#bradley bradshaw x you

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Gentle

Pairing: Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. Minors, DNI.

Notes: No physical reader descriptions, no use of y/n. Also not beta-read. Because it never is.

Length: 3.6K

Warnings: Bradley took Reader's virginity and didn't know it; Reader was an older virgin; mentions of public sex; under-negotiated kinks; wrist restraints (belt); protected sex; vaginal sex; dirty talk; rough sex; aftercare

Summary: You expect him to be so righteously angry—a pinched expression, a knit brow, a tight jaw. But there’s something in those warm, dark eyes that looks so painfully mournful. 

It’s unfair. You both came. What’s he so put out about?

You’d almost prefer his anger to whatever the hell this is. Anger you could handle—but does he regret last night?

It’s a throwaway comment, one that you’re positive he’ll miss. The bar is bustling and so busy that it's a wonder he’s heard your friend crow it at all: 

“To seeing you with that freshly-fucked glow for the first time!” 

You aren’t scandalized by what she says. You’d told her the truth of it last night—offered sparse details and omitted names. You laugh and cheers with your friends. You’re not embarrassed by the mention, the tease.

But your insides are burning hot at the sight of Bradley in your periphery, his beer frozen halfway to his lips. You drain your drink and clear your throat, simply offering, “Getting another one,” As you push away from the table. You’re determined not to look at him as you go, praying that he just lets it pass. 

But Bradley Bradshaw has never been good at just letting things go. 

You’d been grateful for that last night. 

There had been something zipping between the two of you all day—little looks and lingering glances that had fanned your flames, blossoming into a wildfire as he’d led you into the alley by the bar the night before. You had felt the heat of him behind you, thrilled at the scent of his cologne, the bristle and prickle of his mustache and lips against your neck as his hands had grasped your hips to still you. 

You feel the heat of him as he comes to stand beside you now, smell his cologne as he sets an empty beer bottle down on the bar. Neither of you speak for a few moments. You’d hardly looked at him last night, either—pressed face-first against the brick wall of the alley, your pants around your knees with Bradley’s hand over your mouth to quiet you, his hot breath, soft groans and bitten-off swears pushed against the shell of your ear. 

It's a shame, you think, that you’re locked into this pattern with Bradley. He does have the sweetest eyes. 

“You should’ve told me.” 

He says it just loudly enough for you to hear it over the murmur of bar noise, the conversation, rattle of cocktail shaking, and the distant strain of REO Speedwagon over the recessed speakers. 

Maybe you should’ve. There had been a split-second when you considered it, but it had all happened so fast. 

It wasn’t how you’d always expected it to be. There was no bed covered in rose petals, no romantic music. You’d been so caught up in your need, in the thrill of feeling Bradley as desperate for you as you were for him.

You’d decided, as you’d showered last night, felt the ache of him between your thighs, eyed the bloom of bruises on your hips and a scrape on your cheek from where you’d been pressed against the brick a little too hard, that it was okay. You didn’t need roses or romantic music. You’d just needed the ferocity that Bradley had fucked you with, and the brush of his rough, work-worn fingertips against your neglected clit, and the moan of his voice in your ear as his hips stuttered and slapped against yours. 

“You didn’t ask.” 

You realize as Bradley shifts testily beside you that it’s the wrong thing to say, and maybe a little unfair. You tack on, “Doesn’t matter.” 

“Yeah, it does. I figured—” 

“I know. S'okay. Let it go, Bradshaw.” It’s unlikely, but worth a shot. If there’s one thing Bradley loves, it’s proving people wrong. You know as well as he does just how stubborn he can be, how by-the-book. But some things just nag and nag and he has to litigate them.

You can tell that this’ll be one of the things that he won’t stand for. Dog with a bone. Knight with a righteous cause. 

“You should’ve told me.” 

It’s his new refrain, you realize. You can’t imagine how he must’ve felt when he heard your friend, saw you laugh, waited for you to correct or argue with her. And did he notice the scratch on your cheek then? Did he think of the push of his body against yours, the quiver of your thighs as he’d stretched you wide around him, the buzz of your whimper against his fingers as he finally fucked you? 

"Doesn't matter,” You insist again. “Drop it.” 

“You should’ve told me—” 

“Lower your voice.” 

“I would’ve been more gentle.” 

“I didn’t want you to be more gentle,” You snap, finally turning to meet his eye. You realize immediately that it’s a mistake. You expect him to be so righteously angry—a pinched expression, a knit brow, a tight jaw. But there’s something in those warm, dark eyes that looks so painfully mournful. 

It’s unfair. You both came. What’s he so put out about?

You’d almost prefer his anger to whatever the hell this is. Anger you could handle—but does he regret last night? You sure as shit don’t. 

Your jaw works tightly as you fold your arms against your chest and turn back to the bar. He can regret it all he wants, if that’s what this is. 

“Anyway,” You press on, “I enjoyed myself. Thought you did, too.” 

“I did—” Small wonder, “But—” 

“‘But’ nothing, Bradshaw. We both had a good time. Just…Forget it.” 

You hear Bradley draw in a deep breath before his hand lightly comes down on the bar. When he curses this time, it doesn’t make your stomach flip with excitement. It just pisses you off. 

-- 

“Get in.”

Your annoyance has cooled and shifted to nerves. You glance around the parking lot, openly unsure. You can get a car to take you home. It could be there in two minutes, have you home in twenty. 

Bradley stands still as a statue, hand holding open the passenger side door as he waits. It wasn’t a question like he’d asked last night—”Wanna take a walk?” It isn’t a murmur accompanied by a warm hand on your lower back, steering you away from the thudding bass of the bar, from your friends as your stomach fluttered with anticipation. 

It’s an order, one that you’re tempted to disobey. 

But you climb into the Bronco and buckle up. You look straight through the windshield as he gets into the driver’s seat and starts the car. The drive is quiet, and does nothing to calm your nerves. Once Bradley parks, he just warns, “Don’t,” when you reach for the door handle. You expect him to launch into a lecture, but he gets out, rounding the car and opening the door for you. 

He’s practically your shadow as he follows you to the front door. You step aside once it’s open, unsure if Bradley will turn and head home, his self-appointed duty done. But he steps inside, shrugging his jacket off and throwing it over the back of your couch. He’s been there once or twice, but he still takes his time looking around as you lock up behind him and take off your shoes. 

“Shoes off, Bradshaw.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You want something to drink?” You ask, stepping past him. 

“Water.” 

“You hungry?” 

“No.” 

You nod, flipping on the light in your kitchen and grabbing a couple of glasses for the two of you. You can hear Bradley's footsteps as he drifts lazily through your living room, joining you in the kitchen and taking the proffered glass of water with a murmur of thanks. The two of you sip in silence for a few moments. 

“Maybe I should’ve—” You start, then back off as you feel Bradley turning to look at you. You take another gulp of your water. “There just didn’t seem like the right moment to mention it. And bringing it up—it all would’ve felt like a bigger deal. I didn’t want that.” 

“Could’ve told me afterward.”

“We were more focused on getting back to the others.” 

“You tell ‘em it was me?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it’s none of their business. Besides, they wouldn't care—and they didn’t ask.” 

“Seems to be your answer for everything these days.” 

You roll your eyes, setting your empty water glass in the sink.

“Okay. You bring me home just to scold me?” 

“No.” 

Bradley steps closer, lowering his water glass into the sink beside yours. You watch his hand lift. Your eyelashes flutter as he cups your jaw, turning your head toward him, his thumb sweeping gently across your skin. 

“Look at me.” He orders. Your focus sweeps up slowly, mapping the swell of his lips, the scattering of scars, the line of his nose before your eyes finally settle on his. He’s devoid of anger, still, and the sorrow is gone. Bradley’s expression seems deceptively neutral, and that’s far more concerning than any look he’s given you before. 

“Where’s your room.” 

-- 

There still aren’t any roses, but at least there’s a real bed this time. Bradley doesn’t guide you face-first into one of your walls or against the door. He keeps a firm grasp on your jaw as his tongue slips between your lips. You wind your arms around his shoulders, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

You try to urge him back toward the bed, but Bradley slides a hand down to your throat, giving it a warning little squeeze that makes you melt. You smooth one of your hands down his front, fingers skating along the cool metal of his belt buckle. Before you can undo it, Bradley catches hold of your wrist. He breaks your kiss, using the grasp on your throat to tip your head up to the side, and smoothing his lips along the exposed skin. 

“Slow down,” He murmurs against your jaw, the buzz of it tickling your skin. 

“But—” 

“Slow down.” It’s firmer now, and you have to tamp down a grin. You know what that tone is like from Bradley. You’re certain you can wind up face-first on your bed if you play your cards right. 

You just have to piss him off a little. 

You wriggle your wrist from his grasp, tipping your head down against the press of his hand, desperate to catch sight of his belt buckle as you fumble for it with both hands. You hear the short, irritated huff of Bradley’s breath before he catches both of your wrists in one hand. Your mouth waters at the clank of his buckle being undne as he gives your wrists a squeeze and shoves them away from him. 

“Take your clothes off,” He orders. “All of them.” 

There’s steel in his voice now. You begin to turn, your hands curling around the hem of your shirt when you hear him tut.

“Face me.” 

Your face burns hot as you go still. Bradley’s expression is flat again: mirthless eyes, and a firm press to his lips. You tug your shirt up and over your head, undo your bra, then shove down your pants and underwear. 

“Get on the bed.” 

You sit, and wait.

“Lie down.” 

You should scooch back toward your headboard, but instead, you flop down where you are, feet still on the floor. You yelp as Bradley lands a slap on your outer thigh. 

“Don’t play dumb,” He warns. “Go on.” 

You finally slide back, watching Bradley undress and fish a foil packet out of his back pocket. You eye his body covetously as he walks closer, climbing over you and straddling your hips, tossing the condom by your pillow.  

“Hands up.” 

You raise them obediently, holding perfectly still and hardly breathing as he loops the belt around your wrists. He holds your eye as he winds the belt around your wrists and the bedposts, a single brow raised. You can call it off now—you know he'll unwind it, pull back, stop.

When you nod, Bradley tightens it, the leather biting into your skin. 

You want what he gave you in the alley—the rush, his force, his ferocity and bruises. But Bradley kneels on the bed in front of you, curling his hands around your ankles, skimming them up slowly. You squirm, feeling exposed and vulnerable as his hands slip over your thighs, up across your belly. 

“Bradley—” 

“Hush.” 

You suck in a soft breath as his fingers smooth over your sides, pressure just firm enough to keep from tickling you. His head dips, kissing over your belly, up to the underside of one of your breasts. You try to arch into his lips as he leans further up. 

“Please,” You whine, but his tongue sweeps between your lips before you can say another word. You wilt back against the bed, your fingers curling and flexing around one another as your wrists strain against the belt, the buckle clanking against the bed frame. You want nothing more than to grasp and pull his hair, feel the slide of the strands against your skin.

“But—” You breathe as he breaks the kiss.

“Shuddup.” It buzzes against your skin as his kisses travel back down, sucking at each nipple, sweeping past your belly button as his shoulders push your thighs wide. You pull in a shocked breath as his hot breath skates across your pussy, chased by the teasing flicker of the tip of his tongue. You whimper, chasing the slick heat before Bradley’s hands curl around your hips. You open your mouth to complain again—but it dies on your tongue as Bradley laps broadly across your lips. He buries your face between your thighs, moaning lustfully against your slick skin. Your nails dig into your palms at the rattle of his groan shakes through you.

You whine, knees tightening around his shoulders as you shove your hips down against his lips. And though you’d expected him to reprimand you, Bradley’s hand slides up between your thighs, fingers teasing at your pussy. It’s only a moment before he slips one inside, curling it before adding another. You huff softly, cunt squeezing around him as his fingers pumping in and out—and in and out again as your hips chase his manic rhythm.

Your wrists yank against the belt, hips bounding as you chase the curl and snap of your orgasm, Bradley’s name falling from your lips as your pussy rolls against his tongue. He hums, lapping at your pleasure as your cunt clutches at his fingers. Your voice quiets as you settle, cunt pulsing as Bradley nuzzles your thigh, lightly nipping at the skin and slickly soothing it as your movements slow.

As you come back to yourself, you can’t deny the thrill of catching Bradley’s eye—the heat of it as he peers over your belly; the sly glint as he laves his tongue back and forth, fingers curling in your still-pulsing opening. You part your lips, waggling your tongue and grinning as Bradley surges up. 

You whimper as you taste your arousal on his tongue, shiver as his fingers withdraw and his cock twitches against your inner thigh. Your hips tip up on instinct, chasing the heat as Bradley’s length twitches against you. He reels back just far enough to grab the foil packet by your head, ripping it open with his teeth, and sheathing his cock in the latex. 

“Please,” You mumble before he can ask or tease, “Please—Need it, Bradley, I—Oh, fuck,” You gasp as he drives into you with a single stroke. Your pussy clutches at him, your nails digging into the leather of the belt as you push your hips up into his. Bradley’s hands land on either side of your head, flexing in the fabric of your pillow case as he holds himself steadily over you. 

“Shuddup,” He groans again—But my god, it’s a tighter sound than it was before, and it makes your pussy grasp at him as his face presses into your neck. 

“Bradley–”

“Quiet—”

“I need it,” You whimper, shoving your hips up against his, “Fuck, you feel so—Mm, Bradley, please—” 

“Just—” 

“I want more, Bradley, ‘m so—” 

You gag at the sudden intrusion of two fingers sliding between your lips. Your mouth falls open, eyes glazing and tongue laving against the rough pads of his fingertips as they rub over your tongue.

You let your jaw go slack, whines spiraling from between your lips as he finger-fucks your mouth, hips slapping against yours in tandem. Your toes curl in the fabric of your sheets, wrists yanking against your restraints. Bradley plants his knees against the mattress, his hips slamming against yours as the headboard rattles against your wall. You wind one of your legs around his, sucking in a breath as his free hand grasps and squeezes your thigh. 

Bradley pushes his face into your neck, fingers slipping from your mouth to hold your hips. You can’t fight the way your voice stutters in his throat at the slow, concentrated roll of his body against yours. You try to push against him, to urge and speed his pace, but Bradley seems to neither hear nor feel your urging and whines. 

It’s no use. Bradley’s grasp keeps you pinned in place, the slow grind of his hips drawing your orgasm nearer and nearer. 

“That’s it,” He encourages against your jaw. He groans as your cunt pulses around him, your hips bucking as your back arches. 

“Faster,” You breathe, then gasp as his strokes slow and deepen. Your eyes slip closed, pressing your head back against the pillow as your push your body up against his. You shiver, knees squeezing around his hips as the coil of pleasure in your belly tightens. 

“Look at me,” He urges, hand lifting to curl around your jaw. Your head flops like a ragdoll’s, eyes blinking blearily up at him. Your heart stuttering in your chest at the heated focus on his face—the parted, panting lips, and the way his dark eyes skate from your mouth to your slightly unfocused gaze. He tuts when your eyelashes flutter, giving your jaw a squeeze before you can close them. 

“Ah ah. Eyes on me, baby,” Bradley orders. “Show me how bad you want it—Show me,” He repeats as my mouth falls open to insist, “Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna hear another fucking word. You’ll take what I give you,” He growls, “And when you’ve cum, you’ll fucking thank me for it.” 

Your eyes roll back into your head as you buck up against Bradley, mouth falling open in a stunned, guttural shout as you cum, cunt pulsing around his cock. Bradley curses, dipping his head and laying a bite on your shoulder as his hips continue to grind slowly and steadily, fucking you slowly through your orgasm.

You wait for him to follow, to tip over the edge, but Bradley’s hips don’t stutter and slow like they did last night. Instead, his fingers slip between the two of you, teasing over your tender, swollen clit as his tongue sweeps across the freshly laid bite mark. You hiss in a shocked breath, hips bucking up into his rough touch. 

“Br-Bradley—” 

“Gimme another one.” 

-- 

Your hands slowly slip down to rest over your head as Bradley unwinds the belt from your wrists, dropping it across his other clothes where they were discarded by the bed. You sigh contentedly as you feel the bed dip and shift beneath you, and hear the soft pad of his footsteps as he leaves the room.

You know that you should move your arms, get some blood back into them, check your wrists, but for a few moments, you just lay there and let your body settle. Your cunt still pulses from the slow, sensual rolls of Bradley's hips, the sure and even way that he’d fucked you through another two orgasms before finally coming undone himself. You draw your knees together, shivering again as you squeeze your slick thighs together. 

“Here,” You hear. Your head lolls to the side, eyes blinking open as Bradley sets a glass of water down on the bedside table. Before you can try and push yourself up, Bradley sits beside you, hooking his arms around your back and helping you slowly sit up. Your head swims a little, and Bradley shushes you softly as you close your eyes to stop your head from pounding, resting your head forward onto his shoulder. 

“Y’alright?” 

“I think so,” You mumble. 

“Give it a minute.” 

“Mm.” You lean back against the headboard, eyes still closed as Bradley’s hands gently brush over your quivering thighs. “I should get cleaned up.” 

“We will,” He says. “Water's heating up for the bath.” 

You peek open one eye, brow raising in surprise. We, huh? But Bradley holds your eyes steadily, unflinching as he picks the water up and holds it out. Your arms throb slightly as you lift them to take the cup, drawing in a sip, then a gulp. 

“Slow down,” He chuckles. 

“Mmm. That again?” You ask, passing back the glass. “All I got tonight was slow.” 

Bradley sets the glass aside, scooching closer and nudging his nose against yours. He searches your gaze for a moment before his eyes dip to your lips. 

“You deserve slow,” He murmurs, “You deserve thorough. And one’a these days, I’m gonna teach you,” His lips ghost yours, “How good gentle can be.” 

“That’s not what tonight was?” 

“With a belt around your wrists? No, baby,” He chuckled. “That’s not what tonight was.” He leans away, grinning as you lean up, lips chasing his. “I’ll go check on the bath. Finish that water.” 

“Yessir.” You watch him get up, swiping your tongue over your lips. “Bradley?” 

He turns, brows raised expectantly, and smiling when he sees you reaching for him. He leans back in when you smooth your hand over his neck, submitting to the soft, searching kiss that you pull him in for.

“For the record," You tip your head back, "You were exactly what I wanted—last night and tonight."

Relief flickers in his warm eyes, lips quirking in a slight smile as he covers his mouth with yours again.

"For the record," He murmurs. "You're gonna like gentle."

"I know I'm gonna like it," You insist, leaning back against the headboard, "Long as it's with you."

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; 

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989 @nominalnebula

[moonwayne]

Oh this is so good I’m cheesin’

I wanna feel what love is

Summary : You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can’t stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded… until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/groundsystemstech!reader

Warnings : mutual pining, jealousy (brief flirtation), sunshine x quiet introvert, playlist flirting, he’s loud for both of you

Words : 5K

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

There was a certain stillness to the sim bay when you were in it—not silent, exactly, but quieter in a way that wasn't just about decibels. It was the kind of quiet that made people talk softer when they walked by you, as if your presence created a ripple of calm in the mechanical hum of monitors and diagnostic lights. You weren’t unfriendly. Just focused. Precise. A whisper in a world of voices raised too loud too often.

Bradley Bradshaw was not quiet, he was everything but quiet.

He was energy and swagger and sun-soaked charm, tall and golden, never without something to say. Usually something funny, sometimes something stupid, but always with that boyish confidence that made people laugh even when they didn’t want to.

And for some reason, lately, he kept orbiting around you.

Today, it was coffee.

You barely registered the footsteps until he was standing beside your desk, one hand curled around a cup, the other sliding the second one in front of you with practiced ease, like he’d done this before, like he’d made this part of his day.

“Hazelnut,” he said, voice low but cheerful, like you two were already in on some inside joke as he offered you the sweetest smile. “With oat milk. Thought I’d take a gamble, you look like an oat milk kind of girl.”

You paused mid-keystroke. Your eyes flicked up to his face—those soft brown eyes, wide and too curious for their own good—then down to the coffee. ‘Oat milk kind of girl’, what the hell does that mean ? Anyway, you took it without hesitation, your hand wrapping around the warm cup like it was familiar, though it wasn’t. At least not yet.

A quiet breath left your lips. “Thanks.” You murmured, voice just above the whir of the nearby fan: soft, clipped, barely there.

Then, you turned back to the screen, like the moment had never happened at all. Bradley stood there a beat too long, blinking once, then scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish kind of grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…Cool.” He said to no one in particular, and walked off. Glancing back once to see if you looked at him again.

You didn’t.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

By the time lunch rolled around, the mess hall was its usual mess of uniformed pilots, engineers, and stray conversations about upcoming tests and simulations. Bradley slouched into a seat beside Phoenix and Bob, stealing a chip off Bob’s tray like it belonged to him.

“She never talks,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, watching you across the room as you sat alone, quietly eating, headphones on. You were scrolling something on your tablet—a manual, probably, or flight logs. You looked like you’d be anywhere else if you could, and still, you glowed in your own strange, distant way. Like a lighthouse in fog.

Phoenix didn’t even blink. “Whisper ? That’s her whole thing.”

Bradley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but she literally never talks. I’ve said good morning to her for like four days straight and got exactly two words in return. One of them was ‘thanks.’ The other was ‘hmm.’”

“She doesn’t waste words,” Bob offered gently. “I like that about her.”

“Yeah, but how does she communicate ? Like, with other humans ? Does she just telepathically vibe what she wants across the room ?”

Phoenix smirked. “You’re not mad she’s quiet, you’re mad she’s not talking to you.”

Bradley opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He glanced across the cafeteria again. You were sipping the coffee he brought. Slowly. Still the only one you’d had all day. He watched the way you bit your lip, thinking intensely. How your hair fell back when you let it go, slightly hiding your face. But suddenly, a question popped in his head. “Why do we even call her whisper ?” He said still looking at you, not really waiting for an answer, more to make a statement.

“We talked once,” started Bob, cutting the brunet off from his observation. Rooster turned his head quickly, interested in what the blond had just told him. “Said she was a former pilot. Real good one too.”

His interest peaked, “Former pilot ? I thought she was a ground systems tech.”

“Well she is now.” The blond said. “But she used to fly, so people still use her call sign. Top of her class, sharp as a tack. Then she switched to ground—said she liked the quiet shadows better than the spotlight in the cockpit.”

Rooster took a slow sip of his glass of water, thinking about what his friend had just told him. “Guess I’ve got a mission then.”

Nat raised an eyebrow, “What kind of mission ?”

“To get her talking.” He answers, grinning like a kid who just found a new puzzle. 

Bob laughed. “Good luck with that one.”

But that didn’t discourage Bradley, not even a little.

The sim bay had the kind of buzz that never quite went away—humming computers, faint whirring fans, a voice or two in the background reviewing telemetry. It was comfortable in a mechanical sort of way, and you liked it that way: your space, your rhythm, your quiet corner of the world. You were back at your console, headphones on, lips parted ever so slightly in focus as you adjusted a variable in the flight response program.

Bradley Bradshaw, on the other hand, existed in full color. He lingered in the doorway, pretending to look for someone, but mostly watching you work. He moved like someone born in the sun, all wide smiles and long limbs, always cracking a joke or throwing a casual wink in someone’s direction. So, when his boots thudded up beside your desk for the second time that day, coffee in hand again, you felt him coming before you even saw him. You slipped one of your headphones off as he stopped beside your desk, and he couldn’t help but smiled at the anticipation.

“You always drink coffee after lunch,” he said, setting the cup beside your keyboard like it was already tradition. “But I figured I’d switch it up. This one has vanilla instead of hazelnut. Dangerous, I know.” He chuckled for a bit.

You paused, glanced at him, and took the cup with both hands like it might vanish if you didn’t. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word barely above a breath.

He smiled like it was a full sentence. And then, to your surprise, he didn’t leave. He leaned against the edge of your console, arms crossed. “So… do you always have your headphones in, or is that just to avoid me ?”

You blinked, looked at him—not startled, just unreadable. Then: a quiet, short answer.

“No.”

His brows lifted. “Oh ? So it’s not personal.”

“No.”

Another beat passed. He was clearly trying to decide if that was good or bad.

“What do you listen to ?”

“…Music.”

That made him grin. “Wow. The mystery deepens.”

You looked back at your monitor. You weren’t trying to be cold, you just didn’t know what to do with all that energy, all that focus pointed at you like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

Still, he stayed.

“What kind of music ?” he asked, voice dipping into something gentler.

You hesitated. “…Instrumental.”

“No lyrics ?”

You shook your head.

“Okay. So you like stuff that doesn’t talk much. That makes sense.”

There was a tiny flicker at the corner of your lips. Not quite a smile. But almost. Bradley caught it like it was gold dust.

“Are you from around here ?” he tried again, as casually as he could.

You shrugged. “Sort of.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You glanced at him. “It is.”

He chuckled, arms dropping as he leaned a little closer to your screen, trying to read what you were working on. “You calibrating the response latency on Phoenix’s sim log ?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna explain it to me like I’m five ?”

“No.”

He laughed—this full, warm thing that drew glances from two other pilots on their way out. You didn’t laugh with him, but you did nod, slow and almost amused as you went back to work. And that was something. Bradley stared at you for another second. Then, without a word, he picked up the half-empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since morning and pulled a black Sharpie from his back pocket.

He scribbled something near the rim, just above the sleeve, and set it gently back beside you. You didn’t look up. But you didn’t tell him to go, either. He turned and left with a smirk playing at his lips.

Once you were sure he was gone, you reached out, fingers curling around the cup like it was something private. You turned it, just slightly. In dark, careful handwriting, it said:

‘Don’t worry, 

I talk enough for both of us.’

You stared at it for a second. Just long enough for the smallest smile to touch your lips—the kind you’d never let him see.

Not yet.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was buzzing, already alive by the time you stepped through the doors. Half-empty beer bottles, familiar voices crashing over each other like waves, Phoenix’s laughter echoed from the pool table and a Springsteen song rumbled from the jukebox. Bradley was already there, leaning back at the bar, flashing that easy, sun-warmed smile at anyone who passed. As usual, he was dressed in an open Hawaiian shirt with a simple white T-shirt, his aviator pair on the tip of his nose, and his stupid moustache making him looking good as ever.

You hovered at the threshold longer than you meant to—long enough to wonder why you came, short enough that no one noticed—then slipped in quietly, the familiar hum of chatter wrapping around you like a cocoon. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. You weren’t afraid of noise, just tired of being swallowed by it. But tonight, something pulled you in. Maybe it was the ache of loneliness that crept in when the hangar emptied you. Or maybe it was just the memory of Rooster’s smile earlier that morning, when he handed you coffee just to hear your thank-you. 

“Watch this.” Bradley said to Phoenix, next to him, as he saw you cross the room.

“You're gonna make a fool of yourself.” She laughed as he stood up, walking with a determined step towards you.

You found your usual corner near the window, sliding onto a stool with your drink and earphones already tucked in your jacket pocket. Not quite ready to drown out the noise, but ready to keep some space from it. You hadn’t even settled on a stool before a shadow fell beside you.

“There she is,” Bradley drawled, smooth and pleased, sidling up beside you with his usual beer in hand. “Didn’t think this place was your scene.”

You glanced at him sideways, eyes unreadable, and shrugged. “Got bored.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning one arm on the table next to you, his attention all yours. “You in a bar full of pilots ? That’s not boredom. That’s anthropology.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe I’m observing.”

He grinned wide, taking that as a win. “See ? She does talk.” He says loud enough so Nat could hear it.

You didn’t reply. Just looked at him with wide eyes and sipped your drink, letting the silence settle again.

Bradley seemed content to fill it. “You always just… listen ?” He asked, watching over the rim of his bottle.

You gave a small shrug. “Someone has to.”

His eyes softened, “I like your voice.” He said unbothered by your silence. 

That pulled something from you—the tiniest exhale of laugh, gone before fully formed. But he caught it, and his grin widened even more when he saw your cheeks getting slightly red. “There it is,” he said, mock-dramatic. “A sound. We’ve got confirmation of life.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in it.

Across the room, near the jukebox, Fanboy nudged Payback and nodded toward you both.

“Ten bucks says he won’t get her to say more than four words tonight,” Fanboy said.

Payback chuckled. “I’ll take that bet. Bradshaw’s relentless.”

Back at the corner, Bradley didn’t care. Didn’t even notice. He was too focused on you—on the way your fingers traced the rim of your glass, the way you listened like it mattered. Then, he seemed to be slowing down, leaning against the edge of your space like he might stay there all night.

“You ever drink anything stronger than water ?” He asked, nudging his empty bottle toward your glass.

“I had whiskey last week.” You murmured.

Bradley arched an eyebrow. “One whiskey ?”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. “Two.”

He laughed, the sound full and bright, startling in the close space between you. You turned slightly toward him, just enough to give him your attention—not more, not yet.

“I think people forget you have a voice,” he said, his tone quieter now, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I mean, I see you every day. Running diagnostics, fixing our busted egos in the sims, headphones always on. But nobody really talks to you.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, fingers tapping the base of your glass.

“Why’d you stop flying ?” He asked suddenly, not unkindly. Just… curious.

You glanced away for a beat, surprised he knew that, then shrugged. “Liked control more.”

Bradley’s smile softened, fading into something more thoughtful. “You ever miss it ?”

You paused. Then, so quiet he almost missed it: “Sometimes.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just looked at you, like he wanted to remember the sound of your voice exactly as it was. Then someone brushed past you on the way to the bar, a blonde woman in a sundress, tall and glowing, with a spark in her eye and a laugh that cut clean through the room. Confident in a way that glittered, she moved like she already knew who would be watching her, and her eyes locked onto Bradley.

You caught the way his eyes settled on her. Not just a glance, but a long, lingering stare, the kind that said he was interested, curious, maybe even impressed. His usual playful charm softened into something quieter, more focused, like he was seeing something worth leaning into, and for a moment, it was like you weren’t even in the room.

Anyway, he stayed with you a little longer. 

And unconsciously, you gave him more than usual tonight—a full five minutes of quiet conversation, soft answers barely audible beneath the noise, a trace of a smile when he teased you about something you just said. It was the most you’d spoken to him outside the sim bay, and for a moment, it felt like something shifted. Like maybe he saw you a little more clearly now.

Then your glass emptied. You stood slowly, nodding toward the bartender on the far end. “Be right back.” You took his empty bottle in your hand, without asking him. 

He thanked you and straightened, stretching his arms back just enough for the fabric of his shirt to pull across his broad shoulders. The movement was effortless, the kind of thing he didn’t even know he was doing. “Don’t disappear on me.” He called, half-laughing, as you stepped away, weaving through shoulders and laughter. You didn’t answer, just slipped into the crowd, quiet as ever. 

You didn’t see the blonde until you were halfway to the bar, but he saw her. She brushed past you with the kind of scent you couldn’t name but somehow noticed. And by the time you looked back, his eyes were already on her. Focused. That warm, open grin of his softened into something more curious, the kind of look he gave to things he wanted to figure out—the same look he gave you earlier that morning. When she glanced over and smile, he smiled back like it was instinct. The blonde placed a hand on his forearm, light and lingering, nails painted in a summer pink. And he didn’t move an inch away. 

He tilted his head, smiling down at her like they’d known each other longer than thirty seconds. That familiar warmth in his eyes—the one he gave you—was now entirely hers. Your grip on his bottle tightened and you turned back toward the bar, but not for the bartender anymore. Instead you set the bottle and your glass gently on a vacant corner. 

“Doesn’t need his beer anymore.” You muttered under your breath. 

“Ditching the golden boy already ?” Phoenix’s voice came from beside you, light but knowing. 

You didn’t flinch, just gave her a small shrug, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past the jukebox. “He’s got company.” You said quietly. 

She followed your gaze. Her expression didn’t change, but you caught the way she exhaled slowly, like she wanted to say something. Instead, she offered a soft nudge to your shoulder. “Come shoot a round with me. Before Bradshaw says something stupid dumb and ruins both your nights.”

You nodded once, grateful, and let her steer you away—away from the laughter from the blonde, from the part of you that had started to hope he’s look for you first.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The next few days passed in a blur of drills and simulator runs, but something was off. Bradley felt it before he even saw it. A shift in the air, subtle and sharp. The way people say you can sense a storm rolling on, not by the thunder, but by how still the birds go. 

You were still there in the sim bay every morning, like clockwork. Still perched at your console with your headphones draped around your neck, fingers flying over diagnostic keys. Still responding to reports, confirming flight data, calling out corrections with crisp professionalism. 

But you weren’t there. Not like before. 

You didn’t glance over when he leaned on the edge of your desk with his usual swagger, coffee cup in hand, teasing tone ready. You’d just take the cup without eye contact, said a flat, “Thanks”, and go back to the screen like he hadn’t just offered you the sun. 

No smile. No soft voice. No quiet moment like before. Bradley stood there a second longer, watching you scroll through diagnostics. The first time, he brushed it off. Maybe you were tired or busy. The second time, it tugged a little. But the third ? It started to sting. 

“Rough morning ?” he asked that day, testing the waters. He watched you from just a few feet away, trying to catch your expression through the edge of your hair. But you didn’t even blink. Didn’t even lift your head. Just muttered, “No”, and continued typing. 

Bradley lingered awkwardly for a few seconds longer, waiting—for a smile, a glance, anything. But you never looked up. He left the coffee on the corner of your console and walked away like a door had closed behind him.

And it stuck with him. It gnawed at him all day. During simulator drills, debriefs, even lunch where he barely touched his food, through endless conversations with teammates where he found himself half-listening, distracted by the feeling of something slipping out of reach. By the time evening rolled around, he couldn’t shake it. He found Phoenix on the flight deck catwalk, where the sky was bruising purple, and the air still carried salt and heat.

“What did I do ?” He asked impatient.

She didn’t looked away from the horizon, “To who ?”

He looked at her like it was obvious and sighed, “Whisper.”

Now she looked at him, one brow lifted. “You mean besides not shutting up around her ?”

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “No, I mean lately. She’s been…” He exhaled hard. “Different. Cold.”

Phoenix tilted her head, giving him a long, pointed look. Then she asked, “You really don’t get it ?”

His expression didn’t change, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “Get what ?”

“She saw you Bradshaw.”

He blinked, “Saw me what ?”

Phoenix pushed off the railing, folding her arms. “You flirted with some random at the Hard Deck right after spending all night talking her out of her shell. And she saw you. Every second of it.”

Bradley’s mouth opened slightly. “What ? No, I wasn’t— I just talked to her for a second—”

“Bradley,” Phoenix’s voice dropped, serious now. “She was holding your damn beer to get you a new one. She wanted to come back to you.”

He stopped. Actually stopped. Like the weight of those words landed straight on his chest. “I didn’t…” He scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He muttered.

She softened a little but didn’t let him off the hook. “Didn’t have to.” She waited a beat, then said more gently, “She’s quiet, not stupid. You think that kind of girl opens up to just anyone ?”

He didn’t answer. Because he was thinking about the bar now. About the way your eyes had briefly flicked toward him when the blonde leaned in. About how your expression had shuttered before he could even recognize the look behind it. 

Phoenix watched him closely, then nudged his shoulder. “So. Fix it. Or at least don’t make it worse.”

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

Two days went by.

Long enough for Bradley to feel every inch of it—in the clipped responses, in the polite nods, in the way you passed him in the corridor like he was another file to be sorted and ignored. 

And it was driving him insane.

Because you weren’t the kind of person to shut people out impulsively. You were calculated, quiet, deliberate in everything you did. And this coldness wasn’t sudden. It was chosen. Thought through.

Which meant it hurt.

He spent hours turning it over in his head, reliving that night at the Hard Deck, the way you’d said ‘Be right back’ like it meant something, like you were truly planning on coming back to him and not just disappear as he thought you would. And how he’d let himself be pulled into a meaningless moment with a girl he didn’t even remember the name of. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Not until Phoenix spelled it out for him in painfully clear words.

So now he sat with that. The guilt, the frustration, the quiet hollow ache of knowing he’d hurt someone who barely let people close to begin with. And he wanted to fix it. But with you, big gestures didn’t work. He knew that. You didn’t want spectacle, you wanted sincerity. Something simple. Something honest.

So that morning, before anyone else was in the sim bay, he left a flash drive on your console. No note. No explanation. Just slid it onto the edge of your desk beside your water bottle and walked away without a word.

You noticed it the moment you sat down.

A plain silver drive, no label. But when you hovered over the files on your screen an hour later, curiosity finally won over.

“Songs You Should Smile To — A Rooster Original”

You stared at the name for a long moment, your finger paused above the track list. You didn’t open it right away. Didn’t smile, either. Just… paused. Then clicked. The first song was soft, warm around the edges. The kind of sound that lingered like late sunshine on concrete. It played in your headphones for exactly thirty-eight seconds before you stopped it. Then closed the window. Then unplugged the drive.

You slipped it into your pocket like it was something fragile.

Later that day, while the rest of the pilots were out on deck, Bradley circled back into the sim bay. You were alone at your station, typing quietly, brows drawn together as you reviewed a diagnostic thread. He lingered by the edge of the console—not leaning in like usual, not crowding your space—just there. Treading softly.

“Hey,” he said gently, scratching at the back of his neck. “Did you, uh… open it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “Yeah.”

That was it.

A single syllable, flat as an ocean on a windless day. You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer a smile. Didn’t even glance his way.

Bradley hesitated, thumb rubbing the edge of his palm. “Cool,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just figured… you might need a better soundtrack. Y’know. For… stuff.”

No reply. No warmth. Nothing to hold on to. You didn’t ignore him, but you didn’t give him anything, either. And that was somehow worse. He lingered for a second longer, then gave a small nod and turned away. Chest tight, mouth pressed into a thin line.

