to encourage your head back and kisses softly under the line of your jaw, "They're a little small," he says, kissing between whispers, "the shorts." 

"They're not tight," you whisper in turn. 

His hand falls to your thigh, spreading your legs a terrible inch as he tugs at the hem of your shorts. His fingertips dip under them a millimetre as he agrees, "No, they're not. Your top, though…" 

"It was a matching set. I couldn't choose–" 

"Do you have many like it?" he asks, pulling away, meeting your eyes with a charge you've only seen a handful of times. You know exactly what it means, your chest aching with want as his hand comes to rest at the top of your thigh. 

"Sure. Two or three." 

"That won't do." 

You're nervous, but he's your boyfriend. You know more about him than he might think even if you don't know him intimately yet, and his arduousness makes you laugh. He's always been such a gentleman —not many men would ask you to be their girlfriend with a pearl necklace, or invite you to stay the night via text rather than at the end of a date. You'd expected your first time together to be a come up for coffee situation, but he's never propositioned you that way. The text was a sweet surprise, an addition. 

Would you like to stay over after dinner on Friday? Let me know. Can't wait to see you either way. 

No matter what you want, Aaron wants that too. 

You turn into his lap and catch his lips with yours, his hand encroaching on the soft fat of your inner thigh. 

His lips part under yours and you take his face into your hands, a giving in if there ever were one, hoping it says everything you're too shy to admit aloud. No matter how much he clearly likes the shorts, he abandons your thigh and hugs your back to him instead, your chests pressed together until yours is heaving for air. 

"You're usually more subtle than this," you tease, breathless, good-natured. 

"You aren't usually wearing this," he says, his usually smooth voice roughened, "I'm losing my mind." 

"Well, we can't have that." 

He leans back in, laughing against your lips. When his hand works its way under your camisole, you think about where you can get more pyjamas like these ones considering he likes them so badly, but then his hand crawls higher and the thought leaves your mind for the time being. 

[handflexlibrary]

Lois & Clark by Letícia Barreiros.

[handflexlibrary]

your first 'I love you' with Hotch ♥︎ fem!reader 1k

“You’re tense.”

Hotch doesn’t look up from his desk. He’s reading through a consult, two fingers pressed to his brow. He reminds you of a movie star when he poses like this. You like it, and you doubly enjoy the stirring feeling it prompts in your stomach. 

“I’m not tense,” he says, gently and quietly, “just thinking.”

He’s thinking and tense at the same time, then. The big wooden desk in front of him is open real estate for you to climb on top of, propping yourself with legs dangling to his right. He ever so kindly drops his hand on your knee. 

You slouch because Hotch doesn’t care about posture. At least, it doesn’t make him like you any less. Occasionally, he’ll press a hand to your lower back and try to straighten you out. But mostly he makes a comment on how your back will hurt worse than his by the time you’re forty and kiss your temple. You take his wrist into two hands and rub at the line where his tendon hides beneath the skin. 

“So… are you going home today?” you ask. 

“I…” He pulls his head up to yours, hand tracing your thigh surreptitiously slow. “Am going wherever you’re going.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Hotch pats your leg. 

You can feel the heat of his palm through your trousers. It doesn't take much more than that to have you droopy eyed as you wait for him to finish his work, his warm touch, the quiet of his office and the subtle scratch of his pen against paper. 

He puts everything away into its proper place. He helps you down off of the desk, and he puts his coat on overtop of his suit. Briefcase in hand, Hotch accompanies you down to your desk in one of the far corners of the BAU's offices where you put your own coat on. He beckons you forward to fasten the top button, which you'd missed. 

In the elevator, you turn your face to your shoulder and watch him watch the floor number change. He's smiling by the time you get to the bottom floor. Out past the metal detectors and security checkpoint and the huge glass doors, you stroll into the cool night time air and, barely a foot from the entrance, feel Hotch's hand looking for yours. 

"What do you want to do tonight?" he asks finally. 

"I really get to choose?" 

"You should get to choose more often." 

Hotch is admittedly much busier than you are. His work is more intrusive, or should you say, expansive, than your own, and he has Jack to prioritise, his family. But that doesn't mean you don't get to choose. You chose his tie this morning via the phone, and what you both ate for dinner — huge too-messy sandwiches over a casefile. 

"I'm hungry if you are." 

"And if I'm not, you'll magically feel full?" he asks. 

He gives your hands a little swing. You could kiss him right here on the sidewalk. 

"I'm, like– I could eat, but if you don't wanna stop for something I won't go hungry." 

"No, you'll just fill up on oatmeal." 

"Oatmeal is a great night time snack," you say. "Especially with the slow-releasing melatonin Dr. Reid was telling me about." 

"Are you distracting my colleagues?" he asks knowingly, looking both ways before he pulls you across the street and into the bureau's employee parking lot. 

"No. Well, sometimes." 

He unlocks his car with the beep of a hob and opens the passenger seat for you. "We can get something to go? We don't have to be out all night." 

You climb in, beaming as he kisses your cheek and closes the door behind you. 

He drives you down to the Thai restaurant a half a mile away. You call before you get there, so the food's ready waiting for you to pick up. He's in and out, and he says, "Put something down on your lap, honey, it's hot," before he passes it to you. 

You smile like a lovesick fool when he hums along to the radio, hand tapping the wheel as he turns into the street of your apartment. You hadn't realised he chose your place. 

The music suits him. You aren't sure how it happens. A happy love song in time with your small moment of bliss. You reach across the console and put your hand on his face. He turns into it, softly questioning. 

You rub your thumb into the scratching of his five o'clock shadow. 

"You're my favourite. I love you," you say. You try to be serious about it but your lips twitch. 

Your first 'I love you' maybe should've been saved somewhere safe until the right moment. You've been keeping it wedged between your heart and your ribs, though, and it's too much tonight. The sweet voice of the love song's singer saturates the air with a certain saccharineness, his handsome, beautiful smile, frown lines and won't be ignored.

"I love you, too." 

From Hotch, it feels like a promise. You lift your chin and he gives you a light kiss. He keeps smiling and breaking the kiss. 

"I wish you would've waited," he says. 

You're too happy to feel insecure about it. "What for?"

He reaches for your shoulders, squeezing you and pushing you away to meet your eyes. "Because I had this whole speech planned, you know? I was going to tell you first." 

"A speech?" 

He looks incredibly happy: he's onto you. He knows you're fishing for the speech and all the pretty compliments he might've doled out.

"If you'd waited," he concedes, "I might have told you how lucky I feel to get to be with you. How I know a second chance when I have it. A second chance at love, and… feeling young. Feeling brand new."

Your smile melds into a smirk. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah. And I might've said something about how beautiful you are, and how funny, and how interesting, but you got there first and now you'll never know the depths of my affection after all." 

"That's too bad." 

He leans in for another kiss. "Yes," he says against your lips. "Too bad." 

[handflexlibrary]

absolute menace but still such a good boy :')))

[handflexlibrary]

i think that we as a community need to really understand that clark kent isn’t desperately in love with lois lane.

he is violently in love with lois lane.

[handflexlibrary]

ARE YOU TAKING REQUESTS FOR HOTCH????? I-OH MY please write super fluffy domestic vibes with hotch? Just the reader being super tired late at night waiting for him and still taking care of him when he gets home? Like taking his coat and shoes off and offering him a hot bath?

Maybe he just can't help but melt and get all soft around her?

You can ignore this if you wish to! Dw! Love your writing<3

thank you for your request!! hotch x tired fem!reader

Your head feels cloudy and heavy as a bowling ball when you hear the apartment door creak open. You lift your head, your neck protesting its soreness, and wipe the little line of dribble from your chin as Aaron turns the gentle corner into the lounge. 

"You're still up," he says. 

"Can't let my man come home to nothing," you say, or try to say, rubbing your eyes as you stand on wobbly footing. 

He swoops in for a hug. You love this part of being with him. You'd thought it was the drunkenness of a new relationship at first, but it never went away. When it's you and him alone, Aaron adores you unapologetically. 

"You're so tired," he says, his voice tipping gently into teasing. 

"I'm not," you argue. 

He doesn't believe you, clearly, a light behind his eyes that says, Yeah, right. You don't need him to believe you to take care of him, unfortunately for him. You lean back in the circle of his arms and give his neck a light, loving scratch, fingertips curving down his throat to the snug collar of his t-shirt. You work your way into his perfectly knotted tie and ease it loose. 

His hand does some unworking all its own, kneading into the rigid line of your aching back with care. "You're tense," he says. 

"I'm a bit sore," you admit. 

"Sleeping sitting up does that to you." Profiler. 

"Stop, stop cheating," you say, pulling the tie from his neck and laying it over your shoulder. "I hate this button. I don't know how you get it undone without me, it's always snug." 

"Good thing you're here to do it for me," he says. Trust him to guard his secrets. 

