not actually barb

side blog for @actuallybarb | unfortunate simp for jake seresin | probably writing | minors dni 18+ only

[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

[babeitaintme]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥❀࿐I WALK THE LINE (bradley bradshaw x reader)

long time no see!! i’ve had the worst writers block ever + i’ve been vacationing a lot so this blog has been a bit neglected but i miss u all ): here’s a cute little draft from a few months ago <3

⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･･°❀⋆.ೃ

bradley bradshaw had long ago decided that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

which is why you found yourself shooting up straight from your slumber at the sound of banging in the kitchen, taking note of the cold empty spot beside you. curious as ever, you tip-toed from your shared bedroom to investigate the commotion. the hardwood floor creaked with each footstep, halting any of your plans to be discreet.

when you peered into the kitchen you immediately wished you had a camera to immortalize the view before you. gone was your outdated kitchenspace that endlessly complained about. in place of the chipping vinyl backsplash was a tasteful assortment of handmade tiles, stylish utensil holders replaced the old cheap ones, and a welcoming shade of dark green replaced the beige paint that once covered your cupboards or counters.

in the midst of it was bradley. squatted in front of a freshly painted cabinet, screwing in a new set of handles. you nearly groaned at the sight of bare, toned back muscles on full display and a pair of jeans held up snugly by his favorite belt. you didn’t know what had you more awestruck; the new kitchen of your dreams or your hot fiancé that made it happen.

not missing a beat, you made your way to bradley and lovingly rubbed his shoulders to get his attention. he looked up at you instantly, brown eyes shining and flashing his signature smile. “good morning, sweetheart. i didn’t mean to wake ya.” he spoke, now standing up to face you. you wasted no time wrapping your arms around his neck to push your body flush against his. “when i mentioned wanting a new kitchen i didn’t think you’d do this,” you gestured behind you, “you’re unreal.”

he chuckled and pressed a kiss to your temple, “whatever it takes to make my girl happy. besides, i have the whole day off, i figured I’d keep myself busy.”

you smirked at his words, “thank you baby.” bradley opened his mouth to respond, but was quickly cut off by your finger being pressed against his lips. “however, i think my hardworking man deserves a break,” your hands dropped to rub sensually down his broad chest, “you have the day off, don’t you?”

he smiled the biggest smile you’d ever seen, all bright teeth shining, before responding: “i guess a break wouldn’t hurt.”

⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･･°❀⋆.ೃ

feedback and thoughts are welcome and appreciated!

[moonagedaydream14]

[exhuastedpigeon]

Can't stop picturing Jake's sister bulling him into coming to her bachelorette party because "you're my man of honour Jake, you have to come".

Jake wants to say no. He wants to say no so badly, but Abby is his little sister. They're less than a year apart. He beat up more than one guy in high school for talking about her in the locker room. He'd do anything for her.

And apparently anything includes leaving his perfectly nice apartment and convincing his fire captain to let him switch shifts for the next week so he can stay at an Airbnb less than ten minutes from where he lives in San Diego for the party. He thought Nashville and Scottsdale were the new bachelorette spots, but Abby wanted the ocean so they're giving her the ocean.

They do goat yoga one morning. They spend an entire day at the beach. They go to a sip and paint class. On the last night they have a chef come in a make them a fancy fucking dinner and they all drink too much and despite not wanting to come at first, Jake finds that he's having fun.

And then the hottest firefighter Jake has ever seen shows up at the door. Maybe if he were a little less wine drunk he'd have noticed that the guys uniform was cheap plastic instead of the actual turnout coats they wear. Maybe if he hadn't eaten half an edible he'd be aware enough to realize no one called the fire department. Maybe if Abby's best friend from college hadn't made them all do tequila shots he would have spotted the obvious signs that the guy at the door wasn't a firefighter at all. If he were a firefighter, Jake would probably know him at least in passing. But he did have the tequila shots and he did have too much wine and he did eat half an edible.

So when the guy starts stripping Jake's brain kind of just melts out of his ears.

Abby thinks the whole thing is hilarious. She lets the stripper dance up on her. She puts his helmet on her head and yeah, that's definitely a Halloween costume helmet. Jake kicks himself for not noticing sooner, but now he can't take his eyes off the guys shoulders as he shimmies, making Abby laugh again.