But he didn’t see the way your fingers curled slightly as he walked off. The way your eyes flicked toward the flash drive, still safe in your pocket. Or even the way you waited until the door hissed shut behind him before reaching for your headphones again.

You started the playlist over. From the beginning this time.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was loud that night. Louder than usual. Full of laughter, clinking bottles, half-sung choruses to half-remembered songs. Bradley was already two beers in when he dropped onto a stool by the bar, half-listening to Hangman brag about something no one cared about and trying not to look toward the door every few minutes like some hopeful idiot.

You hadn’t showed up yet. 

He told himself he wasn’t looking. That he didn’t care. That it was just a normal night, and he was just enjoying the bar like everyone else. 

But then he heard it.

The song.

Soft drums, rising gently above the noise, his heart stuttered.

“I want to know what love is” by the Foreigner.

It wasn’t one of the Hard Deck bangers, not on Penny’s usual rotation. It was his song. The first track on the playlist he gave you. One that made him grin when it came on during drives, made him think of wind in his hair and summers that never quite ended. It wasn’t loud enough to cut through pool games or Payback’s booming laugh across the room. But loud enough for him to hear it.

He blinked, turning toward the jukebox automatically.

And there you were.

Alone, standing quietly with one hand still resting lightly against the machine, like you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to touch it. Head bowed just a little, listening. You looked soft in the amber glow of the neon bar lights. 

Playing his song.

Bradley was on his feet before he could stop himself. He crossed the floor slowly, weaving through the crowd as his pulse ticking somewhere behind his ribs, watching you with a quiet disbelief. You didn’t turn until he was almost beside you. Then, finally, your eyes lifted to meet his. There was something unreadable in your expression: something brave.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

“I liked this one.” You said simply, your voice barely louder than the song. 

Just that.

No buildup. No grand declaration. But your voice was warmer than it had been in days, and your eyes held a softness he hadn’t seen since before that night at the bar. And Bradley melted. A breath escaped his chest like relief and hope all tangled into one. “Yeah ?” He asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I thought you might.”

You gave a tiny nod, barely there. “Had it on repeat all night.”

He smiled then. Really smiled. The kind that stretched across his face like a sunrise. His heart clenched in his chest, and for once, he couldn’t find a smooth comeback. Just stood there, quiet in front of the quietest person he knew, feeling every word like it had weight. 

 “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For that night. I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to…”

“I know.” Your eyes didn’t leave his.

And then—finally—you smiled. Bradley exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since that night. You looked at him for a long time, longer than you ever had before. The jukebox kept playing as the music wrapped around you both like velvet.

Bradley laughed under his breath, “There it is.”

The jukebox’s glow flickered softly across your face, casting colors that shimmered like stained glass: red across your jaw, blue across your lashes. You were looking at him like he’d said something sacred. Like he hadn’t messed it all up.

Bradley’s throat tightened. His hands ached to move—to reach for you, to tuck that strand of hair behind your ear, to do something—but he didn’t. He didn’t move. Didn’t trust himself not to screw it up by rushing. So he stood there, holding his breath, watching you like he’d watch a sunrise he was afraid to blink through.

And you… you just looked at him for a moment longer. Eyes calm, unreadable, but soft. Then slowly—so slowly he almost thought he imagined it—your hand reached up. Fingers brushed lightly against the collar of his shirt, then steadied there, like an anchor. You leaned in, hesitant, but sure, eyes locked on his, not breaking even once. Bradley’s breath caught. His lips parted just slightly. He still didn’t move.

But you did.

You kissed him.

Not tentative. Not shy. Not loud, but louder than anything you’d ever said before. It was soft, but certain, the kind of kiss that said everything you never did. And Bradley melted into it. When he finally kissed you back—deeper, more grounded, hand slipping gently around your waist—it felt like exhaling after months of holding his breath. Like gravity stopped pulling and just let him float.

And in the background, Kelly Hansen sang on : 

I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me…

[bingbongsupremacy]

Hey

I really liked your Top Gun fanfic about how they would react to readers trauma!

Could you write something were they react to reader hating it when people shout or raise there voice...one day someone of the team shouts and reader flinches and immediately shuts down. And I wonder how Bob, Bradley, Jake and Mickey would react.

If you don't want to write it it's totally okay. 💗

PTSD From Sudden Yelling

A/N: Tysm for requesting! Hope you like this! I really like writing these mini fics, so I definitely will be doing more in the future!

Pairing: Hangman x Reader, Rooster x Reader, Fanboy x Reader, Bob Floyd x Reader

Warning: PTSD from child abuse, unexpected yelling, trauma, Petname (Sweetheart), anxiety

Summary: When someone unexpectedly yells, you immediately shut down from trauma. How will the boys handle this?

*Not Proofread*

No description of reader's weight/body type or race.

I hate yelling.

Not annoyance or frustration... yelling. It doesn't matter if they're not aimed at me. Doesn't matter who it is. Doesn't matter why.

I flinch. Every time.

Yelling brings me back to the past when I was almost always on the receiving end of the anger.

I've tried not to let it completely infiltrate my life. To not let fear and PTSD rule my mind. But trauma is hard to overcome.

No matter what I do, I can't shake the feeling of fear and instability when I get triggered.

Jake

Today, it's someone on the base that snaps.

"You were supposed to have that simulation debrief ready by now!" One of the newer transfers angrily shouts at another pilot while angrily stomping into the breakroom. His voice is venomous. His eyes are trained on the pilot near the coffee pot, his words definitely targeted towards him, but I can't help but feel like he's speaking to me.

It's not even my mistake. But the volume cracks through the air like a whip. My shoulders jump. My breath cuts short. I freeze, stare at my feet, hands twitching as I quickly shrink into myself. His aggressive demeanor sends a shiver down my spine. I feel my body freeze and tense as I wait anxiously for things to intensify.

I tightly clench my jaw, blinking rapidly as I try not to let my mind wander to memories of my past.

Suddenly, all I can think about is what's going to happen next and how to get out of the situation before I end up hurt.

This is what I hate.

The not knowing what's next. Will things get physical? Will there be more yelling? Is someone going to get hurt? Am I going to get hurt? How long do I have before things turn on me? What did I do?

Am I going to be okay?

I barely register Jake's voice shifting from amusement to confusion.

"Hey," he says, frowning as he watches me. "You alright?"

I don't answer. I can't. I feel small. Exposed. My nails dig into my palm. My heartbeat is loud in my ears, and everything else sounds far away.

He takes a small step closer, slow, like he's trying not to spook me. His voice drops low. His bluish-green eyes scan over my face, trying to understand what's going on. "Darlin'? You okay?"

I still can't look at him. It's all too overwhelming.

I hear the rest of the team awkwardly mutter and shuffle around, trying to avoid the confrontation in front of us, but Jake doesn't move. He stays right in front of me.

"Okay," he says softly, realizing I'm not ready to talk. "It's okay. You're alright. Nothing's gonna happen to you here. Not while I'm standing here." He tries to reassure me.

I try to focus on his words, but the fight has escalated, sending stronger panic waves through my mind. Now both of the pilots are fighting, neither of them caring that there's others in the room.

I wrap my arms around my stomach, looking for any sort of comfort. I want to get up and leave. I want to find a safe place to calm down. I can't though.

My body is frozen.

Jake seems to realize that my reaction is from the shouting when I squeeze my eyes shut after a particularly rough insult.

I faintly hear his chair scrape against the floor, followed by the sound of his heavy boots fading as he walks further away. "Take it outside, you two." His voice is stern and sharp, but calm. He doesn't raise his tone or yell like the other pilots.

"Stay out of it, Hangman." One of the men snaps. "This isn't any of your business."

"None of my business? You made it everyone's business when you two decided to scream like toddlers in a daycare," Jake fires back, still calm but with a dangerous edge to his words. "Take it outside before someone has to write you up. Or do you want me to help you out?" Jake leaves no room for arguments.

There's a pause, a tense silence. The angry pilot mutters something under his breath and stomps out, his buddy trailing behind him.

When I hear the door close behind them, I feel an immediate sense of relief flood my body. I'm still anxious, but it's less controlling then before.

Jake doesn't sit back down right away. I feel him standing there, watching me. Then, slowly, he crouches beside my chair, not too close. Just close enough.

"Hey," he says gently. "You with me?"

I nod once, but it's shaky. I'm still trying to ground myself.

Jake doesn't push. He gives me a second. Then, in a quieter voice he asks. "You good if I sit back down?"

Another nod.

He eases back into his seat like the whole room hasn't just turned on its head. Like he's still Jake, sarcastic, charming, annoyingly perfect Jake. But there's something different in his eyes now. Something careful.

He doesn't push, which I appreciate.

"You want me to change the subject?" he asks after a moment, like it's completely normal. "Or you want to sit in the quiet for a bit? I'm good at both. Hell, I can even hum a song if that'll help, but I can't promise it'll be on key.”

A small breath escapes me. Almost a laugh.

Jake grins. "There she is." Then, quieter, "You don't have to say anythin'. Just… let me know if there's anythin' I can do, alright? And if you ever need help outta a situation like that again, I'll be there."

And I know he means it.

Bob

The shout comes out of nowhere. One of the guys across the room is mock-arguing about a call sign bet, his voice loud and playfully aggressive. It isn't meant to scare anyone. But it hits me wrong.

The laughter in the room keeps going, but my body locks up. My heart spikes. I can already feel myself starting to shut down. My breathing gets shallow. My hands won't stop shaking. I know it's not real, not again, but my brain doesn't seem to care. I flinch without meaning to and freeze in my seat, eyes dart over to Bob who's in the middle of pouring his coffee. His eyes snap to mine, widening slightly as he realizes what's going on.

A few weeks ago. I finally told Bob about my trauma. It was a bit nerve-wracking , but he was understanding. He didn't pry. He didn't judge. He was just there. He was the support I've always wanted and needed.

Bob is in front of me in seconds, his coffee mug abandoned next to the coffee pot on the counter. Concern is written all over his facial expressions. His eyes watch me carefully, like he's trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation.

"Hey." Bob's voice is soft. Too soft compared to the noise around us. "Hey, it's okay."

"It wasn't aimed at you, I promise. They were just messing around. But I know it didn't feel that way. Do you want to step outside for a second?"

I nod, barely. He walks close to me as we leave, keeping his hand close but not grabbing me. Just guiding.

No one says anything as we leave. Maybe they don't notice. Or maybe Bob's glare told them not to. Either way, I'm grateful for the quiet.

Outside, he finds a spot by the railing, away from the doors. The air is cooler and less tense. The soft wind helps to blow away a little bit of tension that's clinging to my body.

Bob stays beside me, letting the silence settle. "I'm sorry you had to go through that." He finally speaks. "I can talk to them if you want. Let them know to be more mindful. I don't have to go into specifics; I can just tell them that shouting makes you a bit nervous."

I nod again, this time a little stronger. I swallow harshly. "That'd be great, B. Thank you." My voice is quiet, but relieved.

He offers a small smile. "Of course, anything for you. You want to stay out here a bit? I can stay with you."

"Please." I agree.

Bob nods, turning his attention to the sky. We don't talk, but we don't need to. I know he's here for me. He knows I appreciate him.

For the first time, I don't feel so alone in my trauma.

Mickey

The road stretches out ahead of us, golden sunlight slipping through the trees like it's trying to show off. I'm tucked into the passenger seat of Mickey's car, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands. The backseat's crowded. Coyote's behind Mickey, Phoenix next to him, chewing on a Twizzler and throwing occasional comments into the conversation.

We're on our way to the campsite, a trip we've all been looking forward to for a few months. Two cars ahead of us, another one trailing behind. Everyone's packed to the brim with sleeping bags and beer coolers and way too many bags for a weekend trip.

Mickey's mid-story, something about a time he accidentally locked himself inside a gym overnight. He's laughing, easy and warm, and I'm smiling without even realizing it. It's been a long time since I've felt this… light. No stress from work. Just peace and fun.

Then Coyote's phone buzzes.

And the car explodes with his voice.

"HOLY SHIT! SHE TEXTED ME BACK! SHE WANTS TO GET DINNER!"

It hits me like a bomb.

The volume. The suddenness. My entire body locks up, and just like that, I'm not in the car anymore. I'm not laughing. I'm not breathing right. I'm nine years old and someone is yelling again, and my stomach is tight and I'm waiting for the crash of something else that always comes after.

I freeze, staring out the window, vision going soft at the edges. I try not to move. Try not to make a sound. I feel my shoulders hunch into myself as I cower from the noise.

Mickey's voice trails off as he sends a glance in my direction when I don't laugh at his joke. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his smile fade away as he takes in my appearance. Then he looks in the rearview mirror.

"Hey, man," he says casually. "Maybe dial it back a little? My eardrums are still ringing."

I can tell he's asking for me. I'm thankful he's not drawing attention to me.

Coyote laughs. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just hyped, alright? It's been months! I was starting to think she was just stringing me along."

"Totally get it," Mickey says, still calm. "But maybe save the all-caps for later? Some of us are trying to make it to camp with our hearing intact."

Phoenix smirks. "He's got a point."

They go back to talking, their voices dropping back to normal, but Mickey keeps his hand on the wheel and his eyes flick toward me again.

Quietly, so only I hear, he asks, "You good?"

I nod. It's automatic. Not fully true. The car's beginning to feel suffocating. I feel my breathing quicken.

He glances towards an upcoming road sign. "I'm gonna pull off here. Gotta get some gas. Would one of you guys text the chat?" He asks the two in the back.

"I'll do it." Phoenix responds before returning to her conversation with Coyote.

Mickey pulls off the highway and onto the exit road. We pull into a nearby gas station and immediately the other two get out to stretch their legs and buy snacks.

Mickey doesn't leave. Instead, he lowers the windows a bit to let fresh air into the car. He lets us sit in silence for a few minutes while I try to calm my racing heart.

After a few minutes, I feel my breathing return to normal. My shoulders untense and I'm finally able to think clearly.

"Thank you." I let out a breath. "And I'm sorry. I... It's a trauma response. I don't do well with yelling." I admit, fidgeting with my belt slightly.

"No problem. I'm... sorry he triggered you. If it happens again, I'll personally kick Coyote out of the car. Strap him to the roof instead. Then he can yell all he wants." Mickey slightly jokes, a small grin crawling onto his face.

I chuckle softly. "I don't know how much he'll appreciate that."

"Hey, actions have consequences." He shrugs. "This trip is supposed to be fun for all of us. How are you supposed to have fun if you can't feel safe?" He gently grabs my hand. "If you every want to talk about it... just know I'm here, alright? I promise, I don't just tell jokes. I'm a good listener too."

"Thanks, Mick."

His thumb softly brushes my knuckles. "I guess I better to fill up the tank before those two get back. You want anything from inside?" He asks while pulling his hand away. His seatbelt unbuckles with a small 'click', and he slips out of the car.

"Maybe a snack? Surprise me." I send him a small smile.

"Alright. I'll be back soon." He closes the door, sending me a smile in return.

I rest my head against the headrest, allowing my eyes to close.

It's going to be okay. Mickey's got my back.

Bradley

It was supposed to be a fun, relaxing night at the bar. No drama. No work. Just the group having fun with a couple of beers. And it starts out that way.

The fight doesn't start big.

It never does.

One of the regulars at the bar says something stupid and rude to another patron who doesn't take it very well. Bradley, who was grabbing everyone another round, steps in, calm but firm, just trying to shut it down. But the other guy's not having it. Voices rise.

And then the man yells.

Not at me.

Not even near me.

But the sound immediately causes me to react and focus on the man's next moves. Angry people are unpredictable.

My whole body jolts and I tense, my hands tightly wrapping around my beer. The music, the laughter, the clink of glasses... it all fades out, muffled under the roaring echo of a memory I don't want.

Old uncomfortable feelings bubble up in my chest like an unwelcome friend. It feels like I've been teleported back in time to situations I hoped I'd never be in again.

I don't even realize I'm shaking until I feel Bradley's hand on my arm.

"Hey. Sweetheart." His voice is soft. "Look at me."

I didn't even realize he came back.

I blink. I don't want to look, but I do. I force my eyes to meet his gaze.

His warm eyes are gentle, concern glimmering in them.

"They're gone," he says, nodding toward the guys who just got kicked out. "It's just us. You're safe."

I nod, but I can't bring myself to speak yet. My throat is tight from stress.

Bradley doesn't ask questions. He doesn't tell me to calm down. He just slides his hand down to mine, laces our fingers together.

"Let's get out of here," he says. "Get some air."

We walk outside. The air is cooler, quieter. I lean against the wall and finally let out a breath. It shudders on the way out.

Bradley stands in front of me, close but not crowding. "Was it the yelling?"

I nod once.

His jaw tightens, but not at me. "Okay," he says. "Thanks for telling me."

"I'm sorry," I whisper. " You were having fun and I just messed it up. I know it's not rational. I just-"

"Don't," he cuts in gently. "Don't apologize for something your body's trying to survive. I've got you."

He opens his arms, and I step into them. He holds me steady like he always does. He presses a kiss to the top of my head and murmurs, "You don't have to go through this alone. I'm right here with you."

"Thanks, B."

"Of course, sweetheart."

[howtodisappear444]

𝜗𝜚 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈’𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝜗𝜚

-> here’s an official page/list for my fave fanfics! (mcu, top gun, outer range, & dc) some of my recommendations might already be on my first fanfic list… i decided to just make one whole post so it’s all organized lol

-> always always check any warnings before reading! i hope you enjoy and love these fanfics just as i do :) i’m also making this as a thank you/support for these writers.

much love, mari 🦢💋

divider by: @uzmacchiato

˙⋆✮ FANFIC RECS

-> here’s part one of my fanfic recs!^^

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

˙⋆✮ TOP GUN

-> bob floyd

-> bradley bradshaw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

˙⋆✮ MARVEL

-> bob reynolds

-> joaquin torres

-> bucky barnes

-> peter parker

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

˙⋆✮ OUTER RANGE

-> rhett abbott

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

˙⋆✮ DC

-> clark kent

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[sometimesanalice]

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 𝐚 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

[callsigns-haze]

The man's job

At The Hard Deck, Sniper—Hangman’s sharp-tongued WSO—tries to ignore her growing attraction to Rooster, but he sees right through her. After a heated exchange, Rooster pulls her into a quiet hallway, desperate for the truth, and when she finally gives in, he kisses her like he’s been waiting forever. Between breathless kisses, he asks why she joined the Navy, and when she teasingly admits it’s because she likes dressing like the men, he grins against her lips and murmurs, "I do too."

Warning: This story contains intense romantic tension, heated moments, and Rooster being utterly irresistible. Proceed with caution—you might fall for him all over again when he loses his cool.

4k words

Just saying English isn't my first language and this is crap because I got bored and wrote yap

The Hard Deck was alive with laughter, the low hum of conversation mingling with the distant crash of the waves. The scent of salt and spilled beer hung in the air, the jukebox spitting out a country song that had more than one pilot tapping their fingers against the worn wood of the bar.

Jake "Hangman" Seresin leaned against the pool table, a cocky grin playing at his lips as he chalked his cue. His gaze was locked onto Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife.

"You wanna try that again, Rooster?" Hangman drawled, voice as smooth as whiskey. "Because I could've sworn you said I got lucky on that last shot."

Rooster scoffed, arms crossed over his broad chest, aviators still hooked onto the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. "You heard me just fine, Bagman. One lucky shot doesn’t make you the best."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass in your hand as you took a slow sip of your drink, the cool condensation slick against your skin. From your seat, you watched the exchange unfold, feigning indifference behind the rim of your glass. But your eyes weren’t on Hangman—not really.

They were on Rooster.

The way his jaw tensed, the way his biceps flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, the way the veins in his forearms stood out when he gripped the pool cue. You knew better than to stare, but the dim lighting and the amber of your drink made for good camouflage.

Beside you, Bob and Fanboy were deep in conversation, their voices threading through the noise of the bar.

"I’m just saying," Bob mused, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "a good WSO doesn’t just read the pilot—they anticipate them."

Fanboy nodded, ever the calm voice of reason. "It’s about trust. You can be the best at reading radar, but if your pilot doesn’t trust you to have their six, you’re dead in the air."

You hummed in agreement, setting your glass down with a soft clink. "It’s instinct. That’s why some pairings work better than others. Right, Bob?"

Bob smirked knowingly, glancing over at Hangman, who was now leaning dangerously close to Rooster, both men locked in a silent battle of egos. "Yeah, like you and Seresin," he said. "You two just… click."

"Match made in heaven," Fanboy teased, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. It was true, in a way. You and Hangman worked well together, your sharp instincts and calculated precision balancing out his reckless confidence. In the air, you made each other better. On the ground, though?

That was different.

"Hey, Snipes!" Hangman’s voice cut through the conversation as he straightened, smirking at you. "Tell Rooster here that he should quit embarrassing himself and rack ‘em up for a rematch."

You raised an eyebrow, the weight of Rooster’s gaze settling on you before you even turned to meet it.

"Don’t look at me," you said smoothly. "I just work here."

Laughter rippled through the group as Rooster smirked, shaking his head before taking a long sip of his beer. The golden liquid caught the light, and for just a second, you let yourself look—really look—before turning back to your drink.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the bar, swirling the remnants of your drink in the glass as Bob and Fanboy continued talking shop beside you. Their conversation faded into the background, your focus slipping as Rooster set his pool cue down and stretched, arms lifting high above his head before settling back down, fingers tapping absently against the side of his beer bottle. The stretch pulled his shirt tight across his chest, and you forced your gaze away, taking a slow sip of your drink to cover the way your pulse kicked up.

"You good?" Bob’s voice cut through your thoughts, quiet but pointed. His pale blue eyes studied you with the kind of sharpness that made you wonder just how much he noticed.

"Yeah," you said quickly, setting your glass down. "Just tired."

Bob hummed in a way that said he didn’t quite believe you, but he let it go, turning back to Fanboy, who was now deep in some exaggerated retelling of a training exercise. You took the out, shifting your attention back to the room, where Hangman had just stepped closer to Rooster, that ever-present smirk still in place.

"Come on, Rooster," Jake drawled, resting his pool cue against the table. "You gonna admit I got you, or do you wanna lose again?"

Bradley scoffed, shaking his head. "Man, I swear, you could fall into the ocean and still find a way to be cocky about it."

"Damn right," Jake shot back, tipping his beer up for a slow sip.

Your lips twitched, but you hid your smile behind your drink, letting the glass linger against your lips. Bradley's eyes flicked toward you, quick but sharp, and for a second, you thought—no, you knew—he caught you watching. The corner of his mouth lifted, subtle, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Heat licked up the back of your neck, but before you could react, Jake clapped a hand on Bradley’s shoulder with a grin. "Come on, Bradshaw, let’s go again. Unless you’re too busy staring at Sniper over here."

Your stomach dropped.

Bradley’s jaw tightened just slightly, his fingers flexing around the bottle in his hand. But if he was caught off guard, he didn’t show it for long. Instead, he just smirked, slow and easy, before turning back to the table.

"You wish, Seresin," he muttered, racking up the balls.

The moment passed, the conversation shifting, the music playing on. But as you turned back to your drink, your heart was still hammering against your ribs. Because if there was one thing you knew for sure, it was that Hangman never said anything without a reason.

And now, thanks to him, you weren’t the only one noticing where your attention kept slipping.

Bob was still half-listening to Fanboy, nodding along as his fingers drummed against the side of his glass, but you could feel his attention flicking back to you every so often. He wasn’t obvious about it—not like Hangman, who would’ve just called you out in front of everyone—but Bob noticed things. Always had. It was part of what made him such a damn good WSO.

You exhaled, forcing your shoulders to relax as you pushed your empty glass toward the edge of the bar. "I’m gonna grab another drink," you said, keeping your voice even, casual.

Bob’s gaze lifted from his own glass, studying you for half a second before he nodded. "You want company?"

You shook your head, already sliding off the barstool. "I’m good. Be right back."

Bob didn’t press, just hummed in acknowledgment, but you caught the way his eyes lingered as you turned away. If anyone was gonna figure you out first, it would be him. You just had to make sure you didn’t give him anything more to work with.

You wove through the crowd, dodging a pair of aviators deep in some animated debate over dart scores, before finally making it to the bar. Penny was a few customers down, pouring a round of shots, so you leaned against the wood, letting your fingers trail along the smooth, worn surface as you waited.

It wasn’t until you felt a presence beside you that you glanced up—and immediately regretted it.

Bradley.

He was close. Not enough to be improper, but enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne beneath the salt air, enough that you could see the way the dim bar lights caught on the gold in his hair.

"You hiding over here, Snipes?" His voice was easy, teasing, but there was an edge to it, like he already knew the answer.

You rolled your eyes, willing your pulse to slow. "Just getting another drink, Bradshaw."

He smirked, leaning against the bar beside you, his fingers tapping absently against the wood. "That so?"

You didn’t answer immediately, but you didn’t have to. Because the way his eyes stayed on you—the way they held just a little too much knowing—told you he wasn’t buying it.

Penny slid a beer across the bar toward Rooster without him even needing to ask, a silent acknowledgment that he was a regular here. He caught it easily, fingers wrapping around the bottle as he turned back to you, his smirk still in place but softer now, more amused than cocky.

"You always this jumpy, Snipes?" His voice was low, meant just for you, the rough edge of it curling around your name in a way that sent heat flickering down your spine.

You scoffed, shifting your weight against the bar. "I’m not jumpy."

"Mm." He took a slow sip of his beer, eyes not leaving yours over the rim of the bottle. When he lowered it, he let his elbow rest against the counter, his body angled just slightly toward you. "You sure about that?"

Your brows lifted, feigning disinterest. "You always this nosy, Bradshaw?"

His grin widened, like he knew exactly what you were doing. "Only when it’s interesting." He let the words hang in the space between you, light but deliberate, before nodding toward your empty glass. "What’s your poison tonight?"

You should’ve just answered him. Should’ve just kept it casual, like you did with everyone else. But the way he was looking at you—the lazy tilt of his smile, the barely-there rasp in his voice—it made you want to push back just a little.

"Why?" you asked, tilting your head. "Gonna buy me one?"

Something flickered in his expression, brief but unmistakable, before he leaned in just slightly, enough that his voice was low when he murmured, "That depends."

Your fingers tightened around the glass, pulse kicking up. "On?"

Bradley let the silence stretch, like he was giving you time to think about it, about him, before finally smirking again. "On whether or not you’ll actually drink it… or just use it to hide behind."

Your breath hitched, but before you could come up with a response, Penny stepped up to take your order, cutting through the moment. Bradley didn’t move, didn’t look away—just waited, watching, like he already knew he’d gotten to you.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away from Rooster’s knowing gaze as you turned to Penny. "Whiskey, neat."

If she noticed anything in your voice, she didn’t comment on it, just nodded and reached for a bottle. But Bradley? He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound warm and teasing as he took another sip of his beer.

"Didn’t peg you for a whiskey drinker," he mused, tilting his head.

You shot him a look. "And what exactly did you peg me for?"

He let his gaze flick over you, slow and measured, before shrugging. "Something smoother. Less burn."

You smirked, rolling your empty glass between your fingers. "Maybe I like the burn."

Bradley’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his expression shifted, the teasing edge softening just slightly. "Yeah," he murmured, voice quieter now. "Maybe you do."

Penny slid your drink across the bar, and you grabbed it quickly, grateful for something to do with your hands. But when you turned back, Bradley was still watching you, eyes dark with something unreadable, something you weren’t sure you were ready to decipher.

"Careful, Sniper," he murmured, tipping his bottle toward you before taking a sip. "Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you like me."

Your stomach flipped, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you lifted your glass, letting the whiskey slide down smooth and slow before setting it back on the bar with a soft clink. Then, with your best smirk, you leaned in just a fraction, just enough for your voice to dip between you both.

"You wish, Bradshaw."

But even as you said it, you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—him or yourself.

Rooster was still smirking when he took another sip of his beer, but when he lowered the bottle, you caught it—just the smallest trace of foam clinging to the edge of his moustache. It was barely noticeable, but once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.

Without thinking, you reached up, the tips of your fingers grazing his jaw as you swiped your thumb along the corner of his mouth. "You had a little—"

The words caught in your throat the second his breath hitched, his entire body going still under your touch. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, the slight stubble along his jaw rough against the pad of your thumb. You should’ve pulled away the second you fixed it, should’ve stepped back before the moment stretched too long, before the air between you shifted into something heavier.

But you didn’t.

Bradley didn’t move either, his eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Slowly, so slowly, his lips quirked, and you felt it—the way they just barely brushed against your thumb before you finally dropped your hand.

"Thanks, Sniper," he murmured, voice lower than before, rougher.

You swallowed, gripping your glass a little tighter as you forced yourself to scoff, to play it off. "Try drinking like an adult next time, Bradshaw."

He grinned, eyes still on you as he took another slow sip—deliberate, careful, like he was daring you to look away.

But you didn’t.

And maybe that was your first mistake.

You should have walked away. Should have taken your drink and gone back to Bob and Fanboy, slipped back into easy conversation about WSOs and manoeuvring and anything that didn’t involve the way Rooster was looking at you.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you stayed put, fingers curling around your whiskey glass, pulse thrumming beneath your skin as Bradley studied you with that lazy, knowing smirk. The worst part? He wasn’t even trying. He wasn’t laying it on thick like Jake would, wasn’t feeding you some line just to see if you’d take the bait. He was just… there. And for some reason, that made it harder to shake.

"You always this handsy, Snipes?" His voice was smooth, laced with amusement, but there was something else beneath it. Something quieter.

You scoffed, finally forcing yourself to take a step back, putting distance between you both. "Don’t flatter yourself, Bradshaw."

He hummed, tipping his beer toward you in mock salute. "Too late."

You rolled your eyes, turning toward the crowd, desperate to pull the focus away from whatever the hell this was. The Hard Deck was still alive with energy, the Dagger Squad scattered around the bar. Hangman was now leaning against the jukebox, arguing with Coyote about song choices. Payback and Fanboy were deep in conversation, likely rehashing old stories from training. Phoenix was at the dartboard, eyes locked in concentration as she lined up a shot.

Safe distractions.

"I should get back," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

But before you could step away, Bradley's voice was there again, softer now. "You ever gonna let me catch up to you, Snipes?"

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your drink. The question wasn’t loaded, not on the surface. But something about the way he said it made you pause, made you consider the weight behind it.

Slowly, you turned back to him, arching a brow. "What makes you think you’re behind?"

Bradley smirked, but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Call it a gut feeling."

You held his gaze for a beat longer than you should have, something unspoken lingering in the space between you. Then, with a small shake of your head, you turned on your heel, slipping back into the crowd before he could say anything else.

But even as you walked away, you felt it—the heat of his gaze still following you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet.

You barely made it three steps before you felt it—fingers curling around your wrist, firm but careful, like he wasn’t trying to stop you, just… slow you down.

"Hang on," Rooster murmured, his grip warm against your skin.

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t stop him, didn’t shake him off. He didn’t give you the chance to. With a gentle but insistent tug, he steered you through the crowd, slipping easily between groups of aviators and locals like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You knew where he was leading you before you even saw it.

The narrow hallway just past the bar—the one that led to the bathrooms, the back exit, the only quiet place in the Hard Deck that didn’t involve sneaking behind the counter with Penny’s disapproving glare burning into the back of your head.

The second you stepped into the dimly lit corridor, away from the noise, away from the others, Bradley let go of your wrist. But he didn’t step back. If anything, he was still too close, the faint scent of his cologne and the salt air clinging to his skin.

You crossed your arms, forcing yourself to level him with a look even as your pulse betrayed you. "Seriously, Bradshaw? The hallway?"

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, steady. "Seemed like the only way to get you to actually talk to me."

Your stomach flipped, but you forced a scoff, leaning back slightly against the wall. "Talk to you? About what?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his gaze flicker over your face like he was trying to figure something out, like he was debating how much to say. Then, finally, quietly—

"You’re different with me."

Your breath caught.

Bradley took a step closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your eyes on his. "You talk all that shit with Hangman. You joke with Bob, mess with Fanboy, keep up with Phoenix. But with me?" His head tilted, voice dipping lower. "You’re careful."

You swallowed hard, willing your expression to stay neutral. "You’re imagining things, Bradshaw."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No, I’m not." Another step, closing that last bit of space. "And I don’t think you are either."

Your back hit the wall. You hadn’t even realized you’d been inching away, hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten until there was nowhere else to go. But even now, even with the way his voice curled around your name, warm and teasing and just a little too soft, he didn’t touch you.

Didn’t have to.

Because the way he was looking at you—the way he always looked at you—was more than enough.

Rooster’s hands flexed at his sides, like he was physically holding himself back. Like if he didn’t, he’d reach for you without thinking. His jaw tightened, his breath uneven, and for the first time all night, he didn’t have a smirk, didn’t have a teasing remark locked and loaded.

"Tell me no," he murmured, voice rough, low, almost desperate. "Tell me to back off, and I will."

You should have. You knew you should have.

But you didn’t.

"Rooster, it's the alcohol talking."

His eyes searched yours, flickering between them, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "Snipes…" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was trying to pull himself together, but then his voice dropped even lower, nearly breaking—

"Please."

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering in your ears. Because he wasn’t just asking. He was begging. Begging for permission, for just a sign that he wasn’t crazy, that whatever this was—whatever had been burning between you for months—wasn’t just in his head.

And God help you, you wanted to give it to him.

"Bradshaw…"

His lips parted at the sound of his name, something flickering in his expression—hope, relief, hunger, you weren’t sure. But his hands stayed at his sides, fists clenching, because he was waiting. He was waiting for you.

"Tell me yes," he whispered. "Just once."

Your breath shuddered.

And then—

You did.

The word barely left your lips before Bradley moved.

Not rushed, not reckless, but like he’d been holding himself back for so damn long that the second you gave him permission, he couldn’t stop himself. His hands finally found you, one pressing firm and warm against your waist, the other cradling your jaw, fingers skimming your skin like he needed to memorize the way you felt beneath his touch.

And then—God—his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful. It was needy, desperate in a way that sent heat rushing through you, like he’d been dying of thirst and you were the only thing that could quench it. His lips moved against yours like he was making up for lost time, like he couldn’t get enough, like he was afraid if he let you go, you’d slip right through his fingers.

You fisted the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned—deep, low, the kind of sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His grip on your waist tightened, his body pressing flush against yours as he kissed you harder, deeper, like he needed to prove something. Like he needed you to feel how long he’d been waiting for this.

It was overwhelming and dizzying, and God, you should have stopped him. Should have pushed him away before this became something you couldn’t take back.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself drown in him, let yourself pretend—just for a second—that this was something you could have. That Bradley was something you could have.

And when he finally pulled back, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, his voice came out rough, almost wrecked.

"Tell me I’m not crazy," he whispered. "Tell me you want this too."

You swallowed hard, hands still curled into his shirt, your heart pounding against your ribs.

And when you finally answered, your voice was barely above a breath—

"I do."

Bradley kissed you like he was starving, like he’d been waiting years for this moment and now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go. His hands gripped your waist, your jaw, like he needed to feel you everywhere at once, like he was trying to make up for all the times he’d held back.

You were just as desperate, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you, just heat and pressure and the intoxicating taste of whiskey and beer on his lips.

But then—between kisses, between the ragged breaths you barely had time to take—he murmured against your mouth, "Why’d you join the Navy?"

You barely processed the question at first, not with the way his lips trailed along your jaw, not with the way his hands were tracing slow, burning lines down your sides. But then he pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded but curious. Like he needed to know.

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering against your ribs. Of all the moments, of all the things—he wanted to ask this now?

You smirked, tilting your chin just slightly, your hands still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. "I like dressing like the man."

Rooster froze for half a second, his brows lifting slightly—then he let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his forehead dropping against yours. "God, I knew I liked you," he murmured, voice husky, and before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours again, deeper, hungrier, like your answer had just sealed something in him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, "I do too."

And then he was kissing you again, harder this time, like he was proving a point, like he was making damn sure you’d never forget it because to you, he is the man.

[trickphotography2]

Rooster wasn't for you. You were opposites in so many ways - he was an extrovert to your introvert. The center of attention to your wallflower. You weren't interested in a one night stand, and he couldn't offer more. So his volunteering to help with Friendsgiving was just a friendly gesture after you returned from a deployment...right?

Word count: 7.8K

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“Just a minute!” you called, swiping a strand of hair from your face. The knocking stopped, and you quickly washed the flour from your hands, drying them on the towel thrown over your shoulder while heading to the door.

And there, standing on your front step as the sun started to rise, was Bradley. His normally styled curls were sleep-mussed, his grey t-shirt clinging to his arms and untucked from his Navy PT sweatpants. The smile on his face grew as he took you in - sweatpants, a baggy sweatshirt dotted with flour, fuzzy socks, and not a stitch of makeup. The difference from your normally put-together appearance was stark. “Morning, Duch.”

“You’re late.” Laughing, he held up a bag of microwavable frozen corn.

“Had to turn around when I forgot my contribution.” Rolling your eyes, you stepped back to let him in, watching to ensure he removed his shoes before following you into the kitchen.

“The turkey’s already thawed and in the sink. I just need you to clean it out, and I can take it from there.” Bradley nodded, tossing you the corn before going to the kitchen. You put it in the freezer and walked to the downstairs bathroom to wash your hands before resuming your spot at the counter, picking up your bread lame and staring at the unbaked loaf. A part of you wanted to do a simple score, knowing that it would just be eaten, but the hostess in you demanded a more intricate design. The indecision tore at you. To buy time, you sprinkled the top with more rice flour. 