You pop his first button, then his second, and rub the red indent the starched collar has pressed into his neck with over-exaggerated concern. 

"You might be better at pretending than I am, but I can still tell when you're tired, Hotchner." 

He tightens his hold around your waist. "What did we say about Hotchner?" he asks, his voice rough and warm at once. He sounds as though he could tip into salaciousness if you only did it first. 

"I don't remember," you say. 

"I'm sure you don't." 

He grabs your cheek. Grab is too cruel a word, but cup is too soft. He takes your face into his hand, the breadth of his palm drowning your face, warm and solid and breathtakingly tender as he turns your face and leans in. He kisses the corner of your mouth.

Your breath catches as he kisses lower. His lips trail to your jaw, just under it, the skin beneath your ear. 

"I made you dinner," you say, pulling him back carefully, your hand in his hair. He doesn't fight it. "I know you're hungry." 

"I'm trying to seduce you," he says, clear entertainment in his tone. You love this Aaron most of all, much better than his dominant work personality, or his quieter seductions. Playful, loving Aaron is his sweetest mode. 

"I know, and I'm trying to make sure you don't keel over and die before you reach fifty." 

"That won't happen. You're keeping me young." 

"Oh, really?" You squeeze his bicep. "How am I doing that?" 

"I'd tell you, but I don't think you're in the mood," he says, still playful. 

He really does sound younger when he's with you. You've heard him sometimes down the phone giving orders or correcting his colleagues, and it's different to this. He lives for his job, but he's happier when he's with you. It's not something you take lightly. 

"I could be in the mood," you say. 

He chuckles and kisses your cheek. "Not tonight. You're falling asleep on your feet, and I'm not far behind you." 

"You'll eat dinner though, won't you?" 

"If you eat with me." 

Aaron absolutely won't let you take his shoes off, which is a disappointment but unsurprising. He does, however, allow you to flit around him at the kitchen table, warming his plate and pouring him a small glass of scotch. By some miracle he eats all of it, and only drinks a sip of the scotch by another. He trades his short glass for a bottle of water, and his dark suit for freshly washed pyjamas, trailing after you in the dimly lit hallway to your shared bedroom with his fingers woven in yours obligingly. 

You wonder if he'd let you brush his teeth for him. Weirdly, you know if you asked him to, he'd brush your teeth for you. You can imagine it, your chin pinched in one hand as he looks down at you, his other guiding gentle circles. You file the daydream away for another night and get through this one easily enough, you and Aaron hip to hip, his elbow on your shoulder.

Aaron lifts his hand, drawing a circle around your ear absentmindedly. After what seems to be an internal debate, he takes your ear lobe between his index and middle fingertips and gives it a soft tug. 

You glare at him, toothbrush between your lips, toothpaste foaming at the corners of your mouth. His returning grin makes you feel like the prettiest girl on Earth. 

[handflexlibrary]

𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫-𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭

Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.) 3k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Good morning.” 

A stress ball goes careening off the edge of your desk as your body catches up. “Fuck,” you breathe, twisting in your seat to find the Daily Planet’s most puppy-eyed journalist towering over your desk. “Clark! You scared me.” 

Your whisper-shouting amuses him. He smiles, creasing a small wrinkle in the corners of his eyes, pretty pink mouth too much to deal with. If he notices you looking and then looking away, he doesn’t show it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding too sorry. 

“Are you?” 

“I’m so sorry. Really. What’s got you so, ah, immersed?”

You click the minimise button on your open window, clearing your desktop before he can spot your shoddy workmanship. “Nothing.” 

“Sure. I believe you. Do you want a cup of coffee?” 

“No, thank you.” 

He lingers. Your office skews toward casual dress but Clark’s hardly the first to wear a proper suit, skinny black tie against a solid backdrop. You’d quite like to grab it, hoisting him downward, and you know you’d never do it, but the thought is nice. Your face and neck warm with it. 

Clark’s smile is soft and yet endlessly indulgent, like you’ve given him what he’d sorely wanted. “I can help, you know. I’d love to help you with whatever it is that’s making you all… cagey,” he says. 

“You’re always helping me.” 

“That’s not true. I couldn’t help you move.” 

You wave a hand at his wincing. You hadn’t asked him to, and you hadn’t minded when he cancelled at the last minute. “I’m just happy your ma was okay.” 

“I’d still like to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

His smile is crazy. Magnetic and tempting and sickening, too, nausea a pit in your stomach that blooms the longer you stare at him. Sometimes, sometimes, Clark smiles at you in this quasi-specific way and you think —you. I know you. 

And then a headache comes like a knife between your eyes. 

Clark startles at your hard flinch. “Migraine again?” 

“Not a migraine.” 

“Then what would you call it?” 

“A shooting pain? They don’t last long enough to qualify. Jimmy says so.” 

“What does Jimmy know about headaches?” Clark asks, voice taking on a silky quality that threatens to send shivers down your back. He hesitates in front of you, taller and taller as the moment stretches, before he bends at the waist to touch your forehead. “Sorry, can I just– is this okay?” 

“Sure, but, what are you–”

His hands are warm. “You don’t feel hot. What did the doctor say?” 

“I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t go?” His softness turns stiff. “Why wouldn’t you go? Sharp pains like this aren’t normal. Why wouldn’t you go and get that looked at? You already made the appointment.” 

You shift away from his hand. It would be easy to meet him where he is right now. You could tell him that it isn’t his problem nor his business. That you didn’t wanna get looked at and ignored, again. You woke up this morning and couldn’t hack it. 

“I didn’t feel like it,” you say, not without care. 

“You didn’t feel like it.” His eyebrows rise. His thumb strokes over the curve of your eyebrow as he pulls his hand away to straighten his glasses. 

“That’s what I said, yeah.” You laugh at his parroting. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad when I’m at home. I figure maybe it’s the computer screen.” You let him stare at you in his sternness until you start to feel too much like a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I send you this bit on one-pan carbonara, could you just– read it for clarity? And cross out whatever sounds ridiculous?” 

“I doubt anything sounds ridiculous, but I’m happy to read it.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He takes a seat at his desk across the way, forcing you to turn your chair away from your computer to see him. You pretend to watch the TV, eyes flicking carefully to his back, waiting for a sign that he’s found a mistake in your article that needs changing. You’re caught on the dark curl of hair kissing his jacket when he tips his head back to meet your eyes, like he’d known you were staring the whole time. “This is great,” he says. “It’s nice, I love the anecdote at the end, you aren’t overwhelming the reader but there’s a clear set of directions and you explain it well.”

“Oh. Thank you. It’s not like there’s much to explain, really.” 

“Sure,” he says, always sure, so easy for him. “But for somebody who’s never cooked alone before, I think this is a nice starting point. I might try it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you can judge me on it. We can put your instructions to the test.” 

You laugh through a smile. “You can’t make carbonara?” 

“That tone you’re using wasn’t one I picked up on in the article.” 

At the end of the workday, when you’ve exhausted yourself mapping out your next week of online columns and the sun has turned Metropolis into a baking puddle, Clark catches you on the way out and walks with you to the end of the block. “So,” he says, knocking his glasses up his nose with a rushed hand, “are you free tonight?” 

“Why?” 

“To help me with this carbonara.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, please. I could use your guidance. I don’t think I even know what to put in a carbonara.” 

“You do. You’re lying.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m lying. Come help me anyways?” 

Grocery shopping with Clark is weirdly nice. He makes you laugh; he smells amazing when you stand beside him picking out fresh herbs, a cologne that lingers but you can’t place; he carries both bags from the store to his apartment, and makes it look like easy work. 

—

“Okay?” 

Things with Clark are so new they’re barely anything at all, but there’s an exclusive sort of sweetness to him as he slides a coffee onto your desk. You raise your chin to meet his eyes, dark behind darker glasses. Blue eyes, you know, but less piercing than you’d imagine them to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“How’s your head?” 

It actually really hurts, now he’s mentioned it. “Fine.”

“Well, it’s decaf.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“But it’s just the way you like it, otherwise.” 

You raise your brows and take a showy sip, visibly judging his performance. The flavour hits the back of your throat, but after a rough swallow, you realise it’s probably the nicest cup of joe you’ve ever had. “That’s perfect,” you tell him, voice all scratched up and awed as he peers down at you. 

He really looks like someone else, sometimes. The more you think about it, the worse your head hurts, so you push the thought from your mind. “Thank you, Clark. This is really good. Do you– is this, like, a hobby?” 

“What, making coffee?” He deliberates with a shrug. “Not really.” 

“You’re just naturally good at everything, then.” 

“Of course not, I’m… I practised. I wanted to make it how you like it.” 

You lift your shoulder before his hand comes down to squeeze it. He handles you so easily, and so kindly, that a little brashness like this makes all the difference. His thumb works into the bone of your shoulder and it nearly-not-quite aches as it brushes its way up to the side of your neck.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. 