It takes the Abby less than two minutes to clock that Jake is into the stripper so she whispers in his ear to ask if he'd be willing to give her brother a lap dance. She spins a whole story about how Jake is only here because he's such a great brother and he's been such a good sport all weekend.

When the stripper comes over to Jake he's grinning. It's a really nice smile and Jake hates how much he likes the guys mustache. Hates how badly he wants to tug on his curls.

"I heard you've been a really good boy this weekend," The stripper says right into Jake's ear, making him shudder. "Since you've been so good, you can call me Bradley."

Then Bradley proceeds to give Jake the dance of a lifetime, rolling his hips and grinding down on Jake's lap. Jake was pretty sure strippers weren't supposed to touch, but he's not complaining. He even takes Jake's hands from where Jake had them respectfully on the couch and puts them on his hips.

This close, Jake realizes the guy—Bradley—looks familiar. It takes him pushing his sweaty curls off of his forehead for Jake to realize the guy looks so familiar because Jake has seen him before. At fucking work. At the hospital. Because Bradley's a fucking E.R. nurse.

Jake's saving grace is that Bradley doesn't seem to recognize him outside of his uniform.

Five days later when Jake is back at work and in the back of his stations ambulance even though he's fine because he fell through the floor of a burning building trying to save a kid (he did save the kid, so he doesn't care that he's hurt) he spends the entire ride to the hospital praying that the stripper/nurse isn't on shift.

Of course he is though. Nurse Bradshaw turns the prettiest shade of pink Jake has ever seen when he realizes who Jake is and won't look him in the eye for the entire E.R. visit until Jake says, "I think this uniform suits you a hell of a lot better than the other one."

Bradley flips him off, but he stops blushing.

A few weeks later when Jake's dropping off a victim he runs into Bradley again and this time he asks for his number. He finds out on their first date that Bradley started stripping to pay for nursing school and he kept doing it a couple times a month because the money is so good.

[mxrcusflint]

Hangster but put them on The Bachelor

[kcsplace]

I will never not love Monica's choices for Phoenix's body language. she so unapologetically takes up space, doesn't back down, doesn't break eye contact with her cohort.

When they're in briefings, she's often slouched back, thighs spread, taking up as much space as the guys. she's 5-6" shorter than Jake and Bradley but never backs down when either approach or stand up to her.

Being a woman in the military is hard. Men can make mistakes all the livelong day and that's fine, they get bawled out, but it's fine. but if a woman makes a mistake, all women are blamed. and it gets worse the more specialised and "elite" you are. "taking" a spot a man is "more deserving" of, or enduring accusations you're only there because of getting on your knees or back.

And Nat, especially as a very beautiful woman, has likely heard it all, and it hasn't made her small. instead, despite her petite size, she takes up space, she owns her space and she never backs down, never apologises, never makes herself smaller.

I just really love her and I love Monica's choices.

[sonnywrites]

tfw your dead best friend's son pulls up to the club and you've barely seen him for 20 years (your own fault) and he looks exactly like his dad only not quite because he's a decade and then some older than his dad ever got to be

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ AMERICAN JESUS

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: jake seresin x fem!reader

summary: your period is giving you all sorts of aches and pains, jake takes care of you

warnings: n/a

word count: 1.1k

a/n: enjoy another period comfort fic for purely self-indulgent reasons because i just know jake loves to pamper his girl!!

You really didn’t want to seem clingy but the trouble was you were in absolute agony.

You hated how being on your period made you feel like a completely incapable human being, as much as you wished it didn’t.

Not only were your stomach cramps killing you but every bit of you was tight. Your shoulders, in particular, were refusing to relax.

You felt tight and tense and just plain awful.

You’d tried to tough it out for as long as you could but, when you eventually caved and took them, the pain meds did nothing.

Usually, by now, your tossing and turning would’ve woken Jake - your husband - and he would’ve put his miracle-working hands to good use to help ease your pain.

He was an absolute stickler for getting his nine hours, but he’d always give them up to loosen every knot in your shoulders and make your aches disappear like they’d never even been there.

You weren’t a scientist, but it had never failed. The thought made your chest tighten even more, knowing he was two towns over, wrapped up in a training course for the week and miles away from you.

It was just typical that it had to be the week you needed him most.

You stared at your phone in your lap, debating messaging him. Maybe you could just check in… small talk, nothing to do with you.

You: Hey!! How’s training going?

Seconds later, the familiar bubble appeared, followed by Jake’s reply:

Jake: Hey, pretty lady😘 It went good. Long day today!