“Can you get me the trashcan?” Bradley asked, and you nodded, quickly abandoning your project. After you set it beside him and pulled off the cover, he tossed the netting and plastic. You couldn’t help but notice his biceps flex as he shifted the turkey. But you shrunk back when he reached into the cavity and pulled out the giblets and gravy package, shaking your head at his raised eyebrow. He discarded them as you braced yourself, nose scrunching when he removed the neck. “You alright there, Duch?” he teased. 

“Gross.” 

“It’s just a turkey neck,” he said, holding it closer to you. You jumped back.

“I will throat punch you if you touch me with that.” He laughed, edging it closer, and you raised a fist. There was a reason a condition of you hosting everyone for Friendsgiving was someone else cleaning the turkey.

“Didn’t take you for being squeamish.” 

“You would be, too, if your grandpa chased you around the house with it when you were a kid, and you had to lock yourself in a bathroom to escape.” At his barked laugh, you shook your head. “I told that to my ex, and he thought it was funny to put it in his zipper and chase me around the house with it. If floppy dick isn’t attractive, a turkey neck sure as shit isn’t.” 

Bradley choked on a laugh. For as prim and proper as you were at times - hence the callsign Duchess - you sometimes reminded everyone that you also had a military sense of humor. “Maybe you just haven’t seen the right ‘floppy dick,’” he smirked, dropping the neck into the trash. 

Shrugging, you glanced away from him when the oven beeped, alerting that it was preheated. “You’re right. Bob probably has a pretty one.” A rosy flush crept up his cheeks as he turned back to the turkey and forced a laugh. Bradley didn’t want to hear that you were thinking about Bob’s dick. “Put it in this afterward, and I’ll dry it.” After dropping the roasting pan beside him, you rewashed your hands.

Standing in front of your bread, you bit your lip to keep from giggling as you contemplated scoring a dick into the dough but decided to go with a traditional wheat stalk. To your surprise, he grabbed the roll of paper towels by the sink and patted the turkey dry, even the cavity. As you removed the Dutch oven from the preheated oven, he tied up the trash bag and took it out. After putting the bread into the oven, you set the timer and moved to the sink, glancing at Bradley when he came back in. Standing beside you, he reached for the soap and lowered the water temperature before scrubbing his hands. Removing the hand towel from your shoulder, you draped it over his after drying your hands. “Thanks,” he murmured. 

“Thanks for taking care of the turkey.” Standing by the island, you crouched to retrieve a cutting board. The sound of other cabinets closing made you peek over the countertop to see him rooting through the overhead storage. “Are you looking for something?” 

“Coffee mugs.” Biting back a retort about making himself comfortable, you pointed to the right of the stove. You bit your tongue when he grabbed two mugs - including your favorite - and went to the wet bar where the full pot was finished brewing. Placing the cutting board on the counter, you grabbed a knife from the block and were surprised to see a mug of coffee beside your workstation. Murmuring your thanks, you grabbed the creamer from the fridge along with packages of herbs and butter. “What are you making?” Bradley asked.

“A marinade since I didn’t brine the turkey.” 

“You want a hand?” 

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically. “I’ve got a schedule.” He didn’t need to know that you were already behind after falling asleep on the couch early last night and forgetting to set your alarm. And he definitely didn’t need to know that you’d only been awake for 20 minutes before he arrived. If you put your head down and focused, everything would still be ready to eat at the agreed-upon 3:00 PM. Some of your time to get yourself ready would just have to be sacrificed. For some reason, you’d insisted that everyone dress nicely for Friendsgiving. Wearing a uniform almost every day didn’t give you any opportunities to dress up, and sometimes it felt nice to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt. 

Setting your tablet up, you navigated through the bookmarked recipes and rinsed the herbs before pulling them from the stems. Bradley leaned against the counter beside you and sipped his coffee while glancing around the kitchen. Seeing him relaxing there, one leg crossed over the other and looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, made something flutter in your chest. 

“You know, you could have saved a lot of time if you’d just agreed to let Hangman fry the turkey.”

That made you snort. “I just finished my renovations - the last thing I want is for my house to burn down.” It had taken months to get your home exactly how you wanted it. After twelve years in the Navy, you were ready to put down some roots, and buying a home had seemed like the smart thing to do. Living in a construction zone for the last year hadn’t been fun, but a well-timed deployment meant you weren’t there for the worst of it. The results were worth the pain, and you’d jumped at the chance to host when you got back and realized most of the squad had no plans for Thanksgiving. You couldn’t wait for them to see the changes in the Craftsman that had been a definite fixer-upper when you purchased it. The kitchen had been completely gutted and replaced with double ovens and quartz countertops, and the smaller kitchen island had been moved and changed to a wet bar with a wine fridge, replaced with an oversized one. The popcorn texture was scraped from the ceiling throughout the house, the floors redone, and the walls painted. The primary bath had been updated with a large soaker tub and walk-in shower, and you loved the giant closet. The guest bathrooms still needed work, as did the yard, but those were projects for later. 

“It looks good, Duch,” he said softly, gaze holding yours for a long moment. You felt those inconvenient butterflies again and shoved them aside, dropping your eyes to the cutting board. Bradley wasn’t for you. You were too different - he enjoyed nights out at the bar, while you liked to spend time at home. He liked being the center of attention while you preferred to blend into the background. Besides, he didn’t seem much like a relationship guy, given the number of flings he had at the Hard Deck, while the idea of casual dating gave you hives. Pushing away from the counter, Bradley reached under the sink for a trashbag, putting it into the can before washing his hands. He moved closer, nose twitching slightly at the scent of rosemary, and braced his big hands on the countertop beside you. “Alright, what can I do?” 

“You don’t - ”

“Lemme help.” His eyes met yours, smiling when you sighed. 

“Fine. The meat injector is in here,” you said, bumping one of the drawer handles with your hip. “And I’ll need the chicken stock from the pantry.” Pouring the stock, herbs, and a couple of sticks of butter into a stockpan, you handed Bradley a silicone spatula and told him to stir. You rolled your lips together to keep from smiling when he pulled his phone from his pocket and watched videos of turkey injections before declaring he would be in charge of it. Reluctantly, you agreed. Once the marinade had cooled, the bird was given a second drying, you had finished the coffee, and Bradley had rewatched the video three times, it was time. He studied the turkey through narrowed eyes as you tried not to laugh. “You want to - ”

“Ah!”

“The breast and thighs - ”

“I’m doing it, Duch,” he cut you off. 

“Well, remember that if it turns out dry.” The unimpressed look Bradley shot you made you grin as you put your chin in your hand and motioned for him to proceed. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips as he filled the injector and hovered the needle over the turkey. His eyes darted to you, and you raised an eyebrow. “You can tap out at any time, Rooster.” Instead of replying, he pierced the meat and pushed down on the plunger. You couldn’t help but laugh when he yelped, marinade spraying in his face after pushing too hard. But when he reached to wipe it away, you caught his hands. “Don’t put turkey germs all over your face,” you scoffed, towing him toward the sink. You held his chin while cleaning his face with wet paper towels. 

“Now you’re just messing with me,” he chuckled when you scrubbed his mustache, but he didn’t pull away. His breath was hot on your hand, and his smile soft when you reached up to dab away a speck of garlic in his eyebrow. Balling up the paper towel, you shook your head. 

“Wash your face with soap to make sure you don’t get salmonella. Cyclone’ll kill me if you’re out with food poisoning.” Turning on the water, you ensured it was warm before getting a clean washcloth. The oven timer beeped as you dug through the linen closet, and you hurried back into the kitchen, throwing the towel on the sink beside him and grabbing the pot holders to take out your bread. Once it was on the wire rack to cool, you moved to the turkey. 

“What’re you doing?” Bradley demanded, turning while drying his face. 

“Taking over.” You gasped when he closed the space between you in a few strides, wrapped his arm around your waist, and lifted you away from the counter. “Bradshaw! What the hell?”

“Told you I’m doing it,” he chuckled in your ear. Once back on your feet, you spun in his hold and stared at him. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his cocky smirk. 

“Fine, but if you waste more of my marinade, you’re out of my kitchen.”

“Deal.” 

Thankfully, there were no further incidents, but you kept a close eye on him while slicing up a loaf of bread you’d baked two days before and let go stale for stuffing. After covering the roasting tray with tin foil, the bird went back into the fridge to rest for a few hours. “Thanks, Rooster. I guess I’ll see you later?”

“What else can I do?” 

“You don’t - ” 

“I want to help. I haven’t…” his eyes dropped to the floor as he shrugged. “I never got to do this before. My mom and I would always go to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving before she died, and it always seemed kinda fun.” 

Everyone on the squad knew that Bradley’s parents had passed when he was young. He didn’t mention them often, but you noticed he’d get quiet sometimes when people talked about their families. So his volunteering the information felt important, and glancing at the clock showed that you were still behind schedule. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” he asked, excitement flashing in his eyes. 

“Don’t look so happy - you’re doing prep work. You can peel potatoes, assemble the veggie tray, and roast the garlic. I need to work on sides and desserts.” 

And he did. Bradley followed your instructions, grimacing while peeling potatoes over the trash can until you took out a plastic bag and put it in the sink for him to do it there. You kept an eye on him as he cut the spuds into uniform pieces after explaining that they wouldn’t cook evenly for the mashed potatoes, somewhat worried that he would cut himself. Rather than deal with the onions, you delegated the task and tried not to laugh at his near-constant sniffles and swipes at his watery eyes as you diced peppers. Once you dug out the hand-me-down crystal platters, he arranged the veggies you’d prepped the night before while making pies. Dips were mixed, and cans of olives and bottles of pickles were opened and drained before being plated.

Other than bumping into one another when going for the fridge at the same time, it wasn’t too bad sharing the kitchen. The coffee pot was quickly emptied, and Bradley brewed another between shredding blocks of cheese. You sang along with your playlists, his deep voice joining on a few songs while teasing you about others. When you sang about karma being a kink, he watched your hips sway at the sink, clenching his jaw when you sang a breathy ‘oh god.’ 

He slid the roasting tray into the oven when the turkey was rested and ready to cook. “Now what?” he asked, turning to look at you. 

“Now we keep an eye on it for about four hours. Baste and re-inject it every hour or so,” you shrugged. A glance at his watch showed it would be almost 2:00 PM by the time it was ready. As though realizing it would still be hours before eating, his stomach grumbled its discontent. He blushed when you smirked. “I guess the least I can do is make my sous chef breakfast. Get the muffins and butter from the fridge for me.”  

“Did you make these?” he asked, setting the containers beside you as you heated a skillet on the stove.

“I did - family tradition is grilled muffins on Thanksgiving morning. You okay with blueberry?” At his nod, you started slicing muffins in half. Rather than giving you space, Bradley stayed at your elbow. A comfortable silence fell, broken only by sizzling butter. His gaze met yours when you glanced up at him, and a smile tugged at his mouth. 

An image of reaching up to bury your fingers in his messy curls and tugging his mouth down to meet yours flashed through your mind. Your fingers twitched with the urge to do it, eyes drifting to his mouth and lingering there for a moment too long. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you forced yourself to look away, heat creeping into your face. 

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he reached up to shift a strand of hair that had fallen from your messy bun. “I’m glad you're back, Duch,” he said, voice slightly raspy. 

Forcing a laugh, you plated two muffins and handed them to him. “Everyone misses the mom friend of the group when she’s deployed.” Your eyes darted to his stomach when it growled again, just in time to see the front of his sweats twitch. Pretending you didn’t see it, you nodded to the living room. “The parade is recording if you want to watch it.” 

Bradley opened his mouth as though he would say something before taking the apparent dismissal. Alone in the kitchen, you touched your cheek and felt warm skin. With a deep breath, you grilled yourself a muffin as the sound of the broadcasters came from the living room. After topping up your coffee, you joined him. He sprawled on one end of the couch, plate balanced on a thigh as he sipped his coffee. Sitting on the opposite side, you crossed your legs and let out a soft groan. Only a couple of hours standing in the kitchen and your back was already starting to protest. “What else do you have to do this morning?” he asked after a moment.

Mentally running through your list, you sighed. “I need to do some cleaning and get into the attic. I’ll start cooking a bit closer to noon, so things just have to be warmed up.”

“What do you need from the attic?” 

“My nice china. My parents bought my sister and I sets for our hope chests when we were kids.”

“What’s a hope chest?”

“You know, stuff you’d need once you get married?” When his eyebrows shot up, you shrugged. “They weren’t really serious about it - it was more of a joke. But, every once in a while, they’d buy something for us and put it away for when we were older and say it was for our hope chest.” Taking a bite of muffin, you gave him a sad smile, “Mine’s more of a ‘hopeless’ chest,’ though. I guess they finally gave up on me getting married because they gave it to me when they sold their house and moved closer to the grandkids. I figured I’d get it out and use it instead of having it sit in the cardboard boxes it’s been in for over two decades.” Something passed over Bradley’s face but disappeared in an instant. Wanting to change the subject, you asked, “What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing. It’s just another Thursday.” When you frowned, he lifted a shoulder. “A couple of times, I went to the Officer’s Club, or someone would invite me over. But most of the time, I just make myself a turkey sandwich and catch up on sleep. What about you?”

“If I’m not with my family, then this. When I first commissioned, I went to the O-Club with some friends but missed cooking and hanging out. And you know how hard it is to go home for the holidays.” He nodded even though he didn’t. Bradley never asked for the time off unless he was dating someone who insisted on it. With no family to visit, he was happy to volunteer when there was reduced manning and allow others to take leave. “So I invited a couple of people from my squad over, and that was that.” 

“It’s a lot of work.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s worth it.” Bradley’s fingers curled around his plate and in his sweatpants, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. When he shifted forward, you quickly stood and reached out your hand for his empty plate. “Do you want another one?” Shaking his head, he stood and took your plate. 

“Do you?” Swallowing hard, you shook your head and watched him walk back into the kitchen. Biting back a groan, you gave yourself a moment to collect yourself. Things had been…different… since you’d gotten home. And as much as you enjoyed these quiet moments alone with Bradley, it also stung. You’d thought the time away would help, but as soon as you were back, it was like no time had passed. He was still there, partnering for foosball in the Ready Room and coaxing you to go to the Hard Deck. Making sure that you sat next to him in briefings. Offering to look at your car when it made a noise.

Friends. That’s what friends do for each other. After all, he did the same for Nat. 

Collecting the empty coffee mugs, you followed him to the kitchen and watched as Bradley cleaned up the mess and set it in the sink. “Don’t feel like you have to stick around, Rooster. I can handle getting everything ready.” 

“I’m happy to help if you want me here. I’d just sit at my house watching TV and wait to come back if I went home.” 

Chewing the inside of your lip, you bit back a wave of want. “Don’t think this gets you out of the dress code,” you replied, forcing your voice to be cool while allowing your eyes to run the length of him. “I’m serious - slacks and button-downs, not sweats.” 

Laughing, he snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure I run home and change to pass your inspection.” 

The rest of the morning was a blur, punctuated by moments of stark clarity. 

Bradley’s hands on your waist as you climbed down the attic stairs. 

Biceps flexing as he carried your Christmas tree to a spare bedroom to set up tomorrow.

His elbow bumping yours as he dried the china and set it aside.  

The look of concentration on his face when he basted and injected the turkey again.

His body passing close to yours as he emptied the dishwasher and you assembled dishes.

Just after noon, he went home to get ready while you showered. People were due to arrive around 1:30 PM, and you were back on schedule with your unexpected assistant. 

Sooner than you expected, there was a knock at the door. Groaning, you capped your mascara, shimmied into your black sheath cocktail dress, and went to answer it. Bradley stood on the porch, having changed into a pair of slacks and one of his nicer Hawaiian shirts, hands in his pockets. Folded over his arm was a coat, and he grinned at you when he caught you looking at it. “Wasn’t sure if I would pass inspection without a sports coat,” he chuckled, allowing his gaze to rake over you. A flush rose on your cheeks as you reached behind yourself to pull up the dress zipper. It caught just above the top of your thong.  “You look… you’re fine.” Chuckling, he shook his head. 

“Turn around, Duch.” After a beat, you stepped back to allow him inside and did as he said.

“There’s a hook and eye at the top,” you said and inhaled sharply when you felt his fingers brush the back of your neck. The smell of his cologne enveloped you, and you bit back a moan when his hand moved to your lower back and tugged the zipper up. After a beat, you turned to face him and were surprised by how close he was. His mouth curved into a smile as he looked down at you, hand resting on your waist. 

“You look fine, too,” he said softly. Your hands itched to move to his chest. Bradley’s eyes drifted to your lips, and your breath caught as his fingers flexed around you. If asked, you would have sworn you felt the lightest pressure pulling you closer - but then someone knocked on the door. Stepping out of his hold, you smoothed your hair down and ignored the brief moment his hands hung in suspension before being shoved back into his pockets. 

“I came early to see if you needed a hand,” Phoenix said when you opened the door. In her hands was a tray, and she’d also chosen a cocktail dress for the occasion. Her normally tied-back hair was loose around her shoulders. 

“Hey,” you smiled, hoping that you weren’t blushing. Nat’s eyes shifted over your shoulders and narrowed slightly. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Same as you - seeing of Duch needed help.”

“He’s been here all morning,” you blurted out, flushing when both sets of eyes landed on you. “He’s taking care of the turkey.” 

“The guy who hates cooking is in charge of the main dish?” Nat smirked. “Probably would have been better letting Hangman fry it.”

“He’s being supervised,” you assured, glancing over your shoulder to see him rolling his eyes. Stepping back to let Nat into the house, you accidentally bumped into Bradley, who held your hips to steady you. Quickly moving away from his touch, you took the tray from her and motioned for them to follow you into the kitchen. “I haven’t had a chance to put any drinks out, but there’s some coffee left and wine chilling. I still need to make the cocktails, but there’s also soda and flavored water.” The two followed you, exchanging a look that you missed.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bradley tossed his coat onto the wet bar and moved to the oven, flipping on the light to check the turkey before glancing at his watch. “I need to do the last basting, right?” 

“It’s about that time,” you agreed, glancing at the clock. Digging through a drawer, you pulled out an apron and put it on, crossing the strings behind your back before tying them in a bow across your stomach. You thought you heard a murmured ‘Jesus Christ’ when you turned around to see him holding the pot holders. 

You could feel Nat watching as you worked together to remove the turkey and then return it to the oven, popping olives into her mouth and smirking. “Looks like you guys have it down,” she said. “Don’t need my help at all.”

“Nope,” Bradley said, drowning out your, “You can feel free to relax.” 

“Might as well do something since I’m here,” she shrugged, pushing off her elbows. “What can I do?” 

And so, with a third set of hands, you set them to making large batches of seasonal cocktails while you cut the bread you’d made that morning, covering it with slices of brie and dried cranberries before drizzling it with honey. A quick scroll through your schedule gave you the times to start cooking, and you preheated the second oven.

The house slowly filled as more of the squad arrived. Countertops were quickly covered with their contributions - thankfully, more than beer and wine, and only a few sides repeated -  and you mentally shifted your schedule to accommodate the additional dishes.

Mav, Penny, and Amelia were the last to arrive, with her new bartender, Georgia, in tow. Penny had asked you if she could invite her, given that the woman was new to the area and didn’t have anywhere else to spend the holiday. You’d replied with, “The more, the merrier,” just like you had for everyone else’s requests to bring a guest. 

But you regretted that sentiment when you saw how she zeroed in on Bradley, staying close to him while you worked in the kitchen. The few times you broke away to mingle - showing off your renovated home, making sure that everyone’s glasses were topped off and that they didn’t need anything - you saw her hanging off his arm, giving him a simpering smile that set your teeth on edge. And, while she’d adhered to the dress code, you weren’t exactly thrilled to see that her breasts were nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress. 

“You need anything, Duchess?” Payback asked, setting down the pitcher of spiced ginger pear and bourbon. 

“I’m good,” you replied, wiping your hands on the dish rag thrown over your shoulder and blowing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Turkey should be done in a few minutes; once it rests, we can eat.” 

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, glancing over at your full house. Aviators were sprawled across your living room and spilled out into the backyard. It was exactly what you’d hoped for when redesigning the house - plenty of space to comfortably entertain. 

“I’m happy to, Payback,” you smiled, allowing him to pull you in for a hug. “Beats having a quiet house for the holidays.” 

“Want me to get the turkey out for you?” 

“I’ve got it covered,” a voice said behind you, and you couldn’t help but wonder about Bradley's slightly sharp tone as you pulled away from the hug. 

“Got it,” Payback replied, raising an eyebrow and lifting his hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Duch.” Squaring your shoulders, you turned to face the man behind you and forced a smile. 

“I’ll clear off a spot on the stove for you to put the pan, and then we’ll let it sit for half an hour.” 

“Then it’ll be done?”

“Then you’ll have officially made your first turkey,” you nodded. When the timer went off, Bradley quickly pulled the bird from the oven and set it on the stove, closely inspecting his work. 

“Does it look right?”

“Yes, relax.”

“Did you make it?” a smokey voice asked, and you felt your shoulders rise. Glancing at Georgia, you saw Bradley’s eyes dart between you.

“He did,” you answered, smiling at the woman. 

“I just followed her directions,” he replied. 

“It looks great!” Georgia giggled. Forcing a smile, you undid the apron strings and pulled it off before excusing yourself. You could feel eyes on you as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom and shut the door, retreating to your en suite.

After washing your hands for the millionth time, you quickly applied lotion while examining your appearance in the mirror. Compared to Georgia, you looked matronly with your hair pulled back and a higher neckline. Sure, your dress was classy - somewhat tight and falling just above your knees - but not attention-grabbing. 

Not that you were trying to grab anyone’s attention.

A knock on your bedroom door startled you, and you peeked out to call, “Who is it?”

“Rooster.” Glancing back in the mirror, you saw your cheeks were slightly pink and scowled at your reflection.

“Get it together,” you hissed before turning off the light and going to open the door. And there he was, smiling down at you.

“Your phone was going off,” he said, holding up your cell. When your eyes flitted toward it, the device unlocked to show your family group chat was going off. Taking it from him, you swiped up to see videos and pictures. A smile crept onto your mouth as you clicked the first and heard your older sister’s voice.

“Guess what?” she said before tossing a card down and throwing her hands up. Cheers and laughs broke out, and you could hear your nephew complaining as your grandmother said, “Looks like Mom won!”

The camera panned to show your other nephew licking whipped cream off his pie, utterly unfazed by the family now pounding on the table in a drumroll. Catching Bradley’s interested expression, you moved so he could see the screen. Scrolling through the other videos, you watched your mom roll down a hill with the boys and your dad holding a glass of wine with your brother-in-law. The sight made your heart clench, and you sighed. Being away from family on the holidays was the worst. Thankfully, they all understood that your job didn’t always give you the flexibility to be with them.

“Looks like a fun group.”

“They are. I’m glad I get to spend Christmas with them.” He nodded, a flicker of sadness and something else in his eyes. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Mav’s already told me I’m spending it with him and Penny.”

“Sounds like fun.” You knew a complicated dynamic existed there but didn’t want to pry. His shoulder lifted, eyes drifting to your now dark phone. And that’s when you recognized the look on his face - longing. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” When he saw your unconvinced expression, he sighed. “Holidays kind of suck when you don’t have family.” 

“I’m sorry, Bradley.” Something in his expression changed when you said his name and reached out to touch his arm. His eyes darted from your hand to your face, and you quickly pulled away. But he was faster, catching your fingers and holding tightly. Your breath caught with the intensity of his gaze, and he stepped into your room. His breath was warm on your face when you refused to retreat. Lifting your chin, you saw his throat bob when he swallowed.  

“Hey, there’s a timer going off,” Bob called down the hall. 

“Be right there,” you yelled back, pushing lightly against Bradley’s chest and forcing space between you. But when you tried to shake off his hand, he held fast. “I need to go, or something will burn,” you breathed. Reluctantly, he nodded and released you. 

You’d already removed the green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese from the oven when Bradley reappeared. Unsurprisingly, Georgia glued herself to his side as he sipped his drink. Though you could feel him looking at you, you refused to meet his gaze. 

When everything was ready, you looked over your kitchen and nodded approvingly. When the guys offered to carve the turkey, you turned them all down and delegated that task to Bradley.  “He earned it,” you said, glancing at him before busying yourself with opening another bottle of wine. With Coyote and Fanboy at his elbows critiquing his cuts, you steered clear of that part of the kitchen and chatted with Penny while pulling out silverware. 

Hangman refused to let you go around the room and tell people that food was ready, instead pulling out a chair and helping you stand on it before whistling loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Dinner’s served!” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder, his arm around your hips to keep you steady. “Thank you for bringing something, and please help yourself. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone - I’m glad I get to spend it with you.” Lifting your wine glass, you took a quick sip and laughed when Hangman lifted you off the chair to set you back on the floor. 

Choosing to wait until your guests had a plate, you leaned against the wet bar and smiled tiredly, watching your hard work be devoured. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone at the table, so the group spread into the living room. You took a few pictures and sent them to your family. 

Someone stepped in front of you, pulling your attention from your phone. “You’re not gonna eat?” Bradley asked. 

“Just waiting for the line to clear,” you replied, forcing a nonchalant tone. The corner of his mouth twitched as he shook his head. 

“Come on, Duch.” His fingers curled around yours, drawing you from the counter and into the line. Grabbing one of the smaller salad plates, you let him push you in front of him, taking small amounts of almost every dish while he served himself larger portions. After topping up your wine, you walked to the living room and felt him behind you, ignoring Georgia's attempt to get his attention. He motioned for you to take the last spot on the couch and sat on the floor. “Jesus,” he moaned after taking the first bite of turkey.

“Mmmm,” you agreed. “You did a good job.”

“Who would have thought the guy who made the barracks evacuate after he burned ramen would make a good turkey,” Nat smirked. Bradley flipped her off, unable to keep the proud grin off his face. 

Dessert was eaten, and the last bottle of wine finished before 7:00 PM. The house felt quiet as it slowly emptied, and you hugged everyone goodbye. Already, tentative plans for a Christmas party formed even as you fought off a yawn. After assuring Penny that you were fine cleaning up, she left with Mav and Amelia in tow. 

Which left only Bradley. 

The sound of running water drew you back into the kitchen, and you paused in the doorway at the sight of him rinsing silverware and loading the dishwasher, a hand towel thrown over his shoulder. “I can take care of that,” you said quickly. Bradley glanced at you and shook his head.

“Relax, I’ve got it. Can the plates go in here, or do they need to be hand-washed?”

“They can go in there.” Ignoring the order, you walked around the house, picked up empty glasses and forgotten dishes, and set them by the sink. Donning your apron, you surveyed the leftovers, “Did you want any of this?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a plate.” Nodding, you started to put the food away. Thankfully, there wasn’t a lot left. Everyone had been happy to take leftovers, and you were glad you’d had the forethought to buy containers for them to keep. 

The silence was comfortable, and you were stifling yawns with the back of your hand. Between the turkey, wine, and lack of sleep the night before, you were ready to change back into comfy clothes and pass out. Without prompting, Bradley started to cut up what was left of the turkey, placing some in the containers you’d portioned for him before putting the rest in the fridge. You started the dishwasher when it was full and wiped down counters. After tossing the rest of the turkey, he took the trash out.

When the door swung shut, you took the opportunity to stretch, moaning when your back popped before bending at the waist and letting your arms dangle. As much as you enjoyed hosting, your body took a beating, being on your feet all day. You would definitely need to invest in some mats to make the kitchen floor more comfortable before your next full day of cooking. 

Even when the door opened, you felt too good stretching to stand up straight. You heard Bradley chuckle and then the sound of water running, followed by the snap of a trashbag being shaken out. Finally, you stood and threw out a hand to steady yourself when the world spun. Hands wrapped around your hips and drew you closer. “You okay, honey?” 

The term of endearment caught you off-guard and had clearly slipped out by the flush on Bradley’s cheeks. “Honey?” you echoed, quirking a brow.

“Duchess,” he corrected. 

“Rooster.” Your hands rested on his forearms, feeling the muscles flex as his fingers clenched around your hips. Taking a deep breath, you felt your chest brush his. His lips quirked into a wry smile. “What?” 

“Just waiting for something to interrupt.” At your questioning look, he chuckled. “Been trying to kiss you all day, and something always gets in the way.” 

“What?” you breathed, shock written across your face. 

“Been thinkin’ about kissing you since that night at the Hard Deck, actually.” 

“T-the Hard Deck?”

“Yup. Before you deployed.” Heat rushed to your face at the memory - or lack thereof - of your going away party. There had been one too many shots, and you had a vague recollection of Bradley driving the Bronco. Of him telling you not to throw up while he helped Nat into her apartment before taking you home. Half carrying you to bed and making sure you had water and medicine - warm hands on your face and a raspy laugh.  

“When I was drunk?”

“When you told me you liked me.” Mortified, you felt a sudden flush of heat and tried to pull away, but he held firm. “But that you didn’t think I was a relationship guy.” 

“Roo - ”

“I am. A relationship guy,” he clarified, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “For the right woman.” Your mouth was dry, unable to force out a single word. “I was gonna say something before you left, but you avoided me. And then you were gone for three months.”

“I… you messaged me.” 

“Wasn’t exactly something I wanted to say over email,” Bradley chuckled. “I like you too.” 

“What about Georgia?”

That drew him up short, and a confused look crossed his face. “The bartender?” 

“Yeah. She… I mean, she’s clearly interested. And more your type.” Groaning, he leaned down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Honey, I’m not interested in her. And she’s not… ask Nat. She’s been on my case about my” - he lifted a hand to make air quotes - “‘hoe phase’ since I got out here.” That drew a snort from you, and Bradley pulled away to smile at you bashfully. “Gimme a chance, Duch.” 

Hesitating a moment, you took another deep breath and gave the butterflies in your stomach free rein. Hands shaking, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded, unable to keep from matching his smile. 

Moving slowly, as though afraid to spook you, Bradley leaned down and brushed his nose to yours. “As much as this is doin’ things for me,” he said softly, pulling at the apron strings tied at your stomach, “I think we’re done in the kitchen tonight.” Biting your lip, you could only nod, leaning away as he tugged it over your head, balled the apron up, and tossed it behind you. With his hands back on your hips, he walked you backward and lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your knees. “This alright?” 

“Yeah,” you whispered, allowing yourself to reach out and run a hand through his curls. Bradley's eyes closed when you lightly scratched his scalp, and he swayed closer. His breath ghosted over your lips and - 

“Fucking Christ,” he groaned when his phone started to buzz. You jumped, feeling the vibration against your shin, and laughed as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck. Your breath caught, feeling his lips on your throat. When he reached into his pocket and scowled down at the screen, you saw Nat’s name before he sent the call to voicemail. 

Leaving the phone on the counter, he smirked and guided your legs around his waist as your arms went around his neck. His hands cupped your ass as he lifted you. In the doorway to the kitchen, he paused long enough for you to slap the walls until the lights turned off before walking toward the couch and lowering himself onto it. Your knees dug into the cushion on either side of him, forcing the hem of your dress higher. 

From this angle, he had to look up at you. Hands migrated from your ass to thighs, callouses lightly scraping and fingertips darting under the fabric to trace shapes on your skin and drag the hem higher. Lightly, you ran your thumb along the scars on his chin before ghosting over the ones on his cheek that had always intrigued you. A moan rumbled from his throat as he followed your touch, mustache tickling the delicate skin of your wrist. Blushing, you wondered how it would feel on your inner thighs. He chuckled, kissing your cheek, “What’re you thinking that’s got you red?” 

Rather than answer, you turned and kissed him - just a light brush of your lips against his that seemed to catch him off-guard. You stared at one another for a long moment until he guided you closer. His mustache prickled, not unpleasantly but different, when he kissed you again. It was sweet and unhurried, a direct contradiction to the hardness you felt straining against his zipper. 

Pulling away, you smiled tentatively down at him, seeing the remnants of your lipstick on his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and you leaned forward to press your lips to them. “Hi,” you said softly.

“Hey.” 

“You like me?” 

“Yeah. You like me?” 

Rather than reply, you captured his lips again. “Drunk words,” you said between kisses, “are sober thoughts.” He barked a laugh before tugging you closer and licking into your mouth. 

“Shoulda said something earlier,” he chided, gripping your ass tightly. “Coulda been doing this for a long time.” 

“Blame the tequila.” The word came out as a moan when he trailed kisses down your neck, and you felt him smile. 

“Thank god for tequila,” he mumbled, nuzzling your breasts and making you grind down on him. Bradley caught your hands when your fingers trailed down his chest to tug at his shirt. “Nuh-uh, honey. Gonna take you on a couple of dates before we get to that.”

“What?” 

“No more ‘hoe phase.’” 

“Maybe just one more night?” That made him laugh again as he shook his head.

“No, Duch. Wanna do this right with you.” 

“I’ve heard the stories. I know you would.” When you rocked against him, he pinned your hand at your lower back and stilled you with a hand on your hip. He growled your name and smirked when your thighs clenched.

“Liked that, huh?” he teased. “Ms. Prim and Proper Duchess likes to be bossed around?” Heat flooded your face, and he chuckled again. Without warning, he stood, and you squeaked, trying to keep from falling. But he held you steady and set you on your feet, towering over you. “Can I stay over?” You didn’t hesitate in nodding, and his kiss was rough before he pulled away and swatted your ass. “Go get ready for bed while I lock up.” 

When you emerged from the bathroom, face cleaned and in your panties and a tank top, Bradley was lying in the middle of your bed in just his boxers. Groaning, he looked at you and shook his head. “Where are those sweats from this morning?” 

“You want me to wear sweats to bed?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow. His hand drifted down to his hard cock, squeezing lightly. “You’ve seen me in less at the beach.”

“Trying to do this right, honey.” Rolling your eyes, you walked to your dresser and pulled on sweatpants before digging out a pair of fuzzy socks. He laughed when you tossed them at his head, setting them aside as you circled the bed to lie beside him. Quickly, he pinned you beneath him, settling in the cradle of your thighs. As he licked into your mouth, you felt his hips rolling against yours. “Still too damn sexy,” he murmured against your lips. 

“Housewife lingerie does it for you?” you teased, running your hands through his hair. Rather than answer, he looped an arm under your knee and drew it up, allowing you to feel him better. “Fuck.”

“Not tonight.” 

And, unfortunately, he was true to his word. Anytime your hands strayed to his boxers, he pinned them over your head, seemingly content to tease and kiss all night. 

Eventually, though, you could no longer keep from yawning. After setting his alarm - Bradley was on duty in the morning while you’d taken the day off - he tucked you against him, your back to his chest. His cock pressed against your ass as he kissed your shoulder, hand slipping under your shirt to brush the underside of your breast. Sighing, he murmered, “Best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.” 

You couldn’t help but agree.

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

Author's Note: Do I think that Bradley has a raging domesticity kink? Possibly.

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[romerona]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part II

You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.

Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.

But instead, you got up.

Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.

You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”

Great.

You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."

You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.

“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.

You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.

The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”

No. Never.

“...Sure.”

The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”

There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.

Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.

“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”

“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.

The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.

Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.

“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”

Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.

Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.

Forty seconds.

The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.

Thirty-five.

The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.

Too late.

“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”

Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.

The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.

Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.

You wanted to disappear into the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.

“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”

Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”

“I know.”

“And you failed.”

You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.

“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”

You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.

“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.

“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”

Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.

“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”

Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.

As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.

Of course. Of course, it was him.

The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.

His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.

You froze. He straightened.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.

“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.

His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”

You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.

You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”

You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”

He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.

He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”

Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.

“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”

God. No.

Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?

His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.

“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”

He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.

“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.

He noticed.

“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”

You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”

He looked at you then, long and quiet.

“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”

You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.

He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”

You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”

He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.

“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”

His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”

You blinked. “Rooster?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”

You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.

His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.

Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.

“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"

You didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.

You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.

Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.

“But you will.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.

Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”

Days went faster than you were ready for.

You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.

You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.

But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.

It was a new pilot.

She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.

“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.

You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”

“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”

You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.

“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”

You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.

“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”

Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”

She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.

“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.

You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”

She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”

You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.

She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”

Something in your chest loosened at that.

Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.

“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”

Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”

Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.

Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.

You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.

“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.

You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”

“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”

You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”

The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”

The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.

You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.

Your eyes flicked to the screen.

The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00

“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."

The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."

You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”

“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”

You smiled—barely—but it helped.

The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.

“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”

You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.

Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.

“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”

You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.

3… 2… 1…

Deployment successful.

The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.

“Target received,” the system confirmed.

You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”

“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”

You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.

“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.

And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.

You’d finally made it through.

Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.

You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.

“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”

You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”

She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”

Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.

Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”

“Yours or mine?”

She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.

By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.

Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.

There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.

Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.

When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.

By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”

Progress.

“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.

“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”

You stared for a beat too long, processing.

The Hard Deck.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.

“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”

You hesitated.

She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?

Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”

Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.

Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.

You hesitated. “What now?”

She didn’t stop walking.

“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”

You blinked. “That specific, huh?”

Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”

And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.

Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.

A/N:

Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.

And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.

Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.

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[vamplvs]

I WANT SOMEONE BADLY

INCLUDES -> bradley "rooster" bradshaw x fem!reader WARNINGS -> jealousy, pining, alcohol, bradley is an idiot (lovingly) WORD COUNT -> 4.7k SUMMARY -> bradley has long since been the designated performer for the daggers, and that's no different when he's jealous, pining, and well past tipsy.

