#bradley bradshaw x reader

[geminiwritten]

cold showers ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you and rooster have been best friends since freshman year of college, and that's all... until you move in together and things get complicated (roommates trope)

notes: Y'ALL!!! please be gentle with me on this one! i was so damn excited and i poured so much into it, but reading it back, it feels kind of choppy and way too internal... i just love this man too so much, i feel like anything i write for him is terrible! but either way, i hope y'all enjoy and i would love some feedback!

warnings: swearing, drinking, italics, text screenshots, kind of super cheesy, and it gets REAL horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 9327

You’ve only just realised that this might not be such a good idea, but it’s too late. There are moving boxes scattered throughout the apartment, their tops torn open and contents half unpacked. There are empty pizza boxes and wine bottles from last night’s dinner, when – after a full day of moving heavy furniture – you treated your friends to the customary Floor Dinner that everyone must have on their first night of moving into a new place. 

You hadn’t thought about it when you signed the lease and you hadn’t thought about it last night, but right now you’re starting to realise that this could have been a very bad idea. Because Bradley Bradshaw – your best friend, your number one confidant, your ride or die – is now standing at the main door to your shared apartment, and his broad shoulders are taking up way too much of the frame. 

You’re not sure how you’ve never noticed it before, but Bradley is big – tall, broad, all lean muscle. Not over the top, but the kind of big that makes your brain short-circuit with images you absolutely should not be having. Lifting you, pinning you, holding you down. And the fact that you’re even thinking that? Yeah. That’s fucking new. 

“Are you okay?” 

You shake your head, feeling heat crawl up your neck and into your cheeks. You stop staring at your best friend like he’s an alien and return your attention to the box on the kitchen counter. “Yeah, sorry. I’m just a little hazy this morning.” 

“Well, lucky for you,” he drops a paper bag on the countertop, “I have just the thing.” He pulls out a four-pack of energy drinks and various packets of snacks, none of which look like suitable breakfast foods. 

“How does your body look like that when you eat like this?” The question leaves your lips before your brain has a chance to slap a warning label on it, and it hangs in the air between you and your best friend, humming like an electric current waiting for ground. 

You and Bradley have been friends for a long time, but you’ve never really talked about each other’s looks – which is normal. Because friends don’t talk about that kind of thing. Right?

He chuckles awkwardly, keeping his chin tucked into his chest as he finishes unpacking the bag, but you don’t miss the dusting of pink that blooms across his cheekbones. “I eat properly when I have to, but this morning I felt like liquid energy and twinkies.” 

You press your lips together and nod, not trusting yourself to say another word. You’ve never been awkward around Bradley, and you sure as hell aren’t going to start now – not just because you’ve suddenly noticed how attractive he is. And on the second day of living together no less. 

Fuck. 

You continue unpacking the kitchen boxes while Bradley moves into the lounge room. He lays out all the pieces of your disassembled bookshelf and starts fitting them back together like a giant puzzle. You hate yourself for not being able to look away, watching the sun spill through the high windows behind him and cast a warm glow around the shape of his body – which is a nice fucking shape. 

You need to get it together. You're gawking at your best friend, for god’s sake. Maybe you just need to get laid – it has been a while, and moving is stressful. You just need to find someone to fuck the tension out of you, and maybe then you’ll stop drooling over your best friend drilling together two pieces of chipboard. 

Then a new thought crosses your mind. Another thing you hadn’t even considered before signing the lease. 

“Bradley,” you say thoughtfully, tipping your head as you wait for him to respond. 

He blows out a breath and stands up straight, holding the power drill in his hand like it’s the beginning of a cheesy porno. “When you say my name like that, I know I’m in trouble.” 

“I think we should have some rules for...” You pause and roll your lips, trying to think for once instead of just letting random words tumble out. “We should set some rules for bringing people home.” 

He tilts his head, clearly confused. “Like, specific visiting hours, or...?” 

You stare back at him blankly. “Bringing people home to have sex.” 

“Oh.” His brows shoot up toward his hairline. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” 

“Okay.” You lean forward, bending at the hips and resting both forearms on the countertop. “First rule, if you bring someone home while the other roommate is home, you stay in your room.” 

He nods. “That’s fair.” 

“Second rule.” Your eyes slide away from his stupidly broad shoulders and toward the couch cushions piled in the corner of the lounge room. “No sex on the couch, please.” 

He lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah, okay. Can I make a rule?” 

You nod, stretching across the counter to grab a piece of junk mail that you’d pulled out of the mailbox earlier this morning. 

“Third rule, only one guest at a time.” 

You freeze as you reach for the black marker tucked into your back pocket, and you look over at Bradley with wide eyes. “Just how adventurous do you think I am?” 

He shrugs his shoulders and turns his attention back to the bookshelf, but you don’t miss the way his lips curl into a little smirk. 

“Alright,” you say once you’ve finished scribbling down the first three rules. “Rule number four, no PDA.” You wait a few seconds for him to object, and when he doesn’t, you add the fourth rule to the list in front of you. 

“Fifth rule,” he says, “if your guest stays overnight, they need to be out before the other roommate is up.” 

You laugh under your breath as you write it down. “If I’m lucky, they’ll be out before I’m even awake.” 

When you look back up, Bradley is on his knees, leaning over the bookshelf with the drill aimed down. His bicep flexes against the thin fabric of his shirt, and his tan skin shines with sweat. The air in the room crackles, charged by the strange tension building inside of you, thanks to your dry spell and... your best friend. 

Fuck. You need to sort yourself out before you get into trouble. 

“Okay, rule six.” You swallow thickly. “Keep it quiet. Whether you’re with someone or on your own, just keep the noise level to a minimum.” 

Great. Now you’re thinking about your best friend touching himself alone... in the shower. Naked and wet, fisting his- 

“That’s a good one,” he says, before the sound of the drill echoes through the open plan living space once again. 

Your mouth is dry but your panties are not. You need to get out of here before you say or do something that you’ll regret. 

“Great.” You slip the cap onto the marker and stand up straight. “I’m just going to go- uh, I need to grab something from the pharmacy, so I’ll be back in half an hour. Do you need anything?” 

He looks up at you with a quizzical expression. “No, I’m good. Are you alright?” 

You force your mouth into a smile and give him a thumbs up. “Never better, roomie.” 

- 

After your pretend trip to the pharmacy, you manage to keep your lecherous staring to a minimum. You put your headphones on and bop along to music while you pack the kitchen away. Bradley busies himself with putting together the bigger pieces of furniture, and you can’t decide if you’re more grateful or frustrated by how turned on it makes you. It shouldn’t make you feel this way. He’s your best fucking friend. 

You take a few short breaks to flick through Tinder, wondering if you’ll be judged you for inviting someone over on the second night of living here. But then you remember that your bed is just a pile of slats and a mattress on the floor, so once you finish the kitchen you move into your new bedroom. 

The sun is well below the horizon by the time you finish laying out the pieces of your bed in the way you’re fairly sure they fit together. 

“Hey,” Bradley says, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “Do you want some help?” 

“Um.” You look around at the panels laid out on the floor, knowing it’ll be a thousand times easier with him giving you a hand. One of two things you can think of that would be better with him giving you a hand. “If you don’t mind.” 

He nods and surveys the room, a smirk splitting across his face as he does. “Well, we should probably start by getting some tools.” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Yeah, I was getting there.” 

He walks back into the living room before returning a minute later with a fistful of hand tools and an easy smile etched onto his face. You still can’t believe that you’ve never noticed how handsome this man is. You used to wonder why women would fall over themselves for his attention on a night out – but now? Now you get it. Your best friend is fucking hot, and there’s no unseeing it. 

He kneels on the carpet beside you and leans forward to prop the headboard panel up against the wall. His shirt stretches across his broad back, sticking to his sweat slick skin and highlighting the way the muscles flex as he moves. 

“Do you have the instructions?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. 

A faint smirk tugs at your lips as you shake your head. “No, that would ruin all the fun.” 

He chuckles and sits back on his heels, assessing the panels laid out around the two of you. “Alright. How hard can it be?” 

Almost an hour later, the bedframe is almost built. The footing is still loose, but after a bit of trial and error, you both realised that the bolts to secure that panel to the side supports should be the last ones tightened. Bradley is on one knee in the middle of the frame, his tongue captured between his lips as he fixes the horizontal support bar to the vertical one. 

You’re sitting right in front of him, almost too close, but you don’t want to make it awkward by scooting away when you’re supposed to be helping. Each of your legs are stretched out on either side of him as you hold the cross section of the two bars steady. 

“Here,” you say, picking up one of the bolts from the floor beside your thigh and handing it to him. His fingers brush against yours and you both linger there for just a little too long before pulling away. 

He glances up at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Careful,” his voice a little rougher than usual, but you decide to blame it on the physical demands of building furniture. “Wouldn’t want to screw this up.” 

You force a laugh, but it comes out a little breathless. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to screw it.” 

He’s still smiling, but now there’s something in his eyes. A hint of challenge, maybe. Or something more. You can’t put your finger on it. You try to return your focus to the task at hand, but now you’re hyper-aware of the space between you – or lack thereof. You feel the heat of his body too close, the rhythm of his breath too in sync with yours. 

When he leans over to grab another bolt, his face is suddenly inches from yours. You freeze, your breath hitching as you instinctively back away, but not before his gaze flicks to your lips for a split second. 

“What?” His voice is low, almost teasing. “You alright?” 

You swallow, praying he doesn’t see how your chest is rising and falling just a little too quickly. “Yeah. Fine,” you say, forcing a casual tone that you definitely don’t feel. “Just focusing.” 

But you’re not focusing on the bed. You’re focusing on him – on the way your body reacts to his proximity, the heat between you that shouldn’t be there. The reluctance to admit it lingers, but you can’t shake the thought that this... this was not a good idea. 

- 

You spend most of the night tossing and turning in the bed that Bradley helped you build, doing your best not to dwell on the fact that your best friend has somehow become the target of all your pent-up sexual frustration. 

You try scrolling through Tinder and replying to a few messages, but none of them are interesting enough to hold your attention, let alone warrant any effort. You can hear Bradley moving around in his room, just one thin wall away, and your mind wanders to what he might be doing. Probably putting his own bed together – something you should’ve offered to help with, but you honestly don’t trust yourself around him right now. 

You need sleep and then you need to get laid. 

At about 2AM, you’ve tossed and turned so much that you can no longer bear the feeling of your sheets against your skin, so you get out of bed. You pad out into the kitchen to find the list of rules you’d written on a piece of junk mail earlier and start typing them into your phone’s notes app. Then you drink a glass of water and assess the lounge room layout, trying to decide which way you want the couch to face. 

When you finally drag yourself back to bed, exhaustion takes over, and your overactive brain has no choice but to let you sleep. But even as you drift off, thoughts of Bradley slip in – thoughts you definitely shouldn’t be having – and soon your dreams are filled with things you never thought you’d be imagining about your best friend. 

You wake to the insistent buzzing of your phone that’s tucked half-beneath your pillow, but by the time you find it and hold it up to your face the caller has already hung up. You roll onto your back and rub your bleary eyes, recognising Natasha’s contact name written across the screen. She probably wants an update on how the big move is going, because she’s nosey like that. She also told you that this wasn’t a good idea, but you ignored her warning and assured it would be fine. 