You tell him you are. The workday goes like any other, you send him what you’re working on, Clark sends you back a sweet comment. He asks you if you’re busy on the way out, and you agree to go grocery shopping with him so he can attempt your recipe for honey-roasted peanuts under the watchful eye of a professional. 

“It’s not complicated, Clark, you just blanche your peanuts–”

“Raw ones?” 

“Yeah, well. You can use the pre-cooked ones, but they’re not as nice. Then you make your glaze, honey and butter and a little bit of sugar, you read the recipe–”

“Yeah, I read it, I just know you can make it better than I can, and I need the excuse to spend time with you. Which you know,” he says, holding the door for you as you go. 

It’s sitting on his kitchen counter with the smell of honey-sugar thick in the air that Clark kisses you for the first time. You’re wondering if this is real, if the handsomest man you’ve ever met genuinely wants you, and he’s sliding a hand up your thigh with a gentleness that tickles. “Hey,” he says simply.��

“Hey.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For helping. For not laughing when I burned the butter.” His hand coasts to your hip, opening and then pressing into softness unabashedly. “For… letting me be a coward, for this long.” 

There’s a headache brewing square between your brows that you fight to ignore. They’re awful lately, shooting pains that don’t end unless you close your eyes. 

“This isn’t cowardice,” you say, because it’s unbelievable that he wants this, and if he doesn’t kiss you soon your heart’s gonna fall into your stomach. “Just the run up.” 

“Yeah.” He grins. “I like that. The run up to a good kiss?” he asks. His voice has gone small and weak. You don’t mistake it for nerves. This is something else entirely.

You close your eyes. It’s all the answer he needs. Your mouth falls open slowly against his as he tilts his head, as his body tries uselessly to slot between your thighs. You sigh a half-protest and he murmurs sorry into your open mouth. 

You don’t get another headache for days. 

They come back to bite you, though. Superman spent the morning playing on TV, fighting a water monster that threatened to drown an elementary school with gelatinous gloop. Clark texted you an apology of all things a few hours ago when he realised the water monster had flooded 110th street, stranding him in a bakery. Your pastries are dry! he’d promised. 

He rolls into work halfway through the day, when Superman and the Justice Gang have successfully boiled the water monster off in another shocking display of heroism. They’d blocked him into a glowing green box with Superman and a triangulation of Mister Terrific’s flying robots, amplifying his heat division and filling the box with boiling steam. Superman had been unaffected, as usual. 

Clark looks red in the face, ridiculously sorry as he presses a kiss to your cheek and a brown paper bag against your chest from behind. “Hi,” he says, “how are you?” 

You preen into his kiss. His nose lingers against your cheek. “I’m fine.” 

He smells weirder than he usually does. You sniff him curiously, promoting a warm huff of a laugh and another kiss to your cheek. “What’s up?” 

“You smell different.” 

“I do?” 

“You’re not wearing any cologne.” 

“I guess I’m not. I was in a rush. Did you eat?” 

“Yeah, we had sandwiches.” 

“Did Jimmy pay again?” 

“He did not. He offered.” 

He pulls you back to his chest. “He did.” 

“You’re not actually jealous.” 

“It’s polite of him,” he says, falling into that little voice that makes you wanna ask him to take you home. What is his problem? He’s 6’4, he’s wide, he has no business baby-voicing you and you’re eating it up ‘cos you know it isn’t put on. He gets sweet when he’s comfortable. You make him happy. 

“You’re smiling,” he accuses. 

“Nope.” 

The headaches persist. Clark is this shining bright spot of goodness in your life, even if he kisses you rather impolitely when the office clears at hometime, even when he disappears at strange times. He always texts, so. There’s a hundred different reasons as to why he’s late for work, or cancelling a date last minute, and he makes it up with flowers and apologies out of the ears. 

Superman gets busy on the news. You feel a bridge there, something about something about Clark Kent. A migraine hits before you can figure it out. 

It’s a few weeks after your first kiss, and you spend the morning flicking through photos of you and Clark. He likes taking them, holding your phone out in front of you both. “Smile!” he says, kissing you fondly when you oblige. You’re thinking about getting a couple of them printed for your photo album, though that might doom the whole thing, really, an early jinx, so for now you settle for thumbing through them with a big smile. Your head’s been hurting some since you woke up. You blame Clark for surprising you with a too-early FaceTime, sheets pulled up to your nose. 

To make up for waking you, he promises to bring groceries. You’d written a recipe for creamy mushroom eggs a few days ago that he swears he can make so long as you’re watching. 

You struggle out of bed when you hear him knocking. He’s grinning at the door, three paper bags hoisted in arms that have no business being as shapely as they are, his hair wet with rain and curling against his forehead. 

“Oh, no, it’s raining?” 

He leans in to peck you, paper bags crinkling sadly between your chests. “Not much.” 

His obvious lie makes you laugh, which has him stealing another kiss from the apple of your cheek. 

“You okay? How’s the head, today?” 

“It’s fine.” It’s protesting, actually, angered by your movement. 

“Why don’t we go sit you down, huh?”

“I don’t know why…” 

Clark guides you to the kitchen, shelving the paper bags on your small table and shepherding you into a chair at the head of it. “Why what?” 

You chew your lip. 

“What?” he asks patiently. 

“It’s like they get worse when you ask me about them. Maybe it’s psychosomatic? I’m sorry, I don’t mean– you don’t make them worse, Clark–”

But doesn’t he? He’s looking down at you and your headache is blistering, that single black curl against his forehead as his glasses slip down a damp nose. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and light wash jeans and it’s stirring and it hurts your head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not you, Clark.” 

“It might be.” 

“What?” 

He bends slightly to see you. Your eyes throb in their sockets as he watches you, clearly thinking, the cogs behind pretty eyes turning slow. 

Clark brings his fingertips to your cheek. “You’ve always been very observant.” 

“Have I?” 

“Of course. You’re so smart, you have an eye for detail, the small things, all the most important parts. That’s why you’re good at what you do, right?”

“I don’t follow, Clark.” 

“Your headaches are the worst at work, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And since we’ve been dating, they follow you home, too.” You’re worrying that this is the breakup when he raises both hands to his glasses. “It’s my fault. Or, it’s down to these.”

You stare at him wordlessly. 

“It’s– Four. Made me these, they all did, to obscure my identity. So I could have a normal life.” 

You’re feeling pretty nauseous, as things go. Maybe you’re having a stroke? That’s how these happen, sudden, strange feelings in your hands and garbled speech. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be speaking in riddles? 

Clark strokes your cheek again quickly, fingers going back to the arms of his glasses before you can savour the touch, and he works the black body of them down his nose and off. 

You squint at your almost-boyfriend. He looks different without the glasses. Paler. 

Then he straightens up and the pieces click firmly into place. 

Your lips part. He folds his glasses into the front of his hoodie, crossing his arms over his chest to follow. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“How are you… Your glasses– and they– the headaches?” 

“I don’t know. They never told me there’d be side effects.” 

“Who’s they?” 

He smiles rather boyishly, considering. “The bots, at the Fortress of Solitude. Four never mentioned that it could hurt you. I’m sorry about that.” 

Superman is looking down at you with big blue eyes and Clark Kent’s pretty mouth. That you’ve kissed. You’ve kissed superman. 

“Can you stop frowning? You have a nicer smile,” you say finally. 

He wants to do as you’ve asked, but his expression stutters. “You’re not mad?” 

“About what?” 

“About– about what? About my secret.” 

You’re not sure you can say ‘Superman’ out loud. “Either I’m having an aneurysm, or you have, like, the world's biggest burden on your shoulders. How could I be mad about that?” 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Clark-man (wow!) grins sudden and sweet as he loses his straight-backed posture, bending down again, looking for your hands where they live waiting at the ends of your arms for his touch. “I’m a metahuman. Hell, I’m not even human. I’m from space. You’re being unbelievably cool about this.” 

You settle into your chair with a tired smile. “My headache’s gone for the first time in months.” 

He pulls your hand to his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, completely. Who knew it was you the whole time? Should’ve stayed away. Just, I couldn’t manage it.” 

He kneels at your feet. “Is it really all better?” he asks.

The relief is nothing you’ve felt before. The first absence of pain after weeks of pinching agony. 

Clark pulls the glasses off of his hoodie and throws them over his shoulder. They land with a crack in the kitchen sink. 

“Don’t you need those?” you ask. 

He takes your face into a big, big hand, smiley and shy as he pulls you down to meet his mouth. “Not for this,” he promises, breath warm on your lips and your tongue as he takes the lead. The kiss goes hot and heavy as honey under summer sun, blistering, and searchingly slow. He kisses better without his glasses. You shuttle the thought away for a later date and let yourself sink into the heat of his chest. 