You typed back a standard joke about the Navy being that way and then rambled on about hotel breakfasts and then his team.

Anything to keep the conversation going without giving your own selfish motivation away.

But, even through a screen, Jake always seemed to know.

Jake: You’re being… weird. What’s going on with you, babydoll?

Jake: Miss me that much?❤️

He sent a photo of himself, propped up against the hotel bed’s headboard - shirtless and in grey sweats, legs half-covered by the duvet.

Who wouldn’t miss a view like that? you thought to yourself, letting out a soft snort as you saved the picture to your phone.

You: I always miss you, handsome!!

You sent your own picture, from where you were curled up in bed, smiling at the camera, with a fondness that you reserved only for him.

Jake’s reply was instant:

Jake: Do you miss me enough to let me come over and cheer up that pretty face?

Your heart skipped a beat. He was actually coming over?

A knock at the door came before you could even text back. You hurried to open it and there he was, slightly rumpled from the travel and the working day, his eyes warm with love for you.

“Hi there, angel face,” Jake said as your eyes met his cocky grin.

You could’ve cried at the sight of him on your doorstep, flowers in hand. Somehow, he’d found the time, and it made him the sweetest man alive in that moment.

“Jake…” you mumbled, shoulders dropping before you let your head fall against his chest. You went completely limp in his arms, letting him take your weight fully.

“Mm… I thought this might be how I found you.” he mumbled against your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to your head.

“How?” you asked, pulling back just enough to look at him. “How could you tell through the phone?”

“Because my girl doesn’t do small talk,” he said, cupping your face and rubbing your cheek gently. “She goes on and on about the most random things in the world.”

“When you weren’t talking my ear off, I knew something was wrong.”

You gave a weak little laugh, resting your forehead against his chest, “I didn’t want to bother you…”

“You could never bother me, honey. Never,” he said firmly, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes, “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

He guided you gently, one arm around your waist, keeping you close as you shuffled down the hall. You leaned into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder.

Jake sat you down on the bed and tucked you under the covers, “Give me two seconds, alright?”

You nodded against your pillow, too hazy to protest.

He set your flowers in a vase on the bedside table, careful to keep them out of your sleepy self’s reach.

“Thank you for my flowers,” you mumbled as you watched him get undressed from his civilians, into nothing but his boxers.

“You don’t have to thank me, baby. You deserve ‘em.” he got into bed and punctuated his words with a soft kiss to the top of your left shoulder.

The weight of the day, and the pain you’d been holding in, suddenly seemed just a little lighter with Jake there to help you carry it all.

Jake eased deeper onto the mattress and settled behind you, fingers beginning to find the tight knots in your shoulders, “Relax for me,” he whispered, “I’ve got you.”

You let out a soft sigh, pressing back into his chest and feeling him knead away the tension.

Jake’s hands moved with practiced precision and you felt relief wash over you in waves with every press and roll of his fingers.

“Better?” he asked lowly, breath brushing along your neck.

“A little,” you admitted, letting out a long, shaky breath, “You… always know exactly where it hurts. I love you.”

“That’s my job, baby,” he replied softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade again before moving his hands gently down your arms, as if he was pushing the last of the ache out through your hands, “I don’t like seeing you hurting. Love you too much for that.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink fully against him. The warmth of his chest, the steady pressure of his hands, the familiar scent of him. You had never been more grateful to call Jake Seresin yours.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered, feeling guilty for making him stay up so late and drive all the way home to you.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed, nuzzling into your hair, “I want to. Always. You’re worth it.”

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and you let your hand drift to his, intertwining your fingers over your stomach, “I missed you.”

“I know,” he murmured, tightening his hold around you, “And I missed you too. Why’d you think I came over so easily?”

You felt his smile press against your back and, just like that, the last of your stress seeped out of you.

Jake pressed several more kisses down your arm before he sighed, inhaling through his nose, “Mm… try and get some sleep now, honey. You’ve got to get-“

“My nine hours,” you smiled, finishing his sentence, “I know.”

There was no better painkiller than your husband wrapping his arms around you as he fell asleep.

tags: @literal-tv-menace @nelatischlerova @gaslightgatekeepgirlbossgasly @urfavleobiscuit

[idkwhylou]

I wanna feel what love is

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

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/groundsystemstech!reader

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

Words : 5K

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

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

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

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

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

Today, it was coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob laughed. “Good luck with that one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“No.”