NOTES -> i've been sitting on this for so long but here she finally is <3 it's a little corny, and a little trope-y, but i had a blast writing it. the songs are "layla" by derek & the dominos and "i want someone badly" by jeff buckley! originally the first song was going to be "slow hand" by the pointer sisters if anyone wants to give that one a listen, too. as always: comments & rbs are much appreciated, and my asks are open!

it's been a year now since the mission from hell, and everyone is scattered across the continent. hangman and coyote are stationed out in the midwest, bob and phoenix are in south carolina, and everyone else has found a new crew.

you and bradley have been lucky enough to stay stationed in san diego. bradley, of course, is still flying with the navy, while you spend your days teaching at top gun. safe to say, the two of you have stayed close between the occasional movie night, brunches with mav, and beach days—when you have a day off anyways. when you don't, bradley finds a way to visit you at top gun despite it.

it isn't easy to coordinate yearly leave among the rest of the crew, but when they finally manage it during the dead of summer, the hard deck is already full of life. people crowd around the bar and the tables, chatting and laughing over the music.

bradley catches the wide grins on mav and penny's faces when they see the daggers walking in, ready to wreak havoc. their smiles only grow wider when the group pulls mav into a group hug, bradley leading the charge.

it's the first time in a long time that they're all in the same place at the same time, and hell if it isn't making people nostalgic. there's some classic rock song from mav's old piloting days ringing through the jukebox. hangman has, predictably, started up a betting pool around the billiards table, dragging mickey, javy, and a reluctant bob with him. the others hover in their own circles, leaving you, natasha, and bradley to catch up at one of the high tops.

it's been exciting talking to her again after so many months have passed. she and bob have been stationed out in south carolina, and it comes with story after story about the antics that the two of them get up to—well, more like the ones natasha pulls bob into.

by the time you decide to get more drinks for the three of you, your stomach is aching from laughter.

bradley just watches as you wander up to the bar. he takes in the sway of your hips, your easy confidence, all of it.

"still haven't done anything about that, then?" natasha asks, leveling a deeply accusatory look at him.

"about what?"

"rooster, you can't be serious." when he looks at her incredulously, she bursts into laughter. "oh, come on, you two have been dancing around each other for a year now! we all see it."

his ears go pink. "that's not-"

"oh, don't you deny it. i have eyes."

"i am serious!" bradley is sure you have no interest. it's been a year—more than that if you include your time at top gun together and a few sparse meetings between that and the big reunion last year—and he's been quietly pining all the while. if there was even a chance with you, he would have taken it by now.

"whatever you say," she replies, her head turning to you.

and when bradley follows suit, he sees you standing all-too close to a man at the bar. he's tall, classically handsome—all in all, the kind of guy you'd expect to see in a rom-com—and he stands so close that his arm is nearly brushing yours. you laugh and smile at something he says, and the hand he puts on your arm sends a chill through bradley. it sinks like a pit in his stomach, churning through the several beers he's had and their subsequent buzz.

the chill turns into a sickening haze when he sees the man pass you a napkin that surely has his number on it.

"told you so," bradley mutters, turning away to face the game of eight-ball that jake is still running. the clattering of the balls and the cheers are more than enough to drown out the pulse roaring in his ears.

he entirely misses your polite rejection, the way you nod your head back to the team, and the hop in your step when you finally turn to bring the drinks back.

"ugh, sorry i took so long. poor penny is still teaching mav to make cocktails," you say with a laugh when you return. you hand them their beers with little ceremony, before following bradley's eye line. "bagman still running the betting pool?"

"you know it," bradley replies, keeping his eyes locked ahead of him. the thought of seeing that man's number in your hand makes his palms sweat.

"you'd think he'd learn that bob kicks his ass every time." that makes bradley and natasha laugh. "his entire job is aiming a laser at a tiny pinprick, pool is no big deal."

"and yet, he insists on betting against him," nat sighs.

the night continues with more drinks, more pool, and more stories from their deployments. jake tells some story about his greatest exploits—which javy quickly interrupts by informing the entire team just how spectacularly jake fumbled only a week later. the team laughs, and it's back to business as usual.

eventually, javy and jake push bradley to the piano, insisting he play something good—citing the first time they were all at the hard deck together. nostalgia is one hell of a drug after a few beers. he warms up, hammering down a few notes and a glissando into an opening chord.

the bar's attention is caught on him and the piano. a handful of older couples immediately recognize the song, standing to dance—which would include penny and mav if they weren't manning the bar. but they sway to the song, mav against penny's back with his arms around her waist. he whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh.

"what'll you do when you get lonely and nobody's waiting by your side?"

your eyes are stuck on bradley, too. his glasses sit comfortably on the end of his nose, his standard patterned button up is open, and he bleeds a confidence so easy that it's impossible to take your eyes off him. he looks good doing what he loves, and he knows it. and maybe there's some self-satisfied part of him deep down that's pleased to see how he's stolen you're attention.

"you've been running and hiding much too long you know it's just your foolish pride."

as he ramps up to the chorus, the bar is ready to sing along with him. "layla," they all cheer, you included.

"you've got me on my knees"

his eyes drift over to yours for just a fraction of a second, his wide grin splitting even wider before he flits his gaze away to where natasha, bob, and mickey are all shouting the lyrics. well, natasha and mickey shout the lyrics at bob, while he sort of mumbles them quietly, embarrassed by the attention.

it's only a few minutes of bradley performing, but with the pressure of your eyes on him, it feels like an eternity. he's not sure he's ever been more aware of who he's looking at when he sings. there's a woman who has sidled up to the piano, singing every lyric with tequila on her breath, and it takes everything in him not to roll his eyes at her and find yours in the crowd.

he finishes the song with one final, dramatic chord, and the bar erupts into cheers. his eyes lock onto yours and you tip your drink toward him like a salute, whooping along with the rest of the bar. you gesture to the space next to him with a raised brow, and he turns to see the same woman from before leaning against the piano with a nearly empty cocktail glass in her hand.

she introduces herself, but bradley's mind is elsewhere. his eyes scan the space you were just in to find you gone. were you really playing wingman just now? the woman is saying something about his hands, but bradley can't care less, not with your apparent disappearing act. he excuses himself politely, ignoring her pout and the way her friends urge her to find another guy to hit on.

people are packed tightly around him, patting him on the back and clapping for him. he smiles politely in return. the longer he searches for you the more concerned he gets. you aren't by the bar or with the rest of the team by the pool table. hell, he doesn't even find you by the jukebox despite the ever changing cycle of music it goes through.

when he finally takes a step outside, he sees you sitting at the stairs leading down to the beach. it's a lot quieter outside, with the chaos and noise of the hard deck trapped within its walls. you're mindlessly twirling your drink in your glass.

"nice playing in there," you say with a glance over your shoulder.

"thanks," he says simply, taking a seat next to you. his glasses hang from the neckline of his old, white tank. the silence between you is thick, and right when he's going to break it by saying something that'll probably be stupid, you interrupt.

"no luck with that girl?" bradley is taken aback.

"what?" your eyes stay focused on the beach in front of you. the crash of every wave is steady and familiar.

"she spent the entire song singing at you, rooster," you tap your shoulder against his in what's supposed to be a playful gesture, but it falls flat.

"oh, yeah," he responds dumbly, "dunno, she's not really my type." he nearly winces as he hears himself say it.

you fall silent again, and bradley joins you in it. it's not uncomfortable, necessarily, but it's heavy. there's so much more he wants to say. that she's not his type because you are, because he's spent a year looking into your eyes, laughing at your jokes, going warm when your hands touch him. that he's spent a year wishing he could say something to you without messing what you have up.

it took ages for you two to get to where you are with the easy banter and the quiet movie nights. the two of you have spent long enough laughing about your almost-rivalry back in your top gun days that he knows you care about this friendship just as much as he does. and the last thing he wants to do is lose that by running his mouth.

"i should get going," you say. "i have to prep for next week's classes."

bradley watches as you leave for a second time that night, mumbling a quiet goodbye after you.

-

on leave, the team spends time exploring san diego again. they go to wine and beer tastings, try new cafes and restaurants, and even find the time to hike through the torrey pines natural reserve—that one is bob's request, and boy, does it deliver. it has the entire team winded by the end of it—except, miraculously, for bob, who brought a camera to take pictures with. 

but bradley's favorite, of course, is the afternoon they spend at the beach in front of the hard deck. dogfight football is up and running the minute people put their bags down. jake just can’t resist the urge to goad people on, so bradley gets wrapped up in the competition, too. initially, it's shirts versus skins, but with the hot san diego sun beating down, everyone is stripped to their trunks pretty quickly, not that it does much to dissuade the heat from tearing through them.

all the while, you're trapped at top gun teaching classes until later in the day. bradley's not even sure you'll be able to make it with the way things have been going with the new class of pilots. so, he puts you out of his mind, focusing on the game at hand—and how badly he wants to knock jake down on his ass just to teach him a lesson about talking shit.

when penny brings out lemonade for everyone, the sun is still bright overhead and unbearably hot. bradley's skin is sticky with sweat, and he holds the icy glass to his cheek with a sigh. sitting on his towel with the drink in his hand is easily the best decision he’s made all day. natasha takes no time in jogging over to him with a smug grin.

"saw you chase the love of your life outside after layla the other night," she sips on her lemonade like it proves something.

"she's not the love of my life-"

"oh, yeah? then why do you follow her around like a lost puppy?" he doesn't have a response for that and clears his throat, trying to pretend that his ears aren't burning. "she totally dug it."

"nat, she tried to set me up with another girl. i got wing-manned." the memory of your raised eyebrow and the way you asked if he had any luck with her make his stomach churn.

natasha snorts. "oh, please, if she was actually wing-manning you, she wouldn't have run outside to avoid the aftermath." bradley tries to formulate some kind of intelligent response, but gets cut off by natasha perking up. "speak of the devil!"

bradley turns to see you walking over with your towel in hand. he tries not to stare, god, he tries. but you're wearing a button up you borrowed from him months ago, and it's open over your bathing suit. there's something about that and the shorts you're wearing that makes the blush spread from his ears to his cheeks and down his neck. you look unfairly good in his clothes.

"all good things i hope!" you reply with a smile so bright bradley swears you've stolen the sun for yourself. natasha is quick to pull you into a hug—one that you're ready to reciprocate.

"rooster was just telling me how much he misses you," she nudges him, and he has to fight the urge to strangle natasha.

"it's only been a week, bradshaw, missing me that bad already?" you toss down your beach towel and sit next to him, still laughing at her words.

he tries to play it off with a shrug. "what can i say? i've been spoiled." natasha gives you a cryptic look that he can't decipher. as a matter of fact, he doesn't even get the chance to try before jake is calling everyone to the shoreline for a rematch. half the beach groans, complaining about the heat, and the other half start up their goading once more.

“c’mon, rooster, afraid of getting your ass handed to you?” jake calls, tossing the football in the air in a way so cocky only he could manage it.

you laugh when natasha drags him over to jake, already placing a pair of sunglasses over your eyes to sit and watch from afar. he shrugs apologetically at you. "get his ass, bradshaw!" you cheer.

-

the game only officially ends when the sun starts to set. it's been on and off for the rest of the afternoon, with people taking breaks to swim and cool off throughout. somehow, you and bradley never quite end up in the same place at the same time. it isn't until everyone is packed back into the hard deck that you get the chance to talk properly.

the two of you sit at a high top by the end of the pool table, drinks in hand once more as the team's usual chaos unfolds around you. it’s like a do-over of the week before: the betting pool going strong around the billiards table, the same old rock songs playing through the jukebox, and you and bradley tucked into a corner of your own.

"i thought you said you weren't going to make it today," he prompts, looking at you over his beer.

"that was before the admiral interrupted with some group punishment for breaking the hard deck," you say with a laugh.

"oh, you've got a maverick, then?" he nods his head over to where mav is desperately trying to wipe down a spill on the bar top that he no doubt caused.

"something like that," you reply, "there's always some kind of rivalry at top gun, but these two..." bradley laughs at your grimace.

"no worse than us, i hope." he taps his bottle against your glass in a mock toast.

"bradley, they are so much worse." he watches you launch into some story about your students, your smile echoed on his face.

and so conversation flows along with the drinks, the two of you wrapped up in your own world until jake—being the bastard he is—interrupts to drag bradley away to the billiards table. for a second time that day, bradley is pulled away from you against his will.

he is going to tear jake to shreds for this, beers be damned.

he relishes in your cheers whenever he knocks the stripes into the pockets. until your attention is taken from him, that is.

somehow, between his turn and the next, the same man from the weekend before has found his way to the table bradley left you at. he's taken up bradley's seat and is apparently content to just chat you up without any care for the rest of the crew observing this newcomer to their night out. even bob is prickling at his presence.

and if bradley breaks when the next game starts with a little more force than strictly necessary, no one says anything about it. if he plays a little harder, if he's a little snappier, every time he looks over and that man is closer to you, then quite frankly, it isn't anyone's business but his.

he drops his cue on the table and marches off to get another drink when he sees you lean in to hear the guy better. he hears jake call after him, but he pays him no heed. god, he needs another beer if he's going to put up with this tonight, too.

mav gets bradley a drink with a raised eyebrow. "trouble with the girl?" mav asks, nodding over to where you're sitting.

"how'd you-"

"bradley, i've known you since you were a kid," he responds like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "just say something."

"it's not that simple, mav, she's..." bradley trails off. perfect? is that what he means? unattainable? uninterested? he takes a long swig from his beer, a comfortable buzz settling in his chest. whether that's the beer or the thought of you, he's not sure.

"if you want to keep pining, that's on you." mav shrugs. "but take it from me, doing something about it is better than nothing."

"now you're playing wingman?" mav scoffs at that, but it doesn't have any heat.

"i'm trying to play dad, but whatever works for you, kid."

bradley goes quiet and lets mav get to the other patrons asking for drinks—which he is almost certainly going to ask penny for help with. he watches as they dance around each other gracefully, like despite mav's inexperience behind a bar, he knows exactly where penny's going to move. he watches the gentle hand that mav puts on her waist, and christ, he's in deep. all he can think about is you.

he thinks back to that movie night you had a few months ago. the two of you maneuvered around your small kitchen making popcorn and hot chocolate. he had pulled the same stunt—a hand on your waist to guide you out of his way. a hand that you hadn't pulled away from. he remembers the warmth of you next to him and your smile when you finally got to curl up on the couch with a warm mug and an oversized bowl of popcorn between you.

he thinks about the brunches you've had with mav and penny, and how they almost felt like dates. you had made a joke about getting introduced to the parents so soon, and the tips of bradley's ears had gone warm. if he were introducing you as his girlfriend, it would have gone spectacularly. you hit it off with mav immediately, somehow. even though you technically had met him before at top gun, there was a difference between captain pete “maverick” mitchell and mav, the closest thing bradley has to a father—even if he’d never outright say it to mav’s face. but getting that man friendly outside of a plane-related situation was a feat he could have kissed you for.

he thinks to last week. the grin on your face when he looked at you while he was playing, while he sang at you—no, sang to you.

and that's precisely where the too-loud, too-tipsy, only slightly jealous part of bradley's mind kicks straight into overdrive. he slams back the rest of his beer and takes a glance over his shoulder to where you're sitting. the man still sits across from you, but like you sense him looking, your eyes meet his with a concerned furrow to your brow. he's not sure how long he's been standing at the bar, but based on the look you give him, it's been long enough.

he turns and marches over to the jukebox, unplugging it unceremoniously. the bar lurches into a chorus of groans until bradley takes a seat at the piano.

"now i-" he starts, his voice ringing into the near silent bar.

"i want someone badly"

the first chord he strikes on the piano summons a round of whoops from the pool table.

"got a girl here tonight, want someone new"

he pretends not to notice the way your attention is focused on him again, pretends that the heat on his face is from beer and beer alone. his head is down, intent on staring holes into the piano keys. couples around the bar are starting to sway together, and he dreads the thought of you getting up with the guy you've found. he's sure that the man is offering you a hand right about now, that you'll take it, and bradley will have to walk off to drown his wounds with another drink.

"'cause i, i cry all over madly don't do anything, do it for me."

the daggers have found themselves by the piano, arms thrown over shoulders and swaying. they sing along and it's a small comfort in a sea of strangers. he hears natasha's voice above all, singing the lyrics with a passion that she always carries with her when he does this.

"i wanna know am i sure that i have your love?"

and that's when bradley figures it's a good idea to look out into the crowd that's around him. it's cruel how easily he can find your eyes amongst the throng. you stand a ways away from him, alone and glowing under the warm lights of the hard deck. your mouth is slightly parted, but he can't figure out if its shock or something else. and then there's that look in your eye. he'd almost believe you're in love with him.

or maybe bradley's just drunk.

"if you're leaving, just make sure it's right now i want someone badly"

the crowd cheers when he hits a high note, but his eyes are locked on the way your jaw clamps shut.

"could it be true that someone is you?"

the final chord rings out along with varied forms of praise from those around him. natasha asks him a question, but he's already on his way outside before he can hear it properly. adrenaline is crackling through him viciously, bringing a shake to his hand that he hasn't felt since he first started training in the flight sims.

he sits on the steps of the hard deck with a thud. the porch is blessedly empty, leaving him to process exactly what he just did. the cool ocean breeze is doing wonders to sober him up. or maybe that's the dread pooling in his stomach. he can't tell anymore.

did he seriously just fucking serenade you? what kind of rom-com bullshit-

"you um, you played really well in there." your voice, gentle and soothing, pulls him from his spiral, and his head whips around to face you.

"thanks," he replies shortly, and his tone makes himself wince. there’s a distinct sense of deja-vu that hits bradley suddenly, like he’s entered some fucked up kind of parallel universe. the two of you stand awkwardly on opposite ends of the deck. your hands fidget, and tomorrow, bradley will surely blame the beers on the way his eyes linger on them.

it takes you another moment to move toward him, taking a seat by his side. you're so close that he can smell your perfume over the breeze, and isn't that just the cruelest trick yet? that he can't reach over to you and kiss you breathless, that he can't hold your hand in his. instead, he just sits miserably next to you, reliving his own stupid idea to play jeff buckley in the hard deck.

man, if he's thinking like this, he must really be gone.

"was that-" your voice cracks, "nat said i should come out and talk to you."

"of course she did." he picks at the corners of his nails.

"she said that was for me." your voice is indecipherable, and bradley's not sure he can stomach looking you in the eye right now.

he sighs, running a hand down his face. it's too hot out, now. the cool breeze from before has been sucked away by your presence.

"i just didn't want to see you with him, anymore," he mutters. there's another horrible, tense silence between you, and it's not one that he's in any rush to break.

"was that what this was? jealousy?" your voice is impossibly small.

"no, i-" jealousy made it sound like he had any kind of claim over you. jealousy sounded like he thought he had a chance at keeping the careful balance of his sanity and your friendship.

"so you sing that for all the girls in there, then?" you press, and in a world where he isn't head over heels for you, it would have been infuriating.

it still is infuriating, and bradley can't help but laugh.

"no, god, no." his laugh is shaky and a little dejected. he finally turns to face you, trying his damnedest to suck in every anxiety he has about this. he thinks, quite possibly, that this is the only time tonight he's been grateful for the alcohol.

that same heavy silence fills the air between you.

your eyes are wide when he looks at you, filled with something unreadable and maybe a bit of hope. his eyes flit between yours, and maybe, just for a moment, they linger on how your lips are upturned ever so slightly.

"just kiss me already, bradley."

and he does. by god, he does, and it's like a breath of fresh air. your lips are soft against his, and if it's a little clumsy, he doesn't mind. not when his hand is on your cheek, and yours is in his hair, and you taste like heaven on earth. the kiss lasts a lifetime, or it feels that way to bradley, anyways. it's the entire year he's spent wishing to be by your side wrapped into one small moment.

when you finally pull away from him, the two of you are panting. your foreheads rest against each other, and bradley can't seem to get his hands off you. the same one stays on your cheek and rubs small circles while the other is tentative against your waist. he's nearly giddy at holding you so close.

"you have any idea how long i've been waiting for you to do that?" you ask.

"probably about as long as i have," he replies with a hoarse voice.

"didn't think you were interested." you give him an incredulous look when he starts laughing, but that only makes him laugh harder.

"i should've listened to natasha so long ago." at that, you join him, head tilted back, and laugh into the sky. it's a long moment where the two of you giggle like schoolgirls outside the hard deck, and bradley wouldn't change it for the world. "think anyone will notice if we leave?"

you think for a moment and reply, "nat definitely will."

"she'll consider it a win." and that sends another round of laughs through you both.

the next morning, the team makes a plan to get brunch at a little cafe nearby, and if they notice that you and bradley arrive together and sit just a bit too close, no one says anything about it.

no one except for natasha, that is.

she finally catches a moment with bradley alone when people are saying their goodbyes.

"you finally did something about your pining?" she asks, a grin already spreading across her face.

bradley shrugs, but the smile he dons is telling, and the gentle kiss he places against your temple when you walk over to him, even more so.

[idkwhylou]

Trouble

Summary : You grew up on military bases, always under the shadow of your admiral father—and always just out of reach of the Navy boys you weren't supposed to want. But Bradley Bradshaw had always been different.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/militarybrat!reader

Warnings : bad knowledge on military settings, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex (nothing graphic more suggestive), flirt, Hangman, no use of y/n, bit of angst, tension

Words : 6K

A/N : It's the first time I write for Bradley, actually this have been hidden in my drafts for too long soooo. Didn't check before posting, sorry for the mistakes

+ your last name is Andrews (not really important, just needed to name the father)

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

Being a military brat wasn’t exactly a dream, but you’d learn to survive it with style.

Endless relocations, half-finished friendships, birthdays celebrated on video calls while your father was halfway around the world—Admiral Andrews always had bigger battles to fight. You grew up in hangars and on tarmacs, your lullabies was the roar of jet engines and the bark of orders through static-filled radios. Discipline was second nature. And so was pretending things didn’t hurt.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. There were…perks. 

Namely, the men.

They came and went like seasons—loud, fleeting, and always convinced they were unforgettable. Each one walked with the same cocksure strut, flight suits unzipped just enough to suggest ego rather than comfort, and eyes that burned with that reckless high-altitude gleam. You learned fast—faster than you were probably supposed to—how to recognize the pattern, that polished charm they wore like a second skin.

You didn’t fell for it. Not once.

You watched, studied, catalogued the way they spoke when they thought they were being clever, the way their smiles sharpened when they were about to flirt. You learned how long it took them to show their tells—the subtle shift in tone, the not-so-innocent brush of an arm, the pause that lasted just a beat too long. They weren’t as mysterious as they thought or tried to pretend. They were pretty predictable actually.

But you never chased them. And that, was the key.

You let them notice you instead—just enough to spark the thought, just enough to stay in their mind when the hangar got quiet. You were a test they didn’t realize they were failing. 

Every. Single. Time.

But your father had made it crystal clear from the start : “No navy men”. Which was funny, considering that’s all you were ever surrounded by. Anyway, the irony wasn’t lost on you and neither was the challenge. 

He thought keeping you on base and away from the navy bars meant keeping you safe. But the Admiral never realized that some of your favorite games were played right under his nose. You knew the base like the back of your hand—every shadow, every corner, every overlooked bench, every hangar edge where you could linger just out of sight. You didn’t need loud scenes or public displays. You had subtle smiles, quiet glances, late-night conversations shared against metal walls still warm from the day’s sun. 

Flirts came and went; a wink here, a stolen moment there. You kept things light and unattached. You weren’t naïve—you knew better than to fall for boys who wore dog tags. But God, it was so fun watching them fall just a little bit for you. 

Over the years you got really good at it. You learned how pilots saw you, how they move around girls, how they lie without meaning to. You recognized the ones who were all show, the ones who tried too hard, and the rare few who didn’t try at all. You knew how to draw attention without begging for it. 

And at first, they all tried.

When you were younger—barely out of high school but already too clever for your own good—the attention was constant. New recruits, cocky lieutenants, even a few seasoned officers too sure of their charm. They came at you like it was some unspoken initiation: flirt with the Admiral’s daughter, see how close you could get before it blew up in your face.

But one day, one did get close. Too close.

You’d spent the night tangled in Navy sheets and heat; a moment of rebellion that tasted too sweet to regret. It wasn’t love—just curiosity with hands and mouths, a quiet hunger you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying until it finally spilled over. He was older, confident in a way that didn’t feel forced, and for one night, you let yourself fall into the thrill of being wanted, seen—not as the Admiral’s daughter, but just as you.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the morning did. You hadn’t even had time to slip your shirt back on when you heard the footsteps—sharp, purposeful, unmistakable. The door creaked open before you could speak, and there he was: your father, Admiral Andrews, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to actually. One look. One breath drawn through his nose. One flick of his eyes to the discarded uniform trousers on the floor. 

That was enough.

The silence that followed was deafening. He didn’t yell, didn’t bark orders. He simply turned and walked away with the kind of fury that came wrapped in control—and that was somehow worse. By the end of the week, the boy was gone. Transferred without explanation to the other coast. Scrubbed clean from your world like he’d never been there. And no one said a word about it. 

Not your father. Not the guy. Not anyone. Not even you, because you knew it was best to keep your mouth shut if you didn’t want to end up in the same situation.

But the message was heard loud and clear across base. You were off-limits now. Untouchable. The Admiral’s daughter—marked. 

After that, most of them backed off. The stares were more cautious; they’d smile quickly, maybe toss a joke your way, but nobody dared get too close. Well, not unless they had a death wish—or a transfer request ready to go.

And you ? You adapted. The flirting became harmless, more performative—just enough to keep things fun.

And still, now and then, someone would forget. 

Some new recruit, fresh off a carrier and drunk on his own reflection, would mistake your easy grin for an invitation. Or maybe it was the way you leaned in when you laughed, the way you held eye contact just a breath too long. You knew the signals you sent. You just knew how to pull them back, too.

They’d catch on. Eventually. Maybe it was the way the older pilots watched you a little too closely, not with hunger but with caution. Maybe it was the subtle tension that snapped into place anytime your father’s name left someone’s mouth like it was a warning label: ‘Admiral Andrews’s daughter’.

And then there were the whispers. Low-voiced and half-believed, traded like ghost stories in locker rooms and smoke breaks. The one who got a guy sent away. Some were curious, others called it poison, most didn’t dare. But a few still tried: the ones too bold or too dumb to care, or maybe just the ones who didn’t know.

Which is why you noticed right away when someone didn’t get the memo.

That night at the Hard Deck, the music was low, the air buzzing with the usual mix of sweat and beer. You were nursing a drink more out of habit than thirst, letting the noise wash over you in waves. That’s when he showed up—Jake Seresin, golden boy swagger and all.

He didn’t look at you like someone warned him. He looked at you like a dare.

“Funny,” he said, leaning an elbow on the bar like he had all night to kill. “I come here a lot, and I don’t remember seeing you before. That feels like a personal tragedy.”

You turned to him, unimpressed but not dismissive. “Maybe I’m very good at not being noticed.”

Jake smiled slowly, eyes sweeping over you—not crude, but confident. “Not with a face like that.”

You snorted softly, swirling the rest of your drink. “Do those lines actually work, or are you just here to collect L’s ?”

He laughed, tilting his head. “Just here to see if lightning strikes. What’s your name ?”

You considered it for a beat too long. “Wouldn’t you rather guess ?”

Jake’s grin grew wider. “Trouble. Definitely trouble.”

You leaned in slightly, letting your shoulder brush his just enough to register. “Only for people who don’t know how to handle me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, “I specialize in handling.”

You raised an eyebrow, your expression unreadable but amused. “You sure ? You look more like someone who talks a big game and taps out when it gets interesting.”

His hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me.”

“I’m just being cautious,” you replied, your voice silk over steel. “I’ve seen a lot of pilots walk in here thinking they’re bulletproof. Turns out, most of them flinch when the safety’s off.”

Jake chuckled, eyes narrowing slightly. “So you are military. I was betting civilian.”

“Does it matter ?” you asked, letting the question linger.

“Only if you outrank me.”

You smirked into your glass. “You have no idea.”

For a moment, the air between you was still—charged with the kind of tension that made everything slow down. Jake looked at you like he wanted to solve you. You looked at him like you’d already read the answer and were just waiting to see if he’d catch up.

From across the room, someone called his name but he didn’t move. Not yet. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink. Worst case, you put me in my place and I go home with a bruised ego. Best case…”

You tilted your head. “Best case ?”

He leaned in, just a little. “You stop pretending you're not having fun.”

You didn’t answered right away, just held his gaze. Then, with a slow, calculated smile, you slid your almost empty glass toward him.

“I’ll take a whiskey,” you said. “Neat. No bullshit.”

Jake’s laugh was soft and genuine as he flagged down Penny. “Now that’s a girl after my own heart.”

He returned quickly with the drinks in hand, sliding yours across the table next to you like a magician revealing a card trick. “One whiskey, neat. No bullshit—just how you like it.”

You took it with a nod, your fingers brushing his for half a second. He was easy to look at—lean, tan, jawline too sharp for his own good. The kind of guy who probably had a mirror above his bed. But he was charming, you had to admit. There was something in the way he grinned at you like he already knew you were trouble and still wanted a bite. Maybe you’d give him one. Just a taste.

“You’re not so bad, Hangman,” you said, sipping your drink.

He perked up. “So you have heard of me.”

“Hard not to. The ego arrives five minutes before you do.”

Jake laughed. “That’s fair.”

You let the conversation drift, leaning back against the wall, letting his stories and confident smirks wash over you. It was easy to play this game. Familiar. Like slipping into old shoes—ones that still fit but didn’t take you anywhere new.

And then, the door swung open.

You didn’t look at first, still listening to Jake—he was mid-sentence about some dogfight in training—but then you felt it. A shift in the air. Your eyes flicked toward the entrance.

Bradley fucking Bradshaw.

He walked in like he didn’t need the room to notice him—and yet it did. He had that kind of quiet gravity, the kind that pulled attention without asking for. He wore one of those old Hawaiian shirts—sun-bleached and fraying a little at the edges, probably one of his dad’s—left unbuttoned, sleeves cuffed like it was second nature. A pair of aviators rested low on the bridge of his nose, catching the bar lights just enough to hide his eyes. In his hand, he still held the keys to his precious bronco, twirling them once around his finger like a nervous tic, though nothing about him looked uncertain. 

Jake was still talking, something about g-force and cocky teammates, but you weren’t hearing it anymore. You and Bradley had known each other for a while now. Enough to share inside jokes and glances that didn’t need words. He made space for you in conversations without trying. He remembered things you hadn’t realized you’d said. He was kind in a way that didn’t need an audience.

The blond said something and you nodded absently, but your eyes followed Bradley as he made his way toward the bar. Rooster hadn’t seen you yet, or maybe he had and was just taking his time. Either way, he walked with the ease of someone who didn’t have to prove anything. While Jake was all angles and spotlight, Bradley was all depth and quiet corners.

Hangman finally paused, catching your shift in attention. He followed your gaze and let out a short laugh, “Is it the porn ‘stache or the ugly shirt ?”

You blinked, snapped back. “What ?”

“Bradshaw,” Jake said, nodding toward him. “Didn’t peg you for the boy scout type.”

You shrugged and let out a soft chuckle, “I don’t have a type.”

Jake tilted his head, that ever-present smirk tugging at his mouth. “Sure you don’t. Rooster ? Really ? You’re goin’ soft on us sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, feigning boredom as you sipped your drink. “Bradley’s just a long-time friend.”

Hangman leaned in a little, elbow brushing the table as his voice dropped low. “Mm-hmm. Funny, because you don’t look at your other friends like that.”

You smirked. “What’s the matter ? You’re jealous ?”

His grin widened into something smug. “Jealous ? Please.” He gestured at himself. “Sweetheart, I’m not worried. ‘Cause let’s be honest—Rooster’s too busy thinking about the right thing to say. Me ?” He leaned in just a bit closer, voice smooth and low. “I actually know how to treat a girl like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Oh yeah ? And what kind of girl is that, exactly ?”

His gaze flicked down briefly—too quickly to be respectful, too slowly to be innocent. “Smart mouth, sharp tongue… but you like a little danger. You want someone who doesn’t ask permission to touch, someone who knows when to talk… and when not to.”

You let out a soft laugh, but there was heat beneath it. “Wow. You rehearsed that one ?”

Jake’s grin turned lazy, cocky. “Sweetheart, that was the improv version.”

You leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing, teasing. “If I wanted a man who thought with his ego, I’d pick one with better stamina.”

His eyebrows lifted, that cocky smirk faltering just a second—then came back twice as bold. “You volunteering to test that theory ?”

You were about to say something sharp, something that might’ve made the temperature between you boil over, but a voice cut the moment clean in half. “Seresin.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. But you did.

Bradley stood there, calm as ever, jaw tight, that unreadable gaze flicking between you and Hangman. The keys to his Bronco hung loosely in his hand, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. “Didn’t know we were giving lectures on respect tonight,” he added, his voice level, but unmistakably pointed.

Jake raised both hands in mock surrender, a laugh in his throat. “Easy, Rooster. We were just talkin’.”

“Sure you were,” Bradley said, gaze not leaving Jake’s face.

Hangman didn’t move, his grin just a fraction but his stance still confident, as if daring Bradley to push further. “So, what’s the real deal ? I’m not one to back off, you should know that Bradshaw.”

Bradley’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping low but steady, laced with quiet authority. “You remember Admiral Andrews, right ? You’ve got his sweet little girl right in front of you, idiot.” He took a slow step closer, his tone sharpened with warning. “So maybe think twice before you mess around with something you can’t afford to break.”

The blond blinked, the easy cockiness flickered for a moment, surprise crossing his features as Bradley’s words hit harder than he expected. He glanced at you, then back at Bradley, sensing the line he wasn’t meant to cross. You see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but he didn’t back down. You liked that.

“You think a name’s gonna scare me off ? I’m not like you chicken. Plus I don’t see her old man anywhere.” He smirked.

Bradley stepped forward just enough, his voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of authority. “Maybe not. But I’m the one standing between you and a whole lot of trouble. So why don’t you save us both the headache and walk away ?”

Jake let out a slow sigh, the fight draining out of him as he finally nodded. He looked at you and winked, “When he's done bothering you, you know where to find me sweetheart.”

You weren’t angry—Bradley did this all the time. Always stepping in, always cock-blocking you when you least expected it. It was almost infuriating how often he played the protective big brother role. But you knew it came from somewhere deeper. He wasn’t just interfering for the sake of it; he was looking out for you. You mattered to him, more than most people realized.

Bradley’s eyes softened as he looked at you, a quiet honesty in his voice. “I know it’s annoying. But you’ve got people watching your back—including me.”

You shook your head with a small laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Big brother mode activated. I get it.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow as you both moved toward the bar, where Penny was serving other patrons. “Come on,” he said. You followed him, feeling the familiar pull of comfort in his presence—someone who knew the real you, without pretense or judgment.

Bradley didn’t waste a second. He caught Penny’s eye and commanded, “Six shots of tequila Pen’.” He shot you a knowing look, his smirk softening just a little. He knew exactly how you liked it. 

Before you could even think about pulling out your wallet, he slid his card across the counter. “On me. Don’t even.”

You slid onto the stool next to him, the wood creaking softly beneath your weight. The air between you buzzed with a tension that had settled there years ago—familiar, low-burning. You barely had time to adjust your seat when Bradley, without a word or a glance, reached out and tugged your stool closer to him. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either—firm, like muscle memory, like this wasn’t the first time he’d wanted you that close.

You didn’t protest, you didn’t need to and absolutely didn’t want to. 

From across the bar, Penny slid the six shots in front of you with practiced ease. She arched a brow, smirking as her eyes flicked between the two of you. “Bradley,” she said, tone dry but affectionate, “keep an eye on her tonight, will you ? She’s trouble in my bar—and you’re the only one she actually listens to.” 

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, but didn’t deny it. And Bradley just smirked, like he already knew he’d be doing just that. Trouble, after all, had a way of finding the two of you. Or maybe you were just better at finding each other. You took the salt and pour some on your palm, Rooster stretched out his hand to you, so that you could put salt on his too. You, then, reached for the first glass without hesitation, fingers brushing the cool rim just as Bradley’s hand closed around his own. Your eyes met in the half-second, you raised your shot in a toast. 

“To trouble then.” You said, your smile lazy, knowing. 

He chuckled warmly under his breath as the clink of glass between you was soft, but it echoed—more than sound. You tipped yours back easily. The tequila was sharp at first, then smooth as you bite in your quarter of lemon. His gaze lingered a second too long on your mouth, as you lick your lips. 

You leaned your elbow on the bar, chin in hand, feeling your throat burning. “You’ve always got my back, haven’t you ?”

He gave a half-shrug, eyes flicking down to his empty glass. “Someone had to.” That was always the thing about Bradley—he didn’t posture. He didn’t need to. While others circled like moths to flame, trying too hard, talking too loud, he simply stayed. The only one who never looked at you like you were something to win or just a piece of meat.

You studied his profile for a beat—the strong jaw, the crease just forming between his brows. He looked like he always did: calm, grounded, the kind of calm that only made you more aware of your own pulse. His fingers tapped once against the bar, a quiet rhythm. Nervous ? No. Calculated for sure. Like he was trying not to look at you again, trying not to give too much away.

Then, without breaking the silence between you, he reached for the second shot. And slid yours toward you.

No words this time.

Just the soft scrape of glass across wood—and that heat blooming in your chest again, heavier this time. Not from the tequila. From the way his fingers brushed yours, just long enough to feel intentional and deliberate. 

For now.

You tilted your head, voice low and teasing. “What is it with you, Bradshaw ? You always this cautious, or just with me ?”

He gave a soft breath of a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t make it easy.”

That was honest. A little too honest.

You clinked your glass to his again. “Good.”

The second shot burned a little deeper, less sweet and more heat. You didn’t look away this time. You let your eyes linger on him as you set your glass down with a quiet clink, and this time, he was already watching you.

But not in the way others did. There was nothing lazy or possessive in it, just that familiar, weighted gaze. 