—

“I thought Superman didn’t have time for selfies?” you croon sometime later, sated and steady with a warm body behind your back. 

Clark hums into your hair tiredly. “Huh?” 

“You always make us take photos together.” 

“Well, that’s different. With you, I’m usually Clark.” 

“Usually?” 

He kisses the top of your ear. “Yeah. Guy you just met? That was Superman. But otherwise, I’m just Clark.” 

You groan as he laughs, giving it your best attempt at wiggling out of his reach to punish him for the cheesy line. Strong forearms cross over your stomach to pull you right back in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! hope you enjoyed!! and thank you becs for proofreading quick before I posted !!

[handflexlibrary]

Obsessed with the Ellie-verse fic you just posted but what about that same concept but instead of family day, you and Aaron were supposed to get a night to yourselves with no kids or a weekend away or something and he is so exhausted but doesn’t want to disappoint you xx

just us tonight

🥺 stoppp cw; dad!aaron, reader is referred to as mom, a lot of domestic fluff with slight angst, 18+ very light smut at the end <3 wc; 1k

"Hey sleepyhead."

"Hm?" Aaron's head came up slowly, slight confusion pulling onto his face. He must've dozed off; the last traces of sunlight had faded beyond the horizon. Dusk was falling, soft and steady.

"Kids are at JJ's." You plopped into bed beside him, your body immediately curling up against his. It took him a moment to reorient himself, but then he remembered: date night. 

"How'd it go?" He asked, referring to drop-off. His voice was heavy with sleep as you nestled your head into the crook of his neck.

"Eh. Could've gone better." You grimaced, tapping a few fingers against his chest in thought. "Jack, fine. I barely got a goodbye from him, he was already in the backyard shooting goals with Henry. Ellie on the other hand..."

"Rough time?" Aaron felt your nod.

"JJ just about had to pry her off me." You thought back - Ellie's arms locked tightly around your neck, protesting profusely as JJ attempted to untangle her from you, insisting what a fun evening laid ahead - games, movies, whatever she wanted to do. But despite the exciting promises and the assurance it was only for one night, she still cried for you to stay.

"I'm sorry." His hand found your back, rubbing the tension away with slow, steady circles. He was unfortunately used to the goodbyes - he had no choice but to be - but you were rarely apart from the kids.

And Ellie's reluctance to be apart from either you or Aaron, made it harder; leaving her when she was so upset at the idea shattered your heart. From the moment she was born, she always wanted to be held. Unbidden, an image of newborn Ellie – tucked against Aaron’s chest and sleeping soundly – came to mind, making it harder for you to bear the thought of her as you’d seen tonight.

A soft exhale escaped through your nose, pursing your lips together. "Hopefully it's a phase she grows out of soon. It's starting to worry me."

It felt as if the situation had been heightening, and at this rate, by no means was it getting any better. Ellie was growing clingier by the day and there seemed to be no end in sight.

Aaron nodded encouragingly, pressing his lips to your forehead, "and if not, we'll figure it out. She'll be okay."

"Yeah, I know." Your gaze tilted up to meet his. You offered him a weak smile, silent admiration for him sweeping through your body, before leaning in and kissing him gently.

His hand slid up and down your back a few more times, each movement smooth and practiced. After a moment, he lifted himself up - before he had the chance to doze off again - utterly comfortable with you so close, your breathing steadying his own.

"Hey," you grabbed his hand and pulled him back, causing him to fall beside you. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To get ready? I don't think sweats and a t-shirt will suffice."

"For?"

Aaron's eyebrows lifted. "Aren't we going out?"

"We were," you propped yourself up by your elbows, and then straddled him, not allowing him the opportunity to move a muscle. "Now, we're staying here."

He closed his eyes, shaking his head against the pillow lightly. He knew what you were doing, "No."

"Yes." You quipped in the same tone, raising an eyebrow.

"I promised you we'd have a date night."

You playfully looked around the room, emphasizing your next point. "I don't see any kids around, do you?"

He looked up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. That's not what he meant, and you knew that, but you gave him a challenging look in return anyway. "No sweetheart. This is becoming a trend - I don't want to be the one continuously delaying our plans."

"Aaron," your voice amused, "you don't take naps. That's a sign in and of itself. I'd much rather stay here instead of having you numbly out and about just for the sake of it. What if in a sleep deprived state, you order something you don't like?"

"You'd knock some sense into me, I think."

You pinned his wrists down against the mattress, your voice now taking on a more earnest tone. "Honey, I don't care what we do, I'm happy to spend uninterrupted time with you. My amazing, hot, wonderfully sexy husband."

He laughed breathlessly at your words, despite the dull pain of uncertainty firm in his chest. "You sure?"

"Absolutely. Our marriage vows stated forever, didn't they? And as a result, we have plenty of nights to take advantage of in the future."

His brows furrowed. "But tonight, the kids are gone."

You waved his statement off. "Luckily for us, we have plenty of babysitters who are equally as obsessed with them and are more than willing to take them off our hands for a night. I receive a text from Penelope almost daily asking to see them."

"Maybe I'll have to take it a little easier on them, just for that," Aaron joked lightly, a hint of mischief flickering in his brown eyes.

"And with Ellie being so upset," your shoulders dropped and your hold on him released, suddenly sobering. "I don't know. I'd rather be readily available if needed. You'd be doing me a favor by staying home, really."

He nodded in understanding, his gaze softening. Although the comfort of Jack would help, or her sheer love for Auntie JJ and the boys, there was the chance Ellie would be inconsolable, needing to be picked up.

"You're an amazing mother, you know." Aaron reached up, bringing a hand to your cheek. "And wife. Thank you for continuously thinking of us."

You leaned into his touch, appreciating the sentiment. It didn't take long for a light smirk to return to your face.

"Besides, staying home also gives me the opportunity to take care of you." You ran your hands along his chest suggestively. Leaning down allowed you to whisper into his ear, "Really take care of you. You work too hard."

Quiet house, no kids, zero interruptions - sex was on the agenda tonight no matter what. Besides, it was something the both of you had been looking forward to - so why wait?

He hummed gently as your lips peppered kisses along his jaw, and then his neck. He nearly groaned - it felt so good. He did once your hand slipped underneath his waistband, palming him through his boxers. "It has been a while."

"Then let's not waste another moment."

[handflexlibrary]

Bedside Manner

Summary: You were expecting the perfect summer afternoon with the Daggers, but when a game of dogfight football takes a turn for the worse, you’re left with a bleeding head and an aching heart. And it’s up to Bradley to show you his bedside manner.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 8K

Warnings: A little angst, a little pining, and two idiots in love.

It’s a perfect summer afternoon. Well, almost.

The sun is high in the sky and the steady salt kissed ocean breeze keeps it from being too uncomfortably hot. The coolers are filled with beers and sodas and a few pink cans of rosé that Coyote had brought. And the beach blankets were littered with open half-eaten family sized bags of chips and cubes of bright pink watermelon and containers of various dips and ziplocs with sun warmed and mostly melted chocolate chip cookies.

“You guys, really, I’m fine,” you state as adamantly as you can given the circumstances.

Sure, you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your throbbing, bleeding head. Sure, you are a little afraid to put your full weight on your left ankle and already dreading the long walk back to your car.

But it’s fine, you’re fine. Everything is…peachy. Or it will be as soon as they all stop looking at you like you’re about to crumple to the ground like some 1920’s silent film starlet from on the silver screen.

Nat has that deep pinch between her sharp brown eyes. Jake’s lips are pressed together in a firm white line. The rest of the team stands hovering around you in a misshapen semicircle, all sandy and sweaty, and wearing the concern painted across their faces.

All except for Rooster, who can’t seem to look at you at all.

“Clearly, you’re not,” Phoenix says flatly, clearly unamused by your attempts to minimize the situation. And you wish that just this once she could have let this go and follow your lead. But then she wouldn’t be Natasha Trace.

Your best friend since middle school had always been the most capable and sharpest person in the room and you loved that about her.

Normally.

But not so much when her keen assessment of you keeps you from being able to slink away quietly without fuss. 

“No, seriously. It’s just a little scratch. It’s not a big deal.” It sounds feeble even to your own ears. Trying to hold back a wince when the way you shake your head makes starbursts bloom behind your eyes.

You could have dealt with the pounding in your head if it weren’t for the relentless burning of your ankle that was only making things worse. One or the other would have been easier to manage, but both vying for your attention as the pain pulses with every heartbeat was miserable.

The sun was too hot, the kids frolicking the ocean were too loud, the sunscreen on your skin felt too greasy. All you wanted was a shower and your bed and to forget this whole day even happened.

You look around the group trying to gauge how successful your efforts are, but it’s clear that no one seems to be buying your brand of poorly performed bullshit. You wanted to crawl into yourself like a hermit crab, protected by your own shell, as six pairs of eyes all looked on at you sympathetically, while the pretty brown ones you wanted to see the most were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and trained down at the ground.