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

“What do you listen to ?”

“…Music.”

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

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

Still, he stayed.

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

You hesitated. “…Instrumental.”

“No lyrics ?”

You shook your head.

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

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

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

You shrugged. “Sort of.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You glanced at him. “It is.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“No.”

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

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

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

‘Don’t worry, 

I talk enough for both of us.’

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

Not yet.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had whiskey last week.” You murmured.

Bradley arched an eyebrow. “One whiskey ?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, he stayed with you a little longer. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

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

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

But you weren’t there. Not like before. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What did I do ?” He asked impatient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She saw you Bradshaw.”

He blinked, “Saw me what ?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

Two days went by.

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

And it was driving him insane.

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

Which meant it hurt.

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

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

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

You noticed it the moment you sat down.

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

“Songs You Should Smile To — A Rooster Original”

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

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

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

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

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

That was it.

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

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

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

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

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

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

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

You hadn’t showed up yet. 

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

But then he heard it.

The song.

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

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

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

He blinked, turning toward the jukebox automatically.

And there you were.

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

Playing his song.

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

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

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

Just that.

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

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

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

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

“I know.” Your eyes didn’t leave his.

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

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

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

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

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

But you did.

You kissed him.

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

And in the background, Kelly Hansen sang on : 

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

[bradshawshawaiianshirt]

the bodyguard | part 1

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Famous!reader AU

After joining Maverick's security team once he left the navy, Rooster had become the best bodyguard around. He never thought too hard about it, he'd go in, protect whoever he was assigned, and leave. The threat against his client never really went anywhere if he was on the job, and he always put it first. All until your assignment came along. Suddenly his biggest threat might not be the stalker watching your every move, but rather trying not to fall for the world's biggest pop star.

warnings: stalker, threats, anything else let me know

length: 3.7k

masterlist

Rooster sat in Maverick's office, his foot tapping away on the floor. He'd gotten the call to meet him an hour ago and had rushed straight over. Judging by Maverick's shaky voice on the phone, he had a feeling this assignment would be a good one. Although he knew he should be worried, he couldn't help but feel excited - maybe he'd be protecting someone important, like the president or the pope or something. 

Okay, that was a little farfetched, but hey, a guy could dream. 

After a few minutes, Maverick briskly walked in, "Sorry I'm late, kid." he grunted, sitting down behind his desk and running a hand over his face. Rooster hadn’t seen him this stressed in a while, even after that time Coyote had forgotten his gun at his last assignment.  

Maybe it was the president after all. 

"No problem." Rooster shrugged, "So, what's this about?" 

Maverick sighed and said nothing, instead sliding a file across his desk. 

When Rooster picked it up and flipped to the first page, he was greeted to a picture of you. It was from the cover of some magazine and you were smiling happily as you posed next to the headline. 

NEW ABLUM ANNOUNCEMENT? READ ALL ABOUT IT INSIDE. 

He recognized your face immediately, hell, who wouldn't? You were practically one of the biggest pop stars on the planet right now. 

"You know her?" Maverick asked. 

Rooster nodded slowly, his eyes still scanning over the photo. He'd heard some of your songs when he'd let his radio play in the car, and of course, he'd seen you on TV and social media, since you were pretty hard to miss. It seemed there was always news about you, but he couldn’t say he took much notice of it.  

Maverick sighed, "Her manager is an old friend of mine, he called me this morning. She's in danger... and it's not good." 

Rooster finally looked up to Maverick, "Danger? You can't be serious.” He snorted and chuckled to himself, “She's a celebrity, Mav." 

"A celebrity with a stalker." Maverick always got straight to the point when it came to assignments. It was one of the things Rooster liked about him. 

"A stalker?" Rooster repeated, his interest now piqued. 

Maverick nodded, "Apparently she's been receiving creepy fan mail for months, but no one thought anything of it. That was until... her house was broken into last night." 

Rooster's eyes narrowed slightly at that, and he felt his concern grow. "Is she alright?" 

Maverick shook his head, "Physically, she's fine, no reports of injury. However, the security footage from the surveillance cameras outside her property are missing, looks like they were tampered with." 

Rooster ran a hand through his hair, mulling over the facts that were being laid out in front of him, "And they haven't found the guy yet?" 