“You ever think maybe I’m not trying to make it easy ?” you murmured, lips just shy of a smirk.

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly, as if trying to find steadier ground. “I think,” he said finally, “that you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And I think,” you replied, leaning in just a little, “you’re still trying to pretend it doesn’t get to you.”

His mouth twitched, like he wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. Instead, he glanced away, jaw tight, hands folded in front of him like he needed somewhere to put the tension. “I can’t risk it,” he said under his breath. It wasn’t for effect. It wasn’t a line. It was a confession.

Your smile softened just a fraction. “Then why are you still sitting here, Brad ?”

That pulled his gaze back to you—harder this time, deeper. Something in it cracked, just slightly. And between you, the third shot sat untouched, waiting, as the tequila warmed your chest. Spread slow through your veins like liquid confidence. But Bradley’s eyes were too serious now.

“I’ve known you too long to fuck this up,” he said quietly, “You’re his daughter. You know what that means.”

And there it was; the sting. The salt no softening it at all and no smirk to hide behind.

Your smile faltered for half a second before you caught it, masked it in something lighter—your defense, always. “Well, good thing you’re not in uniform tonight. It doesn’t count then.”

You tried to make it sound like a joke. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. 

You leaned in, slow and unhurried, “So what’s your excuse now, Lieutenant ?”

But before you could get too close, he shifted. Enough to let the air slip between you again, enough to say nowithout the words. You froze for a beat, the rejection subtle but sharp in the places that mattered. He didn’t meet your eyes right away, his fingers tense against the wooden bar. 

“I don’t have a good reason,” he said at last, voice rougher now. “Only the right one.”

You didn’t flinch, but something in you pulled tight. Slowly, you leaned back, the teasing edge fading from your smile. Your fingers toyed with the rim of your empty glass, tracing a circle like it might give you answers. Right. Of course, it was the right reason. It always was with him. That was the problem.

“I forget sometimes,” you said quietly, your gaze fixed on the bar. 

He looked at you then—really looked—and there it was again, that quiet storm always behind his eyes. “I know what they see when they look at you. I’m not proud of how many I’ve wanted to punch for it.”

You huffed a breath, something like a laugh but thinner. “And here I thought you were the calm one.”

“I’m not calm when it comes to you.”

The confession dropped between you like a weight, and for a moment neither of you moved. The room felt too still. Too exposed. You turned, met his gaze again, your voice soft but steady. “Then don’t be. Just for tonight.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look away either. And that silence said more than either of you were ready for. From behind the bar, Penny raised a brow and took discretely the two empty glasses—cutting through the moment like she knew. Of course she did.

You glanced down at it, then back at Bradley. “Last one,” you murmured. “You gonna let me drink alone ?”

His jaw flexed, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Bradley’s fingers wrapped around the last shot glass as he held your gaze. Then he tipped it back in one smooth motion. You watched his throat work as the tequila slid down, the way his eyes fluttered closed for just a beat—like he needed the burn to make a decision. Like he’d hoped the fire would settle something inside him.

But when he set the glass down, he didn’t say a word. Just pushed the rim gently toward the center of the bar and stood. No glance toward you. No smirk. No half-joke to soften the blow. Just the subtle clench of his jaw and the quiet scrape of wood as he stepped back from his stool.

Your breath caught. “Bradley—”

“I can’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. But it hit harder than if he’d shouted.

Then he turned and walked away. You sat frozen for a second, the heat of the liquor blooming in your chest, spreading too fast. Too deep. Penny didn’t say anything—just watched with that knowing look she always had, as if she’d seen a hundred near-misses like this before. You stared at the empty glass in front of you. Still warm. Still full of everything he didn’t say.

You stared at the empty space where he’d been, pulse thrumming beneath your skin like something trying to break loose. The tequila sat in front of you—untouched, waiting. Like a dare. 

You picked it up without thinking. “Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, then knocked it back. The burn hit harder than the first two. Bit deeper. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was him—but the moment the glass hit the bar again, you were already sliding off the stool.

You pushed past the quiet hum of the Hard Deck, ignoring the knowing look Penny shot your way, ignoring Jake's low whistle behind you. All you could focus on was the sight of Bradley’s broad back, just slipping through the door, his frame half-lit by the hazy dusk spilling across the beach.

“Bradley !” you called, the wind catching your voice as you jogged after him.

He didn’t turn around at first. Not until you caught up, your hand brushing his arm, fingers curling. He stopped like he’d been struck. Then, slowly, he turned. His sweet brown eyes found yours in the dim light of the parking lot, a storm behind his quiet irises. You let your hand drop from his arm, but his warmth lingered on your skin like a brand. 

“Why do you always do that ?” you asked, voice lower now. “Push me away like I’m some damn risk you can’t afford.”

Bradley didn’t answer right away. He looked past you for a second, jaw tight, as if picking his words from a minefield. “Because you are,” he said finally, “You’re an Admiral’s daughter. You’re trouble I can’t walk away from clean.”

You flinched, not from the words themselves but the truth behind them. “I’m not a fucking kid Brad.”

“I know that,” he said, eyes falling shut for a second, like he was trying to steady something inside him. He pinched his nose, “Trust me, I know.”

“Then stop acting like you don’t want this too !” you snapped. “You’re not wearing your uniform tonight. You’re not my babysitter. You’re just… you. And I’m just me.”

His eyes opened because of the sudden rise of your voice, “You think that makes it easier ?”. You didn’t respond and he sighed looking down, then he stepped forward, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body again. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I’m not asking,” you said, tapping your head back to meet his gaze. “I’m telling you I’m right here. And I want you.”

Bradley’s hands twitched at his sides, and for a moment it looked like he might pull away again. But instead of retreating, he exhaled slowly, like he was holding himself back. His expression shifted in something sharp flickering in his eyes, frustration simmering just under the surface. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair as his voice edged harder. 

“You don’t get it,” he said tightly. “You think I can just pretend that your dad wouldn’t end my career the second he found out I even looked at you twice ?”

You sighed and then took a shaky breath, your voice defiant. “You think I care what my dad thinks ?” you scoffed, shaking your head. “Plus he likes you Bradley ! He trusts you and-”

He cut you off by letting out a bitter laugh, “Yeah,” he muttered, “because I’m not trying to fuck his daughter.”

The words hit hard—crude, sharp, and a little too honest. 

“This isn’t a game for me.” Your name escaped his lips so softly you almost forgot you were arguing. 

“I never said it was a game,” you said barely over a whisper. “But thanks for assuming I don’t understand.”

His jaw clenched. He looked away, down the road like it might offer an easier answer than what stood in front of him. “This is exactly why I walk away.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “Right. Because walking away’s easier than actually admitting you care.”

That made him freeze. Just for a second. But it was enough.

He turned, keys still dangling in his hand, posture tense like he was ready to bolt.

Your heart squeezed.

You took a step forward, voice gentler now, cracking just a bit. “Bradley—wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn. His shoulders stayed tense, his jaw locked as your words settled in the quiet between you.

“Can I just…” you hesitated. “Can I just have one thing ? One second. You don’t have to do anything else. Just let me… just let me have this.”

You stepped in slowly, cautiously, like approaching something wild that might bolt at any sudden movement. Your hand brushed his chest, fingers splaying gently over the fabric of his shirt. His heart was racing and so was yours.

“I don’t want to stay mad at you,” you said softly, searching his face. “I don’t want you to stay mad either.”

And then, without waiting for a yes—just holding your breath—you leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Slow, barely there. Lingering just long enough to make your heart break a little when you pulled back. It wasn’t about heat or seduction, it was something quieter; a confession. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d done it. There had been quiet moments over the years—late nights, stolen conversations, the way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t looking—when you let yourself lean in and leave that barely-there kiss on the corner of his mouth. Just enough to remind him you saw him. Wanted him. Hoped he’d want you too.

And every time, Bradley would pull back with a small shake of his head, or a sharp sigh, or that carefully constructed silence that meant he was burying the thought before it could bloom.

But tonight… he didn’t move. He let you do it. He didn’t flinch or step away. He just stood there, breathing you in like it hurt, letting the moment happen. And that—more than anything—made your heart thud painfully in your chest.

You took a step back like you hadn’t just laid every card on the table. “That’s all,” you whispered.

Bradley exhaled, something raw and helpless in the sound. His eyes found yours—dark, unreadable—and then dropped to your lips. “You’re a real brat,” he muttered, almost like a prayer.

And before you could respond, he reached for you—fast, like the dam had finally cracked. One hand curled firmly around your waist, grounding you, while the other slid up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair like he needed to anchor himself. 

Then he pulled you in. 

His lips met yours, like he’d been fighting the pull for too long and finally, finally gave in. There was nothing hesitant about it, no more restraint, no more carefully measured distance. It was deep, consuming, years of tension unraveling in one breathless moment. He kissed you like he was starved for it, like every second he’d held back had only built the hunger. 

Bradley’s lips were deceptively soft, contrasting the sharp angles of his jaw and the rough edge he carried with him everywhere else. They were warm, shaped with a natural fullness that made every half-smile feel like a secret, every smirk a challenge. When he kissed you, they didn’t hesitate. There was no awkwardness, no uncertainty—just a grounded, confident pressure that spoke of restraint worn thin.

They tasted faintly of tequila and whatever gum he chewed out of habit, but underneath it was something that was just him ; clean, familiar, and dangerously addictive. And when they moved against yours, slow at first then deeper, there was a quiet intensity in them, like he'd been holding back for too long and finally let it slip.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing unsteady, like you’d knocked the wind out of him. His voice came low, hoarse and rough with everything he’d tried to bury.

“I should’ve known better than to think I’d ever be safe from trouble like you.”

“That’s why you love me.” You chuckled and gave him a quick peck, “And, don’t worry ‘bout my dad, I’ll take care of it.”

“If he sends me at the other end of the universe, you’d better follow me, you brat.” He teased, pinching your side playfully. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll follow you anywhere Bradshaw.” You kissed him again and you felt his body softening under your touch. 

[warnersister]

Personal Space

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x reader

Summary: you love your personal space. Unfortunately, Bradley also loves your personal space.

Pt. 2

You never understood why Bradley stuck around. Since the academy you’d preferred to stick to yourself; get your head down and get the job done. Especially with a surname like Mitchell. You didn’t want your father and grandfather’s reputation to negatively proceed you, and by the time people had put two and two together as to whom loins you came from: you’d made your own reputation so Maverick never made much of a difference to it.

But still, having dinner in the mess you’d sat down, when someone came and thudded down next to you and began eating themselves. “I’m Bradley” he said when you finally looked up at him. You raised a brow “Bradshaw?” You ask and he nods: you recognise him from the photos your dad pinned up in your two’s hanger. You hum “and you are?” He asks “not important.” You reply, deciding you’d lost your appetite and stood to clear your plate “good talk!” Bradley said, but you were already walking away.

He’d next encountered you when you were running around the academy, early morning; before any naval training would take place. He hummed and decided it was perfectly acceptable to interrupt your jaunt with his presence. “Hey! Up so early?” He asks as he tries to match your pace from a standstill “could ask you the same.” You reply bluntly “well I wanted to get a run in before-” “well there’s your answer.” You reply, cutting him off. “You run really quick.” He says as you try to keep your pace increasing to shake him off “goodbye, Bradshaw.” You say, pulling your sunglasses over your eyes and taking off at a pace he couldn’t sustain. He just stops and shakes his head smiling, you were funny.

Eventually, you’d both gotten up in the air and were quick to earn your callsigns “Rooster” and “Hen”. Bradley earned his because he was up before the chickens, you’d earned yours because the chicken kept fucking following you around like you were his mother. You were sat on the aircraft carrier, your trainee group learning how to land on a ship deck and you’d finally gotten a moment of peace that evening. You sat on the edge of the deck, feet dangling over the edge as you watched the sunset, not moving when you hear someone slip into the space between the barriers beside you.

“Oh look my chick is back.” You mumble sarcastically and Bradley laughs loudly at you. “You love me really” he says, looking at you as if he wanted to you agree with him “you seem to keep telling yourself that, don’t you?” You hum, turning to watch the sea lap against the grey metal. You can feel him fidgeting beside you, as if antsy to say something. “What?” You ask, finally turning to look at him. “What?” He repeats, looking at you with raised brows “you want to ask me something. You’re fidgeting.” You point out “so ask me or fuck off” you say, turning away again. “Your last name is Mitchell” he says and you roll your eyes “you can read and hear. Two things I’ve learnt today.” You huff, again, with sarcasm. “Are you related to Pete Mitchell?” He asks, looking at you and nearly holding his breath “you finally put two and two together?” You ask and he lets out the breath.

“Yeah, he’s my dad.” You say after a while “I was a whoopsie baby my mother didn’t want anything to do with” you tell him. “He used to fly with my dad.” Bradley almost whispers, voice just a few octaves above. “I know” you nod “he’s practically wallpapered all over our hanger.” You say “so are you” you eye him. “He pulled my papers” he says, again after a few moments of silence “I know” you say “do you know why?” He asks “yes.” You reply, and he could tell you weren’t going to elaborate. “Y’know I’m not a fan of your dad, but I really like you.” He says and you just look at him with a blank face. “Yup” you hum to yourself and he raises a brow “just as Mother Goose was described” you say, and Bradley’s face immediately lights up with a huge grin, stretching and arm around you and pulling you into his side.

“Get off me.” “Yup, yep, sorry.”

For your first deployment, the academy set it up that you’d at least be with one person from your training squadron, and today the list of names were coming out; they were scribbled on the back of a napkin and pinned to a notice board.

“1. Haywood & Solomons, 2. Hughes & Shelley & Omaha, 3. Cooper & Parker & Cromwell & Smith, 4. Bradshaw,” you crossed your fingers as someone read out the names, then yours was read alongside Bradley’s “oh for god’s sake” you grumble, turning to see Bradley practically jumping for joy. “This is great! Me and you, Hen!” Rooster cheers and you just stare at him “should’ve called you leech cause you’re acting like one. Calm down.” You instruct and he tries to chill out, but the cheeky smile on his face was indiminishagble.

He only became more unbearable then, with you every working hour, your wingman on the missions you’d fly, inseparable despite your complaints. “Where’s your boyfriend?” Hawk asked you, as he came to sit with you for lunch. You shush him loudly. “Woah woah I only asked where he was.” “Speak his name and he shows up. I’m trying to hide.” you say in a hushed voice “plus he isn’t my boyfriend” “sure” he scoffs but the daggers being shot into his head silenced him easily.

“Hey Hen! Hawk” Bradley greets as he sits down. You grunt and point an accusatory finger at Hawk “this is your fault, jackass” you say and he laughs at you, him and Bradley engage in conversation as you just eat, having learnt the skill of drowning him out. “What about you, Hen?” Hawk asked, drawing your attention away from your plate and up to the two men alongside you, you raise an eyebrow - letting them know you were insinuating that you weren’t listening to their conversation.

“Do you want a family?” He ask and you just nod “really?” Hawk asks “that’s cute, didn’t take you for a family gal” he jokes and you harshly kick his leg under the table “kids and everything?” He asks after the pain subsides. “Yup.” You say and Bradley hums “I didn’t know that” he says and you just look at him “you never asked.” You reply simply, and that was true: he hadn’t. He was quite prepared to spend the rest of existence chasing after you, whether that meant giving you your first kiss on your deathbeds.

The two of you even went to Top Gun together, training to be the finest naval aviators of them all. And boy, you two fought to be the best; tongue and teeth, blood sweat and tears, everything. The decision came down to one final dogfight. “May the best aviator win” Rooster jokes, sticking out a hand to you. You eye it and internally question if you were insane, before leaning up to peck his cheek. “Prepare to loose, chicken.” You say, leaving him frozen in his place while you head to your plane. That day, Bradley was seriously off his A-game, and you came out on top.

A Mitchell finally Top Gun.

“Congratulations!” Bradley says excitedly on graduation day when you victoriously lifted the trophy above your head. You turned to him and he leant down slightly - you weren’t stupid, you knew what he was intending to do. “Thank you, Brad.” You say, turning to walk over to where your father was stood - knowing that was probably the only time Bradley wouldn’t follow you. That was the first time you’d ever called him anything short of Bradley Bradshaw.

“I’m so proud of you honey” your dad says, hugging you tightly and you embrace him back, smiling widely “thank you, dad” you respond and he looks behind you where Bradley was stood a while back, watching the ordeal. “Is that-” “yes” you tell him and your dad just looks at you “I wouldn’t get all teary he follows me like a lost puppy” you grumble but he just grins “he’s a good kid, hon.” He says and you shake your head “he’s definitely something”

“So how does their relationship work?” Bob asks Hangman, watching Bradley talk your ear off and you just staring ahead into space, blankly. “You see Bobby my boy,” Jake begins “Hen loves her personal space” Bob nods “Rooster also loves Hen’s personal space.” Bob nods again, now understanding. “Haven’t they done everything together though?” He asks “I think it’s more the fact that Hen does something and Rooster just kinda goes with it” Phoenix said and Bob hums, as Bradley continues to converse one-sidedly with you.

“He means well” you hear from beside you as you stare out from the hanger, turning to see your honorary uncle Tom walking towards you, you run towards him as he embraces you tightly “hey Ice” you smile, sweetly. “Hey sweetheart” he croaks. “I mean what I said.” He states and you raise a brow “he means well” he nods towards the man doing his required push ups on the ground with Hondo. “I know, Ice.” You tell him. “No, I don’t think you do” he hums and you raise your eyebrows at him. “The kids in love with you. You’ve either got to let him in or tell him to get out.” He says, “you’re living together for goodness sake”. “It was cheaper” you argue “we both know the accommodation is subsidised.” He states, matter-of-factly, patting your shoulder as he turns to go talk to your dad when he walks into the room.

It was true, you and Bradley were sharing accommodation. “Hey Hen, they’ve offered us shared accommodation back in Miramar” Bradley says, coming over with a pamphlet. “Why?” You ask, taking it out of his hands. ‘Married couple accommodation’ it states and you raise your brows “you getting ahead of yourself, Bradshaw?” You ask and he shakes his head “the guy assumed our callsigns were cause we’re a couple” he tells you and you just hum. “Well I’d rather stay there than in an apartment.” You say simply, giving him back the leaflet and refocusing on the plane you were working on repairing. “Seriously?” He asks, voice overly hopeful. You look at him and shrug “just go get the damn house, Bradshaw. Before I change my mind!” You say and he grins, turning and breaking out into almost a jog to head to confirm your living situation.

You take a moment of hesitation, before loudly groaning and heading out onto the tarmac, getting down and doing push ups alongside Rooster. He turns his head and looks at you and you just raise your brows at him. “Hey honey” he grins “hello Bradley” he nudges your hip with his own. “I’ll drive us home.” You tell him, and he raises his eyebrows “Home?” He asks and you huff “okay, Bradley I will drive the two of us back to our shared accommodation that we accidentally got given.” You say and he laughs loudly “home sounded better.”

Then after the mission, the whole Dagger squad got permanently stationed in San Diego, other than deployment, so they urged the new additions to the base to buy their own properties closer to base rather than on it. You and Bradley were sat in the Hard Deck, a long time before it was open, the rest of the Daggers spending time on the beach while the two of you were scouring Bradley’s laptop for a property. Well, Bradley was.

How about this one? He turns his screen to you. You shake your head “I want grass in the garden. I want to plant flowers” you say as you point at the paved back of the house, explaining that it’s a waste of money to have it ripped out. Bradley nods “Mkay, garden” he says, moving back to look again.

“How about this one? Beach front, close to the running track for you. Only a walk from the Hard Deck. White picket fence, really” he hums, turning the laptop again “garden?” You ask and he nods “garden.” He nods with a grin. “Shall we go look?” You ask and he raises a brow at you. “You said it’s a walk from the hard deck. Let’s go.” You say, putting the address into your phone and immediately recognising the street name, Bradley quickly falling into step with you as you walk towards the property.

You look at it and place your hands on your hips. Bradley was right. Pretty damn perfect. “Can I help you?” A lady asks, walking outside of the house, clipboard in hand. “Oh no, we’d just seen this property online and wanted to take a look.” Bradley tells her. “Well I’ve had a no-show on a viewing. How’d you like to take a look?” She suggests, motioning to the open door. “Okay” you nod, following her into the house.

“Obviously the kitchen, living room, even a deck out back with a huge garden and high fences” she says nodding out the window and you hum. “Out the side there’s an entrance straight to the beach” she motions, then starts heading up the stairs “three bedrooms, attic space, bathroom” she says “I’m guessing it’s just you two at the moment?” She asks “oh we’re not-” Bradley begins “yes, just us.” You confirm, shutting him up. “Okay, so there’s a large room for your bed and then if any new additions are to join, you have the space for them” she smiles and leads you back out front.

“It’s not cheap, it’s California. So I understand if you’re not prepared to pay that much money, do you mind me asking what you do?” She asks “we’re naval aviators.” Bradley says “stationed here?” She asks and you both nod “ah! I get why you’re looking for a property here!” She says and Bradley looks at you. “I really like it, Roo.” You say, and Bradley has to stop his jaw hitting the floor at your nickname. “It’s your call, honey” he says and you look at the lady and smile as she offers her hand “we’ll take it.”

“How shall we split the payment?” You ask Bradley as you walk back to the Hard Deck after organising a meeting with the realtor to actually finalise all the kinks and bumps. “I don’t mind doing the down payment then we’ll take it in turn paying the loan” he suggests “we can get a joint bank account and do it that way” you say and he agrees as you settle back into your seats at the Hard Deck. “Where’ve you two been?” Hangman asks “we bought a house.”

One evening, after you were all moved in and were hanging out at the Hard Deck after a long day or routine flying, you were sat outside with Rooster; watching the sunset. “When are we getting married then?” You ask and he spits out his beer “what?” He asks, eyes wide and getting progressively more giddy. “Well we live together, we have a joint bank account, and Jake keeps telling me we’re practically married. So when are we getting married?” You ask as he hugs you tightly “whenever you want, baby” he says, kissing the top of your head and pulling a ring out of his pocket to get on his knee. “Will you marry me?” He asks and you raise a brow “didn’t I just say that?” You ask bluntly “just say yes, please” he begs and you nod “yes. Yes I will marry you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You confirm as he kisses your lips gently.

“Okay get off of me now.”

Pt. 2

[roosterforme]

Sugar and Lace | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Bradley had a hot wife. He went wild for you in your work clothes and his worn out shirts. You didn't need any bells and whistles to look sexy, and you never would. But now that he knew what you looked like in a little lace, he needed to have that version of you, too.

Warnings: Fluff, adult language, drinking

Length: 3000 words

Pairing: Beer Boy and Sugar! Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader (former fuckboy college student Bradley)

This is a one-shot to accompany my fics Old Habits Die Hard and Right Girl, Wrong Time but it can be read on its own! Check out my masterlist

Bradley looked at Jake over his beer, and Jake looked right back at him. The Hard Deck was virtually empty this early on a Saturday in the middle of the blazing summer heatwave, leaving the two of them very much alone together with their drinks.

"So..." Bradley said, tracing a line through the condensation on his half empty bottle. It wasn't that he disliked Jake. Not really. But he didn't know how many times he could be coerced into hanging out with him for the sake of you having a 'girls day'. It wasn't like he could complain about work to the person who annoyed the shit out of him at work yesterday.

"So..." Jake replied, picking up his drink and chugging it before signaling to Penny for two more. When he turned back, he had a smug little smile on his face that let Bradley know he was about to get annoyed again. "I'm assuming by the way your wife looks and how fucking pussy whipped you are that she has good taste in lingerie?"

Bradley sputtered, almost knocking his bottle off the high top. "Jesus fucking Christ, Hangman. What the hell kind of question is that?" He could feel heat rising in his cheeks at the memory of you prancing around the bedroom last weekend in a lacy tie dye bra and matching boy shorts. Everything you wore was sexy.

"That's obviously what they are out shopping for," Jake drawled, handing the empties to Penny as she dropped off fresh beers. Bradley waved two fingers in a half-hearted salute and then glared at Jake as he added, "Jessica specifically asked your wife to go with her. She told me she's picking out some things for the honeymoon, and you and I both know what that means. They are trying on lingerie." His smirk was back. "Together."

Bradley swallowed hard, digging his fist into his thigh. His teeth were clenched as he said, "Stop picturing my wife in lingerie."

All he got was a jovial laugh in response. "Tell me right now to my face that you're not picturing both of them wearing something tight, cropped and lacy, and I'll stop."

Bradley raked his fingers through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut against the mental image of you and Jessica in a cute little fitting room, laughing together. "God damn it, Hangman!"

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

You and Jessica were crammed into a fitting room together, trying not to laugh at the enormous stacks of cute things to try on. Your pile was on the left side of the decorative bench, and hers was on the right. You knew that Jessica Reed happened to collect lingerie in every color imaginable, but she was on a quest to find some unique things to take on her honeymoon. And you were on a quest to wow your husband with something more than a bra and boy shorts for once. 

Not that he complained. Not that he ever complained. Bradley went absolutely feral for you in your damn work clothes and loafers. He about lost his mind when you wore his ratty, old tie dye tee shirt to bed. He often sounded like he was going to need CPR when you put on his bathrobe and nothing else. It was hard to contain your smile when you just knew that something in this fitting room was going to blow his mind to the point that he would be rendered speechless.

"Try something on," Jessica suggested gently, and you took a step closer to your pile. "Then you'll get a better idea of what you like." 

There was red, green, black, white and pink fabric. There were nightgowns, thongs, bralettes and stockings. When you reached your hand out, you hesitated, confidence wavering. This seemed a lot more challenging than solving a linear algebra matrix.

Jessica whispered, "You'll look beautiful in anything, Advanced Calculus. I can promise you that." When you kind of shrugged in response, she said, "Do you want me to wait in line for my own fitting room so you can have more privacy?"

The two of you already agreed to help each other make selections, and the last thing you wanted was to keep opening the door so everyone else could see you wearing this stuff. "No. It's not that. I just... don't really own anything like this. I mean, I have a few things, but some of this is elaborate." You glanced at her over your shoulder and winced. "And this was supposed to be a shopping trip for you! For your honeymoon! Not for me."

She shushed you and then reached into your pile and pulled out a fairly innocuous looking nightie in a soft champagne color. "Start with this. Then you'll see how hot you look, and it'll be a gateway drug to you starting your own collection that will rival mine."

"I've seen your closet," you muttered, taking the hanger from her and holding the garment up in front of your body. It was pretty. The color even complimented your hair. It was a far cry from what you usually wore to bed, but you'd give it a shot.

When you started to undress, Jessica turned around and played with her phone, which you did appreciate. All of your bumps and lumps would be on display soon enough anyway, but at least you'd have a minute to straighten yourself out. The fabric was cool and slick against your skin, and you shivered as it settled high on your thighs. When you looked in the mirror and turned, you were pleasantly surprised with the result.

"It's not bad," you said, and she looked up and gasped, green eyes wide.

"It's perfect!"

"I wouldn't go that far," you muttered, smoothing your hands along your sides.

"Well, I would. And I'm sure Bradley would, too. Do you want me to take a picture on your phone?" she asked, and you nodded while she posed you with one hand on your hip. "Like I said, perfect," she muttered as she took the photo and then set your phone down again. "Try on something else."

"Okay," you whispered, reaching blindly into your pile and pulling out a black lace corset top.

Jessica jumped up and down and clapped her hands. "I love that one. I picked one up to try it on, too."

"I don't know about this," you said, holding it up in front of the nightie. "Not sure how Beer Boy is going to like it."

"You won't know until you try it on."

With those words of wisdom, you changed from the nightie to the corset, and your immediate thought was how cute this would look under your sweaters and tweed when you were at work. And it would feel amazing. It was snug and sexy, and somehow you felt like you could kick even more ass at work if you were wearing this thing.

"What the hell?" you whispered, and Jessica turned to look at you, clapping her hands once again. "I feel like I have super powers."

"Because you do! Look at you! Please let me take another picture of you to send to Bradley."

This time you posed yourself and turned so your tattoos were visible through the lace cutout on the side. Then you stood there and admired yourself before saying, "I'm definitely buying this. Catch me wearing it to work under my cardigans in the fall."

Jessica started digging into her own pile now as you changed from the corset into a bodysuit, but when she met your eyes in the mirror, she looked like she was going to freak out.

"What?" you asked. "The bodysuit looks that bad?"

She shook her head, and pressed her lips together before almost shouting, "When were you going to tell me you have a math tattoo?"

"Oh," you replied, not sure you'd ever heard her voice reach that octave before. "Euler's Identity? I've had it since I was nineteen."

"I love how you embrace your inner nerd," she said as if she was in awe of you, and you started laughing which made her laugh. "Now send those pictures to your husband and let that man worship you."

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

Bradley had just buried his face in his hands while Jake laughed when his phone went off. You hadn't even bothered to inform him that your little 'girls day outing' was a quest to make sure Jake enjoyed his honeymoon with Jessica. Honestly, Bradley kind of hoped the other man was correct in his assessment that you'd be shopping for something for yourself, too. Not that you needed it. Holy shit, you still looked like the girl he fell in love with over a decade ago whenever you wore his old Grateful Dead shirt or his robe around the house.

But now he wanted something special, too. Why should Jake get to have all the fun when it came to having his partner all wrapped up in a pretty package that was specifically meant to be removed?

"Sugar," he grunted when he saw that you'd texted him. Jake was rambling about something across the table, but Bradley couldn't hear him. He could no longer hear anything. He couldn't process thoughts or form words. All he could do was stare at the two photos you'd sent to him. "Oh, fuck."

In the first one, you were wearing a shimmery light gold colored thing that looked soft. Like maybe almost as soft as your skin. His heart hammered up into his ears as he examined every inch of it on your curves. Your nipples were pebbled against the fabric, and he could practically feel them between his lips. When he swiped to look at the second one, he abruptly stood from his stool with his phone gripped tight in his hand, eyes bugging out.

"Let me guess... your wife sent you photos?" Jake asked, clearly amused.

Instead of verbally responding, Bradley made sure his phone was tipped away from Jake as he zoomed in for a closer look. Holy hell. Your tits were being pushed up in the sexiest black lace he had ever seen. It was sinful, and now he was imagining you wearing it under one of your tweed blazers while giving a lecture. He swallowed hard, realizing he could see the tiniest bit of your tattoos through the little cutout on the side, and he actually whimpered.

"Yeah... she definitely sent you photos," Jake murmured as his own phone chimed. "Oh, Jess just sent me five."

"How did you get five?" Bradley complained, swiping back and forth, desperately looking for more. "I only got two!" 

It was then that he noticed you texted him after you sent the pictures.

What do you think, Beer Boy?

Bradley laughed a bit maniacally. What did he think about the lingerie? Ha! He could barely think at all! He paced back and forth a bit, sweating as he wrote back.

You look fucking hot as hell, Sugar. If you don't bring that black top home, I think you'll break my heart.

Bradley cringed, because now Jake was the one who was whimpering. "They're sharing a fitting room," he whispered, and Bradley's eyes went wide with the realization that Jessica must have taken the photos for you. Then his eyes narrowed as he reached for Jake's phone.

"You better not be able to see Sugar in any of the pictures!"

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

You and Jessica were wearing matching fluffy robes and sorting through everything you'd already tried on.

"You have to get that thing," you told her, pointing to the garters and stockings. "It fits you like a glove."

She nodded and added it to her 'yes' pile. "And you have to get the thong and bustier," she replied.

"I'm already buying four things," you reminded her. The bustier was nice, and your breasts looked good in it, but you didn't love the color very much. Besides, there was one last thing you hadn't tried on for fear of looking or feeling ridiculous, but there was a part of your brain that just knew your husband would love it.

"Missed one!" Jessica said, pulling on the bright pink fabric like she could read your mind. Always the best cheerleader, she held it up in front of your body and nodded. "It's bold, but I think you can pull it off."

You took it from her, but looked at yourself skeptically in the mirror. "I don't know... it's going to look bad. Like I'm trying too hard. I don't know why I even picked it up."

But you did know. Bradley was attracted to you in that dumb tie dye shirt like you were some sort of exotic bird whenever you put it on. All of the bright colors swirled into something that just lured him right to you. Part of it was nostalgia, sure, but you felt like there was something more as well.

"Actually, I do know why I picked it up," you told Jessica, holding the chemise closer to yourself. "Bradley really likes it when I wear his old shirt that I kind of held hostage for ten years. It's vibrant and bright, and I think this is the sort of thing he might enjoy?" You pursed your lips and sighed. "But, maybe I'm wrong, because he also just seems to like me how I am. No frills, you know? He's always been that way."

Jessica smiled. "Yes, I understand. And I hope you realize that you just described a man who is desperately in love with you, not just how you look. Sounds like the kind of man you should spoil a little bit." She tugged gently on the chemise and added, "This is a far cry from a tee shirt, but you won't know how you feel about it until you try it on."

"You're right."

Once you were out of the robe, you pulled the stretchy lace over your body, and gaped at the deep neckline as Jessica tied the satin ribbons around the back of your neck. You hadn't noticed before, but there were some yellow and orange threads woven in, making delicate swirls in the fabric. Almost like a different kind of tie dye. It actually looked stunning on you, and as you turned from side to side, you already knew you had to have it.

"I'm obsessed," Jessica said, bouncing excitedly as she clapped her hands together. "Should I take one last round of photos for you to send to Bradley?"

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

Bradley was lightheaded. He sweat through his shirt, and he had his forehead cradled in his hand as he opened three photos of you wearing something so bright and pink and sexy, he wanted to lick it off of you. Everything was covered up, but barely. In the one shot, he could almost see your ass. In another, he could definitely see your pert nipples. In the other one, he could make out part of your titty tattoos.

It was a good thing Jake was staring at his own phone in amazement, because Bradley was pretty sure he was drooling and incapable of formulating a sentence. He had already written back to you, begging you to buy the pink thing. Telling you he needed it. Letting you know he wanted to peel is slowly off of your body in bed later. In fact, the last thing he sent was 'Buy everything in that whole fucking store, money is no object'. And he meant every word. 

Bradley had been crazy about you for so long, and most of the appeal came from how smart you are and the fact that you weren't fussy. You let him dote on you in your work outfits. You wore his clothing around the house. You didn't need all the bells and whistles to be sexy, and you never would.

But now that he knew exactly what you looked like in black satin and colorful lace, he needed to have that version of you, too. He needed it.

"Since when does your wife have tattoos?"

Those words snapped Bradley out of his lust filled stupor, and his brown eyes bore into Jake's green ones. How did he know about your titty tattoos? When his gaze drifted back to his phone, he turned the screen toward Bradley with a grin. Apparently you had taken a photo of Jessica, in which your reflection was visible in the fitting room mirror. You were wearing a bra, and you were as covered up as you would be for a beach day, but Bradley loathed the idea of Jake having any sort of access to those tattoos.

"Hey!" Jake complained as Bradley snatched the phone and deleted the photo. "What the fuck, Bradshaw? I wanted that picture of Jessica! You could have just cropped it."

"Hey, boys!"

Bradley turned in time to toss Jake's phone aside as Jessica headed through the nearly empty bar with you following behind her. There were two enormous shopping bags in your hands, and you had a smile on your face as you asked, "Ready to go home, Beer Boy?"

"Hell yes," he murmured, closing the distance to your lips and kissing you hard. "Did you buy that pink thing? And the black one?"

His hands wound around your waist possessively, and he got even more excited as you tucked the bags behind your back and whispered, "There's only one way to find out."

Bradley started guiding you to the door. "Yeah. We're going home. Right now." He ran his nose along your cheek and gave you one more sweet kiss before shouting over his shoulder, "Thanks for the beers, Bagman. Oh, and Jessica, I need you to crop your photos better next time you take my wife shopping."

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

I love Beer Boy for making Sugar feel so good about herself every day. She's a badass, and he knows it. I wrote this as a little wedding treat for @je-suis-prest-rachel Congratulations, Rachel! And thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls

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[appocalipse]

no pilots allowed • bradley bradshaw

Rooster and his teammates are frequent patrons at your aunt's bar, the Hard Deck, while they're training for a dangerous mission. When he asks you out on a date, the two of you jokingly agree to keep it friendly, never cross certain lines…but Rooster has other ideas.

"Do you ever sleep?"

You don't look up from the glass you're polishing, but your mouth twitches into a faint smile...the same way it always does when he shows up at the Hard Deck this early.

"We're not open for, like, another few hours," you tell Rooster, as if he doesn't know that already. You can hear him approaching the bar from behind, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor, making his way through the quiet, mostly-empty room.

You're not supposed to let people in before hours, technically. Especially not good-looking naval aviators who will inevitably distract you a little more than you'd like to admit, but...

"Then what are you doing here?" he asks.

You look up at him. He's taken off his aviators, his dark eyes watching you rather intently. His posture is casual, his tall frame leaning against the counter.

You set down the glass you've been polishing and reach for another one, returning your attention to your task. "Someone has to make sure everything's ready before we open."

He gives you a slow, easy smile. "Mind if I help?"

"Help?"

"Yeah." He looks around the bar as if trying to figure out where to start. "What do you need me to do?"

"Aren't you tired from training?"

"I'm fine," he says, not convincing you in the slightest. "Seriously. What do you need?"

You set down the glass. A small part of you can't resist the chance to keep him around longer.

"I'll feel bad if I make you work," it sounds like you're reasoning with yourself.

Rooster grins. "Then don't make me work. It's my idea."

"My aunt will kill me if she catches you in here, especially if you're working."

"She won't know."

Well...there are some heavy crates that need to be brought in from the storage room, bottles of alcohol that need to be placed on the shelves, tables that need to be wiped down...

The heavy ones. Oh, the heavy ones are tempting.