Jokes on you. 

You decide to call her back later, instead opening Tinder and scrolling through the messages you ignored last night. Yeah, you’re definitely getting laid tonight. You reply to a couple of matches before going into your notes app and copying the list of rules you wrote down to send to Bradley. 

You jump out of bed and head straight for a cold shower, letting the icy water shock your system and wash away the remnants of those steamy dreams about your best friend. It’s a new day – and with any luck, tonight your sexual frustration will finally get some relief. You change into a pair of tights and an oversized shirt before exiting your room and- holy fucking shit. 

“Sorry.” Bradley smiles sheepishly from the kitchen, his hip leaned casually against the bench beneath the coffee machine as it whirs to life. “I need coffee first, and then we can go get some breakfast.” 

He’s wearing nothing but boxers. Little satin ones covered in fluffy white clouds and red airplanes – they look like he’s had them since he was fourteen, judging by the damn size of them. They’re far too tight, leaving way too little to the imagination, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s parading around in them on purpose. 

And then there’s his body. The same body you’ve seen a thousand times before. You’ve gone to the beach together, changed in front of each other, you even waxed his butt cheek once on a dare – but you’ve never looked at him like this. You can’t remember when he filled out so well, when he got so muscular, so manly. The lines and dips of his body are making your mouth water, and it feels like the connection between your brain and your mouth has short-circuited entirely. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, forcing you to stop ogling his abs and meet his eyes. 

You clear your throat and nod, scrambling to find your voice. “Y-Yeah,” you manage, cringing at how weird you sound. “Just… still waking up.” 

He nods slowly, but there’s a knowing smirk curling at his lips – teasing, almost smug. And you want to ask him what the hell he’s playing at, but it’s just Bradley. Your best friend Bradley. He’s always been a little shit like this. He’s messing with you, obviously. You just need to pull your head out of the gutter and stop acting like every look he gives you is foreplay. 

You force your heavy feet to move toward the lounge where Bradley left it yesterday evening after assembling it. This is something you can use to distract yourself until he gets dressed, focusing on the layout of your new living room is a perfect distraction from the half-naked Adonis in your kitchen. 

Seriously, what the fuck? 

Once Bradley is appropriately covered and you’ve secured a Tinder date for the evening, the rest of the day passes rather easily. You start to feel more like yourself as you unpack and settle into the new apartment, joking around with your best friend while doing your best to ignore the way his body moves – or the way his mouth curls into that silly little smirk. You never used to care about those pink lips tugging into something coy beneath his stupidly hot moustache… but now, it’s all you can think about when you slide into the Uber on your way to meet your Tinder date. 

The next week passes in much the same way. You regret taking time off work because Bradley did too, and now you’re stuck in such close quarters with him, unable to ignore the new way you’re seeing him. Your Tinder date wasn’t a total disaster, the sex was adequate, but it did nothing to ease the suffocating sexual tension that hits you every time you walk back into your apartment. It’s getting so overwhelming that you’ve finally decided to swallow your pride and ask for help. You need backup. A voice of reason. Even if you might regret it. 

When you open the door to see Natasha’s smirking face, it takes all your strength not to slam it shut again. 

“Hi,” she says, a little too brightly. “How have you been?” 

You step back and watch her carefully as she walks into the apartment. “What do you know?” 

She glances back over her shoulder. “Oh, absolutely nothing. But I have my theories.” 

You shut the door and follow her into the lounge room, grabbing your bottle of water off the kitchen counter on the way. “Theories?” 

“Yep.” She makes herself comfortable on the corner seat of the couch. “Want to hear them?” 

You sit on the other end where the chaise is and sigh out an exasperated breath. “Shoot.” 

“Did you two have a huge fight on your first night and immediately regret moving in together?” 

You shake your head. “No.” Although that would have been easier to navigate than whatever the fuck is going on. 

“Okay.” She taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully. “You seem a little frustrated, so… is Bradshaw just a terrible roommate? Like, super fucking messy and leaves his shit everywhere?” 

You shrug as you glance around the tidy apartment. “He’s actually really clean, and surprisingly considerate.” 

She rears back a little, her brows pinching. “Okay, he’s a good roommate, so why are you-” Her eyes go wide, thoughts racing behind them. “Oh, my God. Did you two kiss?” 

You flatten your lips and shake your head again. 

Her eyes go impossibly wide. “Did you sleep together?” 

Heat crawls into your cheeks, and despite your best effort to keep a straight face, Natasha has no trouble reading the embarrassment written all over it. “Oh, my God! You-” 

“We didn’t sleep together,” you say quickly. “I just-” 

“But you want to!” she exclaims, almost leaping across the couch. “Holy shit, you’re into Rooster?!” 

You cover your face with both hands, feeling the heat of your cheeks burning against your palms. “Nat, please be quiet. I don’t know how thin these walls are, and I haven’t met the neighbours yet.” 

“Okay, I’m sorry.” She settles back in the couch and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I just- Like, this is so weird. I knew this whole situation was a bad idea, but I thought you’d end up fighting, not falling in-” 

“Don’t you dare.” 

She presses her lips together like a scolded child, but her eyes are still brimming with amusement. 

You take a deep breath and blow it out in a raspberry as you fall against the back of the lounge, mentally sorting through the chaos of the past week to figure out how to explain it as simply as possible. “It got weird on the first morning,” you start. 

Nat snorts. “You didn’t even last twenty-four hours?” 

You give her a blank, unimpressed stare. 

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.” 

You nod and continue, giving her your best rundown of the chaotic chain of events that led to your desperate call for some logical advice. To her credit, she doesn’t react nearly as dramatically as you’d expected – aside from that initial moment – and when you finally finish, you peek up at her from beneath your lashes, sheepish. “Am I insane for suddenly being attracted to my best friend?” 

She studies you carefully for a minute, but it feels more like a lifetime as you wait anxiously for her response. You don’t expect her to give you life-changing advice – you mostly just needed to rant – but you also don’t want her to chastise you or call you an idiot. You’re already confused enough about these feelings; the last thing you need is for them to be invalidated. 

“I mean,” she says, tilting her head thoughtfully, “sure, he’s objectively attractive. I can’t exactly call him ugly, because that would be a lie. But... he’s still Bradshaw.” 

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. “I know.” 

“Are you sure you’re not sleep-deprived and delusional from all the moving?” she asks. “Maybe you’re just wound up and need to get laid.” 

“I got laid. Hooked up with some guy from Tinder.” You sigh, glancing back up at her, a beat of hesitation before you ask, “And do you want to know what I did?” You hope she’ll say no – but deep down, you know that there isn’t a universe, parallel or otherwise, where Natasha says no to a question like that. 

She nods, and you drop your head into your hands again, mumbling into your palms. “I called out his fucking name.” 

She draws a quick, sharp breath – a gasp. “The guy from Tinder?” 

“No.” 

“Oh… my God.” Her voice is laced with amusement – definitely not mocking, but she’s clearly having the time of her life watching you squirm in your own embarrassment. 

You peak up at her from between your fingers. “I know.” 

“What did the guy say?” 

“Nothing. I’m not even sure if he noticed.” You drop your hands into your lap. “His name was Riley, so it could have sounded similar amongst all the other… noises.” 

She laughs, the sound edged with disbelief – like she’s watching some midday soap opera with a plot so ridiculous that you couldn’t possibly imagine it to be real. “Oh, my God.” 

“Would you stop saying that and give me some actual advice?” 

She shakes her head slowly. “I’m not sure I’m equipped to deal with this.” 

“Well, neither am I!” you exclaim, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling. “I smelled his fucking laundry the other day.” 

She chokes on nothing, and you can just imagine the unhinged look in her wide brown eyes. “You what?” 

You’re already knee-deep, so you might as well dive right in and spill all your dirty little secrets. “I was moving his clothes out of the dryer,” you say, slowly tilting your head down, “so I could put mine in… and I sniffed one of his damn shirts.” 

Her mouth falls open, but no words come out. Her face is bright red, though not the same embarrassed shade of scarlet you're wearing – she looks like a kid in a fucking candy store. Your shameful confessions are making her happier than you’ve seen her in… well, ever. 

Then she bursts out laughing – the hand on your stomach, curling over, cackling kind of laughter that rings through the empty apartment. You’re almost positive your neighbours would be able to hear this, but that doesn’t bother you anymore – you just hope that Bradley doesn’t come home any time soon. 

When she finally manages to pull herself together, she wipes the moisture from the corners of her eyes and looks at you with complete earnestness. “I know I said this already but… oh, my God. I can’t believe you’re down bad for Bradshaw.” 

Your breath catches in your throat, and your brain short-circuits – something it’s been getting disturbingly good at lately. The idea of being in love with your best friend isn’t just terrifying; it’s ridiculous. You’ve been friends for far too long for this to even be a possibility. You’re so deeply entrenched in the friend zone that the thought of climbing out doesn’t even cross your mind. It isn’t a consideration. 

“I am not,” you protest. 

She raises one, challenging brow. “Then what are you?” 

“I’m…” you hesitate, feeling the crack in the floodgates holding back all your inner turmoil. “Confused! I’ve known him since freshman year of college. He’s one of my best friends – we’ve had, like, a thousand sleepovers, and up until a week ago, I would’ve confidently said that I felt more sexual tension in a funeral home than lying in a bed next to him. But now? Now it’s like I’ve been stuck in the Sahara Desert for thirty years and he’s a six-foot-tall glass of ice-cold water – and I’m pretty sure I’ll die if I don’t get a taste.” 

The apartment falls eerily silent when you finish talking, breathing like you’ve just run a marathon. Natasha just stares at you, her expression a complicated cocktail of amusement, pity, and the slightest hint of disgust. Exactly how you would’ve looked a week ago if someone had tried to tell you that Bradley Bradshaw – your best fucking friend – was suddenly the new object of your desire. You would’ve laughed in their face, faked a gag, and told them to get their head checked. 

Maybe you need to get your head checked. 

“What are you going to do?” she asks. 

“I have no fucking idea.” 

The sound of keys rattling makes you both jump, heads snapping toward the main door of the apartment just as it swings open. Bradley strolls in looking criminally hot in his gym clothes, sweat gleaming across every inch of exposed skin. It’s honestly obscene. He looks like he just walked off the set of a porn film – ‘stache and all – and you have no idea how you’re supposed to act normal when your best friend looks like that. 

“Hey,” he nods at Natasha. “I didn’t know you were coming over.” 

“We hang out a lot,” Nat says, “so you better get used to having me around.” 

Bradley lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, the kind that vibrates in his chest before curling around your spine like smoke. It’s effortless, teasing, and way too attractive for something so casual. You swear you feel it in places a laugh has no business reaching. And he’s all the way across the fucking room. 

“Do we need a new set of rules just for Phoenix’s visits?” he asks, looking at you with that familiar smirk. “Because honestly, I’d feel a lot safer if her presence came with some kind of regulation.” 

Natasha turns back to you and frowns curiously. “You have rules?” 

“Yeah.” You tear your gaze away from Bradley as he downs a bottle of water by the fridge. Even something as simple as hydrating looks sinful when he does it. “For bringing guests home.” 

“Adult guests,” Bradley clarifies from the kitchen. 

“Oh.” She snorts a laugh. “Hook ups.” She eyes you with mischief, a smirk playing at her lips as she watches you watch Bradley. 