It was supposed to be a fun day.

You’d woken up that morning absolutely giddy about trading spreadsheets for sand and sunburns and sea salt tangled hair. Your cheery, new swimsuit already laid out and waiting for you from the night before.

There was something thrilling about hooky on a Friday with all of your favorite people that made you feel all kinds of young and free. Well, hooky for you. They’d been given the day off after a month of intensive training and testing of some new defensive software. They all deserved the break and you were more than happy to tag along.

You were always the good kid in school, never skipping, never missing a class. You’d felt like a rebellious teen as you crafted your ‘out of office’ email, a smug grin on your face like you were getting away with something. Even though you’d earned the right to use that PTO whichever way you wanted.

The anticipation of a snow day from your childhood school days had nothing on the intoxicating promise of a beach day on a golden summer Friday.

The team must have felt the same way too because the group chat the night before had been chaotically amusing. The excitement was palpable enough that you’d almost think you all lived in some landlocked state rather than San Diego, where it felt like all roads led to the beach whether you wanted them to or not.

Somewhere between the string of all capitalized sentences and exclamation points with a few well-chosen emojis scattered throughout, Natasha had managed to wrangle everyone in enough into sorting out who was responsible for bringing what. There wouldn’t be another veggie platter incident, not on her watch.

You’d felt bright and effervescent as you’d pulled into the parking lot, your eyes reflexively seeking out a blue Bronco that hadn’t arrived yet. With a beach chair over one shoulder and a beach bag over the other and a packed cooler bag in your hand, you’d made towards the multicolored sprawl of blankets and the striped peaks of the umbrellas, where you were met with the smiling faces of shiny happy people.

Some of the boys had rushed over to help you carry your things and added your offerings to the communal pile of snacks and sunscreen and bottles of water. It had been easy to fall into conversation with everyone as you set up your own little patch of paradise and shimmied out of your frayed cut-offs. Natasha had given you a wolf whistle and you’d laughed as you give her the finger.

And hour and a half later with an easy grin on his face, carrying a case of beer and two big Ziploc bags stuffed with what you learned later were homemade cookies balanced on top, was Rooster.

You’ve had plenty of beach days with them but every time you saw him in those damn denim shorts he always seemed determined to wear, regardless of how impractical they were, your mind still went a little fizzy as you took in just how well they clung to his thighs.

He’d taken the ribbing from his squad in stride as he unboxed the beers and added them to the collection already chilling in Bob’s bright yellow cooler. You were trying- and failing- to read your worn paperback book when he’d surprised you by plopping his things next to yours on your oversized towel and stole a chunk of juicy watermelon off of the plate balanced on your lap.

“Hey, book worm,” he grinned as he popped it into his mouth, “How’s my favorite girl doing?” That smile of his getting bigger when you rolled your eyes at him.

“Hi, Rooster,” you’d said looking at him from over the top of your sunglasses with an amused smirk.

And if your cheeks felt warm, it was from the sun and not the teasing tone of his raspy voice.

When he’d shrugged off his shirt to apply the sunscreen you’d brought with him in mind, the wink he’d shot you went straight to your head like champagne. The sun highlighting his impressive abs and sculpted shoulders didn’t help either as he took great efforts to cover his chest and stomach with the lotion. He had to be doing it on purpose, because he’d kept rubbing it in well past when the white hue faded. But who were you to complain? Melanoma was no joke.

“You wanna help me out?” he’d asked turning his back to you, looking over his shoulder. You’re pretty sure that he’d been flexing because he’d looked impossibly broad, every defined muscle standing out for eyes to map out and explore.

You’d been at war with yourself, because while your eager hands were desperate to touch him, you also knew that once you ran your hands along his solid frame that you’d never want to stop. That you wouldn’t be content until your fingertips had traced every inch of him.

You had been blessedly and devastatingly spared the choice.

“I got you, Rooster. My hands are already all sunscreen-y,” chimed in Bob, who had just finished rubbing his own freshly applied layer. “Wouldn’t want it to get on her book.”

You were only half relieved to be off the hook, while Bradley on the other hand was still looking at you expectantly, almost hopefully, still with the white and yellow bottle of sunscreen partly extended towards you.

“That’s so sweet of you, Bob-” you’d started.

“Yeah, so sweet-” Bradley grumbled under his breath.

“I appreciate you sparing my pages the sunscreen grease,” you’d said shooting Bob a smile, choosing to ignore Bradley’s comment completely. “Plus, your hands are bigger than mine. You’ll have him covered in no time.”  

Bradley looked between you and Bob before he passed the bottle to the other man, shaking his head a little in defeat. You’d giggled to yourself as you wiggled your book at an openly brooding Bradley, and then leaned back on your elbows to observe the way the attentive WSO made sure to carefully and thoroughly cover Bradley’s entire back.

Respectfully, of course.

Behind your sunglasses you’d admired all of Bradley’s bulk compared to Bob’s lithe grace. But in your defense, they were standing right in front of you and you’d already reread your book at least five times in the past, so it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the scene in front of you had been.

“You look awfully comfortable over there,” Rooster called out with a raised eyebrow.

“Just taking in the view,” you’d teased back.

“Yeah, I bet you are,” he huffed as Bob finished up, giving him a thanks, man before tossing you back the bottle of sunscreen. He’d nudged his sunglasses down his nose and pinned you with his gaze, “Let me know if you want me to get your back. My hands are just as capable as his.” Even in the high heat of summer, the way he’d looked at you sent chills running along your arms.

You felt the way his keen eyes traveled from your face, down the deep-v of your swimsuit and along the swells of your breasts, and down your legs to your freshly painted toes. His mouth had ticked up in the corner then left you reeling and your heart pounding away in your chest as he’d strut off to go join Fanboy and Coyote by the mountain of snacks.

And that was the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. You never knew if he was just flirt-y or flirt-ing.

You hadn’t had a crush in ages, but when Nat had introduced you to her team five months ago, the man with the sunkissed curls and surprisingly attractive mustache had immediately caught your eye.

And as you’d gotten to know him, it had only gotten worse.

Not only was he very nice to look at and could make you laugh until your sides ached, but he also he had depth about him in a way that most men your age didn’t. You liked talking to him and listening to his stories. You liked learning his perspective on things. You liked being around him.

He made you feel interesting and special and funny and seen. You’ve never felt as comfortable in your own skin as you did when you were around him.

Rooster would send you flirty winks, give you less than subtle once overs, and could flash you such devastating slow grins that they’d have you trying to catch the butterflies they released in your stomach for hours after you went home.

But he’s never made a move.

If only he wouldn’t play hide and seek with his true intentions.

You felt like you were still waiting on some small clue whether he was serious or not. You didn’t know if he was just having fun with you or if he was into you and it was more than just friendly banter. It would be so much easier if he’d straight up tell you one way or another.

Needless to say, you’d let Nat be the one to help you with your sunscreen a little bit later. The idea of Bradley’s big hands on you, gliding along your sun-warmed skin and under the crisscross straps of your swimsuit, was too much for your hummingbird heart.

The sun climbed higher into the sky as the butter yellow midmorning transformed into a Midas-touched golden afternoon.

The squad had been able to reserve a fire pit and the plan had been to stay until the sunset. An endless summer day stretching out before them like a cat. They had nothing but time.

Clusters of people came together and split apart like a kaleidoscope as some went to take a dip in the ocean or raid the cooler and snack spread or go for a walk along the shore. Changing and shifting with the direction of the wind, going where the mood took them.

And for a peaceful moment, it had been you with your book and a napping Bradley sprawled out next to you on your towel with his arm flung over his eyes. Close enough that you could feel his warmth, almost but not quite touching. The sound of his soft breaths and the waves their own kind of lullaby as you contentedly read your book, turning your pages quietly to not disturb the man next to you, as the droplets of the Pacific dried on your skin.  

You still don’t know how you got roped into playing a round of dogfight football with the Navy’s best and brightest. You were more of a corn hole or ladder toss kind of girl, but Coyote had all but thrown you over his shoulder and dragged you out before you’d agreed to participate, conceding your defeat.

You were on a team with Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy against Nat, Rooster, Payback, and Bob. A few plays in and you had been getting the hang of it. They’d all been making sure to take care to go easy on you even in the chaos of two teams playing offensively and defensively at the same time. You were more than a little out of breath, but you were having fun.

Before the next snap, Mickey gave the most impassioned pep talk you’d ever heard, “Fuck luck, we don’t need luck. We gotta fucking win.” You had been about to laugh, but then you’d seen the looks on Jake and Javy’s faces and decided against it. Curious about the other team, you’d glanced over only to see Rooster looking back at you.

The calls had been made, the blur of plays in motion as people whirled and dodged and sprinted.