Maverick sighed, "No, that's why her manager is so freaked out. Her security team have been trying to piece together what happened, but nothing conclusive has come up yet. She’s also set on keeping all of this quiet from the media, which is stressful in itself." 

Rooster grunted in agreement, "Cant blame her for that. The media would have a field day with this if they found out." He leaned back in his chair, still holding the file, with a contemplative look on his face, "So, we need to get her some extra security." 

Maverick nodded slowly, his eyes studying Rooster. "Exactly. She needs someone close to her at all times. A bodyguard.” He paused. “Think you're up to it?" 

Rooster arched an eyebrow, "Me?" he asked, "Mav, this is a celebrity we're talking about. A big one. I don't wanna be some pop star's babysitter. I can help get all the security measures in place, make sure her house is more secure, but-" 

Maverick interrupted, "You're the best on the team for this, Rooster. You think ahead, you're focused, you're exactly what she needs." 

Although he appreciated the praise, which he wouldn’t deny was true, the thought of being around a spoiled popstar indefinitely was not something he liked the idea of. "You really don't think someone like... I don't know, Hangman, wouldn’t be better suited for a job like this?" 

Maverick scoffed, "I'm gonna pretend you didn't suggest that." he muttered.  

Rooster didn’t have to ask why, Hangman was a good bodyguard, a great one at times, but he was also reckless. The number of times he’d had an ass kicking from Maverick was off the charts. 

He sighed, taking a moment to think things over. His gaze wandered back down to the file and your photo.  

After a brief pause, he snapped the file shut and met Maverick's eyes. 

"Alright. I'll do it." 

— 

"Please don't argue with me on this."  

Iceman paced in front of where you lay casually on a sun bed in front of your pool. Your sunglasses blocked out the bright LA sun, and you flicked through some magazine detailing the latest celebrity gossip. You were barely reading it at this point, only wanting to see the parts that included you. Most of it was full of crap, but annoyingly, you loved to know what people were saying and thinking of you. 

Of course, right now it was also a great distraction. 

You rolled your eyes and sat up on the sun bed, placing the magazine on the floor next to you. "I don't want some ex-navy man following me around everywhere for the next who knows how long, Ice! I can handle this just fine by myself-" 

"No. You can't." Iceman replied sternly, stopping in front of you with his arms crossed, "Some psycho broke into your house! Do you even realize what could have happened? That he could have hurt you?" 

You looked away, suddenly feeling suffocated by the 'what-ifs' running through your mind. 

Iceman sighed and sat down on the end of the sun bed in front of you, his voice turning softer, "I know you're set on getting through this alone, and I know you, so I know there's no changing your mind about that." he chuckled lightly, "But it wouldn't hurt to have some extra protection. Plus, Mav's an old friend of mine, he wouldn't send someone he didn't think could do this right."  

He had a point, you knew that. Iceman always talked happily about his days at Top Gun, so it was clear whoever Maverick was sending was someone he trusted, maybe someone you could trust too. 

Not that you would make it easy. 

His eyes were pleading with you as he added, "Just trust me on this, okay? Do it for my peace of mind." 

That was really what got you to agree.  

Iceman had been your manager since you started out in the music industry, a young teenager with a big voice and loads of stupid dreams. Of course, they weren't stupid back then, and Ice had made most of them come true for you. Since you didn’t hear much from your dad at all, not after he’d set up home in Hawaii anyway, Iceman was way more like a father to you. If he felt better knowing that you had someone watching your back, then hell, you'd do it for him. 

You huffed and pushed your sunglasses up onto your head, "So, when does this bodyguard arrive?"

"He's flying out to LA as we speak." 

— 

The flight to Los Angeles seemed to zip by.  

Rooster sat in his seat with a faint sense of nerves. He'd never really been nervous for an assignment before, but then again, he'd also never had to protect a world-famous celebrity either.  

A world-famous celebrity with a stalker. Go figure.

He looked out of the window as the sprawling skyline of LA came into view, and his mind started to wander back to the picture in the file Maverick had showed him, the file that was still stuffed in his bag somewhere.  

You’d looked so happy on the cover of that magazine, so happy that it almost didn’t look real. Of course, he knew that most of the celebrity world was built on false publicity, that was why he stayed as far away from it as he could. 

Until now. 

After the plane touched down at LAX, Rooster made his way through the airport in a blur, preoccupied with the task ahead. His mind finally slowed down when he saw an older man in a suit and chauffeur’s cap waiting for him outside, holding up a piece of paper with his name neatly printed on the front. 