He finishes his water and walks toward the lounge, moving past Natasha before opting to sit at the foot of the chaise where you’re perched. If the air in the apartment was warm before, it’s practically on fire now – electrically charged, humming like static before a storm. Even the look on Nat’s face says she feels it too. 

“Well.” She smacks her hands against her thighs and pushes off the lounge. “I better get going. I told Fanboy I’d take him to the blood drive.” 

“I thought you went last weekend,” Bradley states. 

“I did,” she says. “But Fanboy signed up for this weekend and he’s worried he won’t be able to drive himself home.” 

Bradley smirks again, his lips playful beneath his moustache – the very one that’s been haunting your dreams with alarming regularity. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks to film him if he passes out.” 

“Twenty bucks if he passes out, or twenty bucks regardless?” 

“Regardless,” Bradley replies. 

Natasha mirrors his smirk and holds her hand out, palm up. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Bradshaw.” 

Bradley stands back up and walks toward the kitchen, oblivious to the way your eyes track his ass and to Natasha’s barely contained laughter as she watches you ogle him for the second time today. After finding his wallet and handing her a crisp twenty-dollar bill, she moves toward the door, pausing to flash you a grin that can only be described as pure evil. 

“Alright, you crazy kids,” she says. “Don’t have too much fun tonight.” 

You fight the overwhelming urge to roll your eyes and shove her out the door, instead settling for your best ‘Fuck You’ scowl as she winks and steps into the hallway. Bradley calls his goodbye from the kitchen, bent over the island with his forearms resting on the countertop while he scrolls through his phone. You close the door behind her, take a deep breath through your nose, and turn to face your best friend – something you’ve been needing to remind yourself of more often lately. 

“Want to order takeout tonight?” Bradley asks, twisting his neck to look at you. “I was thinking we could have a movie night – unless you’ve got plans. How’s that guy from Tinder been?” 

You tilt your head, brows furrowing as you try to make sense of the two completely unrelated questions. You don’t even remember telling him about your Tinder date, but clearly, you must have. So why does he care how it's going? He’s never asked about your dates or flings before – not unless you brought them up first. 

“I’m not sure how he’s going,” you reply honestly. “It was more of a- uh… stress relief kind of thing than a date.” 

He chuckles again as he stands up straight, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Wow, didn’t even think to ask me first, huh?” 

Your heart leaps up into your throat, stealing all the air from your lungs as heat floods your entire body. Your face is burning, your skin feels too tight, and your pulse is a pounding drumbeat in your ears – and between your legs. The sheer audacity of his words ricochets through your brain, short-circuiting every coherent thought. You don’t know whether to slap him, laugh, or drag him straight to your bedroom… 

“I’m kidding,” he says, brows pinching. “It was just a joke. Are you okay?” 

You know exactly what you must look like – cheeks blazing, mouth hanging open, and eyes wide as saucers. You scramble for words, for your voice, for anything at all to keep yourself from gawking at your best friend like a complete idiot. 

“I-I know that,” you stammer out, before forcing a shrill and completely unconvincing laugh through your lips. 

He eyes you with a hint of doubt but doesn’t press any further. “Okay, well, if that guy didn’t do much to relieve your stress, maybe it’s time to explore... other options.” 

Then he winks and walks past you, his arm brushing against your shoulder as he does and setting the skin there on fire. You’re frozen again, you can’t breathe, and your feet are seemingly glued to the floor. Your thoughts are racing, but you can’t find the words to ask him what the fuck that was supposed to mean. All you can do is stare blankly at the spot where he just stood, the sound of the bathroom door closing and the water turning on barely registering as you stand there, completely fucking lost. 

A few hours later and after yet another cold shower – let’s be honest, you're practically living in them now – you find yourself sprawled out on the couch, aimlessly flicking through streaming channels. Bradley is in the kitchen, cracking open two beers and typing in his credit card details on the Uber Eats app to order some Thai takeout for both of you. 

“Food will be here in twenty minutes,” he says as he flops onto the lounge beside you, handing you one of the two bottles of beer. 

The silence that settles between you feels surprisingly comfortable, the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand to be filled with awkward small talk. You don’t bother making more room for him on the couch; one leg draped over the armrest as you lazily scroll through the endless options on the screen. Bradley sits beside you, almost close enough to touch but not quite. His beer rests in one hand, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the bottle.  

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks suddenly, his gaze shifting from the TV screen to you. 

You glance over at him, surprised. He’s still holding his beer, his brows furrowed slightly. 

“What? You mean because I’ve been acting like a stressed-out wreck all week?” you joke, but it doesn’t quite land like you hoped. 

Bradley shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah, but also just... I don’t know. You’ve seemed a little off lately. Not like yourself.” 

You pause for a second, the air between you feeling heavier than it should. Normally, you’d brush it off with a sarcastic remark, but something about his tone makes you reconsider. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you – genuinely concerned, no teasing. 

“I just…” you hesitate, wondering how to word your thoughts without giving too much away. “I let Phoenix get in my head about us living together. She said it could end badly and mess up our friendship, but that’s the last thing I want. So, I guess I’ve been a little hyper-aware, kind of walking on eggshells, because I don’t want to mess this up.” 

Bradley nods slowly, processing your words. “I get it. But you know that’s not going to happen, right? It’s you and me – us. We are literally unshakeable. Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Yeah, I know. I’m just overthinking it – being dramatic, as usual.” 

He chuckles and nudges you with his elbow. “Without your dramatics, my life would be empty.” He pauses, unspoken thoughts racing behind his eyes. “Especially when it comes to your spectacular Tinder dates. I love hearing about those.” 

Your chest tightens – an unfamiliar feeling you’ve never before felt with your best friend. “Yeah?” You force a light laugh past your lips. “I wouldn’t exactly call them dates. And ‘spectacular’ is definitely a stretch.” 

He laughs again, and it’s easy, comfortable, like the kind of sound you’ve always known. “You’re too picky, that’s your problem,” he teases, but there’s no judgment in his tone. “Maybe you should just take a break from the whole dating thing for a while.” 

You shoot him a sideways glance. “Yeah, maybe... but then you’d be stuck with me forever. No escaping.” 

Bradley looks at you, his eyes too wide and too sincere above what should be a playful smile – but it’s more serious than that. “I think I could handle it.” 

Warmth rushes into your cheeks and you quickly avert your eyes, turning your attention back to the TV screen where you had apparently just clicked on an old action movie about navy fighter pilots who become prisoners of war. Not only do you love forcing Bradley to watch movies about the navy and insisting he point out every single inaccuracy, but this one also looks perfectly morbid. Hopefully morbid enough to keep your inappropriate thoughts at bay. 

You flash him your cheesiest grin as you hit play, then make a dramatic show of sinking comfortably into the couch cushions. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue – just gives you that annoyingly pretty little smirk before shifting his gaze to the TV. 

It isn’t long before the buzzer for the lobby door rings through the apartment. You’re barely ten minutes into the movie when you hit pause and Bradley springs up from the couch. He heads out the door to meet the delivery driver in the lobby – building rules don’t allow anyone but official USPS personnel through the main door. 

Once the door clicks shut behind him, you pull out your phone and type a text to Natasha. You tell her that – thanks to her complete lack of helpful advice – you ended up talking to Bradley, and now you’re feeling a lot better. More normal. Sure, you can objectively acknowledge that he’s attractive, but as long as you don’t blur any lines, you’re confident your friendship will stay exactly where it belongs. You were just being dramatic before. Overwhelmed. Sleep-deprived. All it took was a conversation to clear the air. 

Before he’s even back, you push yourself off the lounge and wander into the kitchen. You start pulling open drawers, grabbing cutlery and plates, when the scent of pad Thai hits you like a warm hug. Suddenly, Bradley is beside you – having somehow snuck back into the apartment without a sound – unpacking containers and setting them on the counter with that effortless ease that only makes him more frustratingly attractive. 

You tell yourself not to look, not to care – but your eyes have a mind of their own. They watch him as he opens another container, catching the flex of his forearm, the concentration on his face, the way his tongue pokes out slightly at the corner of his mouth. God, you’re hopeless. You turn back to the drawer and focus on pulling out chopsticks, pretending like you’re totally unaffected.  

“Napkins?” he asks. 

“Top cupboard,” you reply. 

Before you can step aside, he’s there – close, impossibly close. His chest brushes against your back as he reaches up, trapping you between his body and the counter. You freeze, breath catching in your throat, hand still in the drawer. The scent of him – clean sweat and something sharp like cedar – wraps around you like a vice. 

And then- 

Oh, fuck. 

His hips shift, and it’s not subtle. He presses against you, slow and deliberate, the hard line of him settling against the curve of your ass. There’s no mistaking it – no accidental contact or innocent mistake. He lingers for a beat too long, the heat of him searing through your thin lounge shorts like a warning – or a promise. 

Your fingers curl around the counter edge as a quiet gasp slips past your lips. He still hasn’t moved. You should say something. Step away. Do anything but melt like butter beneath him. 

Instead, you stay rooted, your whole body pulsing with heat, electricity zipping down your spine as his breath grazes the shell of your ear. “Just needed the napkins,” he murmurs, voice rough, low, amused. 

You want to turn around and call him a liar – or better yet, grab a fistful of his t-shirt and pull his lips down to yours. But you can't. You're too much of a coward to do anything but let out a high-pitched, breathy laugh – the most unconvincing laugh in the history of fake laughs. 

The smirk on his lips is anything but innocent as he spoons rice into one of the bowls, the motion slow and deliberate. It makes your pulse stutter, and your mind goes into overdrive, swirling with questions you can’t even begin to articulate. You’re so off-balance, you can’t even bring yourself to fix your own plate, not until he’s across the living room and settled comfortably on the couch – far enough away that you don’t feel like you might spontaneously combust. This is a very dangerous game. One you didn’t even know you were playing… until now. 

Every thought you’d had a mere five minutes ago about being in control of this situation has flown right out the window by the time you sink back onto the couch. Bradley looks perfectly content as he spoons mouthfuls of Thai food into his mouth – but you know better. There’s something else going on behind those brown eyes, something unreadable, because he’s pretending to be far too invested in a movie you know he doesn’t give a damn about. 

Once you’ve both cleared your plates, Bradley packs the leftovers into the fridge and hands you another beer like it’s no big deal – like he didn’t just grind up on you in the kitchen like you’re in some slow-burn porno. You take it with a tight smile and attempt to sink even further into to the couch, pretending the bottle is far more interesting than the memory seared into your brain. The air crackles between you, heavy with a tension that definitely doesn’t feel platonic. You keep your eyes glued to the screen like it’s your lifeline, pretending you’re totally invested in the movie that you can’t even remember the name of. 

Two painstaking hours crawl by, and you barely exchange more than a handful of words. You don’t ask Bradley to clarify any of the movie’s questionable navy facts, and he doesn’t offer up his usual know-it-all commentary – even when it’s painfully obvious that what just happened on screen is pure Hollywood fiction. The tension between you is palpable, and you can both acutely feel the electric aftermath of him pressing his half-hard cock into your ass. 

The second the screen fades to black and the credits start to roll, you spring up from the couch. “I’m going to head to bed. I’m super tired.” You don’t even try to make your shrill voice sound more convincing. It’s fucking awkward right now and you both know it. 