"You're a menace," you tell him, though it comes out sounding more like a compliment than an insult. It's hard to offend him anyway, you've found; he seems to take everything you say in stride, regardless of whether you mean it or not.

He smiles at you, unfazed. "Is that a yes?"

"What are you doing here so early anyway? You and your team don't usually show up until well after dark."

"Do I need a reason?"

"It's early. You can't be that bored already."

"Maybe I just wanted to see you."

Boy, is he good.

Not falling for it is a challenge every time. You wonder if Rooster knows that, if he gets a kick out of it the way Hangman does when he flirts with every pretty girl who crosses his path. The difference is, Hangman's flirting is playful, an intentional provocation that you can take as a compliment or blow off with a laugh.

Rooster's flirting is different. It's always delivered in that same deep, mellow voice of his, a warm baritone that reminds you of dark whiskey on a cold night, and he has a way of saying things that makes you think he might actually mean them.

"...you don't have to sweet-talk me," you tell him. "I already let you in."

He grins at you. "Who says I'm sweet-talking?"

You turn back to your task of polishing glasses so he won't see the smile you can't contain. That's it, you think. New rule: no more letting him in early. He's too distracting.

"Am I being kicked out?" Rooster asks, amused.

"Yes."

"Really?"

You try not to laugh. "No. But you really don't have to help."

He straightens up from the bar and stretches his arms, yawning. "Where's Penny? Did she leave you here to do all this by yourself?"

"Visiting her mother with Amelia. She'll be back later. I offered to cover while she's gone," maybe out of boredom or some desperation for human contact, but it sounded like a good idea at the time, you just didn't realize it would involve so much work. "The other waitresses will be here, um, soon, I guess, once it gets closer to opening time."

You don't want to admit you're a little intimidated by the responsibility. You've only been working at the Hard Deck for a few months now, having moved here from halfway across the country, and most of that time has been spent behind the bar or taking orders on your notepad, doing the tasks Penny asked you to do, and nothing more. Now that she's away for a few days, you're starting to feel a little overwhelmed with the amount of work that needs to be done.

"You look tired," Rooster observes.

"Thanks."

"I mean it in a good way."

"It doesn't sound good."

"You always look nice," he clarifies, to your mild embarrassment and surprise. "I just mean you seem like you could use some help."

You don't meet his gaze because, no, you're not going to be distracted by those brown eyes again, it's bad enough already. "I...okay. The delivery truck is supposed to arrive soon, so...there are a lot of crates that need to be brought inside. And some in the storage room that I need to bring here to the bar. Some of them are really heavy. I'm not even sure how Penny brings them in by herself."

"Let me take care of that for you."

Let me take care of that for you, says he, like it's no big deal.

"There are some boxes of liquor that need to be taken out of the storage room and brought in here, too," you continue, despite your better judgment, still watching him out of the corner of your eye.

He gives you another slow smile. "Okay. Where is this storage room?"

"There's a door behind the bar. To the right. I'll help you carry them."

"You don't have to."

"I'll show you where they are. And it's gonna be easier if there are two of us."

He looks at you with a knowing smile. "Is that why you want to come along? So you can make sure I don't get distracted and break anything?"

"Exactly."

"I think you're just making excuses to spend time with me."

Does he really have to keep looking at you like that?

"Rooster," you say, as firmly as you can manage.

"Yes?" It doesn't seem to bother him that you're trying to scold him. In fact, you think he's enjoying it.

You walk backwards behind the bar to lead him toward the storage room, pausing when you reach the door. You let out a sigh. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

"Really?" He grins at you, putting his hands in his pockets. "I thought I was being very nice."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Yeah."

"Crates," you say, gesturing to the storage room and changing the subject before he can talk his way into any more compliments. "In there, by the wall. The smaller boxes on the shelves are for the bar. We'll bring them in after we move the big crates. The ones with the heavy bottles inside."

Rooster pauses. "'We'?"

"I can't let you carry all of those by yourself. They're heavy."

"That's cute. But I can handle it."

"No. Not by yourself."

He gives you a confident grin. "Watch me."

The moment he disappears into the storage room, you start to regret saying anything at all. You're not entirely sure what possessed you to let him help you with this; he must have gotten to your head. There are plenty of things you could be doing right now while he's out of sight, and yet...you decide to stand there in the doorway, watching him take inventory of the room, squinting in the dim light and trying to decide where to start.

It's not like you can just leave him to it. It would be too embarrassing if he hurt himself and you did nothing. The best way to keep an eye on him is to stay close by.

Right?

Rooster lets out a groan as he heaves one of the large crates up off the floor. "You weren't kidding," he mutters. "These are heavy."

"Let me—"

"I've got it."

He doesn't let you help him. He lifts the crate off the ground with another grunt, and you're distracted for a moment by the sight of his muscular arms flexing under the strain, the tight white t-shirt he's wearing pulled even tighter across his chest, the—

"Y/N?"

"Hm?" You look up quickly. "What?"

He grins at you. "Want to open the door for me?"

Fuck, you think, not for the first time that day, stepping out of the way to let him through.

You grab a smaller crate for yourself. It's not as heavy as the one Rooster is carrying, but you still strain a little under the weight of it, and Rooster still gives you a disapproving look when he notices.

"I told you," he says, slightly out of breath from his own effort, "you don't have to help."

"It's literally my job to help," you mutter. "Actually, it's my job to carry them all myself, so—"

"I got it."

"Yeah, but I can—"

"You can relax," he tells you, letting out a small groan as he heaves the crate up a little higher. "And go back to what you were doing."

It would be easier to protest if he didn't make it look so effortless. He carries the crate out of the storage room and sets it on the floor near the bar with a thud, barely breaking a sweat.

Your fingers dig into the rough edges of your own crate, which seems ten times heavier all of a sudden. You set it down next to his, more carefully than he did, glancing over at him to see if he noticed.

He looks down at the crate you just set on the floor, then over at you with barely concealed amusement. "Not bad," he says. "You could handle that all by yourself?"

"Shut up."

"No, really." He's not trying to hide his smile anymore. "Impressive."

The laugh you let out is entirely involuntary, equal parts embarrassed and amused. "Okay, fine, I get it," you say. "You're strong. You go get the rest of them while I finish wiping down the tables."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you."

"Any time."

It's fine, you tell yourself as he heads back into the storage room. Rooster being in here won't distract you. It's fine. Everything is fine.

The delivery truck arrives shortly after Rooster has brought in the last of the crates to the bar, so you spend the next hour opening the boxes and sorting the bottles, filling the shelves behind the bar with whiskey and rum and vodka, gin and tequila and other liquors...and totally not stealing glances at Rooster as he carries the crates from the truck into the storage room.

You've found a rhythm by the time he returns from the truck for the final time, wiping your hands on your apron as you watch him approach the bar.

"I think that's all of them," he says, letting out a groan as he stretches his arms above his head.

The nerve, you think, resisting the urge to stare. The absolute nerve.

"Thank you."

He lowers his arms. "I never said it was for free."

"What?"

Rooster leans forward and props his elbows on the bar, the same cocky grin from earlier playing at his lips. "There's a price for my help."

"A price?" you ask, still polishing the same glass you've been working on since he arrived. "And what's that?"

"...a drink."

Well, that's easy.

"A drink? You want me to pay you a drink?"

"Ah, no, no," he says with a laugh, waving his hand like the idea is ridiculous. "I want you to let me buy you a drink."

Oh.

"Oh."

"And something to eat, too," he adds, and by the time you recover from the initial shock of what he's suggesting, he's already standing up straight again. "What time do you get off work?"

"No."

"No?" He looks at you in surprise.

"I can't," but you're only barely resisting.

"You can."

"Rooster."

He frowns. "What?"

"I..." Why is this so hard? "I can't go out with you. It's—I can't."

"Why not?"

You feel tempted. Boy, are you tempted. You're smiling even as you shake your head, trying to focus on polishing the glass in your hands. "Because I actually...like you."

Rooster pauses, his smile returning. "You can't go out with me because you like me?"

"This heart," you tap your fingers on your chest, smiling still, "is off limits, okay? No pilots allowed."

The tables are clean and the bar is stocked and organized, but you need to do something else, anything else, if only to avoid Rooster's gaze. You slip the cloth you've been using into your apron pocket and look around for another task. There must be something you missed. Anything.

Tables, yeah. You can wipe down the tables again.

"Okay," he says slowly, clearly not convinced, "so let me get this straight: You like me, therefore you're not allowed to go out with me?"

You nod. "Exactly."

"Are you kidding?"

You take the cloth out of your apron pocket again and glance around the bar, searching for any traces of dust on the tables or chairs that might need to be wiped down.

"Y/N?"

You've already gone over the tables once...

Rooster steps closer. "You know that makes no sense, right?"

You're not distracted by the sight of his hand sliding onto the countertop next to you. You're not distracted by the sudden proximity of him as he leans in closer. It's fine, it's not a problem, you can deal with this.

"So...you're saying you do want to go out with me," he says, sounding far too pleased with himself, "but you won't?"

He's so close. He smells good, like pine and leather. You glance over at him, realizing how little space there is between you now, and quickly look away.

"That's—I don't..."

"Because you like me."

"Shut up."

His gaze drops to your mouth. "Make me."

You swallow. Hard.

It takes a monumental amount of willpower to step away from him, to resist the temptation to touch him or get closer, but you manage. Barely. You make yourself focus on the task you've found for yourself, pretending that Rooster isn't standing behind you watching as you wipe down the tables a second time.

"I think we should go out," he says again, obviously not taking your silence for the no it's supposed to be. "There's a place downtown that I think you'd like."

You chuckle, which probably doesn't help matters, but...it's really hard to say no to him.

"Would I?"

He must have sensed weakness because he follows you around the bar as you continue your pointless cleaning. "Today is one of the last days we have off," he tells you. "Maverick has us in the air all day tomorrow, and most of the day after that. If we don't go out tonight, who knows when we'll have another chance...or how long it'll be before I see you again."

"Rooster..."

"Come on," he says, more gently this time. "One drink. Or maybe dinner. Nothing too fancy. I promise."

You pause and glance over at him. He really doesn't know when to quit. "But it's not a date."

"No. Totally not."

You don't like how much it sounds like he's laughing at you.

"Really?"

"Not even close," he says, like he's serious. "It's a totally not date between two friends."

He follows you, like a puppy, around the bar, until you pause again, thinking it over for what feels like the millionth time in the last few minutes. One drink, he said.

Not a date.

...just two friends hanging out.

No feelings involved.

You sigh, letting the cloth in your hand drop to the table, giving in to the inevitable. "Fine," you say, turning around to face him. "But it's not a date."

"No."

"Or a first date."

"Right."

"And it's just one drink."

"I swear."

"And we can't—we can't..." You can't help but notice the way he's looking at you, his brown eyes full of mischief, a hint of that playful smile on his lips again, and you're suddenly worried he might get the wrong idea about this whole thing. "No...you know."

His eyes linger on your mouth again before meeting your gaze with a sly smile. "No...what?"

"You know."

"I really don't."

"It's not a date."

He chuckles softly at your obvious distress, clearly enjoying this. "Okay, it's not a date."

"Exactly. So don't do anything you'd do if it was a date."

He steps closer, grinning, the space between you evaporating again. "And what is it," he asks in that deep voice of his, a low rumble that resonates somewhere in the pit of your stomach, "that you think I would do on a date?"

The table behind you feels like it's digging into your back.

"No kissing."

"Got it," he says, resting one hand on the table behind you, "no kissing."

"Or any other...date stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like..." You glance at his mouth.

Rooster smiles. "You want to make a list?"

You duck under his arm before he can do something that will get you in trouble. "I'll meet you after work," you tell him over your shoulder as you walk back toward the bar, desperate for some space before you lose your resolve altogether. "Just...stop talking. You're distracting me."

He turns and watches you, amused. "Okay. Pick you up at seven?"

You wonder if it's too late to back out of this, or if he's going to show up here at seven with that stupid smile of his and his ridiculous mustache and ruin everything anyway.

"You don't have to pick me up," you mutter, wiping your hands on your apron one more time, unable to hide your smile. "It's not a date, remember?"

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

Oh, he's impossible.

"It's not a date!"

[sometimesanalice]

Between Friends

Summary: Bradley and you don’t talk about that Spring Break. But a single question asked during a night out at the Hard Deck might just change things between the two of you forever.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 11K

Warning: smut (including loss of virginity), brief mention of underage drinking, and college!bradley in a backwards hat

(Author's note: Happy Birthday Jordan! I wrote this just for you! Look at me keeping secrets from you! Enjoy!)

𝐍𝐎𝐖

Rooster couldn’t control his bouncing leg.

That night at the Hard Deck had started out like any other: good music, good drinks, good people. Over the course of the evening, he’d found himself seated between you and Bob in a lopsided circle with the rest of the Daggers around a few tall tables that had been pushed together just shooting the shit.

It was all fun and games until swapping stories about embarrassing middle school moments turned into cringing over first kiss stories turned into Seresin grinning like a shark asking about how everyone’s first time went down.

Rooster felt his pulse kick up with every collective laugh and groan as his friends went one by one sharing how they’d lost their virginities. Because with each passing story, it meant that you were one person closer to going. And for the first time in his life- even after over two decades of friendship- he didn’t know what your answer was going to be.

So he is just as shocked as his teammates are when you tentatively reveal, “So, um, my first time was with Rooster.” He doesn’t miss the way all his friends’ heads snap towards him. 

All eyes are on the two of you, and you’re pointedly looking anywhere but him.

Rooster had been anxiously waiting to hear the story of your first official time, the one that was with someone who wasn’t him. He didn’t realize that you still considered him your first.  He’d figured that part of your history had long been overwritten by whoever had been lucky enough to catch your eye and make your heart race in a romantic way.

The two of you had never talked about it in the after.

Not once, not ever.

He didn’t care that people knew, he just wasn’t expecting it.

Jake starts the group out of its stunned silence by slapping a heavy hand on top of the table, nearly sending some bottles to the floor, “I knew it! I knew y’all couldn’t have been friends all this time and not have tried it out at least once.”

“Jesus Christ, dude, chill,” Javy mutters. He’s always been the better of the two about reading the room.

Trying to spare you from being put on the spot even more than you already were now, Rooster mumbles through the way he’d lost his to a girl from his AP Econ class after a playoff baseball game.

He stares at the way you’re nervously picking at the label of the Blue Moon he’d grabbed for you when he went to get a refill of his own. He can practically hear the way your brain is buzzing. He wonders if you wish you could take back the words from where they are sitting on the table with the collection of bottles and peanut shells for everyone to see.

Bob being the team player that he is starts talking about how he’d lost his one summer in college to another camp counselor, going into more detail than he’s ever given before, probably trying to redirect the attention to himself to give the two of you a moment to regroup.

Rooster makes a mental note to tell Penny to put all of Bob’s cream sodas from now on on his own tab.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do here. Or where to look. Or where to put his hands. He wants to talk to you, but there’s no good way for him to go about it without drawing even more attention to the two of you.

You were supposed to be going on a first date tonight, but he’d talked you into canceling to hang out with him instead. He likes having all of your attention on him. And maybe he’s been a little selfish with you, because he doesn’t like to share you with anyone else. You’ve always been his best friend.

Rooster likes that he gets to talk to you whenever he wants now, and that it doesn’t feel like a never-ending game of catch up anymore. In the year since the Uranium mission, he’d felt like all the fragmented pieces of his life had finally come together. He’d reconnected with Mav, he was living in the same city as his best friend, and he had a place he could finally call home.

He didn’t just want the highlights with you, he wanted everything in between too. There’s no more distance due to time zones and scheduling times to call because now you only live 20 minutes away from him. And the next time he comes home from a deployment, he knows he’ll get to look forward to seeing you there waiting for him.

He feels like he’s learned so much more about the grown-up version of you over the last year than he has in the last ten.

Jake jumps in barely a breath after Bob finishes telling his story. “Well, we all know it’s not the first who matters, but who was the best.” Rooster doesn’t trust the gleam in his eyes or the sharp smile on his face. “Since Bradshaw cut you off before, how’s about you go first this time, darlin’. You can tell us about who knocked your socks off. Maybe this time he’ll let you finish, if you know what I mean.”

It’s thinly veiled snooping disguised as chivalry, and it doesn’t fool anyone. Nat’s eyes dart to him briefly, trying to get a read on him.

He’d been 21 at the time. And while he knows more now that he did then, he also knows his name isn’t going to be coming out of your mouth for a second time tonight.

Rooster takes a sip of his beer, needing something to do.

He knows you’ve been with other people. You’d lived with your ex for over a couple years, for fuck's sake. But it was like an unspoken agreement between the two of you to not talk about your sex lives with each other.

His leg starts bouncing again and he realizes he really doesn’t want to hear this. Not because of his ego, but because he doesn’t know what to do about the knot that’s formed in his stomach.

Your mouth opens and closes a couple times before you speak, “That title would also go to Rooster.” The admission is soft, but sure. 

Where his heart had been pounding before, now it feels like it had stopped completely.

It’s been 13 years since that Spring Break. 13 years and he’s still your best?

Barely five minutes ago, he hadn’t known where to look. But now? Now he couldn’t stop staring at you.

He just didn’t understand why you still wouldn’t look at him back.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊, 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟎

When you’d floated the idea by Bradley about visiting him at UVA for Spring Break during your weekly phone call, you’d been braced for the disappointment of him already having plans. It was his Senior year, it wouldn’t surprise you if he wanted to go out with a bang and make the most of it. Especially since he would belong to the Navy soon enough.

But he’d taken you by surprise when he started enthusiastically listing off all the places he wanted to show you, planning out your trip like a well-seasoned travel agent before you’d even booked a plane ticket.

You’d started looking up airfare before you’d even hung up the phone. And thirty minutes later you had a confirmation email flagged in your inbox after elatedly charging that aisle seat to the credit card you only used for emergencies.

It had been close to a year since you’d last seen him. He usually spent his Winter Break with your family, but this year he’d stayed on campus for the holidays and it was the longest the two of you had ever been apart since you’d first met him when you were 8.

And maybe that’s why it took you so long to spot him in the Arrivals area of the Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport.

You’ve always prided yourself in being able to pick Bradley out of a crowd anywhere, but in your cursory glance you hadn’t recognized the tall, broad guy with the UVA shirt pulled taut across his chest and wearing a baseball hat backward on his head. It wasn’t until your third searching pass that you’d caught the lips that were quirked up in amusement and those familiar brown eyes trained on you as he leaned ever-so-casually against the faux wood paneling on the wall waiting for you to notice him.

He’d filled out in the months since you’d last seen him. He was more toned than you remembered him being with definition in places where there hadn’t been before. His face had more distinct angles and less baby fat cushioned curves. Still a bit boyish, but he was well on his way to looking like a man.

Bradley raised his hand like he was going to wave, but then he’d mimicked casting a fishing line in your direction and reeling it in. And it was so endearingly stupid- so him- that you couldn’t help but take the bait and made your way towards him with the biggest grin on your face.

You’d ignored the jittery flutter in your stomach as you’d weaved between people and luggage. You’ve never been nervous around your best friend before. There was something that had on your mind a lot as the days to your visit inched closer, but you’d shoved that out of your mind, because you were finally standing in front of him in person for the first time in months. 

“Hey, kid,” he’d greeted you, taking your bag, “Charlottesville must have known you were coming, because she’s going to be sunny for you all week.” As soon as you were within arm’s reach, he tugged you right into his chest for a hug. You could feel the unspoken I missed you in the way he squeezed you just that bit tighter before releasing you.

Then he was dropping an arm over your shoulders and steering you towards the exit and driving you into town in the beat-up car he’d bought after selling his prized Montero, the car that Mav had given him for his birthday.

You’re only there for a week and Bradley doesn’t waste a single moment of it.

After dropping your things off in his dorm room, he takes you straight to campus where he gives you the Official Bradley Bradshaw Certified UVA Tour. He buys you lunch from one of the food trucks in the Amphitheater “for sustenance” before taking you to see the highlights. You start with the Rotunda and then the academic village, making a special pitstop at the Whispering Wall for you to tell it a secret. And then he takes you on a more historical tour, like showing you the exact route he used to streak The Lawn and pointing out the place he’d puked after his 21st birthday.

It’s clear he’d put so much thought into your visit because it seems like there is never a down moment. By the end of the third day you’re more surprised that you don't wake up every morning with a printed itinerary on your pillow.

He sneaks you into the Slaughter Rec Center to rock climb, claiming he had a person on the inside with the right connections. But really from what you could tell, the pretty girl at the check-in counter clearly had a crush on him. He takes you to the batting cages he likes to go to before Dead Week, and spends the time there equal parts making fun of your power swing and trying to fix it.

You get your revenge the next day standing outside of the imposing columns and massive doors to the Fralin Art Museum. Skeptically eyeing the sculpture in the front of the building that kind of looked like a giant wisdom tooth, you mentioned, “I didn’t realize you’d become such a patron of the cultural arts.”

“Hey now, I like artsy shit,” he’d said, only mildly affronted.

You snorted at that. “Is there an exhibit on beer pong and blunt rolling you wanted to see?” Through the window you’d spotted some large landscape oil paintings in ornate gilded frames and carved marble busts of what you assumed were probably of some of the Founding Fathers.

“You just missed that one, it was last month,” Bradley lobbed back, opening the door for you.

“What a pity,” you’d said with a dramatic sigh, “Guess we’ll have to settle for some tasteful nudes instead.”

“If we’re lucky,” he’d muttered under his breath, as you passed under his arm.

And then you’d felt the corners of your mouth kick up.

Turning around you’d pressed your finger to his chest, whispering so the person behind the ticket desk didn’t hear you, “Twenty bucks says you don’t make it thirty minutes in there.”

He narrowed his eyes, taking in your sly grin, “You’re on, kid.”

It’s the easiest $20 you’ve ever made.

The two of you call it a truce only after he tips your kayak into the still chilly Rivanna River.

Later that night, he takes you to a party on “Mad Bowl” that one of his frat friends was hosting. The backyard was all strung up with red and green Christmas lights like they had been too lazy to take them down after the holidays and decided it added to the outdoor ambiance instead of packing them away.

He was still just as protective over you as he was back in high school. Spending the whole night keeping an eye on you and handing you drinks that he’d uncapped himself using the opener that he had on his keychain, the one that still had the little fighter jet charm you’d given him ages ago dangling from it.

The days pass all too quickly as he shows you all of his favorite spots.

You knew UVA wasn’t where he’d originally wanted to be- where he thought he’d be- but you were happy that he seemed happy here.

But in between the late-night microwave ramen and movie watching and crossing off all the things on Bradley’s Spring Break To-Do List, there’d been something you’d been wanting to talk to him about. But you were having so much fun with him, you’d missed your best friend over those long months apart, and you didn’t want to ruin the time you had left with him here.

It lingered at the back of your mind like a phantom hair that you can feel, but can’t ever seem to brush off no matter how many times you attempt to. You felt like you were waiting for the right time that you weren’t sure would ever come. And if you were being honest, you weren’t entirely sure you would even be brave enough to ask if the time came.

The two of you had woken up way before the sun this morning.

If anyone other than Bradley had asked you to wake up before 5 AM to go hike to watch the sunrise, you would have laughed at them. But because it was Bradley, you’d set the alarm without comment. Even though he did have to gently pry you out of his roommate’s bed- with the fresh sheets he told you he bought especially for your visit- and lace up your shoes for you.

The views at Humpback Rock had been worth the hour hike up to the outcrop of craggy rocks. The sunrise painted them a stunning shade of soft orange as the rays illuminated evergreen covered hills and valleys that extended in front of you to the skyline. You and Bradley watched it in silence, shoulders pressed against each other  as you took it all in.

You’re cozied up on your bed for the week, flipping through a book you’d brought with you, but hadn’t touched at all until now when Bradley comes back from the showers. His hair is still damp and the ends are starting to curl a bit.  

He drops a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the nightstand next to you.

You hadn’t been sure what rooming with him would be like, the two of you together 24/7 since his roommate had left to go home for the break.  But it felt like you were two kids at sleepaway camp getting away with mischief rather than two broke college students only pretending to get away with mischief.

He sits down at the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his thighs, “So.”

“So?” you repeat, blowing on the hot coffee before taking a sip.

“Are you going to tell me what’s been up with you?”

You wince, and it’s not because the coffee tastes like tar. 

“What do you mean?” you try to ask casually.

Bradley gives you a look that says you don’t fool me, kid. “You’ve been squirrely. I didn’t want to press it, but I can tell there’s something on your mind.” He takes a sip of his own milky battery acid. “Are classes going better since you switched majors?”

You nod, looking anywhere else other than at him.

“How are things with your Dad?”

You offer him a shrug.

He sighs your name in exasperation. You can tell he is trying to tamper his frustration at your lack of cooperation.

“Is it a guy?” Bradley tries again.

You swear you feel your heart stop, because you knew what you wanted to ask him, but you didn’t know how he was going to take it.

You fiddle with a string on his roommate’s comforter. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” you admit, tentatively, “But I’m nervous.”

Bradley’s eyebrows pull together as he sets his coffee aside, “C’mon, it’s just me. You can talk to me about anything.”

“It’s more of a question.” One you’re still deflecting from asking.

“Ok, well you know you can ask me anything.” His tiny dorm room feels even smaller as the two of you try to read the other’s face.

Taking a deep breath, you ask the question that’s been rattling around in your brain for weeks.

“Bradley, I was wondering if you’d be my first?”

Less than ten words. That’s all it takes to tilt Bradley’s world off its axis.

He’s loved getting to show you around UVA this week. It wasn’t where he thought he’d end up, but he hadn’t lost sight of where he was going. He was going to be a Naval Aviator one way or another. He just also got to have a normal college experience too, one he’d been excited to share with you.

Bradley had originally been invited to go stay with one of his friends at his family’s beach house, but when you called and asked about coming to visit Charlottesville, it was an easy choice for him. He’d pick you every time.

It had been even better getting to cross off some of the things on the bucket list he’d made for his Senior Year with you in tow, like the hike he’d taken you on this morning.

He loves the views from up there and thought it would be something you’d like too, but he’d never done the hike early enough to catch the sunrise before. It was actually something he was planning on going the morning of graduation as a symbolic way to end his time at UVA, but getting to do it with you was special in its own way.

And while he’d caught you lost in thought more than a few times over the last few days as he showed you around, he never in a million years would have ever expected you to ask him that.

Bradley knows all the words you just used, but they don’t make sense to him in that order.

His brain is working in overdrive trying to figure out if there is any possible way he could have misinterpreted you.

“Your first…”

You take another deep breath and tip your chin up in resolve before looking him dead in the eye, there’s so much vulnerability reflected in them, “I haven’t had sex before, Bradley. And I’m really hoping that my first time can be with you.”

Bradley wants to tell you to put your Styrofoam cup down because he’s worried the tight grip you have on it might crush it, but he feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

He didn’t realize when his leg started bouncing until he sees you glance down at it.

Shooting to his feet and off his bed, he goes to lean against his recently decluttered desk. There’s too much restless energy coursing through him to just sit like he isn’t completely reeling. 

“Shouldn’t you want to do this with someone special? Like with rose petals and all that shit?” He scrubs a hand over his face. Rose petals and all that shit? God, he sounds like such a fucking dumbass, but he’s struggling to keep up.

And if he’s being entirely honest, he’s pretty surprised to learn you’re still a virgin. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but he knows you’ve had at least one serious boyfriend since you’ve gone to college. He figured that you got asked out all the time. He saw the way that some of the guys in his buddy’s frat were looking at the pretty girl with the dimples and big smile.

The girl who just asked him to be her first.

He hates the way your shoulders have slumped forward, like you’re trying not to cave in on yourself, “So, you don’t want to?”

“I didn’t say that.” His answer takes him by surprise.

The only other sound in the room other than his pounding heart is the whir of the air circulating in his dorm. 

“Would it help to make a pro con list?” you offer, less than helpfully with a little shrug.

“Jesus Christ,” Bradley mutters under his breath, looking up at the speckled ceiling trying to decode the flecks like tea leaves. “She’s cracking jokes like she didn’t ask me to make her come.”

“Technically, I didn’t say anything about that. I just asked you to be my first.”

“I’m not taking your virginity and not giving you an orgasm,” he states, and your eyes get wide. He runs his hands through his hair. “Sex makes things complicated, kid. We’ve got a good friendship.”

You sit up straighter on his roommate’s bed and bring your knees to your chest. It exposes the backs of your thighs and he has to shake the mental images of skin on skin out of his head.

There’s a look on your face that tells him you feel ridiculous even asking him, “Do you think you’re going to fall in love with me or something?”

“No,” Bradley says, honestly.

He knows you’re just trying to make a point.

The two of you have been friends for over a decade. He knows he cares about you- he always has- but he couldn’t imagine what anything other than just friendship would look like with you.

You nod in agreement, like you had been anticipating the answer before you’d even asked him the question.

“And do you think I’m going to fall in love with you?” you ask, your head tilting to the side.

He doesn’t even blink, “You can do better than me.”

And he means it.

Even if there was something more between the two of you, you’ve always been too good for him. And knowing him, he’d find a way to fuck it up. You’re the last person in the world he’d ever want to hurt. He’d let you down before, he doesn’t want to do it ever again.

You shoot him a disappointed look, like you don’t like hearing him say that about himself. And he’s oddly touched that you’re defending him against himself. 

“You’d literally be doing me a favor.”

Bradley is still surprised that he hasn’t ended this conversation yet. The two of you were supposed to go to the movies, but that definitely wasn’t happening now.

“I’m not saying no,” he says, “But I need you to help me understand. Why me? Why now?”

“Bradley, I want it to be with you because there’s no one else I’ll ever feel as comfortable with as I do with you,” you explain.

He watches as you unfold yourself and climb off the bed, coming to stand in front of him. You gingerly reach out and put your hand on his forearm, like you don’t want to startle him. Not that he’d be able to move anyways since it feels like the soles of his feet are cemented to the floor.

“I keep waiting for it to not feel like such a big thing, but every time it seems like it’s going to happen, I freeze. And I know you’d take care of me, and I’m not talking about orgasms.” You stumble over the word a bit, not fully meeting his eyes as you say it. “It’s scary enough as a girl and I’m worried I’m going to be too in my head with anyone else. But I also don’t want to look back and have any regrets, and I know I wouldn’t have any with you.”

The mention of regrets makes his stomach twinge. His heart feels like it’s hammering in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say.

You are looking at him with such open sincerity. He has never been good with talking about his feelings, he’s always been the type to bottle things up, while you have always worn your heart on your sleeve. It was just another way that you were braver than him.

“I know it’s a lot,” you say, letting go of him to take a step back, like you want to give him breathing room, “So if it’s too big of an ask. Or if it’s not something you’re comfortable with-”

Bradley shakes his head cutting you off, “It’s not that at all, kid. I just haven’t done this before.” Your eyebrow scrunches together in confusion. “I mean, I have,” he corrects, “But it’s not the same. All the girls I’ve been with had already had experience. And if we were going to do this, I would want to make sure it’s as nice for you as it can be.”

“So you’d be my first and I’d be yours? Well, kind of.” You give him a little smile, it’s a shy but hopeful thing. There’s only a hint of your dimples, but it’s enough. And he feels that practical part of him that had been holding back soften at the sight of it.

He doesn’t think he’s ever said no to you, excluding the times you tried to get him to give you his beer at the house parties he took you to in high school, and that was more out of self-preservation from a healthy fear of your mom than anything else.

When you wanted to learn how to drive a stick shift? He took you to the abandoned parking lot, it didn’t matter that you didn’t have your learner’s permit yet. When you wanted to learn how to throw a punch? He was making sure you knew not to tuck your thumb under your fingers, so that you didn’t break your own thumb instead of someone’s nose.

He’s always had your back and you’ve had his. That’s how it was between the two of you.

You’ve already said it, but he needs to hear it again, “You really want to do it?”

“I really want it to be you, Bradley. I really want to do this with you. I trust you the most.”

He’s always been willing to help you with anything you’ve ever asked of him, why should this be any different? What’s a couple orgasms between friends?

“Ok,” Bradley nods. If it’s to reassure you or himself, he couldn’t say. “I’ll do it. We can do it.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, like you were fully prepared for him to let you down gently, “Really?”

You didn’t ask for his why he was agreeing, but he was going to give it to you anyway.

“I don’t think I’ve told you this, but I lost mine to Samantha Prescod after the game against Centennial that got us a spot at State that year,” he waits until he sees the recognition cross your face before continuing, “But I had also just learned about my mom’s diagnosis and I was trying to find anything I could do to not think about it.” He rubs at a spot underneath his collarbone, it never got any easier talking about his mom. “I think she assumed that I’d done it before, because we didn’t really talk about it. She was there and into it, so it just sort of happened. Actually, I’m pretty sure she only slept with me because she wanted to make her ex-boyfriend jealous, because they got back together like three days later.”

It’s probably for the best that Samantha Prescod lives on the other side of the country now because you look livid. Your eyes spark with anger and disbelief on his behalf.

“It was years ago, it’s fine, kid” he shrugs, trying to brush off your concern. “But if I had a do-over, I don’t know if I’d make the same choice again. And that’s not something I’d ever want for you.” You deserve the rose petals, but he’ll do his best for you. “So we can do it, but I have one condition.”

The relief on your face and the way the tension in your shoulder releases only solidifies his decision.

“Tell me,” you say, taking a half-step towards him, “I want you to be comfortable too.”

Bradley pushes off his desk and meets you the rest of the way, “If you even think you’re feeling uncomfortable- about any of it- I need you to tell me. And we’ll stop and figure out where to go from there. If it’s a change of position, if it’s a full stop and order pizza instead, we’ll do that.” He pauses and reaches out to tip your chin up. “I’ll do whatever you need, got it?”

You throw your arms around him, and his wrap around you just as easily. Your hair smells like the travel sized shampoo he’d picked up for you, figuring you wouldn’t want to use his 2-in-1. You murmur your thank you into his shirt followed by a fuck Samantha Prescod that makes him squeeze you just a bit tighter to him in affection.

When you step back and look at him, your lips twitch upwards, “What’s with the look, Bradshaw? Don’t tell me you’re going to lie back and think of England?”

That makes him chuckle, your joke lightening the mood in only the way that you can do. He rolls his eyes in equal parts exasperation and fondness.

“God, I haven’t been this nervous since I lost my own virginity. I was so stressed I was going to blow my load in two pumps and lose my street cred.”

You snort and send him a smirk, “Well, you must have done just fine. I overheard some glowing reviews in the girl’s bathroom on more than one occasion.”

“I maybe lasted ten trusts, but I had the good sense to eat her out after,” he admits, and then tacks on for good measure, “I’ve gotten better since then.”

“What a stud,” you tease.

This is easier, this feels like the two of you. This should be fun, it shouldn’t feel serious. He can make it good for you.

You look up at him shyly from under your lashes, “So how do we do this?”

He feels like he only just wrapped his head around the idea of it, but now he was facing the very real possibility of seeing you very naked very soon.

“You want to do it now?” Bradley blinks.

“I mean, if you’re up for it.” You scrunch your nose when you realize you’ve made a terrible double entendre. “No pun intended, I promise.”  

He wipes his hands on his pants.

“You sure?” he asks again.

“I’m sure, Bradley. As long as you are too.”

He nods, “Then I guess we just…”

He’s not sure where he was going to go with that. But he’s spared from being roasted by you for making some sure to be lame birthday suit joke because you’re untying the bow on the soft lounge shorts you’d thrown on after your shower from the hike, and all the words get trapped in his throat.

You don’t look at Bradley as you slide your shorts down your legs. And you definitely don’t look at him when you pull your shirt over your head, leaving you in only a soft green mesh bra and your cotton underwear. They’re mismatched, but sex with Bradley wasn’t originally on the Spring Break To-Do List agenda for today.

In fact, you hadn’t even been sure you were going to go through with asking him until he brought up the point that he knew you had something on your mind because you apparently had no poker face.

While it felt like you had a swarm of butterflies whirling in your stomach, you also knew wholeheartedly that this was the right choice for you. Everything he had said had solidified that for you.

You weren’t sure how you were ever going to thank him for this, but you had a lifetime of friendship with Bradley to figure it out.

His room cast in the soft afternoon light, the blinds only partly closed. There are little streaks of gold that line the plaid comforter on his bed. He’d been right, Charlottesville had stayed sunny just for you.

As you climb into it and situate yourself against his pillows, you can help but notice just how much his bed smells like him. It’s not the spicy scent you associated with the High School version of him. The woodsy and warm scent embedded in the threads of his sheets suits this grown up version of him.

You feel equal parts overdressed and underdressed in your bra and underwear. You know the latter are going to come off eventually, so you make a split-second decision to just take them off yourself under his covers. The idea of Bradley helping you to pull them off later seems like it would be too intimate based on the way the thought of it makes your cheeks heat up.

It’s practical, you’re being practical, you think to yourself.

You chance a peek at him and are surprised to see that he hasn’t budged an inch. It’s almost like he is waiting for you to get completely settled before he dares to move a muscle. His eyes are trained on the pile of your clothes on the floor, he looks lost in thought.

“Bradley?”

The sound of your voice seems to kickstart him into action.

He shucks off his shirt in that kind of reckless way that seems to be ingrained in boys and then unbuttons his pants. You’re torn between feeling like you should give him privacy and wanting to watch. What you were expecting is the way he takes the time to pick his clothes up before folding them over the back of the chair at his desk.

Your mouth goes dry as you take in the sight of his body, the diffused light perfectly outlines the shape of him. His broad shoulders are rounded with the muscles he’s gained from whatever exercises the NROTC has been putting him through. Your eyes dip down to his defined chest and over the ridges of his abs. You’ve seen him in swim trunks plenty of times, but seeing the way the muscles of his thick thighs fill out the black boxer briefs he was wearing was entirely new to you.