Rooster approached him and the man grinned, "Rooster?" he asked, holding up the sign. Rooster nodded and the man sighed in relief, "Thank goodness, I was worried I'd miss your plane. Parking here is not a walk in the park, let me tell you that." he chuckled and held out his hand, "The name's Ben, I'm the personal driver, or chauffeur, if you wanna be fancy about it." 

Ben was an older man who had a wise look behind his eyes that reminded him a little of Maverick. Like he knew things that he decided to keep tucked away, ready to share only when the time was right. 

Rooster shook Ben's hand, appreciating his friendly personality, "Nice to meet you, Ben. Parking in LA is a pain in the ass. I don't think I ever want to drive in this city." 

Ben chuckled, "After 30 years, you get used to it. But luckily for you, you won't have to. Car's over this way."  

Rooster nodded and followed him towards a black SUV with blacked out windows to match. He thought they must have been to block out the paparazzi and he wondered how often you had to deal with things like that. 

He sat down in the passenger seat next to Ben as he began the drive. 

"So, how long have you been her driver?" Rooster asked, looking out the window at the city whizzing by. 

Ben glanced at him from behind the wheel, "Quite a few years now. She takes care of me, I gotta say. Keeps me on my toes, but its's never boring." he chuckled. 

Rooster couldn't help but smile at his lighthearted remark, "Sounds like you've got your hands full with her." 

Ben grinned, "You could say that. But honestly, she isn't as wild as the media likes to make out. She's got a good head on her shoulders and a good heart too, she's a fighter, a tough bird, that's for sure." 

Rooster thought back to the headlines he’d seen about you in passing. Rumors about who you were dating, if you wrote your own songs, if you’d ever settle down and get married, were followed by pictures of you out and having a good time, drink in hand, and harsh words about how you’d ‘taken it too far’. 

It seemed tiring. 

He nodded slowly, keeping his tone casual, "Seems like she's got a reputation, I mean, she's constantly in the spotlight." 

"Oh, for sure. She's definitely got the media attention thing down, but don't believe everything you hear. The media tends to exaggerate things or twist the truth a lot of the time. It's how they operate, unfortunately." Ben explained, "They'll do anything for a good story." 

Rooster couldn’t help but ask, "So, what's she really like? Behind all the fame and notoriety." 

A knowing smile played on Ben's lips, "When you get to know her, she's a real sweetheart. Good sense of humor, always down for a laugh, and when she sets her mind to something, she goes after it with everything she's got. She's headstrong, no doubt about it." 

Rooster absorbed Ben's words, feeling a slight sense of respect for you already as he turned his head to gaze back out of the window, "Sounds like a force to be reckoned with." he muttered to himself. 

— 

Eventually, the car turned off into a large neighborhood, where none of the houses were visible past the greenery that shrouded the paths leading to them. Ben drove down one of the paths that led to a gate, where there was an intercom hooked up to the wall. So far, your security was looking good to Rooster, which only made him wonder how your house was broken into in the first place. 

As the intercom buzzed and the gate opened, Ben drove through, following the path onto your driveway. Rooster’s eyes widened as he took in your home. In the middle of the driveway was a fountain with some fancy statue built into it, your house was surrounded by trees and bushes, and large steps led up to the front door.  

The house itself was huge, your typical celebrity home it seemed. Rooster didn’t even want to guess how many rooms it had. Its size and grandeur already took his breath away, "Damn, this is some house." 

Ben stopped the car by the front steps, "Sell as many records as she has, houses like this are nothing.” He climbed out of the car and walked around it to open Rooster's door. 

Rooster climbed out too, looking up at the steps that lead to the front door in awe. He was starting to feel way out of his league, the house like nothing he'd seen up close before. 

Before he could respond to Ben, the front doors opened, and a man jogged down the steps towards them, "You must be Rooster!" 

Rooster nodded, "That's me."  

The man stopped in front of him and smiled, "Mav said you'd grown, but I honestly didn't believe him." he held out his hand, "Tom Kazansky, but call me Iceman." 

Rooster's eyes flashed with recognition, "Iceman? You were a legend at Top Gun.” he grinned and shook his hand, “You used to fly with Mav, right?” 

Iceman chuckled, "That’s right. Flew with him and your father back in the day.” He paused a little awkwardly, “He was a good man."  