“Yeah, me too,” Bradley says, keeping his eyes glued to the TV screen. 

You drop your empty beer bottle into the recycling bin and head toward your bedroom door. “Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

You shut the door behind you and lean against it as if you’re in some angsty teen romcom. You let your head fall back with a soft thud and squeeze your eyes shut, desperately trying to recall a time when Bradley’s warmth, his scent, and that damn smile didn’t make your heart feel like it was doing a full-on marathon. When it was just friendship. You try to laugh it off, but it sounds a lot like a strangled gasp. 

You give yourself a few minutes to wallow in self-pity before dragging your phone up in front of your face to check the time. It’s barely 9PM. And it’s Saturday. You doubt that either of you will be falling asleep anytime soon – but there’s no way you can go back out there. Not after that. You’ll just have to find something to do in your room that doesn’t involve thinking about your best friend. Preferably something mind-numbing. Or holy. 

You crawl onto your bed and flip open your laptop, browsing through a few streaming apps before landing on an old comedy you’ve watched a thousand times before. You’re not in the mood for any surprises – you want something familiar, something predictable. You’ve had more than enough confusion for one night. 

But no matter how many times you toss and turn and fluff your pillows, your mind refuses to cooperate. There’s no escaping the searing memory of what had happened in the kitchen, the way he’d trapped you against the counter. The feel of his breath ghosting over your neck still tingles down your spine. And the way his hips had pressed into you – slow, deliberate, almost like he knew exactly what he was doing. It has your thoughts spiralling into places you shouldn’t be going. Especially not alone. Especially not about your best friend. 

There’s only one thing you can think of to ease the ache building between your legs, but it feels wrong. The thought of touching yourself while thinking about your best friend sends a wave of guilt through your body. You've managed to distract yourself every other time this thought has popped up over the last week, pulled yourself away just before it took hold – but not tonight. Tonight, you’re stuck, trapped on your speeding train of thought, headed straight for the flashing neon sign that reads: Masturbate to Your Best Friend – Go Ahead, I Dare You. 

“Fine,” you groan out, snapping your laptop shut and rolling over toward your bedside table. 

So much for holy. 

Your hands are practically trembling as you pull out your vibrator and drop it on the bed. You twist toward your headboard and prop your pillows up before settling back against them – then you pick up your phone and open a new web browser. If you watch porn, then that means you’re not totally thinking about Bradley while doing what you’re about to do. Right? 

A knock at the door startles you, and you quickly drop your phone and jump off the bed. Frustration bubbles in your gut, spreading through your whole body and making you more than a little agitated by your best friend who seems to be thoroughly enjoying giving you whiplash. 

You yank the door open to see him standing there – fucking shirtless – wearing a hesitant, apologetic little smile. 

“I – uh – wanted to talk about earlier…” His voice is a little strained, and you’re suddenly aware of how close he is, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and deliciously naked upper body. 

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms over your chest. “About what? The part where you decided to get all up in my personal space and make it weird?” 

He winces. “Yeah, about that.” His gaze flits to the bed behind you for a second, where your vibrator is sitting in full view. His mouth opens, then shuts, and suddenly he's biting back a very unapologetic grin. 

You bite your lip, ignoring the immediate burning in your cheeks. “Something caught your eye?” 

Bradley steps forward, forcing you further into your room, before shutting the door behind him. His eyes are glued to the bed, but there’s a heat building in his gaze, and you feel it deep in your stomach. 

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly trying not to stare at the thing on the bed, but then, with a quick, almost predatory glance at you, he takes another step forward. “Yeah, well, I was going to apologize, but now I’m not so sure what for.” He’s close enough that you can feel his breath against your cheek, but your feet are stuck, you couldn’t move away even if you wanted to. 

You smirk and tip your head, faking a bravado that you definitely don’t feel. “Oh? So, you’re not sorry for grinding against me in the kitchen?” Your voice is a lot stronger than you feel, and for that, you’re grateful. 

Bradley stiffens, then shrugs, trying – and failing – to appear nonchalant. “Maybe I enjoyed it a little more than I should have,” he mutters, his voice dropping low. 

Your heart skips a beat. “What?” 

Before you can say another word, Bradley is suddenly right there, his hand gripping your wrist and pulling your body right up against his, making your breath hitch. “What if I’m really sorry?” His voice is playful now, but there’s an edge of something else – something hotter – lingering in his words. 

But you don’t get the chance to ask him what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, because his lips crash onto yours without warning. For a heartbeat, you're frozen – shocked and unsure – before instinct takes over and you melt into him. Your hands find his chest, fingers splaying across warm skin, and you swear you can feel his heart racing beneath your palms. He tastes like beer and something dangerously addictive, something that’s always been there, just beneath the surface, waiting. Your hands drift lower before you can stop them, tracing the curve of muscle and heat, before stopping at the waistband of his sweatpants – as if that’s the line. This elastic band of grey material is the physical embodiment of the line the divides friendship from something more. 

Then he pulls away just as suddenly as he had kissed you, breathless and wide-eyed. He looks wrecked – like his thoughts are spiralling, torn between a dozen different emotions you can’t quite name. 

“Bradley, I-” You start to speak but you’re not actually sure you have anything to say. 

Your whole body is on fire, every nerve ending singed as fire laps and dances across your skin. You want him to kiss you again and again – you never want him to stop. You have no idea how you’ve gone this long without tasting his lips, his tongue, but now you know you can’t live without it. You need him more than you need oxygen but... he’s your best friend. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you mutter, slowly removing your hands from the waistband of his sweatpants. 

He blinks a couple of times and frowns, tilting his head as he regards you with curiosity. “Why?” 

You swallow thickly on the emotion building in your throat, determined not to cry about the fact that you’re in love with your best friend. And only just fucking realised it. 

“For everything,” you say. “This past week, moving in together, staring at you like you’re my next fucking meal. We’re best friends, and I meant it when I said I don’t want to ruin it. I-I know this isn’t want best friends do, but I’m willing to forget about it if-” 

“I’m not,” he interrupts, his expression serious. “I’m never going to forget about the moment when I finally sacked up and kissed you.” 

Your breath catches and you can feel the bridge of your nose starting to sting. “Finally?” 

He lets out a dry, humourless chuckle, rubbing a hand up the side of his neck. “Yeah. Finally. Because I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I’m not even sure when it started – just that it was long before you started looking at me like that.” He gestures toward your face, where whatever expression you’re wearing must scream hunger. 

You both let out breathless little laughs, and then you press your lips together and wait for him to finish his big, dramatic speech. 

“I was perfectly happy being your best friend, and I still will be if you decide that that’s all you want from me. I swear, I’m not saying this to mess anything up. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t feel more.” His eyes are full of earnest, and it makes your chest ache. “Because I wake up every fucking day thinking about you, and I fall asleep wondering if you’re thinking about me too. I know we’ve always had this easy rhythm between us, but lately it’s been… different. And I don’t think that’s just in my head.” 

You can feel your pulse thrumming across every inch of your body, and it takes all the self-control you have not to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him senseless. 

“What happened in the kitchen – that wasn’t nothing.” A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “That was a moment I’ve been trying not to want for way too long. And if there’s even a chance you want this too, then I’m all in. But if not… I’ll still be here. I’d rather be your best friend forever than risk losing you. But I had to be honest – because I’m in love with you. And I think maybe you’re in love with me too.” 

His chest rises and falls quickly as he finishes, and all you can do is stare up at the face you know better than any other, wondering how you’ve never truly seen him before. “Bradley, I’m-” 

“I mean, come on,” he says, his lips curling into a full-blown smirk beneath that damn moustache, “who goes on that many Tinder dates but never ends up with a boyfriend?” 

You frown, attempting to look indignant but deep down, you know you're just gazing at him like a fool in love. “Is this how you ask girls out, by insulting them first?” 

He chuckles again, but this time it’s nervous. “Did it work?” 

You roll your eyes playfully, trying to ignore the way your heart is rioting within your chest – beating so hard, you’re sure it’s about to break a rib. “Yeah,” you sigh, hooking your fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants to pull him closer again. “It worked.” 

The grin that splits across his face is blinding, but you barely have time to appreciate it before his hands are on your face, pulling you toward him. His lips crash against yours with a desperate urgency, and it’s like everything you’ve ever felt about him floods to the surface. Your hands slide up to his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens, fierce and unrestrained. The taste of him is intoxicating, as if you’ve been starved for this connection, for him. Your heart races at a dangerous pace as you lose yourself in the heat, the spark between you crackling louder than any words you could’ve spoken. It’s messy, it’s raw, but it’s everything you’ve been craving and more. 

It’s only when your lungs start to burn for air that he pulls back, his breath ragged as he meets your gaze. “Now I’m really sorry I didn’t say anything sooner.” 

You giggle, the sound soft and giddy. “You’re going to need to apologize better than that.” 

He grins, pulling you closer, and in one swift motion, he’s pressing your back against the wall, his body flush against yours. “Oh, I can do better,” he says, lips ghosting over your neck, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. “But you’re going to have to be patient.” 

You laugh again, breathlessly, but the sound quickly dies in your throat as his lips find yours again – even more demanding this time – his hands sliding down your sides with a confidence that has your heart racing. He’s moving against you, not in a hurry but with an urgency that you can’t help but match. 

“Bradley,” you murmur against his lips, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I am in love with you too.” 

His eyes darken, and the playful grin on his lips shifts into something far more dangerous. The teasing is gone – replaced by an intense, smouldering need that matches your own. His gaze locks onto yours, raw and unguarded, and in that moment, every inch of you ignites with desire. He’s all heat and need now, and you’re right there with him, every inch of you aching with want. And love. 

END.

[roosterforme]

Your reblogs always make me scream with joy

A Nice, Big Rooster | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Rooster is surprised to run into you on North Island. He's not, however, surprised to find that he still wants you as much as always.

Warnings: Pure smut, piv sex with a condom, reader receiving oral

Length: 2900

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This is in response to a request from mak-32!

Check out my masterlist!

Bradley did a double take. There was no way it was you. He hadn't seen you in almost eight years, when you had both been in Texas. But it certainly looked like you. And he should know; he checked your Instagram account almost religiously. He couldn't help himself. The damn thing was filled with thirst traps, and he'd had a massive crush on you for years during flight training. 

He watched as you craned your neck to look in his direction. "Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw? Is that really you?"

His face cracked into a smile as you separated from your group and made your way across the tarmac toward him. "Yeah, Y/N, it's really me."

You bit your lip and threw your arms around his neck. "Haven't seen you in ages! You look really good," you murmured against his neck. 

Bradley's heart started pounding as he wrapped his arms around your waist and hugged you. "You always look good. What are you doing in San Diego? I thought you were in Florida," he asked as you slipped back out of his grasp all too soon. 

You smiled up at him and examined his face. He wondered how different he looked to you since age twenty-seven had turned into thirty-five. You still looked fucking gorgeous; he'd always gone crazy over your smile. Now more than ever, he was regretting never making a move on you. For some reason he'd always kept himself in the friend zone where you were concerned. 

"Yeah, I'm still stationed in Florida, but I'm on my way to Hawaii for deployment. I'm just here for the night," you told him, gesturing behind you. Bradley's gaze shifted over toward the Seahawk helicopter with your name and call sign painted on the side. 