Bradley approaches you and then pauses as he bends down to collect your pile of clothes on the floor, his hand hesitating only for a second when he reaches for your underwear. He drapes all of your things on top of his on the chair and makes his way back to you.

The gesture makes you melt a little like a soft serve ice cream cone on a summer afternoon.

You lift the corner of the cover for Bradley and he climbs in next to you. You move closer to the wall, trying to make more room for the bulk of him in his small bed, and he shifts in even closer into you until your bodies pressed tight against one another. The curves and angles of the two of you slotting together like pieces of a puzzle.

It feels like the two of you are teetering there on the edge of something. You both know exactly where it’s going, but are unsure of how to make it from Point A to Point B. Both waiting on the other person to make the first move.

He rests his warm hand on your stomach, the muscles there jumping on their own under his touch in anticipation. Your faces are close since you’re sharing his pillow. His brown eyes are searching yours, probably looking for any sign of hesitation that you don’t feel.

“Tell me how you’re feeling.” It’s not a question, but a request.

“Overwhelmed,” you admit, “But in a good way.” He runs his palm lightly up your stomach and back down, soothingly.

“Good, that’s good,” Bradley says, clearing his throat, “You’re supposed to feel a little ‘overwhelmed, but in a good way.’” You feel your lips pull up at his gentle teasing.

He smiles softly at you. His face has always been so familiar to you. The pink from his scars have finally faded, but you wonder when his eyes start crinkling around the corners.

You let go of the comforter to run a finger down the top of his nose, “I don’t know how this has stayed so straight.” He’d been in more than a couple fights in his teen years, including one that had sent him through a sliding glass door.

“Probably the combination of a little luck and the fact that none of those guys could throw a punch,” Bradley smirks. He shifts on his side, propping himself up on an elbow looking down at you, still running his hand along your stomach. “What have you done so far?”

His fingertips circle your bellybutton and your stomach swoops like it’s on the swing carousel ride at the fair.

“Some over the clothes stuff…” you stammer. You’re having trouble focusing because all your attention is on his big hand and how it feels against your oversensitive skin. “And I have a vibrator, but ah…”

You’re so keenly aware of his hand. With every lazy circle he makes, he has you wondering if this is going to be the one where he finally moves his hand lower. That part of you in flutters in expectation because you know it’s coming.

You let out a shaky huff when his fingers trails back up your stomach.

“What is it?” Bradley’s hand stops moving. “What are you thinking?”

“Honestly?” you say, trying not to squirm, “I’m getting really horny and you keep teasing me.”

He presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh at your overshare, and there’s amusement in his eyes.

“You know, some people call it foreplay,” he drawls. You’d roll your eyes but his fingertips are by your bellybutton again and you want him to keep going. “You ready for more?” You nod a few times because if he doesn’t touch you soon you might just crawl out of your skin. “Ok, gonna stop ‘teasing’ you now.”

This time his hand doesn’t stop at your bellybutton, it keeps moving down, down.

You stutter over a breath when Bradley’s fingers touch your clit. You feel yourself melt a little further into his mattress. He’s making easy circles, letting you get used to someone’s fingers other than your own on the most sensitive part of you. Your hands are clutching tightly to his comforter, unsure of what else to do with them.

“Spread your legs a little wider for me,” he murmurs. You feel your face heat up. He’d just given you a direction, but it sounds almost indecent coming out of his mouth.

You shift, moving your legs apart further for him, until he secures your left between his own, opening you up even more. You know you’re wet and now he does too. Bradley’s fingers slide easily over you as he increases the pressure on your clit. You can feel the intensity of his gaze on you watching for your reaction as he figures out what you like the most.

It doesn’t take him long to learn your body. You don’t know whether to be impressed with him or embarrassed with yourself at how quickly he’s worked you up.

Your breathing feels so loud in your ears in the quiet room, every breath and sigh is amplified. There’s a certain thrill in not knowing how he’s going to touch you next, your own fingers pale in comparison now.

His warm breath coasts down the side of your neck causing you to shiver at the sensation. It makes goosebumps break out along your arms and your nipples pull taut.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Are you cold?” His voice is low in your ear.

“No, I-” Oh god, you’re right there. “B-bradley, I’m-” You’ve made yourself orgasm plenty of times, but you’ve never shared that part of yourself with anyone else before. No one knows what you sound like or what you look like when you come. But now, Bradley was going to have the piece of you too. A whine escapes you without your permission.

“It’s ok, kid, I’ve got you.”

You’re seeking and searching, but it’s Bradley’s fingers that have the answer.

And you come with your stomach twitching and hips jerking as he murmurs praise in your ear.

His fingers slow down, featherlight on your clit, but your heart is still racing when he rasps, “There’s one, you up for another?”

Bradley loves that moment during sex when he hears that first gasp or moan. He loves learning what sounds of satisfaction he can pull from his partner. He loves knowing he earned it. But he never in his life could have ever anticipated hearing those sounds from you.

In his bed. Because of him.

He didn’t expect the lick of heat that curled up his spine at the shape of your legs and the curve of your ass as you were stepping out of your shorts. He’d never seen anything so strangely endearing as it was watching you shimmy your underwear off under the shield of his covers.

Every hitch in your breath made his blood run hotter in his veins. He was trying to control his cock, but he’d started getting hard the second you’d pulled your shirt off. Your bra was some kind of sheer thing that left nothing to the imagination, and while he wasn’t trying to check you out- because that’s not how it was between the two of you- he couldn’t help the way his eyes flickered down.

You’re slippery, wet, and warm. And he knows he can make you come again.

“Do you want me to use my fingers now?”

You crack an eye open at him, it’s the first time you’ve opened your eyes since he first touched you. Your eyes are bright in that way that only comes with an orgasm. “I thought you already were.”

“Such a smartass,” he grins.

Bradley changes the unhurried circles he’d been making on your clit to the upstroke that made your hips jerk up into his hand the first time he’d tried it. The little noises you’re making have him fighting the urge to grind himself against you for some relief of his own. He’s still got your knee tucked between his own; where there had been a hint of polite space between your bodies, the way you’re writhing now has him pressed up against your hip.

You gasp, breathily, “Oh, you’re hard.” The disbelief is evident in your voice, but it’s the look in your eyes that he doesn’t know what to make of, something like surprise.

He’s been trying to be a gentleman, this is about you and not him. There might not be anything romantic happening between the two of you, but this was hot and he was more than a little turned on. And he knows you are too because he can feel how wet you are under his fingers.

“’Course I am,” Bradley says, nudging his nose against your temple, “I’ve got a pretty girl in my bed half naked.” He didn’t want you to feel like you were in this on your own, so he lightly rocks against you. He wants you to feel him, he wants you to know he is into this too. “Are you ready more?”

“I’m ready, I want more,” you confirm, wrapping your hand around his bicep.

Your breath hitches as he teases you with just the tip of his finger.

He’s been told before he has big hands and thick fingers, he’s always taken it as a compliment in the past, but now he’s scanning your face for any trace of discomfort as he sinks one into you.

Your eyebrows twitch then smooth out and your mouth drops open as he starts pumping his finger into you in a smooth rhythm.

“That feels nice,” you sigh, airily.

He knows you like it when your hips tip up just a fraction. His comforter is bunched around your waist and your nipples are peaked against the see-through fabric of your bra. He gets his thumb on your clit and you whimper as you tentatively roll your hips against his fingers.

Bradley hums his approval, “Atta girl. There you go, find what feels good for you.” His voice sounds low even to his own ears, a throaty rumble. He feels you clench around his fingers and it sets his pulse racing. It’s a piece of information he tucks away for himself.

He’s gentle on your clit, but now that he knows you’re into it he’s setting a more purposeful pace with his fingers.

You’ve got your bottom lip pinned between your teeth, like you’re trying to swallow down your sounds. He didn’t realize how much he liked hearing these new sounds from you until you started trying to muffle them. On the next slide of his finger into you, he knows exactly what he’s looking for.

You suck in a sharp breath of surprise when he finds it.

“Is that the right spot, kid?” He sounds so smug. You curse and your hand clutches at his shoulder. “You want to try a second finger?” he murmurs into your ear.

“Yes,” you rock into his hand, “Yes, please.”

“Whatever you want, Miss Manners.” His chest feels like he’s taken a shot of Fireball. “You’re so polite when you’re trying to get your way.”

“I’m always polite,” you challenged weakly, pressing your head further into his pillow.

“Mhm,” he indulges, fondly, “You’re the sweetest girl I know.”

And then he fills you with two fingers.

“Jesus, Bradley,” you gasp, offering more of yourself to him.

Your nails dig into the muscle of his shoulder as he lets your whimpers and whines guide his hands.

The two of you have your eyes fixed on the way the tendons of the visible part of his forearm are flexing before it disappears under the covers as he works you.

Bradley curls his fingers into that spongy part of you and your hand flies to his wrist, gripping him tight. It makes him pause, worried that he might have pushed you too far too fast.

“No, no. D-don’t stop,” you plead, desperately, “I’m so close. Keep going, please.” You squeeze his wrist encouragingly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he soothes. He focuses his efforts on that spot again now that he knows you weren’t wanting him to slow down, but rather trying to hold him in place. His fingers inside of you and his thumb on your clit working in tandem to get you there again.

“I just- yes. Like that. Oh fuck. Keep doing that. Oh my god. Please, Bradley.”

He’s heard you say his name a lot of different ways, but never like this.

Your back arches and you twist yourself towards him, burying your face against him and keening into the hollow of his throat as you come around his fingers.

You jerk and writhe into his hand, your knee slips free of his and your thighs clamp together around him. Bradley rolls off the arm he’d been leaning on and brings it to cradle the back of your head, pulling you closer and holding you to him as he steadily works you through it until you’re loose-limbed in his arms.

He waits until your rapid pants have evened out before he slips his fingers from you. The displeased sound that you make makes the corners of his mouth twitch. He should have known you’d be bossy. He rubs gentle circles into the divots at the base of your neck as you come down.

Bradley can feel your lips graze the side of his neck when you finally speak, “So, um, let me know if you need a letter of recommendation or anything. I’d be happy to pass one along to your next partner.” You languidly prop yourself up on his chest and he notes with pride that you look a little flushed. “But, seriously, I get it now.”

He huffs a laugh as he toys with the end of your hair, “I’m glad it lived up to the hype. Well, at least that part of it.”

You press your lips together like you’re deciding something, tracing idle shapes on his stomach, and he can’t decide if he thinks you’re doing it without realizing it or if you’re the one doing the teasing this time. Your eyes flick down to his visibly hard cock and he feels his face heat up, “Can I?”

“Do you want to?” Bradley wants this experience to be everything you need and want it to be, but something about the tables turning here and the idea of you being the one to touch him like that makes his heart pound.

“I want to make you feel good too,” you softly tell him, resting your chin on your shoulder. The tender way you’re looking at him makes his teeth ache.

“Ok, but only for a little bit,” he agrees. Bradley knows he’s walking a tightrope with this, he’s aching and more than ready to be touched, but he doesn’t want to come all over your hand.

He plants his feet into his mattress and lifts his hips enough to pull off his boxer briefs, sighing in relief as his cock bobs free.

“That can’t be average,” you mutter under your breath.

He doesn’t know if you meant to have said it out loud but he smirks all the same, “I’ve never been average a day in my life, kid, Grade A student here.”

A groan slips out of him as your tentative fingers grasp his cock. There’s a lack of finesse in the way you touch him, your hand isn’t nearly as well-practiced as his own. He wraps his hand over yours, guiding your strokes as he shows you just what he likes.

“You can grip it a little firmer,” he coaches. You nod studiously, like you’re going to be tested on it later. Together the two of you work him from root to tip.

Bradley had never given much thought to his size until now. He knew he was big, but seeing that your thumb couldn’t reach the tips of your fingers when your hand was curved around him was an ego boost he didn’t know he needed.

You get more confident with every glide up and down the length of him. Your tricky thumb sweeps over the tip, collecting what precum had gathered there, and it makes your hand slide easier over him. When he accidentally thrusts into your hand, you grin and there are those dimples again.

“Ok, ok,” he blows out a shaky breath, stilling your hand with his. “We gotta stop or I’m going to come. And I’m not about to be a one pump chump.”

“It sounded like you’re more of a ten pump chump, if I remember correctly,” you tease, looking all too pleased with yourself. “Don’t worry, Bradshaw, your street cred is safe with me.”

He shakes his head in amused disbelief, “You’re such a goddamn menace. I knew I shouldn’t have told you that part.” He surprises the both of you when he wraps an arm around you and rolls to pin you under him.

And it’s like all the air is sucked out of the room because your thighs are cradling his hips and his cock is resting heavy on your stomach.

Neither one of you dare to move. He’d give anything to know what you’re thinking right now, he feels out of his depth as he watches you watching him.

His tongue feels thick in his mouth, “Are you on-”

You nod before he even finishes the question.

“Do you have-”

He nods before you finish yours.

“What did you promise me?” he prompts, squeezing the dip of your waist.

You hold up your pinky to him, “I’ll tell you.” He wraps his own crooked one around yours and gives it a shake.

Bradley doesn’t know what comes over him, but he drops a kiss to your shoulder as he reaches over you into the drawer of his nightstand to fish out what he needs. He’s thankful when you don’t comment on it because he wouldn’t even know how to explain it.

He leans back on his knees and rolls the condom on with practiced ease, then flicks open the cap to the bottle of lube he’s also grabbed and drizzles it over his cock.

“Am I not…” you trail off. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you sound this shy with him before.

“You’re plenty wet,” he assures you, pumping himself- once, twice- just enough to coat himself, “But this’ll be good too. I think you’ll like it.”

Bradley settles back over you, one arm braced by your head and the other on your hip, as your hands come up to rest lightly on either side of his ribcage. He rocks against you to demonstrate; the head of his cock nudges your clit with each silky pass. You exhale heavily at the sensation as he eases you into the motion of it, as he shows you what it’s like with another person.

You’re holding him close, and in just a moment the two of you will be the closest two people can be.

He makes only enough room to reach down between your bodies, only looks away from your face long enough to line himself up with you. There is such trust in your eyes as you gaze up at him, it’s not something Bradley takes for granted.

You nod, your fingers stroking his sides.

God, does he want this to be good for you.

He takes a breath.

And then he’s shifting forward and pressing in.

Bradley thrusts into you with all the careful gentleness you’d expect from him.

His thumb skimming along your forehead as he pushes in, in, in.

When he found that spot inside of you with his fingers, you thought you were going to fly away from the intensity of it, but then he’d pulled you into the safety of his arms and you felt like you could fall apart because he’d be keeping the pieces of you together.

He’s been so good to you. He is so good to you. He’s the best person you know.

The more of him he gives you, the less you feel like you can catch your breath.

You feel hot, hot all over. And much fuller than you’ve ever been.

Some sound must make its way out of you because Bradley offers you a low soothing noise before you feel his lightly chapped lips against your temple.

There’s something about this that reminds you of the time he tried to teach you how to skateboard. Always waited until you told him you were ready, until you found your balance. He’d held your hand as you cautiously rolled along the sidewalk, you were less worried about falling with him by your side. Only this time, his hand is on your waist and the only movements are his hips against yours as he rocks into you.

Little by little. Inch by inch.

You clutch at his biceps at the slight stinging sensation and you feel him hesitate.

“It’s just a lot,” you whisper. His fingers flex on your waist.

“You’re doing so good, just a bit more,” Bradley murmurs, encouragingly.

There’s pressure, there’s a give, and then there’s relief when his hips finally, finally meet yours.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath.

Your eyes had flickered shut somewhere along the way. You open them to see that Bradley’s face and chest are flushed pink, the muscle of his jaw flexing. The furrow between his eyebrows is so deep that you release your grip on him to smooth out the lines with an unsteady fingertip.

He reads the question in your eyes.

“You’re just really tight,” he grits out, voice strained.

You assumed that was a good thing, but he’s holding himself so tense above you that now you’re not sure. “Do I-,” you fumble over the words, “Does this feel good for you?”

He huffs an incredulous laugh, and brushes back some hair from off your face, “You feel really fucking good, sweet-”

Your whimper cuts him off when he pulls out a fraction and then pushes back in.

His brown eyes take you in as he does it again, more this time. Pulling out just a bit- just enough- and then filling you again. The discomfort fading more with each thrust as he guides his hips to yours until yours are tilting up to meet his seeking more.

It’s a conversation between your bodies, the give and the take of it all as Bradley introduces you to this new unspoken language. You feel yourself flutter around his cock, stretched wider than you’ve ever been.

You feel that heat spreading underneath your skin again as he surely and steadily pumps into you. It feels like your nerves are on fire. You didn’t expect to even come once and you’re well on your way to a third.

He reaches down and hooks your leg over his hip. His hand slides up along the outside of your thigh and under your ass, tilting your hips up towards his even more. He’s so much deeper like this. Your hands slide into his hair, tugging at his curls.

“Bradley, I-I think… I feel-”

 “You’re gonna come,” he rasps, nodding at you. Encouraging, coaxing.

He grinds his pelvis against your clit with every deliciously slow roll into you.

Your mouth drops open at the feel of it, it’s better than anything you’ve ever imagined. You don’t think your faces have ever been closer than they are now. Bradley is breathing your air, and you’re breathing his. Bradley’s pupils are blown wide, his heavy-lidded eyes are locked on yours. You didn’t know there could be so many shades of brown. His curls are a mess and it’s all because of you. He licks his lips and your breath catches in your throat when his eyes dart down to your parted mouth.

His next thrust into you hits that spot inside of you just so right that it has you gasping.

It’s so good, it’s too good, it’s overwhelming.

You wrap your arms around his neck clinging to him, your face buried against him. Bradley drops his head to your shoulder, you feel his lips brush against your clavicle. Your head moves away on instinct, making more room for him if he wants to do it again.

You get lost in the feeling of his cock hitting you in all the places you’ve heard about and read about, but have never felt for yourself until now. He’s still got your ass gripped in his hand, whereas your hands can’t stay in one spot. They’re tangled in his hair, running over his shoulders and down his abs, gliding over his back aided by the sheen of sweat he’s worked up.

You’re not trying to hold yourself back, but it feels like you’re standing on the tallest diving board at the pool, your toes curled around the edge, but still too nervous about the drop to jump.

“C’mon, kid. You’re right there,” he breathes hard, “I need you to come for me. Just one more.”

He gets his fingers back on your clit and it’s the end of you. Your back is arching so much you think you might snap. Your toes curl so tights they may never unfurl. The force your orgasm overtakes you, demanding everything you have up to offer and then some.

You hear Bradley’s moan as you pulse around his cock, trembling under him as the waves of pleasure wash over you. His hips stutter against yours, finally losing that steady rhythm he’d set, you pull him tighter to you and it’s not long until he comes too.

It’s all white noise. All you can feel is your heartbeat pounding, until little pieces of the world come back into focus.

The hum of the fan.

The beam of warm afternoon light through the blinds.

The smell of the now cold coffee on his nightstand.

In the after, you’re all too aware of every place your body is touching Bradley’s.

He’d somehow managed to roll on his back and had taken you with him. He was literally just inside of you, but yet it feels like your leg draped over his thigh is somehow more intimate. A prickly self-conscious feeling settles over you. Unsure of what the rules were for friends who just had sex, you attempt to peel yourself off of him, but the heavy arm over your waist keeps you in place.

“Come back here, kid,” Bradley mumbles, his eyes still closed, “I need to cuddle after I come, so I’m gonna need you to indulge me here for a moment.” He strokes a soothing hand down your back. And while he says it’s for him, you know he’s still trying to take care of you.

He hums when you lay back down. You set a hand on his chest. He reaches for it with his free one and threads your fingers together. It makes you melt further into him.

You feel a little different. But mostly, you feel like a weight you didn’t know you’d been carrying had been lifted off of you.

Your first time was everything you hoped it would be. You were safe and cared for, and you already knew, you’d never have any regrets about it. And it was all because of him.

“Thank you, Bradley,” you say, softly.

“Anything for you, kid.”

Your early morning catches up with you as you lay there, warm and secure. Your eyelids get heavier with each pass of Bradley’s hand along your spine. And you drift off to the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

You’re still you. And Bradley is still Bradley.

It was just… something between friends.

A few hours later the two of you are still in his bed.

Only now you’re clothed and swapping the cartons of Chinese food that he’d ordered while you’d napped against his chest, and fighting over the fortune cookies watching some reruns of old sitcoms. You couldn’t hear their laugh tracks over your own.

The last couple of days you had at UVA fly by just as quickly.

You don’t know how, but the two of you managed to cross of all the things on his Spring Break To-Do List. And before you knew it you were back at the airport.

Bradley had insisted on walking you in, wanting to see you off.

Neither one of you has ever been good with goodbyes. So you don’t give him one, instead you reach for your bag and tell him, “Ok, see you in June.”

Bradley doesn’t let go, clearly confused, “What the hell are you talking about?”

You grin because it feels like a checkmate.

“You didn’t think you’d be getting that diploma all by yourself, did you?”

He looks thunderstruck.

You and your mom already had the plane tickets and hotel room booked. Your stepdad wouldn’t be able to come, but he was planning on sending your mom with one of the cakes from his family’s bakery. You’d been tasked with finding out what flavor, carrot cake or peanut butter- Bradley’s two favorites- but you could iron out the details with him later.

You’d had a busy week, plus it was more fun this way.

Bradley tugs you into his arms, yours wrap around him just as easily as they always have.

“June?” he asks into the crown of your head.

“June,” you promise.

And when he lets you go- for real this time- it’s with a smile that takes up his whole face.

He doesn’t say goodbye either, “Be good, kid. See you in June.”

𝐍𝐎𝐖

You avoid Rooster for the rest of the night.

And Jake too, for that matter. Bless Javy for finding ways to distract him because you could tell than man was chomping at the bit for more details. But you’d already given him more than enough.

You could have lied, you probably should have lied. It might have been easier than feeling like you’d hung up part of yourself on the drying line for everyone to see. But in that moment, the thought of lying and saying anyone else’s name other than Rooster’s had made your stomach turn.

Because it was the truth, he was your first, but he was also your best.

When you come out of the bathroom, there’s no missing Rooster. He’s leaning against the wall by the entrance. It takes him a moment to notice you since he looks lost in thought, but when he does you feel pinned to the wall by the intense look in his eyes.

He stands to his full height as you approach, you know he wants to talk about it.

You shake your head at him, “We don’t need to do this.”

“No, kid, we really do.” He takes you by the arm and leads you to a quieter spot away from everyone else.

“It was just a game,” you start before he can, “And now I know more about everyone’s sex life than I ever wanted to.” He crosses his arms over his chest at your attempt at deflection. “Look, I’m really sorry if that was something you wanted to keep a secret or just between us. I should have asked you first if that was ok to share.”

“I don’t care about that.” Rooster waves you off and takes a step closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “All this time and I’m the best you’ve ever had?”

“Are we really doing this? Here and now?”

You peer around him to look and see if anyone is watching the two of you, it feels like a showdown. But all the Daggers are occupied, probably on purpose. You’ve never seen Mickey with such a serious look of concentration on his face.

“Here and now,” he confirms.

You feel flustered, “Rooster, it’s been 12 years and we haven’t talked about it once-”

“Bradley,” he cuts you off. He takes another step towards you, so you’re toe to toe with him. “I’ve always been Bradley to you.”

The tension that had crept up in your shoulders releases a bit.

“Bradley,” you say, softly. “Listen, I’ve had a lot of good sex since then. Great sex even.” He presses his lips together and nods. “And with other men, if I felt like they weren’t putting in their best effort I’d kick them out because the bar was set very high early on.”

You see him fight back a smirk.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, with pride.

Your breath gets caught in your throat, you know he hears it because his eyes take on a richer shade of brown. You both feel the shift, tension churning between the two of you.

Taking a deep breath, you continue, “But I was telling the truth when I said you were my best. Probably because of the way you made sure I knew that you cared. I don’t know how to describe it. It was just different with you.”

You feel his finger graze the back of your hand.

The sounds of the Hard Deck fade into the background as you stare at each other. Entire conversations are being had as you look into his eyes and he looks into yours. Words and sentences spoken with glances.

Just friends don’t look at each other like this.

“It’s never been like this,” you whisper, “We’ve never been like this before.” You gesture at how close he is to you.

How he’s almost got you backed up against a wall.

How he’s looking at you like you’re his.

“I know.”

He says your name and your heart somersaults in your chest.

“I want to see your tattoo. I keep finding myself looking for it when we’re all at the beach. And then I get annoyed, knowing that people have seen it and I haven’t.”

“My tattoo? Bradley, what-”

“I want to see your tattoo,” he repeats like it’s a fact. “And I want to punch Seresin in his smug face every time he flirts with you.”

You roll your eyes, “Jake doesn’t flirt with me, not really. He just likes riling you up.”

“What if I said I wanted to try this as more than friends.” Bradley settles a large hand on your hip. “What if I said that since you’ve moved here I’ve had a hard time keeping my head on straight.”

“Bradley.” His name falls out of your mouth so easily now that it can.

“I want to take you home with me. I want to kiss you. I want to make you come. I need to know if you sound the same in my bed. And then I want to take you out for breakfast and buy whatever fancy coffee you want and as many pancakes as you can eat.”

You’ve been told that you wear your heart on your sleeve, but he has always worn his on his face. There’s no mistaking the open want on his face.

“Bradley, it’ll be different this time.” For so many reasons.

Because it’s not a favor being asked. It’s not some new experience being tried with the person you trust the most, with everything. You’d be on equal footing. It wouldn’t be a friend helping a friend, the two of you would be crossing that line between friends and more because you want each other in that way.

“I want it to be different, sweet girl,” he says, cupping your face in his familiar hand, “I’m ready for it to be different, if you are.”

He looks from your eyes down to your parted lips.

“We didn’t do that last time,” you whisper. Feeling brave, you reach out and run your fingers along the buttons of his shirt.

“No, we didn’t,” he agrees. His eyes are trained on his thumb as he skims it under your lip. “And that’s a damn shame.”

Bradley’s face is all you can see. Warm eyes, a still-straight nose, and a soft smile that is for you and you alone.

He dips down and your eyes flutter closed, your head tipping up on its own in anticipation.

His lips brush your cheek. It’s not enough.

You tug on his collar, but he chuckles and kisses your cheek again, lingering longer this time.

“I’m not kissing you for the first time around the corner from a bathroom,” he rasps.

You open your eyes and see the amusement in his. He always did like teasing you.

“Oh, where do you plan on doing it then?”

“Outside your front door, like a gentleman,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You can’t help but grin because Bradley Bradshaw can’t wait the extra 10 minutes it would take to drive to his place instead of yours. He wants that kiss just as badly as you do. You watch as a matching smile to yours blooms across his face.

It feels normal to slide your fingers between his much larger ones. It feels right as you lead the way out of the Hard Deck with him only a step behind you.

As it turns out, he only makes it as far as the Bronco before he’s spinning you back towards him and pressing you against it. His hands are on your hips and yours are wrapped around his neck as he kisses you for the very first time.

Bradley kisses you like a man who knows what he wants. And what he wants is you.

It’s not tentative in the way that first kisses usually are.

He kisses you like he knows you.

Because he does.

Later, when he closes the door to the Bronco for you, it feels like the end of one thing. But as he slips his fingers into yours when he backs out of the parking space it feels like the beginning of something new.

That night tangled in Bradley’s sheets- he’d kissed you at every light which made those extra 10 minutes it took to get to his home worth it- he makes your back arch and your toes curl as he makes you come with his fingers and mouth and tongue and cock. His lips dropping kiss after kiss on every part of you that he can reach. Because he can, because you want him and he wants you. 

The way he touches you tells you that he remembers it all.

He was you first, but what you wouldn’t learn until later, is that he would also be your last.

And he’d be the only man to ever have your entire heart.

Happy Birthday Jordan! An AU just for you! 💖 I adore you and I hope this year is the best one yet!

A big thank you to @callsignspark and @ofstoriesandstardust for their help and beta reading and their woogirling! I appreciate you two so much!

Author's Note: this was a "what-if" AU set in the 'Like I Can' universe! If you want to read about what really happens you can read it here!

You can read more of my 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

[ddejavvu]

Hot Summer Nights - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: Bradley’s hunting the Hard Deck for a hot and heavy summer fling. You’re puttering around looking for the love of your life. Maybe you’re naive, maybe he’s callous, but whatever it is, you end up heartbroken, and Bradley sets out to fix his mistakes and piece you back together.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni. fem!reader, age gap (reader is 21, rooster is in his thirties), benjamin!reader, heartbreak, angst, angst to fluff

WC: 7.7k / navigation / inbox / summer of series

A/N: before anyone asks YES this is titled from the lana song but it has nothing to do with the song itself, i just for some reason correlate that single lyric in my head with nights at the hard deck and BAM this fic was born. got chapter one out riiiight before 'mid-july' ended. i wanted to write about an age gap with rooster which i am aware is not everyone's taste, so simply read the warnings and don't interact if it's going to make you uncomfortable. I've tried making it tasteful, at least, but if you're going to berate me for it don't waste your breath.

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

Drinking is fun when you’re 21. Everything is something new, you’re not worried about a hangover, and people buy you drinks all the time. You’ve decided you don’t like beer, though. Which is why you politely shake your head when your Aunt Penny offers you the open neck of a bottle.

“Oh, come on. You don’t like beer? This is a navy bar! That’s practically all we serve.”

“The pilots can drink that,” You wrinkle your nose, sinking onto a stool near her washing station, “I prefer something that tastes good.”

“It’s not about the taste, it’s about the effect.” Penny grins, “Plus, it’s a total man-thing. Every man thinks they have to like beer.”

“I know. They all taste like it.” You scoff, and your Aunt Penny’s eyes light up.

“You’re kissing boys!” She gushes, her lips curling into a smirk, “I knew your mom was lying to me when she said you weren’t getting anywhere in the romance department.”

You roll your eyes towards the ceiling of the bar, catching the mugs hanging there precariously, “As flattering as that is, she wasn’t lying. I haven’t found anyone permanent. And I just don’t tell her about the less-than-permanent ones.”

“Any sex?” Penny’s brows raise, curious and concerned, clearly nervous she’ll need to invest in a Plan B tomorrow morning.

“No! No, that’s- that’s different. I don’t know, I’ve kissed a few people, but that’s- more. I want that to be special.”

“Good.” She nods, her face settling into a warm smile, “I’m all for experimentation, kid, but don’t do anything you’re gonna regret.”

“I won’t!” You insist, “I have very good judgement.”

“And men are very good liars.” She tilts her head downwards, eyeing you pointedly, “Don’t let them fool you.”

You’re not easily fooled. You can spot a grimy man from a mile away, one that smiles too widely at you, one whose eyes flick downwards towards your chest even if your eyes are further north. One who’s insistent upon slinging his arm around your waist, and asking you if you’re still in college. You’re too smart to fall for their tricks, and when Penny hands you an impressive amount of beers and points to a table in the corner, you feel no apprehension at all approaching the group of men.

And there’s a woman, you note, with jet black hair pulled neatly back into a regulation bun. You sidle up beside her and ease the beers onto the table, letting them go one by one as the pilots hurry to grab them from you before you inevitably drop one.

“Thank you,” The woman hums, her eyes narrowed slightly as she looks at you, “You work here?”

“For the summer,” You nod, smiling politely at the group of aviators staring at you. Your hands drift behind your back to clasp awkwardly, “I’m Y/N- Penny’s my aunt, so…”

“Oh, you got a sweet little summer gig going,” One of them notes, and the pin on his uniform says Machado, “She’s paying you, right?”

“Of course,” You laugh, “I don’t work for free.”

“That’s right.” A man smirks from across the table, his voice brash and tinged with a southern drawl. “Don’t let her underpay you. What are you gonna use the money for?”

“Maybe a car.” You shrug, edging slightly closer to the table where there’s an empty chair, desperate to be out of the milling crowd of people, “I don’t really know yet.”

“Is tonight your first night?” The woman asks, and you find yourself turning towards her subconsciously as you answer. She’s easy to talk to, kind eyes and a reassuring presence.

“Sort of? Right now all I’m doing is delivering drinks. She handles the money and pretty much everything else. I think I’m gonna be training all week.”

“Well we’ll see you a lot,” She smiles, “We’re here pretty often- we’re all here in reserve.”

Your brows raise, “You guys must be good, then.”

“Best of the best.” One of them grins, his uniform reading Garcia, but he nods towards the space over your shoulder, “Oh- behind you.”

You don’t have time to take a step back before a warm hand lands on the small of your back, and gently guides you away from the empty chair.

“Sorry,” The voice over your shoulder hums, slightly raspy, “Are you sitting here?”

You intend to answer, but when you turn to look at the man, you lose all brain function. He’s tall, his hair brown with a reddish undertone that’s gelled off of his forehead. There’s sunglasses over his eyes but you feel his gaze like it's burning raw into your own. He’s got a mustache that nearly blends into his face with how tan his skin is, and there’s a white and tan Hawaiian shirt draped over his tee.

“This is Penny’s niece.” The woman sets her hand on your shoulder, grounding you back to the present moment, “Y/N. She works here now- brought us our drinks. Y/N, are you allowed to sit with us? You’re more than welcome to, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

"That’s okay,” You shake your head, stepping back from the table and into the crowd again, “I should be working. Thank you, though! That’s really nice of you guys.”

“We could always use a new face,” The man with the mustache smiles, and you wish you knew what his name was, because he’s the only one out of a uniform, “We’ll see you when we run out of beer?”

“See you then.” You promise, and you turn on your heel to rush back towards the counter.

“Those are some of our most frequent customers.” Your aunt informs you when you rejoin her, nodding at the pilots in the corner, “Last year they were all called in for a special mission at Top Gun, and once they completed it they were given spots in the Reserve. The base here happens to support reserve aviators, so they all just decided to stay here. Now they’re all over the place. Consultants, instructors, whatever needs to be done. Not always a ton of action, but good pay. And nights off,” She grins, ”To come here and give me all that money they’re making.”

“They seemed nice.” You glance back over at them, seeing the empty seat now filled by the man with the mustache, “They said I could sit with them.”

“Do you want to?” Penny offers, rubbing your shoulder, “I bet you’re still a little shaken up from travelling. It might be nice for you to make some friends, have some drinks, that sort of thing.”

“I’m okay.” You insist, but it’s a little gloomy, “I’m working, I want to help you.”

“Oh, I’ll be okay.” She squeezes your shoulder, letting go to take someone’s order at the till, “The next time they need a refill, get something for yourself, too!”

“Alright!” You call back, with absolutely zero intention of following her orders.

It would be nice, admittedly, to ‘make friends’. Your room is stunning, an attic loft with a beach view, and Amelia is sweet. But she’s a little young, and your room is really big and lonely. Other than her and Penny you don’t have anyone in San Diego that you can talk to, and if these pilots are a permanent fixture in this bar, you might as well take advantage of it. 

But still, you’re here to work. And blowing off your responsibilities to chat with patrons would be offensive to any employer but your aunt, who has a background of questionable life choices attributed to naval aviators herself. She wouldn’t be upset with you, but you shouldn’t take advantage of her like this. You’ll work, you’ll earn your keep, and you’ll enjoy your summer in the sun.

This resolve lasts you about twenty minutes. 

You get a better feel for the menu, and you’re grateful to everyone who orders something other than a beer because you get to watch Penny mix it, and she keeps a shot of whatever it is aside for you. You try a mai tai, a long island iced tea, and something with strawberry vodka in it, but you can’t remember the navy-themed name she’d given it. You suppose you’ll need to memorize those soon, but Penny’s doing a good job of distracting you with drinks.

“Here comes Rooster.” She nods at the space behind you, and your brows furrow until you turn and see the man with the mustache heading for the counter. He’s got an empty bottle in his hands, and Penny grabs a full one for him, uncapping it on the counter.

“His callsign is Rooster.” She explains, “Go with him, yeah? I gave you three shots for courage,” She winks, “I mean it. Go make some friends.”

“Penny,” You scold, but you can’t lie- you’re much more agreeable now. 

When ‘Rooster’ reaches the bar Penny hands him his drink and pushes you out from behind the counter, “Y/N’s taking you up on your offer. What do you want to drink?”

“Nothing.” You shake your head, and she hands you a second beer.

“Muscle through it, hon. You’re in navy territory, now.”

You sneer at her before letting Rooter lead you away with a hand on your shoulder.

“You don’t like beer?”

“It’s not my favorite.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know yet,” You admit, letting Rooster’s hand sink to your lower back as he parades you around the bar. You slip past group after group of dancing patrons, gruff pool players, and people playing darts that are entirely too intoxicated to be doing so safely. Once you finally arrive back at the table Rooster offers you a hand so you can hoist yourself up onto the barstool, and instead of dragging over another seat he stands behind you with his drink.

“Sorry, I took your spot.” You hum over your shoulder, but he smiles down good-naturedly at you.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been on your feet long enough,” He takes a swig of his beer, his mustache glistening after he runs his tongue over his lips, “Besides, I bet you’re kind of a lightweight, aren’t you? Wouldn’t want you falling over.”

“Hey! I wouldn’t fall,” You laugh indignantly, and the woman you’d spoken to earlier crosses her arms, leaning back in her chair.

“One of the rules of this bar that’s not on that sign over there:” She points to your aunt’s prized possession, “It’s never wise to boast about how much you can handle, or you might end up in a drinking contest.”

“And I don’t lose drinking contests,” Garcia brags, “Don’t challenge if you can’t win.”