Rooster was slightly taken aback by the mention of his dad and he quickly cleared his throat and changed the subject, like he usually did anytime someone brought him up. "So, you're the manager?" 

"I am." Iceman glanced at Ben, "Thanks for picking him up, Ben, leave the suitcases on the drive, I'll get someone to grab them." he turned back to Rooster, "Follow me." 

Rooster looked back at Ben, who gave him a little thumbs up as he began to unload his suitcase from the trunk. He chuckled and waved, before following Iceman up the steps and into the mansion. 

Once inside, his eyes darted around the foyer, taking in every detail. Iceman turned to him, "So, I take it Maverick filled you in on the situation we have here." 

Rooster's expression grew more serious as he switched gears, "I've got the gist of it. Stalker, break-in, creepy letters." 

Iceman seemed to relax slightly at Rooster's words, a hint of relief in his eyes, "Good. I'm glad Mav was upfront with you. It's a serious issue, but we're doing everything we can to ensure her safety." 

"That's good to hear." Rooster nodded, "I take my assignments seriously. Her safety is my top priority." 

"Good." Iceman nodded back curtly, leading him through the house and gesturing to various rooms, "We've upped the security all over the place. Extra cameras, better locks, the works. We're not taking any chances." 

As they walked, Rooster's gaze occasionally drifted to some of the artwork and decor, taking everything in. It was fancy and probably expensive, but somehow the place still had a cozy feel to it. "All this extra security, and yet someone managed to get in here the other night?" he asked, skepticism in his voice. 

Iceman sighed, "That's the million-dollar question. We have no idea how they got past all our security measures. It's frustrating, to say the least." 

Rooster's eyes narrowed slightly, "No alarms, no signs of any forced entry?" 

"No." Iceman huffed, "Its like they just materialized out of thin air, it's been driving us all crazy." 

Rooster could sense the helplessness in Iceman's tone, and his jaw tightened a bit. The lack of clear answers didn't sit right with him either, and was already starting to feel impatient. "That's not good." he replied bluntly. 

"Believe me, it's not." Iceman sighed, "The police are working on it, but it's like hunting a ghost. We've never had it go this far before. I mean, sure, every celebrity gets weird fan mail now and again, but a break-in? And you know the weirdest part?" He paused, "He didn't touch her, didn't hurt her at all. Just left a note and some photos by her pillow-" 

"Photos?" Rooster frowned, Maverick hadn’t mentioned that. "Can I see them?" 

Iceman led him into the kitchen, where the photos were left scattered on the marble island in the middle. Rooster peered over at them, and felt tense as the situation seemed to get more complicated.  

They looked to be old family photos, from way before your career skyrocketed. One was of you as a kid, sat by a piano and grinning as you played, another looked like it was from Christmas, judging by the wrapping paper scattered around you and the Santa hat hanging off your pigtails. 

In all of them, you were young, and Rooster had a feeling that these couldn’t be easily accessible to the general public. That made his gut twist. 

Iceman seemed to see the confusion etched on Rooster's face, "See what I mean? This doesn't make sense." 

Light footsteps were heard from the hallway, and the two paused, turning towards the door to the kitchen. 

Rooster hadn't known what he was expecting, but whatever it was, you weren't it. You stood casually, leaning against the doorframe, wearing sweats and an oversized t-shirt, far from the glamorous pictures Maverick had given him in the file. Your hair was left free and flowing, and you looked slightly younger without all of the makeup he was used to seeing you in on TV or in magazines. Naturally, you were pretty, that much was obvious, and Rooster could barely take his eyes off you. 

You crossed your arms, "Am I interrupting something?" 

He quickly composed himself, straightening up as Iceman responded, "Of course not. I was just showing Rooster around a little bit. He's the new bodyguard we talked about, remember?" 

Your eyes shifted to Rooster with a hint of suspicion. He didn’t look much older than you, and seemed to be studying you with an intense curiosity. You nodded a little, "I remember." 

Rooster forced himself to remain calm and professional as he held out a hand, "Good to meet you." 

You glanced down at his hand and back to him, "You too." you muttered. You felt a little mean ignoring his clear attempt at being friendly, but you couldn’t find the will to care.  

Rooster frowned a little and pulled his hand back. You could feel Iceman’s stern stare, likely scolding you for not being polite, but you ignored it, keeping your eyes trained on Rooster.  