"Just one night?" he asked, his eyes shifting back to your face. He could do a lot with you in one night, given the opportunity.

"Mmhmm," you hummed, nodding your head slightly. You still hadn't stepped fully out of his personal space. If Bradley moved more than an inch, he'd be touching you again. He really wanted to be touching you again. 

"Then you should let me take you to the bar later and get you a drink so we can catch up."

Your expression stayed completely neutral and you didn't respond. Bradley was starting to sweat under your gaze when you finally asked, "Do you still have that vintage Bronco?"

He laughed. "Yeah, I do. I'll never get rid of that thing," he told you, making you smile. "Do you want to go for a ride later?"

Your eyes went a little wide and Bradley watched you open your mouth, but no words came out. Just as he realized how inappropriate his question must have sounded, you licked your lips and asked, "Did you mean for that to sound so dirty, Bradshaw?"

Something in your voice sounded hopeful, so Bradley decided to go for it. "Maybe."

Your cheeks turned pink and you briefly broke eye contact with him. He watched your neck just above your flight suit as you swallowed. "It's a little early in the day for dirty talk, but I'd be happy to continue this later."

Bradley's dick throbbed, begging him to comply. "Your phone number still the same?"

"Yes," you replied, gazing up at him through your eyelashes, bumping the back of your hand against his thigh. 

"I'll text you," he promised, and with a longing smile, you turned away and rejoined the group of helicopter pilots. 

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

Seemingly the only thing Bradley did all day, instead of anything work related, was text you.

You still look so good to me. I'm an idiot for never making a move on you before.

Y/N: Yeah, you are. I would have definitely been into it. Why didn't you?

Because we were friends.

Y/N: We could have been friends with benefits. Or something else. 

Fuck. I'm hoping we can make up for that tonight. I can't wait to touch you.

Y/N: I can't wait to have your hands and mouth all over me.

Bradley dashed out of work a little early and stopped to buy condoms on his way back to his apartment. You had agreed to let him pick you up on base this evening. He couldn't remember this last time he was this excited about anything. He took a shower and changed into snug fitting jeans and a tee shirt. Then he cleaned his apartment up a bit and headed out in the Bronco to pick you up.

You had always seemed a little too good for him. A little too smart. A little too pretty. A little too popular. Definitely top shelf. And that's why he'd never gone after you. Just the idea that you had voluntarily engaged in a little dirty talk with him today had blown his mind. 

And when he pulled the Bronco up to the curb where you were waiting for him, he audibly moaned. You had changed into a little sundress and flip flops, and you were holding your khaki duffle bag. He really hoped that meant you planned on sleeping over. Bradley leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door for you as you were reaching for the handle.

"Hi," he said with a grin as you tossed your bag into the back seat and climbed in.

"Hey," you replied, easing yourself into the Bronco. "So, I'm ready for this ride I was promised. Where are we going?"

Bradley smirked and pulled out onto the main road. "I'm taking you to watch the sunset."

You were quiet for a beat. "That seems a little excessive for a hookup, Bradshaw."

He turned to look at you briefly as he drove. "Well, uh, we don't have to. We can just go back to my place. If you'd rather. But, come on, Y/N, this isn't just a hookup, right? I mean, we know each other." He nervously ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, mussing it up in the process. Why had he thought the sunset thing would be a good idea? Shit, now he was nervous he was going to fuck this all up.

"Bradley, if you decide to be sweet to me... well, let's just set some terms, because I definitely still think about you sometimes."

His heart pounded and his cock throbbed. "Do you?"

"Yeah," you whispered and turned to look out the side window.

Time to come clean. "I still think about you, too. I check your Instagram page way more often than is probably appropriate for friends."

You giggled. "Really? I hardly ever update that anymore."

"Yeah, I know. You really should. A lot more bathing suit content similar to your vacation in Mexico last summer would be greatly appreciated."

You laughed and hid your face behind your hands. "Okay fine, watching the sunset sounds nice."

Bradley just smiled and headed toward the beach.

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

You were both quiet as you sat on the back of the Bronco. Bradley had backed into the parking spot and then dropped the tailgate, and that's where you were both sitting as the sun grazed the horizon.

The sunlight bathed your skin in gold, and Bradley kept stealing glances at you. "You look beautiful," he whispered to you, and you scooted closer to him. You reached for his hand where it rested on his thigh and slipped your fingers across his palm. "And I've always wanted to kiss you."

You turned and looked up at him, licking your lips and nodding a little.

Bradley dipped his face closer to yours until your soft lips met his. He reveled in the feel of you working your mouth against his so sweetly. He reached his free hand up to caress your chin and tip your head back, gaining better access to you. He moaned softly when you took his bottom lip between both of yours and licked him. You pulled away after a moment, looking up at him before running your fingers up into his hair.

"I'm glad you still have the mustache. I always liked it on you," you told him, nipping his lips a little rougher now.

Yep, he was so stupid. He could have been doing this ages ago.

He pulled your joined hands up around his neck until both of your hands were in his hair. He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth as soon as you parted your lips for him. You somehow tasted sweet and familiar, like something he was happy to revisit, even though he'd never done this with you before. He let you explore his mouth as your hands eased slowly down to his chest.

"Bradley," you gasped as he released your mouth only to plant a few kisses on your bare shoulder. He brushed your hair back and let his fingers tangle in the strands.

"Hmm," he hummed against your skin, nibbling a little trail up your neck to your ear. "I like this. I like you," he whispered. "Always have."

Your breaths were coming shorter as the sun had fallen completely below the horizon and everything was getting darker.

"Let's go back to your place," you told him, and he gladly lifted you down from the tailgate.

If he ran a yellow light or two on his way, he couldn't really be at fault. Bradley wanted to get his hands all over you, and it didn't help that you were running your fingers up and down his arm as he drove. "How much further?" you asked.

"Almost there, honey. Sit tight. I promise I'll take care of you real soon."

You moaned and bit your knuckle, eliciting a laugh from Bradley. And when he pulled into his parking spot, you were out of the car before he had the engine off. He ran up behind you and scooped you up into his arms and carried you toward his door, his hands all over your bare legs. He'd definitely thought about touching you like this before, but nothing compared to the real thing.

You kissed him hard, your hands gripping the back of his neck. He fumbled with his key, finally getting the door unlocked and kicking it all the way open. 

"Just take me right to bed," you begged, licking the side of his neck. He managed to kick the door closed and drop his keys on the entryway floor. 

"You got it, honey," he promised, taking you directly to his bedroom. His cock was painfully hard, and you rubbed against him as you slid down his body. You reached for the bottom of your dress, but Bradley beat you to it, needing to be the one to undress you. He could tell you were squeezing your legs together as he pulled the dress over your head and set it gently on his desk chair.

"Oh God, look at you," he groaned. Your body was fantastic; curvy in all the right places. You were wearing a matching white bra and underwear. It was nothing fancy, but it worked for him. Really well. 

"Come here," you gasped, reaching for him. Bradley peppered kisses along your cheeks and got busy removing your matching underwear set. 

"Fuck," was all he managed as you stood naked before him. He wrapped his hands around your ribs and gently stroked the undersides of your tits. You were like warm butter in his hands, rubbing yourself against him and moaning his name. You were kissing his neck and the scars on his chin as your hands started tugging at the front of his shirt, and he let you yank it over his head. 

"On the bed, honey," he told you, and you scrambled up to the middle and laid on your back. You watched intently, propped up on one elbow, and chewed your lip as he undid the front of his jeans and carefully pulled them over his aching cock. He did the same with his boxers and your jaw dropped.

"You're big," you said, and he smiled at you as he crawled on top of you. "You're big everywhere else, but somehow I knew you'd be big there too." You ran your fingernails along his dick where it hovered over your belly. Bradley buried his face in your neck and groaned. "I just knew you would be. You give off that vibe," you told him with a giggle. Then you wrapped your hand around him and squeezed gently. He throbbed against your palm.

"You ready for me?" he asked, running a finger along your slit and collecting some of your wetness. "Or you want me to get you wetter?"

You watched him lick you from his fingers and then you pulled him down for a kiss, slipping your tongue into his mouth to taste it too. When you didn't answer his question, he dipped his fingers gently back into your folds and teased you a bit. You rode his hand as he fucked your mouth with his tongue. He knew you were wet enough, but he was planning on having as much fun with you as he could. 

"How about now? You wet enough, or you need my mouth?"

"I need your mouth," you whined, and Bradley kissed his way down your body until his mouth connected with your pussy. He worked his tongue against your opening, lapping up everything you gave him. Then he teased your clit, and you were squirming so much, you almost kicked him in the head.

He chuckled as you yanked on his hair, getting his mouth right where you wanted it. "Does that feel good?" he managed to ask, your grip was unrelenting. 

"Shut up and keep doing that. I'm gonna come," you demanded. 

Bradley worked his tongue over your clit just how you wanted it, and he didn't stop until your screeching died down and your fingers released his hair.

"Oh my God," you gasped after a few seconds, fully sated. "You're really good at that." You propped yourself up on one elbow again and reached for him. He crawled back up and kissed you, tipping you back against the bed. The startled yet satisfied look in your eyes spurred him on.

"Let me grab a condom and I'll make you come at least two more times," he told you. You groaned and tilted your head back, waiting impatiently for him to return with the box of condoms that were on the desk. He rolled one down his length and you reached for him.

When he climbed on top of you again, you whispered, "I've wanted you for so long, Rooster," and your breath tickled his chest hair. He could feel your hand guiding his tip toward your opening.

Bradley grunted pushing himself further, bit by bit, until he was all the way inside you. You were tight and dripping wet and perfect. He started rocking in and out in a steady motion, his hands on your hips and his mouth on your breasts and neck. "Me too, Y/N. We should have done this ages ago." 

He sucked hard on your nipples, enjoying the whining sounds you were making. His name sounded like a broken curse word every time you said it, and pretty soon you were no longer able to speak at all.

He fucked you hard into his mattress over and over until you came a second time. Then he sat on his desk chair, and you rode him nice and slow, rocking with your head tipped back. When his fingers glided up your sides to play with your tits, you grabbed his solid shoulders and squeaked, "I'm ticklish!"

"I wish I had known that before," he whispered with a smile, softly grazing your side again before pulling your nipple between his teeth. Your laughter turned into a long moan as he sucked and bit you. He could tell you were so close to number three, and he used his thumb on your clit as your movements became a little erratic.

"Just like that. You look so pretty with my dick inside you. You look so good riding me. Damnit," he groaned as you came, digging your fingers into his biceps as your pussy squeezed his throbbing cock. "I'm right there," he told you, and you rocked a little harder and kissed his lips as he moaned into your mouth.

Bradley's tongue tangled with yours as you rode him through his orgasm. You were both a sweaty mess as you collapsed against his chest and let your cheek come to rest on his shoulder. As your breaths grew steadier and your lips met his neck in sweet little kisses, Bradley was afraid to speak and break this moment. So he just stroked your back and your arms as he grew soft inside you.

Finally you spoke. "We should be ashamed of ourselves."

"Why?" Bradley asked, alarmed by what that could mean.

"We could have been doing this for years, Bradshaw. Years. And now we have to try and play catch up."

Bradley tipped your chin up so you were looking at him, and you shared a smile. "Just give me a few minutes and I'll be ready for more."