You’d just lobbed the ball to Javy before darting around Nat when a big, solid body collided with you. Hard. You’d felt the twinge of your ankle twisting in the sand right before the force sent you flying in the opposite direction you’d been headed.

The impact had been jarring. The air knocked from your lungs.

Where you should have been met with a mouthful of gritty sand, instead your head had connected with the rough surface of a partially buried rock. The low, thick thud reverberating throughout your whole body.

You’d been so stunned that you didn’t even register you were even on the ground until you heard the chorus of oh fucks and holy shits and goddamns and jesus christs over the ringing in your ears.

The game coming to an immediate and conclusive end.

For how many empty bottles and cans were sitting collected in a trash bag off to the side of your beach set up, they had been surprisingly quick to act as you blinked blankly, trying to clear the spots from your vision.

It was a silent ballet of efficiency as they instinctively fell into their roles, much like you imagined they did the sky. Everyone stepping up and then stepping back as they did their part, like the ebb and flow of waves.

Nat had carefully poured some fresh water from a bottle on your face to remove the sand that clung to the sweat and sunscreen on your skin. Then Jake had wordlessly passed her his clean spare shirt he’d jogged of to get to help stop the bleeding after Javy checked on your pupils to make sure they were the same size. While Bob stood off to the side holding your warped sunglasses in his hands, as if he was hopeful they could still be salvaged. Mickey and Reuben had been waiting in the wings giving you space, ready to help if they were needed, but not wanting to not crowd in.

And from the corner of your eye, you’d caught Rooster standing a couple feet away with his hands in his hair looking absolutely wrecked.

“Bradley?” you’d tried, even though his name stuck to your teeth. But he’d just shook his head at you before turning away slightly, like he couldn’t look at you, which made your heart sting as well.

They only allowed you to move to sit up after they were content with the answer to their questions- What day is it? Friday. Where are you? San Diego. What else hurts? My ankle and my pride.

It wasn’t until someone hauled you up from underneath your armpits that the throbbing and stinging and aching settled over you. The pain seeping and spreading through muscle and bone like an inky oil spill.

It’s still an almost perfect summer afternoon except for the fact you hate everything about this.

You hate the way they’re gathered around you with too many pairs of assessing eyes pinned on you. You hate that you’re the reason the game of dogfight football came to a definitive and abrupt end. You hate that you’re the reason their carefree and fun afternoon off has turned into this.

There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, the hot tears of hurt and frustration and embarrassment are clamoring to be released. You have to bite your lower lip to keep it from trembling.

And it doesn’t help that you’re the type who’d rather lick your wounds in peace.

You just need to get back to your car and you can figure things out on your own from there. You just need a moment to yourself.

As you open your mouth to argue your case again, Jake puts his hand up and stops you before you’ve even had a chance to start, “I hate to break it to you, sugar, but you’re not fooling any of us.” He says it gently, but gives you a pointed look at the way you’re leaning heavily on your right leg to keep the pressure off of your left ankle.

“That head wound is not a little scratch. Just like your ankle isn’t just a little puffy, when it’s twice the size it should be. You need to go to the Emergency Room,” Nat says, final and resolute. A lifetime of friendship has taught you not to argue when she has that look in her eyes, the one that says try me, I dare you.

They all talk over you as they figure out who is the most sober of the group after your suggestion to call yourself an Uber is immediately shot down. Drinks are being counted on fingers, and memories are searched to make sure every sip and bottle and can is accounted for.

Your eyes drift over to the man who is still actively avoiding looking at you, even as he talks to everyone else on the team. You aren’t paying too close attention to what he is saying, but you can hear the short, clipped staccato of his words.

Bradley’s shoulders are tinged a little pink even though you know for a fact that you had purposely passed him the 65 SPF. His eyes are hidden behind his dark green tinted sunglasses, but you don’t need to see them when you can read his body language better than any book.

His arms are crossed firmly over his chest, the tendons in his forearms flexing and shifting, like he is squeezing and releasing his fists from where they’re tucked under his biceps. Everything in his body looks coiled tight and strained, so at odds with the easy going and loose-limbed man you know him to be.

You don’t realize just how much you’ve zoned out until Natasha has to say your name a couple time before you pull your gaze away from Bradley and back to her.

“Ok, it’s settled,” Nat informs you, “Rooster’s going to take you.” You barely nod your head in acknowledgement when she tells you, because it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach now too.

“It’s the least he can do,” Jake drawls.

“That’s not fair-” you start, defensively.

“Fuck off, Bagman-” Rooster snaps.

The rage in his voice shocks you, you’ve never heard that much heat from him before. There’s none of the teasing tone that usually underscores their banter. Jake puts both of his hands up placatingly like my bad, folks and Javy just shakes his head and sighs.

And this time when you look at Bradley, he is finally looking back at you with a deep furrow in his brow. His jaw is clenched tight, that muscle ticking and jumping, as he takes in the way you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your forehead.

Not exactly the way you’d hoped he’d be looking at you when you put on your new blue and white striped swimsuit this morning.

The one you’d bought because you wanted to make him look.

Just not like this.

With everything sorted the rest of the team trickles away a smattering of take cares and get better soons and let us know if you need anythings. But not before Mickey hands Rooster his stuff and passes Nat your bag and sandals. He gives you the gentlest of squeezes on your shoulder before he leaves to join everyone else back on little part of the beach you all had claimed before things went to shit.

Your group of eight now downsized to a trio.

Bradley is quick to roughly pull on his tank and shirt, and Nat fishes out your car keys from your bag as she waits for him to slip his shoes on. When he’s ready she passes it to him and he silently slides it over his arm.

Nat bends down to help gingerly glide your feet into your sandals, “I’ll grab the rest your things and drop them off at your place and then one of the boys will drop off your car later. We’ve got it all covered, ok?”

“Thanks, Nat,” you say quietly, trying to hold back a wince as she slips the left one on, your ankle pulsing in tempo with your heartbeat.

“Best friends don’t say thank you, they just do,” she says matter-of-factly as she stands. It’s the same thing you’d told her after you’d dumped a carton of strawberry milk on Carly Radke for outing Natasha your freshman year in high school. It was only time you’d ever gotten detention, but it had been worth it.

“They just do,” you repeat with a small smile.

You’re so grateful that your friendship with her is one that has spanned years. That you’ve been able seen one another grow and change and come into their own, but that you haven’t outgrown each other. She’s the person you want by your side and having your back. There is no one quite like Natasha Trace.

She turns to Bradley and you watch him stand a little taller under her sharp eyes, your straw tote still dangling from his forearm.

“You good?” Nat asks him with a look in her eye that you can’t place. And you’re reminded that even though she’s your best friend, that he has also earned a spot as one of her closest friends. Their relationship built over years and experiences that you could never fully understand. Different, but just as deep.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got her. I’ll take care of her,” Rooster promises with a stiff nod, as he gives her his word. It might have made your heart beat a little faster if you didn’t feel like such a burden. That it’s simply a twist of fate and three less drinks than everyone else for the reason that he’s the one to look after you. That he’s the one stuck with you.

“I know you will,” she says softer now, patting his shoulder, “Keep me posted.” Nat presses a kiss to your cheek and gives you an encouraging smile then heads off to go rejoin everyone else.

You watch her go with longing. The cheerful beach set up with its colorful blankets and umbrellas looks more like a desert mirage now. The sweet coconut scented potential of what the day could have been now forever out of reach.

And then it’s just you and Bradley and the sound of the waves and cries of seagulls.

The two of you silent and motionless.

You feel one wrong move and the fragile attempt of the stiff upper lip you’ve cocooned yourself in will crack open and all the soft parts of you will seep out into the sand beneath your feet.

His expression is shuttered closed as he bends a bit like he is going to pick you up.

“Woah, buddy, what are you doing?” You’re squinting into the sun as you look at him. You’d step into his shadow to block it, since you’re now in need of a new pair of sunglasses, but that would mean moving to the left which isn’t an option with your ankle.

“Buddy,” he grunts under his breath, slipping off his sunglasses and carefully putting them on your face, being mindful of stinging scrapes and wad of soft cotton you’re holding to your head. “They’re definitely going to have to run concussion protocol on you,” he mutters more to himself than to you, “I’m taking you to the Bronco and then we’re going the ER, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, Rooster,” you grit out, even rolling your eyes hurts, “But I don’t need you to carry me.”

Everything about this was excruciating and embarrassing enough without him being the Clark Gable to your Vivian Leigh. Maybe you could lean on him and hop over to his car? Like a six-foot-one pair of crutches with good hair.

“Take a step without wincing and I’ll think about it,” he says firmly, pointedly calling your bluff. There’s an expectant look of go on then, whenever you’re ready on his face. Because he knows he’s right, and you do too.

You don’t even bother to make a move, but the way your lower lips wobbles speaks volumes.