There's a momentary pause as the three of you stood in a tense silence. Iceman broke it with a half smile, "Rooster is the son of an old friend of mine, like I told you. He's one of the best." 

Your eyes drifted over Rooster once again, still cautious as you nodded a little, "That's good." 

Rooster couldn't help the flicker of annoyance that crossed his features at your dismissive attitude. He held your gaze with a cool, even stare. 

Iceman quickly broke the tension again, "I gotta get going, got some meetings and paperwork and such. You two good here?" 

Rooster nodded, his mind preoccupied, "We're good. Thanks Ice." 

"No problem." Iceman muttered, walking towards the doorway and stopping to lean down and whisper to you, "Please, try to be nice."  

You sighed and nodded, still not fully on board with having a bodyguard at all. It felt like you were being babied and your privacy totally invaded. You didn’t care if the tall, muscular, mustached man stood in front of you was the son of an old friend of Iceman’s, an ex-pilot, a Top Gun graduate; it didn’t matter. No matter how many good things Iceman tried to tell you, you were dead set on dealing with this stalker by yourself. 

That was what you were used to, after all. 

Iceman strode out of the room, leaving you and Rooster in another tense silence. 

Rooster couldn't help but feel frustrated, he wasn't expecting a massively warm welcome, but anything better than what he’d gotten would have been nice. He was doing you the favor here, so there was no way he’d let some spoiled pop star look down on him. "So, that's how you greet all your bodyguards?" 

You thought for a second you might not have heard him correctly, his tone sharp and scolding. He had no right to talk to you like that, hell, Iceman barely spoke to you like that, and you’d definitely grated on his nerves more than once. 

Your eyes narrowed slightly, "Excuse me?" 

Rooster rolled his eyes, "Your... less than warm reaction." he clarified, gesturing with his hand, "I'm here to protect you, but you seem unimpressed." 

Your annoyance grew and you scoffed, "I'm only letting you be here because Ice wants you here. I definitely don’t." 

Rooster's jaw tightened a little at your words, his expression hardening a bit. The blatant honestly stung a little, but he refused to show it, "Thanks for making that clear." he muttered. 

You rolled your eyes, "Just don't get in my way, alright?" 

Roosted gritted his teeth, his annoyance mounting and your attitude starting to get under his skin, "Don't worry, I won't get in your way." he said with a biting tone. 

You nodded curtly and quickly turned and left the kitchen, leaving Rooster's eyes lingering on your retreating form. He let out a frustrated sigh, irritation simmering beneath the surface.  

“Well, that went well." he muttered to himself, turning back to the kitchen island.  

Any respect he’d felt for you after Ben’s words in the car was long gone. You seemed like a typical spoiled brat, and he definitely wouldn’t be dealing with an attitude like yours for long, not if he had anything to say about it. 

His eyes fell back onto the photos as he looked over them again.  

How the hell was he going to protect you if you didn’t want to let him? 

---

A/N: what do we think of part 1? :)) hope you all liked it! gonna try to update twice a week! Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist!

taglist:

@jessevans

@flowery-mess

@emma8895eb

@khouse712

@grimpowrrs

@randomfangirlof

@kvmitchell

[callsignbarb]

i feel like i’m coming back from the dead, using this blog, but this was so good!! if you’re still adding people to your taglist i’d love to be included :)

[kcsplace]

Top Gun Silliness

[beautiful-princess-dizorder]

Happy Thanksgiving, Fam!!! 💞💕

[slugbuggie]

fanfic cheat sheet courtesy of my top gun hyperfixation 😀

bc i know the most important pieces of info are what squadrons each of the characters are assigned to

(edit: i am aware that bob’s squadron is in fact real it just no longer exists. not sure what to do w that)

[lewispullmaned]

Love this perfect little pair so much.

[ajinthealleyway]

[justmilkplease-deactivated20250]

all you need to know about hangster is that while hangman sees their banter as the start of an enemies-to-lovers 300k slow burn angsty pining misunderstandings extravaganza, rooster just daydreams about throwing him out of a window

[aimlessrambling]

Jokes on you guys.

Hangman actually did get his callsign from the childrens word game hangman. He was playing it on his phone while he waited for the first day of training and everyone started calling him Hangman.

And he was just too embarrassed to tell people that was where the name came from so he started saying it was his attitude problem because that sounded cooler but then he had to invent an attitude problem.

He’s secretly way nerdier than Bob. He’s a Texas state scrabble champion.