You grinned at him and kissed his cheek. "Sounds good to me." You paused, but didn't look away from him. "And actually, you know, I'll be back in town in four weeks, on my way back to Florida. Do you want to-"

"Yes, definitely," he confirmed, before you had even finished your sentence.

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

The following week when Bradley was taking a break from a training exercise, he took his phone out. He had been thinking about you constantly since you left his apartment in a hurry to get to base on time to leave for Hawaii. He couldn't help it; he opened up your Instagram page. A huge smile broke out across his face as he saw your most recent post.

There you were, on a beautiful beach in a blue bikini and sunglasses. A small group of wild chickens were off to the side of the photo, and your caption read: Chickens are fine, but I prefer a nice, big Rooster.

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

@mak-32

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@swthxrry

@yaboid19

@miles-rooster

@solacestyles

@avoirlecoupdefoudre

@daisyhollyxox

@grxnde-dwt

@callsigndiamond

@harper1666

@throwinsauce

@beebslebobs

@awesomebooklover17

@wintercap89

@whosyourgnomie4

@rosesinmars

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@wishfulwithwine

@backinwonderl4nd

@babybloomer

@monte-carlando

@tetragonia

@gingerbreadandpaper

@emptyloverofmine

@apparently-sunshine

@chaoticassidy

@missmirandafe

@thedroneranger

@changlingkhat

@callsign-echo

@sugarcoated-lame

@callsign-jupiter

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@katiebby04

@andycanbeemotional

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@eunoia-sys

@noz4a2

@tallyovie

@shanimallina87

@teddyluvs

[mrsjobarnes]

Top Gun

~ Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw ~

Rooster was right

Tales of a Call Sign

I just want to wobble around

Date night

~ Jake "Hangman" Sersin ~

Not the only Cowboy

Whats the worst thing that can happen?

~ Robert "BOB" Floyd ~

Bob did what?

[marigold-field]

nothing, and i mean NOTHING, compares to joining a new fandom and reading through all the ____ x reader tags. it’s akin to opening gifts on christmas or recieving a package in the mail. actually, scratch that; it’s th equivalent of ascending to the heavens

[roosterroos]

Fractured Love and Fear.

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x reader.

When is enough, enough?

Minors DNI! 18+, GIF not mine, credit to the owner.

Warnings: Use of Y/N, Rooster calls the reader 'baby', mentions of death, use of 'she' and 'her', military life, pure, pure angst. (I think that's everything, if not, lemme know).

Word Count: 493. Short and sweet.

The readers callsign is 'Bubbles'.

The sky is dark, the moon hidden behind clouds like it couldn’t bear to watch. Rooster’s jet is parked, its nose scorched, its tail marked by the kind of damage that sends shivers through command. He’s just stepped out, still in his flight suit, sweat and adrenaline clinging to him like ghosts. Y/N's already there — she always is. She stands at the edge of the hangar lights, arms crossed, sundress clinging to her in the breeze, her eyes locked on him like she’s trying to memorise his face before he disappears again.

Rooster tries to smile. “Hey, Bubbles”. But there’s no warmth in her eyes tonight. No soft smile. Just... pain. “You almost died.” He flinches, the weight of her voice hitting harder than the mission ever could.. “I didn’t, though.” He makes a move to step towards her, steps faltering at her words. “But you could have. And for what, Bradley? You ignored protocol. You didn’t wait for backup. You went in like you were—like you were trying to be him.” His face tightens. She doesn’t say it, but they both know who she means: Maverick.

He goes completely still at her words, throat becoming tight. “I had a shot. I took it. It worked.” Y/N laughs, bitter and broken. She runs a hand over her sun-kissed face, eyes locking onto his. “You always say that. 'It worked.' Like that justifies everything. Like it makes the pit in my stomach go away every time I see you walk toward that plane. Like it stops the nightmares.” She takes a step toward him, her eyes glassy, her breath shaking.

“Do you know what it’s like to wait? To wonder if this is the day they come to my door with a folded flag and your goddamn dog tags?  Do you know what it’s like to love someone who keeps choosing death?” Rooster opens his mouth. Closes it. “I’m not trying to die, baby.” “Then stop acting like it!” Her voice breaks, and so does she. She hits his chest with both fists — not to hurt, just to feel something. Her tears spill, hot and furious.

“I can’t do this. I can’t keep waiting for you to not come home. I can't live in this constant almost. Almost gone. Almost lost. Almost yours.” She looks up at him, completely wrecked. “I love you. But I’m scared of what loving you is turning me into. Some broken girl, standing in a hangar, begging a man to stay alive.” Rooster reaches for her, but she steps back. 

“I need you to fight for you. Not just for glory. Not just for legacy. For us. Because I swear to God, Rooster, if you go up there one more time without thinking—if you don’t come back one day—I won’t survive it.” 

She turns, starts to walk away. Rooster watches her go, and for once, the silence of the hangar is louder than the roar of any jet engine.

[ruerecs]

PSA! you don't have to have smut in your fic to make it good.

for all the butthurt people in my reblogs, i’m literally a writer too. that’s literally why i made this post, never said you shouldn’t. just said you don’t have to? (all the people complaining about this post just know i’m laughing at your replies🙂‍↕️)

[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

[asuperconfusedgirl]

how I read the most toe-curling, spine-shattering, nerve-wrecking, nastiest smut ever written in this god forsaken app

[crownofdecitreadingrespectfully]

Why do writers apologize for long fics? why aRE YOU SORRY FOR FEEDING US POOR, SORRY SOULS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK WE COULD EVER DREAM OF READING?? DO MICHELIN STAR CHEFS APOLOGIZE FOR COOKING THE MOST DIVINE FOOD EVER MADE??? DO THEY APOLOGIZE FOR NOURISHING OUR BODY AND SOULS????

[roosterforme]

Barb! You always make me smile! 💕

Aim for the Sky Part 41 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: A quiet wedding anniversary spent in the mountains is exactly what you and Bradley need.

Warnings: Adult language, DILF Roo, pregnancy, kinda smutty, lactation kink

Length: 2000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

"Is that all you're bringing?"

You turned toward your husband where he stood in the bedroom doorway, rocking Rose in his arms while she fussed. Your hand stilled on your bag on the bed. "You haven't specifically told me where we're going, Bradley. Just to pack for four nights."

"Mountains," he grunted, like that was supposed to be explanation enough as he pressed a kiss to your daughter's forehead while she reached for his mustache. But that's all he'd been saying. "Just pack some sexy stuff." 

You'd been picturing a quaint cabin off the beaten path as the destination for your second wedding anniversary, but Bradley had packed two bags for himself and one for Rose. How much could he possibly need? You were starting to question everything now.

"It's not like I have maternity lingerie," you murmured.

"It's not like you need it, Baby Girl. You look cute in my sweatpants. Or nothing." He walked into the room and glanced into your bag which contained just a few outfits, your boat shoes, and your toiletries. "Maybe you packed enough after all. Let's hit the road. I want Rosie to nap on the way."

Twenty minutes later, your daughter was already sound asleep in her car seat as your husband buckled you into the passenger seat of the red Bronco. You yawned as he pulled the seatbelt over your belly, and he bent to kiss his daughter as she squirmed against your bladder. You contemplated running back inside to use the bathroom again, but you were about to doze off just like Rose.

Bradley's lips brushed yours. "We'll be there in a few hours."

You nodded, thinking you'd wake up for part of the ride to enjoy Bradley's Motown playlist and his rich singing voice. But instead, you managed to sleep through several hundred miles and the sunset, only waking up in time to hear the tires crunching.

"There's snow!" you gasped, gaze catching on the evergreen trees covered in white in the dying light.

"Yeah," Bradley replied between songs on his playlist as he turned down a driveway. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

Your breath fogged the window as an opulent house three times the size of the Craftsman came into view. The windows were glowing orange; there was a porch the size of your entire driveway. "When you said mountains, you meant like whole-ass mountains! I packed my boat shoes!"

Bradley snorted as the Bronco came to a stop while you gawked at the mountains all around. "I added some of your cold weather clothes to my bag. Some of the stuff you used to wear when we went to Maryland for the holidays."

Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. One month until Christmas. It dawned on you that you and Bradley had no real reason to go back east now even though you both had roots there. "After Nugget Part Deux is born, we should take the girls to explore Virginia and Maryland. We can see your cousins. We can stop at the cemetery and visit your parents."

Bradley paused with the driver's side door open, cold air rushing into the Bronco's warm interior as his brown eyes studied yours. "What made you think about that?"

It was hard to put into words the way his parents would fill your mind with sadness and your heart with so much love it almost hurt. "I miss them."

"Me, too," he replied easily, never questioning the way you felt like Carole and Nick held a place in your family although you'd never met them. "Let's do that in the summer. And let's work on picking a name for Nugget Part Deux. It's getting to be a mouthful."

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

You were laughing at the sight of Rose in her head-to-toe snow suit, but Bradley was busy making sure her exposed cheeks and nose weren't getting too much of the cold air. He kept picking her up from the snowy cabin steps to press his lips to her face.

"Feels okay," he whispered, letting her continue to play. She seemed to like the cold as she crawled toward the spot where you were sitting, compiling a small mound of snowballs as you casually tossed out one of the baby names that you claimed was on your short list.

"Nora?"

Bradley grunted in response. "It's okay." Personally, he had really liked some of the names that seemed to match better with Rose's. "What about Violet? Wasn't that on the list?" He watched Rose pat the snowballs and giggle as you scooped her up. Two cute little girls with pretty flower names just made sense.

"Yeah, I liked that one. And I liked Poppy."

"Me, too," he agreed, watching your smiling face as you put some of your snowballs into Rose's mittened hand and tried to launch them at him. When they fell short, you threw them directly at his chest instead.

"She's not cooperating!" you complained. "You're supposed to be on my team, Rosie. The girls team."

"Absolutely not." Bradley scooped up some of the powdery snow and sprinkled it over your head until you were rolling your eyes. "Rosie is on Team Daddy. Better luck with Poppy Violet, Sweetheart."

As he plucked the baby from your hands, you smiled up at him. "So it's settled then? She has a name? For real?"

Naming Rose after a song he'd played for you made sense, but this made sense, too. "Yeah. She officially has a name," Bradley said softly as his gaze settled on your belly. It was hard to tell you were pregnant with your winter coat zipped up and snug around your body, but his hands were so used to the way your hips and waist felt right now. Suddenly he couldn't wait to touch you. "Let's go inside. I don't want Rosie to get too cold, and the wind is starting to pick up now that it's getting dark."

"You just want to mess around," you replied, getting to your feet on the snowy steps.

"Of course I want to mess around. My wife is hot."

Your eye roll was accompanied by a little smirk. "Let me feed Rosie so she can take a nap, and then it can be your turn."

Bradley watched you settle into the overstuffed couch in front of the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the mountains. Fresh snow was beginning to fall as he poked at the logs in the fireplace, making sure the great room was warm enough for his girls. Then, as Rose curled against your round belly, he made himself useful in the adjoining kitching. He knew you'd be hungry for dinner after you were done feeding her, and Bradley was always hungry. The leftover turkey deli meat and stove top stuffing would make the most perfect sandwiches, so he lined everything up on the counter.

"It's so pretty here," you murmured, eyes fixed on the windows as he dimmed the lights so you could see the heavy snowfall that was moving in. "I wonder how much snow they'll have here by Christmas."