“I won’t,” You decide, eyeing your beer like it might poison you, “But I will ask for your names. I don’t think I know- any of them, but my aunt told me you’re Rooster?”

You cast a wary glance back at the man behind you, and his chest shakes with a brief laugh. 

“That’s my callsign.” 

“She told me that, too. But I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s like a nickname,” The one with the southern accent drawls, “My real name is Jake, but my callsign is Hangman. They’re supposed to be easier and quicker than your name to refer to you while you’re in the air. And ideally they kind of describe you as a pilot- and as a person. Hangman- well,” He grins, “I’m hung.”

You barely have time to register the euphemism before the table groans, and Garcia punches him swiftly in the arm.

“Dude, she’s Penny’s niece.” One of them hisses at Hangman, and you feel your cheeks heat with the rule he enforces next, “Off-limits.”

“I might be Penny’s niece,” You defend the Texan man, “But I’m twenty-one.” You pipe up, “You don’t have to censor yourselves for me.”

“He should censor himself for me.” The woman groans, “Fanboy’s just saying your aunt will decapitate anyone who isn’t careful around you.”

“We should let her decapitate him,” ‘Fanboy’ apologizes, “Really his callsign's because- one more wrong move from the guy and we’re gonna strangle him. But yeah, my callsign is Fanboy. My name’s Mickey, but you can call me whichever one you want. Around here we mostly just use our callsigns.”

“Fanboy,” You reach out to shake his hand, “And Hangman, interesting. And everyone else’s?”

“Mine’s Phoenix,” The woman leans forwards to squeeze your hand, “And my real name is Natasha.”

“Payback,” A man with the name Fitch on his uniform smiles, “Or Reuben. But Payback sounds way cooler.”

“I’m Coyote.” The man who’d spoken to you before, last name Machado goes next, “My name is Javy, though. Either one’s fine.”

“That’s a lot of names.” You note, and you finally give in to a swig of beer from the overload. 

“There’s one more.” Natasha elbows the space beside her- the space that’s taken up by a man- god, you hadn’t even seem him. He’d blended in with the plethora of soldiers behind him, all showing off their khaki uniforms. His reads Floyd, and he smiles at you kindly from behind wire-rimmed glasses, his sweet brown eyes shining in the warm light of the bar.

“My name is Bob.” He introduces himself.

“Bob,” You nod sweetly, “And do you have a callsign?”

“That is his callsign,” Fanboy snickers.

“Oh! What’s your real name?” You lean in, intrigued.

“Also- it’s also Bob.” Bob smiles tightly, “Everyone just calls me Bob.”

“Bob,” You nod again, “Nice to meet you.”

You bask in the warmth of their reciprocations, but you realize there’s one person who’d managed to evade you yet.

“And you,” You turn on Rooster, your eyes narrowed, “You never told me your real name. What is it?”

He lets you wait for a moment, on the edge of your seat as he takes another swig of beer. The amber-colored liquid is almost the same tone as his skin, and when he exhales the warm air reaches your fingertips and makes them tingle against your own cold bottle.

“It’s Bradley.” He introduces himself in a warm, slightly gruff voice, one that stops your heart dead in your chest and starts it up again ten times faster, “My name is Bradley.”

“Bradley.” You hum, almost dazedly, “Nice to- officially meet you.”

“You too, honey.” He raises a hand to squeeze your shoulder again, and you sink back into your seat with the lingering feeling on your mind- and body.

The pilots are nice, and for the most part, they make an effort to include you in conversation. They give a sanitized, brief overview of the mission that had brought them all together as the ‘Dagger Squad’, and your eyes shine with adoration in the dim lights of the bar as you peek at the story’s hero. Bradley laughs off the exoneration from his peers but if he notices the way you gush at his heroism, he doesn’t say anything. All he does is sip his beer, with his hand still resting on your shoulder. Sometimes it shifts, a muscle tightening or his thumb rubbing briefly back and forth against your t-shirt. But it never drops, never lifts, never leaves.

You indulge in your own drink, and it makes it slightly easier to be inevitably excluded from their conversations. They’re kind- overwhelmingly so, and friendly enough to where you don’t realize it at first. But every topic of conversation, no matter how far away from military operations, always comes back to something you know nothing about. Whether it’s trading stories from their students, remembering old times in the air, or swapping technical terms to quiz each other’s operational knowledge, time and time again you fall silent until someone starts a new, more ‘civilian’ conversation.

Bradley chimes in, but the phrase ‘strong, silent type’ pops into your head the more you sit there and nurse your drink. The beer isn’t doing you any favors taste-wise, but you feel a tendril of haziness begin tugging at your brain by the time you eventually drain the last drop.

“You want another one?” Bradley sees you knocking back your bottle, “Or is there something else you’d prefer?”

“I’m okay,” You shake your head, “I don’t want anything.”

“It gets a lot easier to listen to technical jargon if you’re buzzed,” Rooster suggests, “What about something that doesn’t taste so much like alcohol? You said you’re twenty-one, right?” “Right.”

“So you probably haven’t tried much. Unless- did you drink before your birthday?” He raises an accusatory eyebrow your way.

“No! Well- once or twice,” You scoff, the slight undercurrent of liquor in your blood making your voice honey-sweet, “Nothing crazy. I don’t have a favorite-anything. Just- just get me whatever you think I’d like.”

That turns out to be a jack and coke, which he explains has much more of the latter than the former. He also explains it’s what you drink when you’re young and- he uses a nicer word, but he means stupid, and you’re trying not to drink without getting caught. The glass he hands you is definitely coke-colored, and you can tell why it’s a favorite amongst hungry teens.

“You won’t get too drunk,” He hands off the glass, “And it’ll taste mostly like coke with just a bit of the whiskey. It’s good- you’ll definitely go home in the fall with a new favorite drink.”

“Maybe it’ll be this one,” You grin, and pucker your lips around the straw for a sip.

Admittedly, it doesn’t taste much like alcohol. Whiskey’s stronger but beer’s more pungent, and you find that whiskey’s actually preferable to beer’s acrid taste, even if it makes the coke taste off. The coke does a good enough job at hiding most of the liquor anyways. It’s not a drink you’d have ordered on your own, so you swallow a sizable sip and thank Bradley.

“‘Knew you’d like it,” He elbows you, his voice almost a drawl but not as careless- something raspy but kind, “If you ever need drink recommendations come to me, okay? Hangman will just tell you to drink straight from the first bottle you can find- or he’ll go on and on about some stupid Texan tradition. Just drink what tastes good, not what puts hair on your chest.”

You’re fairly certain whiskey does that, but the sweet cherries Bradley had ordered in your drink will surely cancel it out.

“Speaking of the fall, are you in school?” He asks, and you nod through a sip of your drink.

“I should have graduated already,” You admit, “But I kept switching my major, and every time I did I needed new courses for my transfer requirements. I’m ready, though. I’m set to start at a university in North Carolina this fall.”

“San Diego to North Carolina,” Bradley muses, “That’s a bit of a jump. No thoughts towards joining the navy?” Bradley asks, and your mouth actually falls open as you laugh.

“What? No,” You look bright-eyed, incredulously at him, “That’s not my thing.”

“I just figured they’re trying to induct you here, with all of the stuff they’re talking about.”

“I do feel like I’m being recruited,” You admit, and Bradley’s chest shakes with a chuckle. It’s raspy and gruff, and you wonder if alcohol increases your sex drive. You know some people are sad drunks, some people are angry drunks, some people are reckless drunks- are you perhaps a horny drunk? Is there such a thing?

“They forgot how to have a good time,” Bradley laments, his voice pitched only for your ears.

You narrow your eyes at him, “But you haven’t?”

“No,” He looks almost offended, but you know it’s teasingly so, “I’m the most fun person in this bar.”

“Prove it,” You shrug, turning further in your seat to face him.

“You know how to play pool?” Rooster asks, flicking his eyes towards the table in the corner. You’d seen patrons gathered around it earlier but it’s blessedly free now, and you take another sip of your drink before shaking your head.

“Then I’ll teach you,” Rooster offers, holding out a hand to get you out of your seat, “We can spend the summer practicing, and then when you go to North Carolina you can hustle anyone who underestimates your skills.”

“You’re gonna turn me into a collegiate pool shark?” You laugh incredulously, but you take his hand regardless, letting him drag you towards the green-topped table. The previous players had left it in a state of disarray- something you’re sure can be explained away by how many of them are outside puking into the sand, but Bradley scoops each ball up with practiced ease and fits them into their rack.

You try not to stare too hard at his hands while he’s doing it.

“Lesson number one,” He offers you a cue, and you grasp it in unsure fingers, “How do you think you’re supposed to hold this?”

You don’t even get to finish tucking the thing beneath your arm before he shakes his head, “Wrong. Terrible.”

“Hey!”

“You’re gripping it too tight,” He glances down at your strained, nervous grip on the cue, “And you were just drinking with the other hand a minute ago. Hold it in your dominant, down by your hip.”

You do as you’re told, and Rooster reaches out to adjust it, angle it ever-so-slightly towards the table.

“Good. Bend over,” He pushes against your right shoulder while holding your hip with his other hand, forcing you to bend at the waist. It’s another thing you try not to think about too hard, as you’re now standing with your ass out to the entire bar, Rooster’s heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Now put your other hand on the table. Spread your fingers out- there,” Bradley pushes and pokes at the hand you splay over the pool table until everything but your thumb is planted into the surface, “Now put the tip of the cue there, just between your thumb and pointer.”

You realize now why your thumb is elevated, as the front of the pool cue hovers just above the top of the table once it’s resting on the space between your fingers. It’s aimed right at the cue ball, and you’re already calculating how hard you’ll have to hit it for it to careen into the others.

“Now I’m gonna let you botch your first few shots, just to get the hang of using the cue. Aim anywhere,” Rooster lifts the rack, but the balls stay in place, a target you can’t miss, even if you don’t sink every ball on your first try, “Pull back, and hit the white one.”

You think it can’t possibly be hard to hit one of the balls, but when you pull the cue back and tap it against the white ball, it barely moves an inch.

You’re stunned for a brief moment, but it melts into sheepishness when Rooster’s tanned hand plants itself on the table beside your own.

”That’s okay.” He soothes, and your stomach begins a series of somersaults, “They’re weighed differently than you think they are. You’ve gotta give it more power than that,” He bends down behind you, keeping himself a respectable distance away even though he’s taking your dominant hand in his own, “Like this.”

He tugs your hand and the pool cue it’s clutching back with far more force than you’d been brave enough to use, and when he whacks the cue into the all-white ball, it scatters the rest of them. It’s not a perfect shot- they spiral in ridiculous directions, frenzied and disorganized, but now you know how hard you have to hit it.

”That’s better. Feel it? You’ve gotta put some strength behind it. You’re going for a strike, not a tap.”

You feel it. You feel the cold breeze rush against the skin on your hand that Bradley had been touching with his own, as well as the absence behind you, the lack of legs between your own. He’d stayed politely away from you ass, something that’s enticing and disappointing all at once, but you still notice the lack of his presence.

”I feel it,” You hum, standing up in a daze that can’t be solely attributed to the liquor, “But how do I aim? Isn’t it all about angles and strategy?”

“We’ll get to that later.” Rooster promises, “For now, just get used to hitting it.

You, for one, would love to get used to hitting it.

You hit a few more practice shots, and you're not desperate enough to pretend to be worse so that Rooster comes up behind you again to guide you, but the thought does cross your mind. Perhaps it’s the whiskey, perhaps it’s the porn stache. At this point in the night, it’s anyone’s guess.

You feel well and truly pampered. When you drain the last bit of your drink, Rooster goes to refill it for you, and both of you miss the way Penny’s eyes travel when he leaves, watching the way he adjusts your grip on the pol cue. It catches her attention, and after each glass she fills for each customer she helps, she peers over towards the corner where you’re now learning to aim.

"You’re gonna wanna look down the cue to see what it’ll hit." Rooster explains, "Kind of like you’re shooting a rifle. If you can see down the barrel, you know where your shot’s gonna go.

"That’s morbid,” You muse, your nose scrunched in distaste, “Are all of you navy men so violent?”

"Do you want to learn how to shoot pool or not?” He laughs, “Listen, bend over again.”

You’re quick to comply.

Penny watches from the bar as you let Rooster push you down over the pool table, her jaw clenching as he stands behind you, slotting his pelvis into line with your ass. She sucks her teeth as she recognizes perhaps the oldest trick in the book: ‘Let me teach you to shoot pool’. She’s owned this bar for many years, and not a day has gone by where a cocky pilot doesn't use this tactic to his advantage. But she doesn’t like thinking about that pilot being Rooster, and she doesn’t like thinking about that girl being you. 

You’re old enough, sure. And it’s normal- healthy, even, to make catastrophic dating mistakes. She had her fair share of those. But you’re her niece, and no matter how old you get, she has the urge to mother hen. It’s why, when Natasha sidles up to the bar, replacing you for the night as their designated drink-gatherer, Penny appeals to her woman-to-woman.

“Rooster has absconded with my niece.” Penny laments, a tiredness in her eyes that’s laced with worry and ages her ten years, “Is it really all men?”

Phoenix glances over towards the pool table, her brows raising and her eyes flooding with amusement like it’s been dropped there, rippling outwards, “Well. They got real close real fast.”

“I know she’s an adult.” Penny starts, “But- she’s a young adult. I guess I was doing worse shit at fifteen, but that didn’t work out well for me.”

“It’s not the worst gap I’ve ever seen,” Phoenix reasons, “And if I had to choose the best person for the job I guess it’d be Rooster. But it’s- notable.”

“Notable,” Penny snorts, “Right. He’s tricking her into thinking she’s got a shot with him long-term.”

“Rooster’s not like that,” Phoenix frowns, but the more her eyes trace the space between your bodies- a line, really, two shapes trying to blend, the more uneasy her stomach feels, “You know him, he’s a good guy. Maybe he wants cheap sex now and again, but... he wouldn't trick anyone. And he knows she's your niece- he wouldn't.”

“You don’t think he’s trying to spend a night with her?” Penny gestures, “He’s grinding on her ass, Nat.”

“He’s better than that.” Natasha swears, her brows furrowing, “But... I’ll talk to him. Just in case. Tell him to take it easy so she doesn’t get her feelings hurt. He probably doesn’t mean anything by it,” She feels how weak her argument sounds, but she knows Bradley, she knows that she’s scored more at the Hard Deck than he ever has. He’s not usually one for picking up chicks in a bar, but this looks an awful lot like he’s about to score.

“Get to him before I do.” Penny snaps, turning away when Rooster takes your hand in his, “And make sure I don’t have to follow up.”

When she turns back her eyes focus solely on Natasha, though they itch to go over her shoulder, “Can you get her home tonight? One of you- I don’t care who. She’s gonna be drunk if she has any more and you know I don’t close until late. I want her home before three in the morning if she’s gonna be out of it.”

“I’ll make sure she gets back to your place safely,” Natasha nods, and Penny knows she’ll keep her promise, “We can stick her in the back of the bronco with a trash bag.”

“Maybe you should let her puke on the seats,” Penny’s dismal mood brightens slightly, and she lets a smirk slide onto her face as gratitude towards Natasha, “Then Rooster won’t like her anymore.”

--

”Look at it like this,” Bradley prompts, getting behind you once more- though this time is markedly different from the last as he molds his body to the shape of yours. Unlike before he presses his pelvis into your ass, his chin nestled over your shoulder so that he’s got the same view you do.

”Line your eye up with the end of the cue.” He instructs, his voice pitched to a low murmur as it’s pumped straight into your ears, “Make sure you’re looking straight down. Then you’re gonna aim to hit any of the balls besides the 8-ball. When you’re playing against someone, you’ll split the rack in half, but for now, more practice is good. Just sink them all except for the 8-ball.”

“That’s last?” You recall hazy memories of pool-playing scenes in movies, and your general knowledge of the game.

“That’s last.” He nods, “Sometimes you have to sink them in order but for now, just see what you can do.”

‘What you can do’ ends up being sinking the cue ball several times, as well as the 8-ball on one unlucky occasion. You do end up clearing the table, though, and Bradley watches from beneath his sunglasses as you finally stand from your hunched position.

“You’re pretty decent for a beginner,” He notes, draining the last dregs of beer from his third bottle, “We’ll have you hustling in no time.”

Once again, the idea of pretending you’re dogshit at the sport to get yourself more ‘tutoring time’, where Bradley pushes against you from behind as you bend over the table, does come to mind, but you stand up with dignity, instead.

The idea of using the bathroom is much more practical after a few drinks, and you hand off your cue to Bradley as you exit.

“Wait for me?” You ask, and the question holds more weight than you should have injected it with.

“Won’t move a muscle,” Bradley grins, his mustache almost obscuring his pearly-whites, and you feel your heart swell in your chest.

Natasha moves in as soon as Bradley’s eyes fall from your back, as soon as the door to the bathroom shuts behind you.

“So,” She calls, her voice pointedly calm as she settles beside Bradley around the pool table, “You’re teaching Y/N to play pool?”

“She doesn’t know how,” Bradley nods towards the table, “But she’s doing decent so far.”

“And is pressing yourself up against her ass helping her learn?” Natasha raises an eyebrow, her tone lethal.

Rooster’s face morphs into a grimace, “Phoenix-”

“She’s Penny’s niece. And she’s younger than you are- not by a ton, but come on. You really think Penny wants some older guy skulking around her niece?”

“I’m not skulking around,” Rooster scoffs, “I’m not a creep. You really think I’d do that? Phee, she wanted to have a good time tonight. You guys weren’t including her in conversation! She’s away from home for the first time, and she’s excited to spend a summer on the beach, just- let her have some fun.”

“With you?”

“With anyone,” Rooster glares through his sunglasses, “Relax. I showed her how to shoot one time. I didn’t take her over the table. And I’m not going to- I get it, off-limits. I’m just trying to show her a good time.”

“Not too good.” Natasha warns, an accusatory finger pointed in Bradley’s face, “Just remember, Penny’s got fantastic aim, and she’s got access to a garbage can full of beer bottles. You won’t make it out of this one alive, Bradshaw.”

“Noted.” Bradley drawls, glancing over Natasha’s shoulder to see the bathroom door still shut, “But if you aren’t gonna join in on our pool match, you should clear the area. She shot one of the balls straight over the edge.”

“Good luck,” She claps Rooster on the shoulder with a laugh, “And watch your balls, Rooster.”

--

Going to the bathroom was necessary, but you’re happy for the sanctuary it grants you afterwards. With an empty bladder you stare at yourself in the dingy mirror, your makeup still intact and your eyes shimmering with adrenaline and liquor. There’s just enough in your system to make you giddy, and you fluff up your outfit so that it’s at maximum levels of attractiveness.

The feeling of Bradley pushing you down over the table had been thrilling. Something you hadn’t gotten from the boys back home- the ones you’d kissed behind the gym shed during class or on your front porch after a movie date. You’re used to puppy crushes and sweet dates, but you’re finding the other side of the spectrum rather alluring three drinks in. The boys you’ve kissed before now- they were just that, they were boys, and this is a man, a naval aviator with a porn stache. Then and there you resolve to tear up the town this summer. If you can score on your first night-? You’re gonna make waves.

Maybe you’ll even tease Bradley. Have some fun with him, keep him waiting for you so that the tension grows.

You’re going to be a new woman- a bombshell this summer, you decide, and Rooster will be one of many.

Candidate number two presents himself the second you set foot outside of the bathroom. He’s taller than you, and he uses it to his advantage, looming over you with a sleazy grin. This- this is definitely one of the men your aunt had told you to stay away from, but maneaters eat, so you let him trap you against the wall.

“I saw you learning how to play pool.” He drawls, beer in hand, “Did you need more shooting practice? I can bend you over better than that guy.”

“That’s a very compelling offer,” Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets at his audacity but you keep your cool, “But I think I’m good with my teacher for the night.”

“Him?” The man scrunches his nose in distaste, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to fool around with older guys. He’s pushing forty- don’t you want someone who can keep up with your appetite?”

“You’re a dog,” You scoff, but you find that you’re not entirely warded off, not when the allure of sex- raw, lustful, cheap sex is on the table, “You really think I’m falling for that?”

“You’re supposed to,” The man grins, and admittedly, his smile would be charming if the rest of him was, “That’s what you do during summer vacation, isn’t it? I know you’re new here, I’ve never seen you before. You’re supposed to let loose, have fun, go wild.”

You suppose he’s right. And you’re not really falling for anything if you know he’s a douche from the start. You’re just agreeing to enjoy him the same way he’ll enjoy you. Mutual manipulation, you suppose- you’re taking advantage of him just as much as he’s trying to take advantage of you.

“Just get some fresh air with me. It’s crowded in here,” The man gestures to the bar around you, “We can refill our drinks and go kiss on the patio. That’s all- just kiss.”

“That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard,” You scoff, but you push yourself off of the bathroom door and take his hand, “But I like the ocean breeze, so you’re in luck. A jack and coke,” You instruct your new suitor, pushing him towards the bar while you beeline for the door. Your stomach still flips as you remember Bradley handing the drink off to you, and you send him a brief, seemingly-accidental look his way, like perhaps you’ve forgotten him due to the swarm of men around you, “With cherries, and meet me outside.”

You don’t wait for a response, all you do is leave.

--

Bradley watches the door to the bar shut behind you, his stomach churning with uneasiness as the man you’d been talking to orders two drinks. Personal feelings aside- he knows most navy men are not to be trusted. Especially the young ones- the bucking broncos who are liable to leave before you’re even finished. He sees a familiar drink being made, one he’d ordered himself an hour ago, and decides to beat the guy out there, walking away so fast that Natasha doesn’t even get back to their table before he’s gone.

Rooster finds you leaning against the railing of the bar’s patio, overlooking the sand below and the ocean beyond. You’re pretty in the moonlight, looking like someone that belongs bathed in it instead of lit by the dim yellow glow of a bar.

“I was waiting for you,” Bradley reminds you, and you turn back to find him, “Did you decide you don’t want to learn how to hustle?”

“I was talking to someone else,” You feign nonchalance, ensuring that you stay far away from any chaste, passionless crushes, “This guy started talking to me outside of the bathroom.”

“I saw,” Rooster slots into place beside you, “He looked like a real douche.”

“I told him as much,” You shrug, “But it’s summer vacation, and I figured I could let loose a little.”

Bradley chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment before responding, “Is that what you want?”

“I just told you I wanted to let loose.”

“Letting loose doesn’t have to mean taking a guy up on his offer of sex just because he’s the first one to offer it to you.”

“What if I want to?”

“Do you?” He asks again, more pointed this time, more convictive. “Do you really want that guy’s face to be the first thing to pop into your mind when people ask how your summer was? Or how your first time went?”

“How’d you know it’s my first time?” You mumble grumpily after a beat of silence, “Is it really that obvious?”

“Jack and coke,” A voice, a shade darker and a tad sleazier than Bradley’s raspy one comes from behind you, and the noise of the bar floats through the open door. Your unnamed suitor stands there double-fisted with drinks, and his eyes darken slightly as he finds Bradley standing beside you.

“I didn’t think we’d have company,” He offers you your drink, but Bradley plucks it from your hands as soon as you take it.

“You’re the company, kid. And we’re having a private conversation. You know the bartender’s her aunt? Don’t get yourself a lifetime ban from drinking in San Diego.” Bradley slips his sunglasses off of his face to glare at the man, and though they’re useless in the moonlight, you mourn the loss of the allure they’d given him. 

That is, until you see his eyes completely unobscured for the first time. You’d caught glimpses of brown before, when he’d tilted his head downwards or when they’d slide down his nose. But in full force they’re puppy-like, even if they’re narrowed lethally at the man standing in the doorway.

He seems convinced, now, that he’s lost, and he sends a fleeting scowl your way before declaring, “Didn’t know she was off-limits. Not worth it- too gullible anyways. I like a chase.”

“He’s about to be the subject of a police chase,” Bradley decides, after the door snaps shut behind him, muffling the sound and leaving you in a moonlit moment, “If he doesn’t leave you alone.”

You try laughing at Bradley’s quip, but you’re still wrestling with resentment over the loss of your cheap sex. No, he probably wouldn’t have been something you were proud of. But do you always need to be proud of your decisions? Men seek out sex for sex’s sake all the time, why should you act any different? 

“I could tell it would have been your first time,” Bradley settles back against the railing, letting the ocean breeze whip against his face, “Because you were gonna let him. And that’s the kind of mistake you only make if it’s your first.”

“You don’t know me well enough to know if it’d be a mistake for me or not,” You gripe, “You met me, like- three hours ago.”

“And you’re great so far,” Rooster turns towards you, “You’re sweet and you’re funny and you’re down to try new things, and your excitement shows on your face, and you’re fun to be around. That guy looked like he clears out any room where people are sober enough to notice him come in.”

“Rooster, I want that!” You gush, pained to admit it but passionate all the same, “I want to have some god-awful summer fling just because it’s easy, and not because he’s the love of my life! I’m trying to do new things, I’m trying to get away from silly little hometown crushes. They're- well, sweet, but I want something more exciting. I want to start living life."

“That’s not a fun life to live,” Bradley pours your jack and coke into the sand, “Did you even watch him through the window? He could have slipped something in here.”

“He didn’t,” You scoff, but it’s more out of defensiveness than facts, because you admittedly hadn't been watching, “Rooster, you don’t know what’s good for me.”

“I might not have known you for very long, but I do know what’s not good for you,” He sets the glass on the railing, “Because that’s not hard to see. You deserve better than someone like him. But,” He straightens up, his Hawaiian shirt whipping in the wind, “If you really want to fuck some hotshot up against the side of the bar, and not even get his number out of it, I’ll leave you to it. You’re an adult, and you can do whatever you want. Just remember, you deserve better than what you want right now- if that’s really what you want.”

He turns to leave, and something terribly, viciously lonely and afraid claws at your insides. It makes your chest hurt, it aches and stabs and tears at you from the inside-out.

“I want something right now.” You gush, breaking the night’s silence and stopping Rooster with his hand on the doorknob, “I- I want something now. Of course I want the perfect man, that’s-” You laugh, breathily, almost dazedly, “That’s what everybody wants. But I’m so tired of sitting around and waiting- I want something now. And the express options aren’t always the best, but they’re quick and they’re easy and that’s what I want.”

“Quantity for quality,” Rooster drawls, unimpressed, “You keep saying you want things but I don’t think you really do.”

“I can’t find quality, Bradley!” You gush, “I can’t- the boys back home were nice, okay? But I’m not gonna spend the rest of my life with them,” You lament, “They were sweet but there was no passion. And then- guys like that one, they’re offering me the other end of the spectrum. Of course I’d love someone right in the middle- someone who’s sexy, someone who’s hot and exciting and makes me feel the same way. And someone who also cares, who listens to me talk and enjoys being around me when I’ve got clothes on, too. That’s- like, every woman’s dream. But they’re one in a million,” Rooster turns, and you watch as the moonlight shines in his big brown eyes, “And I could be waiting a lifetime for someone like that to roll around,” Bradley’s mouth has curved downwards, an endearing pouted frown as you sing him your sorrow song, “And I think if I don’t find him right now-”

You stop dead, your chest heaving with a breath.

Rooster’s auburn hair looks caramel-brown in the darkness, but his white shirt almost glows against his firm abdomen. He’s let go of the doorknob to face you, and his shiny eyes are dulled while he listens to you rage about your woes, your fears, your insecurities. You consider the way he’d scared off your near-mistake, the way he’d tipped the glass of coke into the sand, the way he’d left the warm, boozy bar to make sure you weren’t getting fondled against the side of the building.

You come to the absolutely sickening realization, right then and there, that you’ve fallen in love with the first man you’d met in San Diego.

“I think…” This was supposed to be an escape. You’d wanted to flee from the sweet love of your past, the child’s play of swapping kisses on a swingset. You’d yearned for something more fiery, more exciting, but you’re not sure you’d have found it in the man you’d been about to fuck. Fiery, exciting- that was feeling Rooster’s palm against your back in the bar, that was feeling his pelvis bump against your ass while he’d murmured into your ear.

And perhaps some sweetness isn’t too bad. It’s what you’ve enjoyed historically, after all. You’d mistaken wanting more for wanting something else entirely- you’d assumed no sex god of San Diego would have a heart to match, but Bradley’s presenting the perfect mix of sweet and spicy. You come to the conclusion that maybe your maneater fantasies were due to whiskey and adrenaline, and were not a true reflection of your wishes. A fleeting phase, one you're glad you were rescued from before it would have ruined your summer. Your savior waits for the end of your sentence, tilting his chin towards you to prompt you to finish.

“I think it’s you.” You admit, your vulnerable voice carrying softly on the ocean breeze, and you surge forwards to kiss him.

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

[bodhiscurls]

merry christmas, please don't call. ( bradley 'rooster' bradshaw ) (pt.1)

don't tell them what you told me, don't even tell them that you know me. i would rather burn forever. (read part two here!) based on the song by the bleachers! at the elite program of top gun graduates, rooster doesn't expect to see such a familiar face back in the game. except you're not just his team leader and the daughter of his mortal enemy, you're also his childhood lover he left standing at the altar.

pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x fem mitchell! reader

themes/warnings: lovers to enemies to maybe friends to lovers again. angst, fluff, occasional swearing, trust issues, dysfunctional family relationship, anxiety, implied previous relationship/ mentions of marriage. kissing.

your call sign : echo

god's first gift of the night is that you see him before he sees you, giving you ample time to plan an escape.

penny benjamin sends you a sweet smile from across the bar that you can't help but walk around and grab her into a suffocating hug. she smells like the ocean, like wine and like the mother you never had, like what life could have been for you if things had just worked out for you the way you planned.

"it's been years," she kisses your hair, before pulling away and ruffling it affectionately.

"and then some," you chuckle, smiling at her again. "its the mitchell syndrome, you can never go too far without being called home." the last word barely lands, leaving a sour taste on the tip of your tongue but you swallow it down. years of keeping yourself busy, reading, knitting, flying, even damn therapy has taught you to pace yourself and remember what's in your control.

"does that mean the hard deck can expect another mitchell?" penny quirks a brow and you ponder for a second just how hard this next month may be on her with your father roaming around most likely making the same mistakes all over again. pete mitchell had a knack of destroying the good things and doing whatever he felt like it.

if penny sees your hesitation at the mention of your father she says nothing of it, she places a warm hand on your own and kisses your cheek motherly. "thanks for stopping by," she softly speaks into the air of the bar.

"thank you for never leaving me," you whisper back into the warm air of the bar, its small and she almost doesn't catch it in the hustle and bustle of music, darts and dancing. but she does, in this life and every you will always be a daughter to her. the world has not been kind to you and yet you still continue to show up, and so she commends you immensely for it.

she just wishes that she could look at you and not see your father with all his empty promises hanging from that lazy smile that has stopped her all her life.

with one mitchell here, the other is bound to follow. so penny watches you gingerly step down from your stool, wrap her in one last hug and head for the door. you pause at the sound of the piano, at the giant hunk who's fingers have memorised every inch of your body presses into the keys. the sound of it alone is deafening and burning old nasty memories back into your heart, branding your younger days.

penny watches you grasp the door handle with a little more force than needed as if to anchor you, you swallow and close your eyes tiredly and her heart breaks. you step out the hard deck and let the cold sunset air bite you back to reality before walking away with your shoulders slumped.

penny follows the sounds of the piano that haunt you even all these years and grimaces.

because whilst the world had not been kind to you, it had favoured bradley 'rooster' bradshaw like he was the sun himself. golden kissed skin, firm muscled arms and that smile that could make the universe swoon and bend to his will. he sits and plays a tune he remembers his father lovingly playing; the anthem of his childhood and in the company of his good friends, he basks in the glory and shines a golden light so blinding.

she doesn't have much time or room to think because where your shadow disappears, a much older and more masculine form takes place. with the ghost of your smile and years of young sweet promises, pete mitchell opens the door of the hard deck and back into the life of penny benjamin.

and like his godson, he still looks as good as the day he left or impossibly, even better.

"hey, penny," he starts with a nervousness drowning him in his brown eyes.

"hey, pete," and she doesn't let it stop.

...

hey, kid. big first day huh. wanna get a bite? break the ice?

the message blinds you in the darkness of your bedroom at four am. a washed out mellow grey from the imessage perfectly mirroring your feelings for your father. your fingers hover over the keypad, biting down your lip as you try to find something nice in you to say. you don't want to be the sour guy, you don't mean to be the sour guy but oh my god-

i don't eat before flights.

the hostility sends before you can even stop it, and maybe you think this is your brain reacting to the threats before theyre even visualised. the bubbles in the corner type and type before they disappear entirely and a soft swear leaves your lips. you scream into the darkness where no one can hear you before sitting upright again with a palm at your temples.

i can do coffee, you amend.

in thirty?

thirty sounds good.

"so does never," you scoff, but you know if you don't face him now then you have no chance when you're put up against bradley. you hate that even at the mention of his name something in your faulters, it swells and manifests into the ugliest version of yourself that you can not recognise; the one with no control who lets bitterness reign free.

your relationship with your dad never really survived much after bradley leaving, it hung on by thin strands and random messages of 'miss you'. neither one of you had confronted each other about the real reason you drifted apart and pete knows he's largely to blame.

you brush off the lingering remenants of the past and remind yourself what youre here for: the top secret mission and then you'll probably catch a plane out somewhere and treat yourself to a well deserved vacation; italy was still on your list. once youre changed into a black hoodie that belonged to your father once upon a time and some matching yoga pants you head for the door with your keys.

where your dad preferred a bike, you preferred an actual vehicle. the ford ranger sits comfortably in your drive and you slot back into it like muscle memory, taking to the streets you used to call home within seconds. the soft hum of the engine calms the stormy waters in your mind and you focus on how the sunlight rises and bleeds into a gorgeous blue. it's nice here, you think. it's always been nice here.

you park swiftly and make your way into the café your dad had sent you the location of and spot him instantly. a large part of you has missed him that you'll take whatever fractures and segments you get; bit by bit you believe they can make you whole again, even if it tears you down in the process.

the smell of vanilla and cinnamon fills your nostrils and swells your heart, he still remembers your order and has it waiting for you. though inconsistent, there's something about captain pete mitchell that always screams familiar and its not just the shared blood and inherited love for aviation that runs through your veins.

"hey, dad," it takes him a second to put down his steaming cup before he wraps you in a bear hug similar to his lover yesterday.

"baby bird," he breathes like its been forever since he's held you- its been three months since a facetime so maybe it has been but you shake away the feelings brewing in your stomach at how the nickname falls so easily.

"so mach 10 huh?" a grin works its way onto your features, scarily mirroring his own. you swallow the first sip of home down and let it warm your soul. you can do this, you think. you can be who you were and still be better. there's no weakness in being soft and hardened, at being the one to give in first for the sake of family ties and peace.

"now that," he grins slowly, "is classified," but lets the adrenaline burn bright into his eyes all over again as he dives into the story, the technical geniuses behind the darkstar, the thrill of pushing past his own limita, the rush at being that high at that speed- something you could only dream of touching the surface of. and just like it used to be, you slowly fade away into the back of your dad's glory; like an echo, loud enough to be there and heard, but never the first to be noticed.

. . .

in the years that bradley bradshaw has not seen you, there's not a day that goes by where he doesn't think you're the most beautiful person to exist.

that kind of beauty knocks the absolute wind, robs the air and pulls the rug out from under his feet, he muses. he should have known that you would've been here, of course you would've. you were one of the navy's finest aviators, right behind your dad only you were a rule stickler and had reached the ranks of liutenant commander before anyone in your year group had. he had no idea where the last years had taken you- some top secret deployment classified to half the world no doubt. he'd commend your skill highly, never aloud however because then he would have to admit the truth of how he had such an incredible force in his life and walked away from it.

like you were now.

his heart haults into his chest, beating so erratically he has to remind himself that he's not airborne at 9Gs he's on earth; grounded and unmoving. you walk past him, the your frame willowing between the aviators in the way and take a seat in the middle row- two desks infront. and from this view, he can see you perfectly.

the bridge of your nose, the length of jaw extending to your neck, the sunkissed skin he spent years memorising. the soft lashes that flutter as you blink slowly, carefully thinking before speaking in a tone that drags him to the very deep pits of the earth.

"bob," the smile reaches your eyes and its blinding. the wso's head snaps up, as if he too had memorised the pitch of your voice and curated a song of remembrance to it. his own boba eyes widen in recongition and bradley watches as bob- silent awkward shy little bob- makes his way from his desk to yours and hugs you in a sweet embrace.

"echo," he laughs, "should've known the comp was going to be this incredible," and you look away bashful under his praise.

"it's real good to see you bobby," you pat his shoulder gently, and he's quick to swap seats to the desk next to yours instead.

bradley's blood boils in his skin, searing to temperatures hotter than the sun itself and he clenches his fist under the wooden desk. the familiarity in bob's gaze, jesus bradley could strangle him if he could.

"any reason why you're burning fire into my wso? i need him alive rooster," natasha laughs but the concern laced in her eyes remains steady. she follows his gaze to you and softens ever so slightly. "rooster," she begins again and is cut off by the sound of boots thudding and avaitors rising to his feet.

bradley's thankful for the sudden arrival of their superiors if it means to put an end to the conversation he's ran from for years, but when he sees the familiar face of the man who ended things before they could really begin for him, he pauses and laughs. fate really has a funny way of showing its cards to him.

"you've got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters, fist clenching again.

"fucking mitchells," he breaths at the same time as beau simpson reveals their instructor.

"call sign: maverick."

...

ahhh next part, we'll have some real confrontation between the two of them and def some hangman being a little gossip queen in between!!!!!!

part two.