“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly, almost like pains him to be right.

He bends a little to hook his arms around your knees and back to lift you up, and this time you let him. Your free arm automatically wrapping around the back of his neck. And he starts off towards the winking windshields of the parking lot.

You’ve thought about what it would be like to be wrapped up in Bradley’s arms, how good it would feel to be pressed closed against him. And now you are and it’s nothing like you’ve imagined, because there isn’t anything sweet or swoon-worthy about how you ended up in them. You’re his duty, you’re not his desire.

All your sandcastle hopes have been washed away by the tide.

You’re so frustrated. You’re frustrated by the day, by yourself, by him.

This time you can’t blink back the tears that well up in your eyes. They flood through your tear ducts carving hot trails down your sun-tinged cheeks.

You want the Bradley from earlier. 

The one who stole your watermelon with warmth in his eyes.

The one who dozed next to you in the sun like a cat, his features soft free of the tension he now holds in his shoulders.

You want your Bradley.

The one who’d whispered cheeky comments in your ear whenever the team got into lighthearted tequila fueled arguments about things like whether a hot dog was a sandwich.

The one who’d always go up to the bar with you on busy nights at the Hard Deck and make sure you didn’t get bumped into on the way back to your friends with your freshly refilled drinks.

You’re aching, aching. Everywhere.

For a brief moment, as you swipe at your tears, you’re happy for the throbbing in your head and ankle, so that way you don’t have to think about the stinging in your heart.

“I know, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re hurting,” Rooster says gentle and low as you sniffle, but you can hear the thickness of the words in his throat. The term of endearment is the sweetest of nothings, making your tears come faster. Where it should ease the heartache, all it does is make you angry at yourself for giving your emotions away. “We’re almost to the Bronco. It’s ok, we’re gonna get you taken care of, I promise.”

We.

You wanted that with him.

You want to press both of your hands to his cheeks to make him look you in the eyes to ask him is it going to be you and me together?  You’ve been a fool for love before, but you didn’t know if could take another hit-and-run with your heart.

The salt of your tears makes your cheeks feel tight and itchy as the summer breeze dries them on your skin.

Bradley carries you like you weigh nothing, but cradles you like you’re the most precious things he’s ever held. He’s mindful of any dips in the sand and gives wide berth around the college kids playing volleyball close to the entry back to the parking lot.

When he reaches the Bronco, he sets you down gently, making sure both of your feet are planted on the asphalt before letting go of you to unlock his car. He tells you to wait a moment when you move to open the passenger side door.

“I never know when I might get called up for an emergency deployment, so I like to have some extra clothes just in case,” he explains as he digs around in the backseat, pulling out a pair of gray athletic shorts.

“Oh.” And you realize you’re still just clad in your striped swimsuit. “Thank you for sparing me from the hospital germs,” you say lightly, an attempt at a joke to break the ice. One that doesn’t land, since instead of cracking a grin he just presses his lips together in a firm line and nods.

Bradley crouches low in front of you and you put a hand on his shoulder for balance as you lean against the Bronco, still trying to keep as much pressure off your left ankle as possible as you step into them. He’s looking up at you and even through his sunglasses perched on your nose, you swear his brown eyes get a shade darker as he eases the shorts up your legs. You’re touched by the effort as he ties the strings in a lopsided bow, even if things are feeling tense between the two of you.

“Think this’ll be easier,” he mumbles shrugging off his light blue button up. You’ve always liked this one, with its soft pastel pink and minty green watercolor prints of net fishermen and hula girls and palm trees.

He holds it open for you, helping you thread your arm through it, and then takes over holding Jake’s now ruined shirt to your head so that you can get your other arm past the sleeve. It smells like him, citrus and amber. Your fingers brush against each other when you reclaim the makeshift bandage, and he adjusts his shirt so that it hangs over your shoulders just right.

It���s an awkward kind silent as Rooster helps lift you into the Bronco with his strong hands around your hips. He is all smooth efficiency as he buckles you in with a click. You pass him back his sunglasses the same moment he hands you your tote bag, and it almost feels like a hostage exchange.

He says nothing as he hauls himself into the driver’s side. The car rumbles to life when he turns the key in the ignition and a cheery song from the 80’s station on the radio comes on. Bradley quick to turn the volume down low. His thumb brushing your shoulder as he sets his hand on the back of your seat to look behind him as he carefully backs out of the spot.

It’s never felt this strained with him before.

It’s so painfully obvious that the two of you are walking on eggshells around each other. You can almost feel the wall that’s gone up around him. The white noise of the radio drowned out by the hum of the road as he drives in near silence.

Your day has been most effectively ruined by a chunk of sedimentary rock, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still recoup what’s left of it.

He could still have the perfect summer afternoon.

He could still go back to your friends and their perfect beach set up and laugh with them as Coyote keeps accidentally setting marshmallows on fire. He could still catch the bold oranges and soft pinks of the sunset with all the satisfied contentment he deserved to experience.

“You can leave me and go back, you know. I’ll be ok if you just want drop me off and then head back to the beach,” you say looking down at your fingers as you trace the stitching of his leather seats.

When he doesn’t answer right away, you glance over at him. The vein in his neck is standing out boldly against the column of his throat.

“Do I seem like the kind of guy who would leave someone at the ER alone?” he asks, his voice rougher than sandpaper.

“No. No, of course not,” you say emphatically, “That’s why I’m giving you permission.”

“Permission?” he scoffs with a shake of his head.

“Yes, permission,” you say, clipped.

You’re giving him an out, why doesn’t he get that?

He heaves a big sigh and grunts. “Is it… Would you rather have Bob- with his big hands- here instead?” Bradley asks, frustration leaking out around the edges of his words.

“Bob with his big hands?” you repeat baffled, “What does Bob have to do with anything about this?”

“That’s what you said earlier, sweetheart. I’m just citing the source. Or I can call Phoenix? Or…” he pauses glancing at the t-shirt pressed to your head, “Or even Seresin. Once we get you checked in I can call any of them an Uber or something, and they can be there with you, if you don’t want me.”

“No, Rooster, I don’t want anyone else.” You wince at the implication and hope it doesn’t read into it further than the current situation to two of you are wading through like quick sand.

“Ok, good,” he grumbles.

“Great,” you lob back.

His hand tightens on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white, “Then where is this even coming from?” The action makes his thick forearm flex in this most delicious of ways that you’d appreciate more if you didn’t feel the anger simmering low in your stomach.

“It’s pretty damn clear that you’d rather be back there, Rooster. Or literally anywhere else right now.” You flip down the sun visor with more force than it deserves, regretting that you gave him his sunglasses back when the bright California sun in your eyes turns your headache into a full-blown migraine.

“Of course, I’d rather be anywhere else!” he says hotly, tossing his sunglasses back in your lap, “Do you think I like that you’re hurt and that we’re on our way to the hospital?” You shove them on your face with an angry huff.

A car speeds by blaring their horn as they pass by.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck off,” he grunts but speed of the Bronco doesn’t change, “Asshole.”

Bradley’s driving five miles under the posted limit, and you know for a fact he religiously drives at least ten miles over. And his turns have been smoother than butter, as if he is trying not to jostle you anymore than you’d already been today.

You are so tired of this hot and cold thing that he’s doing. His words and his deeds weren’t going hand in hand. He keeps giving you the cold shoulder, but is also so in tune with your every movement and need.

Gingerly, you angle yourself in your seat to look at him better, resting your tired left arm on the back of your seat and taking in his strong profile.

“Why are you being like this?” you demand, waving your free hand in a vaguely in his general direction.

“Like what? I’m not being like anything,” he retorts, making the same vague hand gesture as you did a moment earlier.

And oh, if that doesn’t fill your chest with hot indignation. That low simmering anger has turned into a full roiling boil as you shift in your seat trying to get your ankle in a position where it doesn’t hurt.

“Seriously, Rooster? I can feel tension rolling off of you in waves. You’ve been like this since everything turned to complete shit on the beach. I didn’t mean to ruin your day, I’m just trying to figure out how to make things better,” you bite out unable to keep things bottled up anymore.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Are you kidding me right now? You think you ruined my day?” He glances from the road to you and back again, his brown eyes wide and searching.

“Yes?” Or so you’d thought until you’d seen the shock written all over his face, but now you weren’t so sure. It’s like you’ve dumped ice water on him instead of simply calling him out. “I feel like you’re taking it out on me and I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rooster swears under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m so damn sorry, sweetheart. I’m mad at myself, because I ruined your day.  I should have been more careful, I should have been looking out for you. It’s not like you’re hard to miss in that swimsuit.” Your cheeks heat up at the comment, but you choose to ignore it.