"We could find out next year," Bradley mused. "We can come back with your parents and the girls. There are four bedrooms, after all."

"Do I even want to know how much you spent on this?" you asked, turning to look at him.

Bradley deftfully dodged the question. "Just imagine a huge tree in the corner. Poppy's first Christmas. I'm sure your mom would make dinner, or we could just do sandwiches again. I'm kind of liking the sandwiches."

"I'm kind of liking all of this," you whispered, repositioning Rose to burp her, but Bradley loved that task. He settled on the couch beside you and took her in his big hands, patting her back. "You were right, Roo. We needed a little break as a family."

When you went to put your bra back on, he shook his head. "Don't bother with that. I'm going to be all over you in a minute. Rose always burps quickly for me, just like a good little Nugget."

His sentence was followed by a soft burp that made you laugh, which made your tits bounce, which made Bradley whimper as he stood to put the baby down for a nap so he could get his fill of you.

When he returned to the living room, you were naked, skin glowing in the firelight as you coaxed him closer to the couch. "Oh, you look so pretty, Baby Girl. We're definitely going to have to come back here."

You giggled as you unzipped his jeans and straddled his lap. "We can't fuck in front of the fireplace if my parents are here with us."

"Please, stop talking about them," he whispered, letting your heavy breasts fill his palms as you guided his erection to your pussy. Your body was perfect and welcoming as he filled you until you gasped. "That's a good girl."

Your head lulled back as he wrapped his lips around your nipple, and you kept his cock warm until it was time for him to fuck the absolute shit out of you.

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

As soon as you stirred in the California King sized bed that you and Bradley had spent the better part of last night defiling, you heard him rasp, "Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart."

You stretched, feeling the workout he'd given you throughout your entire body. You were sore, in a good way, but combined with your pregnancy exhaustion, you were hoping to sleep in a little longer. His smile more than made up for the early hour when you looked at him.

"Has it really only been two years? It feels a lot longer than that," you whispered, kissing along his unshaven cheek to his mustache.

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment, or..."

"It's a compliment," you promised, wrapping your arms around him. "Hey, remember that time you asked me out and I said no?"

"Hmm, vaguely." He squinted at the ceiling and chuckled as his hand came to rest on the side of your belly where Poppy was currently thumping around. "But that didn't last long. And look how far we've come, Baby Girl." He turned his head, dark eyes earnest as he asked, "Want to take a bath while I get breakfast ready? I brought the thermometer to test the water for you."

He had packed pretty much anything you or either of your daughters might possibly need. And a bath did sound good, especially after last night. But since you couldn't have the water as hot as you liked, you didn't linger very long, opting to join your husband istead. 

More snow had fallen overnight, but he had a fire warming the living room where he was walking around, holding Rose to his chest with one hand. He was singing a song from his Motown playlist, and you were shocked she was reaching for his mustache instead of crying to eat. But that changed as soon as she saw you.

"Not so fast, Nugget," he crooned. "Let Mommy take a bite of her breakfast first." That's when you noticed two slices of confetti cake and two flutes of pink champagne on the coffee table. "It's non-alcoholic, so have as much as you want. And I brought the cake from your favorite bakery back in San Diego."

Somehow it was perfect. Everything was perfect. Bradley in his ratty gym shorts and Rose fussing to eat. Cake for breakfast and couch snuggles for the entire day.

"I love you, Bradley," you promised, reaching for his hand and pulling him close until his lips found yours for probably the millionth time in just a few years. "I love you so much. You make everything perfect."

His lips curled against yours as he smiled. "I just want to spend the day with my girls."

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

Let that man enjoy spending time with his girlies! He earned it! That's the end of the series, besties! This has been so fun for me! Thanks you so much for reading along and leaving so much love. I'd love to visit Roo and BG (and all these other wild and crazy kids) through asks, blurbs and one-shots, so please feel free to send them to me. Love love love you!

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[that-one-fangirl69]

you ever read a fic so good you just gotta sit there and contemplate your entire existence and everything you’ve ever read before?

[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 I

This was never supposed to happen. Your role in this operation was simple—deliver the program, ensure it reached the right hands, and let the professionals handle the breaching.

And then, of course, reality decided to light that plan on fire.

The program—codenamed Ethera—was yours. You built it from scratch with encryption so advanced that even the most elite cyber operatives couldn’t crack it without your input. A next-generation adaptive, self-learning decryption software, an intrusion system designed to override and manipulate high-security military networks, Ethera was intended to be both a weapon and a shield, capable of infiltrating enemy systems while protecting your own from counterattacks in real-time. A ghost in the machine. A digital predator. A weapon in the form of pure code. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could disable fleets, and ground aircraft, and turn classified intelligence into an open book. Governments would kill for it. Nations could fall because of it.

Not that you ever meant to, of course. It started as a little experimental security measure program, something to protect high-level data from cyberattacks, not become the ultimate hacking tool. But innovation has a funny way of attracting the wrong kind of attention, and before you knew it, Ethera had become one, if not the most classified, high-risk program in modern times. Tier One asset or so the Secret Service called it.

It was too powerful, too dangerous—so secret that only a select few even knew of its existence, and even fewer could comprehend how it worked.

And therein lay the problem. You were the only person who could properly operate it.

Which was so unfair.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be your problem. You were just the creator, the brain behind the code, the one who spent way too many sleepless nights debugging this monstrosity. Your job was supposed to end at development. But no. Now, because of some bureaucratic nonsense and the fact that no one else could run it without accidentally bricking an entire system, you had been promoted—scratch that, forcibly conscripted—into field duty.

And your mission? To install it in an enemy satellite.

A literal, orbiting, high-security, military-grade satellite, may you add.

God. Why? Why was your country always at war with others? Why couldn’t world leaders just, you know, go to therapy like normal people? Why did everything have to escalate to international cyber warfare?

Which is how you ended up here.

At Top Gun. The last place in the world you wanted to be.

You weren’t built for this. You thrive in sipping coffee in a cosy little office and handling cyber threats from a safe, grounded location. You weren’t meant to be standing in the halls of an elite fighter pilot training program, surrounded by the best aviators in the world—people who thought breaking the sound barrier was a casual Wednesday.

It wasn’t the high-tech cyberwarfare department of the Pentagon, nor some dimly lit black ops facility where hackers in hoodies clacked away at keyboards. No. It was Top Gun. A place where pilots use G-forces like a personal amusement park ride.

You weren’t a soldier, you weren’t a spy, you got queasy in elevators, you got dizzy when you stood too fast, hell, you weren’t even good at keeping your phone screen from cracking.

... And now you were sweating.

You swallowed hard as Admiral Solomon "Warlock" Bates led you through the halls of the naval base, your heels clacking on the polished floors as you wiped your forehead. You're nervous, too damn nervous and this damned weather did not help.

"Relax, Miss," Warlock muttered in that calm, authoritative way of his. "They're just pilots."

Just pilots.

Right. And a nuclear warhead was just a firework.

And now, somehow, you were supposed to explain—loosely explain, because God help you, the full details were above even their clearance level—how Ethera, your elegant, lethal, unstoppable digital masterpiece, was about to be injected into an enemy satellite as part of a classified mission.

This was going to be a disaster.

You had barely made it through the doors of the briefing room when you felt it—every single eye in the room locking onto you.

It wasn’t just the number of them that got you, it was the intensity. These were Top Gun pilots, the best of the best, and they radiated the kind of confidence you could only dream of having. Meanwhile, you felt like a stray kitten wandering into a lion’s den.

Your hands tightened around the tablet clutched to your chest. It was your lifeline, holding every critical detail of Ethera, the program that had dragged you into this utterly ridiculous situation. If you could’ve melted into the walls, you absolutely would have. But there was no escaping this.

You just had to keep it together long enough to survive this briefing.

So, you inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, and forced your heels forward, trying to project confidence—chin up, back straight, eyes locked onto Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, who you’d been introduced to earlier that day.

And then, of course, you dropped the damn tablet.

Not a graceful drop. Not the kind of gentle slip where you could scoop it back up and act like nothing happened. No, this was a full-on, physics-defying fumble. The tablet flipped out of your arms, ricocheted off your knee, and skidded across the floor to the feet of one of the pilots.

Silence.

Pure, excruciating silence.

You didn’t even have the nerve to look up right away, too busy contemplating whether it was physically possible to disintegrate on command. But when you finally did glance up—because, you know, social convention demanded it—you were met with a sight that somehow made this entire disaster worse.

Because the person crouching down to pick up your poor, abused tablet was freaking hot.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of golden curls that practically begged to be tousled by the wind, and, oh, yeah—a moustache that somehow worked way too well on him.

He turned the tablet over in his hands, inspecting it with an amused little smirk before handing it over to you. "You, uh… need this?"

Oh, great. His voice is hot too.

You grabbed it back, praying he couldn't see how your hands were shaking. “Nope. Just thought I’d test gravity real quick.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and his smirk deepened like he was enjoying this way too much. You, on the other hand, wanted to launch yourself into the sun.

With what little dignity you had left, you forced a quick, tight-lipped smile at him before turning on your heel and continuing forward, clutching your tablet like it was a life raft in the middle of the worst social shipwreck imaginable.

At the front of the room, Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson stood with the kind of posture that said he had zero time for nonsense, waiting for the room to settle. You barely had time to take a deep breath before his voice cut through the air.

“Alright, listen up.” His tone was crisp, commanding, and impossible to ignore. “This is Dr Y/N L/N. Everything she is about to tell you is highly classified. What you hear in this briefing does not leave this room. Understood?”

A chorus of nods. "Yes, sir."

You barely resisted the urge to physically cringe as every pilot in the room turned to stare at you—some with confusion, others with barely concealed amusement, and a few with the sharp assessing glances of people who had no clue what they were supposed to do with you.

You cleared your throat, squared your shoulders, and did your best to channel even an ounce of the confidence you usually had when you were coding at 3 AM in a secure, pilot-free lab—where the only judgment you faced was from coffee cups and the occasional system error.

As you reached the podium, you forced what you hoped was a composed smile. “Uh… hi, nice to meet you all.”

Solid. Real professional.

You glanced up just long enough to take in the mix of expressions in the room—some mildly interested, some unreadable, and one particular moustached pilot who still had the faintest trace of amusement on his face.

Nope. Not looking at him.

You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. Stay focused. Stay professional. You weren’t just here because of Ethera—you were Ethera. The only one who truly understood it. The only one who could execute this mission.

With another tap on your tablet, the slide shifted to a blacked-out, redacted briefing—only the necessary information was visible. A sleek 3D-rendered model of the enemy satellite appeared on the screen, rotating slowly. Most of its details were blurred or omitted entirely.

“This is Blackstar, a highly classified enemy satellite that has been operating in a low-Earth orbit over restricted airspace.” Your voice remained even, and steady, but the weight of what you were revealing sent a shiver down your spine. “Its existence has remained off the radar—literally and figuratively—until recently, when intelligence confirmed that it has been intercepting our encrypted communications, rerouting information, altering intelligence, and in some cases—fabricating entire communications.”

Someone exhaled sharply. Another shifted in their seat.

“So they’re feeding us bad intel?” one of them with big glasses and blonde hair asked, voice sceptical but sharp.

“That’s the theory,” you confirmed. “And given how quickly our ops have been compromised recently, it’s working.”

You tapped again, shifting to the next slide. The silent infiltration diagram appeared—an intricate web of glowing red lines showing Etherea’s integration process, slowly wrapping around the satellite’s systems like a virus embedding itself into a host.

“This is where Ethera comes in,” you said, shifting to a slide that displayed a cascading string of code, flickering across the screen. “Unlike traditional cyberweapons, Ethera doesn’t just break into a system. It integrates—restructuring security protocols as if it was always meant to be there. It’s undetectable, untraceable, and once inside, it grants us complete control of the Blackstar and won’t even register it as a breach.”

“So we’re not just hacking it," The only female pilot of the team said, arms crossed as she studied the data. “We’re hijacking it.”

“Exactly,” You nodded with a grin.

You switched to the next slide—a detailed radar map displaying the satellite’s location over international waters.

“This is the target area,” you continued after a deep breath. “It’s flying low-altitude reconnaissance patterns, which means it’s using ground relays for some of its communication. That gives us a small window to infiltrate and shut it down.”

The next slide appeared—a pair of unidentified fighter aircraft, patrolling the vicinity.

“And this is the problem,” you said grimly. “This satellite isn’t unguarded.”

A murmur rippled through the room as the pilots took in the fifth-generation stealth fighters displayed on the screen.

“We don’t know who they belong to,” you admitted. “What we do know is that they’re operating with highly classified tech—possibly experimental—and have been seen running defence patterns around the satellite’s flight path.”

Cyclone stepped forward then, arms crossed, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Which means your job is twofold. You will escort Dr L/N’s aircraft to the infiltration zone, ensuring Ethera is successfully deployed. If we are engaged, your priority remains protecting the package and ensuring a safe return.”

Oh, fantastic, you could not only feel your heartbeat in your toes, you were now officially the package.

You cleared your throat, tapping the screen again. Ethera’s interface expanded, displaying a cascade of sleek code.

“Once I’m in range,” you continued, “Ethera will lock onto the satellite’s frequency and begin infiltration. From that point, it’ll take approximately fifty-eight seconds to bypass security and assume control."

Silence settled over the room like a thick cloud, the weight of their stares pressing down on you. You could feel them analyzing, calculating, probably questioning who in their right mind thought putting you—a hacker, a tech specialist, someone whose idea of adrenaline was passing cars on the highway—into a fighter jet was a good idea.

Finally, one of the pilots—tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, and very clearly one of the cocky ones—tilted his head, arms crossed over his chest in a way that screamed too much confidence.

“So, let me get this straight.” His voice was smooth, and confident, with just the right amount of teasing. “You, Doctor—our very classified, very important tech specialist—have to be in the air, in a plane, during a mission that has a high probability of turning into a dogfight… just so you can press a button?”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of being airborne.

“Well…” You gulped, very much aware of how absolutely insane this sounded when put like that. “It’s… more than just that, but, yeah, essentially.”

A slow grin spread across his face, far too entertained by your predicament.

“Oh,” he drawled, “this is gonna be fun.”

Before you could fully process how much you already hated this, Cyclone—who had been watching the exchange with his signature unamused glare—stepped forward, cutting through the tension with his sharp, no-nonsense voice.

“This is a classified operation,” he stated, sharp and authoritative. “Not a joyride.”

The blonde’s smirk faded slightly as he straightened, and the rest of the pilots quickly fell in line.

Silence lingered for a moment longer before Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson let out a slow breath and straightened. His sharp gaze swept over the room before he nodded once.

“All right. That’s enough.” His tone was firm, the kind that left no room for argument. “We’ve got work to do. The mission will take place in a few weeks' time, once we’ve run full assessments, completed necessary preparations, and designated a lead for this operation.”

There was a slight shift in the room. Some of the pilots exchanged glances, the weight of the upcoming mission finally settling in. Others, mainly the cocky ones, looked as though they were already imagining themselves in the cockpit.

“Dismissed,” Cyclone finished.

The pilots stood, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out of the room, the blonde one still wearing a smug grin as he passed you making you frown and turn away, your gaze then briefly met the eyes of the moustached pilot.

You hadn’t meant to look, but the moment your eyes connected, something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? You weren’t sure, and frankly, you didn’t want to know.

So you did the only logical thing and immediately looked away and turned to gather your things. You needed to get out of here, to find some space to breathe before your brain short-circuited from stress—

“Doctor, Stay for a moment.”

You tightened your grip on your tablet and turned back to Cyclone, who was watching you with that unreadable, vaguely disapproving expression that all high-ranking officers seemed to have perfected. “Uh… yes, sir?”

Once the last pilot was out the door, Cyclone exhaled sharply and crossed his arms.

“You realize,” he said, “that you’re going to have to actually fly, correct?”

You swallowed. “I—well, technically, I’ll just be a passenger.”

His stare didn’t waver.

“Doctor,” he said, tone flat, “I’ve read your file. I know you requested to be driven here instead of taking a military transport plane. You also took a ferry across the bay instead of a helicopter. And I know that you chose to work remotely for three years to avoid getting on a plane.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “That… could mean anything.”

“It means you do not like flying, am I correct?”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet as you tried to find a way—any way—out of this. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need to fly the plane. I just need to be in it long enough to deploy Ethera—”

Cyclone cut you off with a sharp look. “And what happens if something goes wrong, Doctor? If the aircraft takes damage? If you have to eject mid-flight? If you lose comms and have to rely on emergency protocols?”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the very thought of ejecting from a jet.

Cyclone sighed, rubbing his temple as if this entire conversation was giving him a migraine. “We cannot afford to have you panicking mid-mission. If this is going to work, you need to be prepared. That’s why, starting next week you will train with the pilots on aerial procedures and undergoing mandatory training in our flight simulation program.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—wait, what? That’s not necessary—”

“It’s absolutely necessary,” Cyclone cut in, his tone sharp. “If you can’t handle a simulated flight, you become a liability—not just to yourself, but to the pilots escorting you. And in case I need to remind you, Doctor, this mission is classified at the highest level. If you panic mid-air, it won’t just be your life at risk. It’ll be theirs. And it’ll be national security at stake.”

You inhaled sharply. No pressure. None at all.

Cyclone watched you for a moment before speaking again, his tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re the only one who can do this, Doctor. That means you need to be ready.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together before nodding stiffly. “Understood, sir.”

Cyclone gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Dismissed.”

You turned and walked out, shoulders tense, fully aware that in three days' time, you were going to be strapped into a high-speed, fighter jet. And knowing your luck?

You were definitely going to puke.

Part 2???

[ruerecs]

fanfic writers NEVER contemplate or apologise for your fic being over 3-5k words long, we readers LOVE longer fics!! anyways have a good day/night 🙂‍↕️

[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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[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

[angelbby555]

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ Leave an impression

Summary: The admiral's daughter is teasing Bradley about his push-up game. But once he does the push-ups with you sitting on his back, you are left speechless.

Word count: 900

⋆. ୨୧˚⋆

"Do you call that a push-up?" You mused, staring down at the back of Bradley's head. The plan was to go eat lunch with your father Tom Kazansky but somehow you ended up outside in the tarmac watching pilots do push ups.

Your golden excuse? Wanting to greet Hondo and admire the cool aircraft. The truth? You had a thing for Bradley Bradshaw's massive arms. The curve of his bicep was absolutely gorgeous. It should have been illegal the amount of time you dreamt about sinking your teeth into his arm.

As a little girl it was okay for you to think the base was your personal playground, running around asking officers for piggy back rides. Now you were older and knew better. Your father told you to treat the men with the utmost respect, and not to mess around with any of them like GI Joe's.

You followed the rules but Bradley was the one guy you itched to play with. There was so much to love about him. Bradley was nice, attractive, funny and a shameless flirt. Wasn't afraid to put the moves on the Admirals daughter like the rest.

"I've seen little girls do more push-ups than you."

Bradley let out a breathy laugh. Beads of sweat were falling off his forehead to the concrete, while he pushed through the exercise.

"Really? Because I don't see you doing any."

The only part of you he could see was your low-top converse. He would kill for a glimpse of you in your small sundress, but Bradley would hate to face you when he was ready to collapse.

"I would, except I don't want to." You stretched a leg out behind you. In the corner of your eyes you caught a glimpse of how scrumptious his shoulder blades looked, strained against his black t-shirt. Lord have mercy. "Plus I would hate for you to get embarrassed by someone wearing a dress."

Bradley was pissed you hadn't seen him earlier breeze past his first round of 500 push ups. In his second round, he was slower, sweatier, and sloppy. The only motivation was to last until you left. But you didn't look like you were moving any time soon, enjoying front row of his struggle.

"Down 460"

"I didn't know we were doing yoga today. Nice plank bro."

It was certain that you wouldn't be saying this around your father.

"Down 470."

"Are you working out or massaging the floor?"

A few chuckles, even Hondo smirked

"Down 480."

"Damn with that form, the floors gonna start pressing you." You had jokes Bradley would give you that. But he had ambitions. And he really wanted to impress a pretty girl and get her to shut her mouth.

"Get on my back, and I'll show you some real push ups."

You blinked "Please your chicken arms would snap."

"Why don't you get on and find out?" His voice was strained but cocky, earning a round of ‘oohs’ from Hangman and Coyote.

That's when Bernie spoke up on Bradley's behalf. "Alright since Rooster wants to show off. Let have him take the final 10 home."

Instantly Hangman and Coyote dropped all their weight to the tarmac once Hondo had let them off. Bradley tapped your shoes with his hand. Which he instantly regretted since he was about to topple over

"Get on." Bradley voice was firm.

"Okay." You put your hands up in defense and took a step forward. Suddenly you were feeling a bit shy at the proximity. But if Hondo insisted, that's fine by you.

You lowered yourself down and smoothed your skirt out before you sat sideways on his back. You were barely putting any weight on him, hesitant.

"Nu uh pretty girl, properly." His voice left no room for argument. Your stomach flipped as you stood back up, then straddled him properly. Then you sat right down putting all your weight on Bradley. But to your surprised his spine didn't sink down and he kept his firm posture.

"Bradley you dont-"

"Down 490."

Hondo cut you off and Bradley was lowering himself on the ground making your shriek. Bradley wasn't shaking, his form was perfect and stable as he raised back up.

"Down 491."

To say you were impressed was an understatement, your pupils were definitely dilated.

"Down 492."

Being on top of Bradley felt like riding a carousel, his back lifting you in smooth, controlled motions.

"Down 493."

At this point you weren't sure if it was Bradley's soaked shirt that had you wet or your own arousal.

He didn't shudder once doing clean push ups like he wasn't tired. Your hands wandered on his back and when your hand brushed against his shoulder you let out a small gasp from how hard his muscle was.

The two exhausted boys on the floor were rooting for Bradley and you were internally as well.

"And Down 500."

Bradley didn’t stop. Just for good measure, he gave you five more.

You scrambled off him as soon as he was done, pulse racing. That might’ve been the hottest thing you’d ever seen in your entire life. And worst of all? You were pretty sure he could’ve done twenty more.

Hangman, Coyote and Hondo were all whooping and cheering for Bradley.

Bradley pushed himself onto shaky legs, his palms stinging, his body aching. But he still had that award-winning grin on his face.

"Not to bad for chicken arms huh?"

Iceman definitely had Bradley's ass, once he found out about this.