Misery drips from his words like spilled ink off a page. You knew he was upset, but you didn’t realize he was upset about that. That he’s shouldering this fluke of fate as if it is his burden to bear. Some of the anger you’ve been feeling leaves your body like the tide washing out back out to sea. You’re still upset at him for how he has been acting up until this point, but you’re not mad at him about that.

“Bradley, no. It was an accident.”

“Yeah, an accident I’m responsible for,” he says hoarsely, rubbing roughly at his forehead. “God, I can still hear the sound it made when you hit that rock and it makes me feel sick. I would give anything to undo that moment. I need you to know that.”

He is being so hard on himself and your heart squeezes, this time in sympathy rather than hurt. He didn’t place that rock in the sand, the both of you were victims of circumstance.

“It could have happened to anyone. It could have been anyone,” you press delicately, trying to get him to hear you, shifting in your seat again still uncomfortable.

The sunshine bounces off of his slumped shoulders as he sighs raggedly.

“But it happened to you and it’s my fault. You’re bleeding, you’re in pain, and you’ve been crying. And it’s because of me.” He reaches down with his right hand and lifts up your leg so that you can rest it on his thigh, some of the ache alleviating immediately. He asks quietly, “That better?”

“Yes, thank you,” you murmur. He looks so upset, and all you want to do is curl into his lap. You want to hold him and you want to be held by him. “You know I don’t blame you, right?”

You expect him to move his hand back to the steering wheel, but he keeps it on your leg. His thumb stroking your still slightly sandy shin. Your cheery toenail polish at odds with the color blooming around your ankle.

Bradley’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, “Yeah, I do. I know that. But I still blame myself.”

The Bronco rolls to a soft stop at the light. There’s enough traffic that you know you’ll be here for a bit, and so does he since he turns in his seat to look fully at you. You take his sunglasses off, tucking them into the pocket of his shirt that rests above your heart, so nothing stands between his brown eyes and yours.

“So, you’re going to keep beating yourself up over it and icing me out? Making me feel worse? For what, Bradley? Because you’re a glutton for punishment? That’s not fair to me or to you.”

“Shit,” he mutters, his left hand running through his curls. “You’re right and I’m so sorry. I’ve been in my head feeling so damn guilty that I’ve been such an asshole. Can you forgive me?”

You’re about to answer him that when a horn startles you, making you jump in the leather seat. You see the light is green, the car that had been in front of you is gliding through the intersection passing under a blue sign pointing the way to the hospital.

“Bradley, the light.”

The car behind the two of you honks their horn again.

“They can wait. This is important, you are important. Do you forgive me?” There’s an underscore of need that punctuates his question.

“Yes, of course,” you say easily and sincerely. There’s so much remorse in his eyes, you would have forgiven him with that look alone.

“Thank you,” he breathes out in relief. And then he smiles at you for the first time since the beach and that ache in your heart is completely soothed, bandaged by that soft way he is looking at you.

Atlas no longer, he can simply be Bradley.

He takes his foot off the brake and by some miracle he’s able to make it through the light before it turns red again. You can see the tall structure of the parking lot near the hospital poking out above the line of the treetops.

The destination is closer than ever, but there are still things on your mind.

“And you aren’t an asshole, Bradley. But your bedside manner could definitely use some work,” you tease with a smile of your own.

“Baby, I’ve been trying to show you my bedside manner, but you keep holding me at arm’s length,” he groans dramatically.

The idea of experiencing Bradley Bradshaw’s bedside manner makes you feel all kinds of weak in the knees, even as you’re seated in his Bronco with your leg propped up in his lap, his big hand skating up and down along your shin comfortingly.

“How can you even say that with a straight face? You’ve never made a move!” you exclaim incredulously, “I was even the one to ask for your phone number, if you remember.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I hit on you all the time,” he argues with your favorite brand of Bradshaw banter, “I’ve been waiting for you to give me the green light, sweetheart.”

“I thought you were supposed to be pretty and smart,” you smirk.

He barks a laugh and the last tendrils of all the tension and all the pressure that had been swirling around you like a marine layer evaporates.

“You saying I’ve had the green light this whole time?” He looks over at you with a boyish smile, you like the way you feel when he looks at you like this.

“What I’m saying, Bradley, is if you’d have actually asked me out I would have said yes.” You press your toes into the muscle of his thick thigh and immediately regret it, wincing as pain ripples around your ankle.

He makes a sympathetic sound deep in his chest, “Sounds like I’ve been an idiot.”

“A very pretty one,” you allow, leaning your aching head back against the back seat.

“At least there’s that,” he concedes good-naturedly as he pulls into the parking lot, turning on his blinker for a spot opening up near the entrance to the Emergency Room by some twist of fate, one that’s in your favor this time.

Bradley pulls into the empty spot and kills the engine turning to you. He gently eases your foot back down onto the sandy floormat of the Bronco and leans into unbuckle your seatbelt.

He’s so close now looking up at you from under his eyelashes, and your breath catches in your throat. He moves closer, you can see the bits of hazel that surround his pupils. Your eyes flutter close and you tilt your head up, lips parting at the anticipation of his kiss.

There’s no holding back the noise of dissatisfaction you make when his lips press a tender kiss to your cheek. You lean into him wanting to feel, wanting him to give you more. His warm breath coasts over your skin as he chuckles. You can feel the way his lips are pulled up into a smile.

“I’m a gentleman, sweetheart,” he says as he pulls away, his eyes lingering on your lips. “My mom raised me not to go for the kiss on the first date. Or ones with head wounds and potential concussions.”

“Some first date,” you lament jokingly, looking in at the fluorescent lights awaiting you inside the hospital. You’d rather skip over this part entirely, but you’re ready to be done with holding Jake’s shirt to your head. “Nothing like insurance cards and scrubs to really set the mood.”

“Mmm. How about this, after we’re done here, I’ll take you through whatever drive-thru you want-”

“In-N-Out,” you cut in without a second thought. The novelty of it still hasn’t worn off on you, even if the fries are terrible.

“Ok,” he grins, “I’ll take you through in In-N-Out and get you your number two combo with mustard and grilled onions with a vanilla shake.” He pauses waiting for your nod of approval, looking more than pleased with himself when you acknowledge he got your order right.

“I like the sound of this so far,” you hum.

“Well that’s good. Since it’ll be our first date, I want to set that bar high,” he says giving you a wink. And there are those butterflies again, this time you don’t try to catch them with a net. They’re free to flutter around as they wish.

“If you really want to impress me, you’ll also take me through the McDonald’s drive-thru for their fries,” you muse.

“Done.”

“I was kidding,” you laugh, shaking your head at him disbelievingly and thoroughly charmed.

“Well, I wasn’t. So after we get you fed, give or take some fries, I will bring you home. I’ll get you whatever you need, I want to make sure you’re comfortable. Think you might be on crutches for a bit, sweetheart,” he says softly, playing with the ends of your hair. “And then in the morning, if you’re up for it, I’ll take you out for breakfast. Or bring you breakfast. Whatever you want. We can call that date number two.”

“And then you’ll kiss me?”

“And then I’ll kiss you,” he promises, offering you a crooked pinky finger. You beam and you wrap your own around his.

He slips out of the driver’s seat leaving you to contemplate the terms of his offer as he rounds the front of the Bronco. The nurses are going to get an eyeful of him in only those snug jean shorts and thin white tank. You make a mental note to avoid looking at him if they have to connect you to a heart rate monitor, he doesn’t need to know the effect he has on you. Not yet anyways.

“I have counteroffer,” you announce turning your body towards him as he opens your door for you.

“Let’s hear it, baby,” he says with a grin that almost makes you forget how bad your head and ankle hurt, “Shoot.”

“We still go to In-N-Out, but then in the morning you make me breakfast in bed with some of those famous Bradshaw pancakes I’ve heard about,” you say, as he steps in between your legs, “Seems like a good way to work on that bedside manner of yours.”

“I think you’re going to like my bedside manner, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over your cheek.

You tilt your head at him, taking in the sunkissed strands in his hair and the affection in his eyes, “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

“Guess we will,” he rasps.

Rooster drops another sweet kiss to your cheek, whispering for you to stay put, and then he struts off towards the automatic doors of the Emergency Room. Leaving you alone with the butterflies in your stomach and the hope in your heart.

You dig your phone out of your straw tote and check the time, doing the math in your head.

There are a few messages from Nat and other people on the team already checking in, but you know you’ll have time to reply to them later as you wait with Bradley sitting by your side.

You look up and see he’s got a wheelchair now and is making his way back to you, wearing a soft smile on his face just for you.

Only seventeen more hours until you get to kiss Bradley Bradshaw and you can’t wait.

You’ve got that forever feeling about him.

Oh, oh, oh.

Thank you for reading! Rock on. Oh that joke was schist, I'll see myself out.

This was written as part of @roosterforme's Rocktober Playlist! You can check out all the other great submissions here!

The song that inspired this story was Paula Abdul's "Straight Up"

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