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Currently writing for Bradley Bradshaw, Jake Seresin and Rhett Abbott ā requests are not officially open but if youāve got something you would like to share then please do (:
Hiii love your work. I was looking at your bradley Masterlist and I swear you had a story where bradley was older and he had a kid and reader was obsessed skittles. Did you get rid of it?
Donāt think that was me! Hope you find it though! x
just bc I miss sharing what Iāve been up to & really miss summer, and this little scene just feels so much like summer
ā¦
Lightning bugs blink across the stretch of open field, flashes of gold amidst the long grass. Cicadas sing from the trees. A bead of sweat slips from your hairline, skimming down the length of your nape and towards the hem of your faded blue tank top.
The grass is dry under your palms, leaning back with your weight braced upon them.
The air is thick and heavy; itās the kind of night where it would be too hot to sleep. The kind of night where the routine ticking of an old ceiling fan would usually be your only company.
Jakeās thumb trails the ridge of each of your knuckles, his eyes on the treeline. With your gaze on him, he tips back his chin and looks towards the sky. Itās a washed shade of lilac, soft clouds dotting the scape.
Itāll storm in the morning, he knows. He should have you home before then.
A question comes to mind, and you hold on to it. You ponder, and study his profile, and look back to the wildflowers.
Holding your hand in his, Jake waits and watches the sky.
āWould you take it back?ā The question comes finally, as quiet as the wind through the clearing, just a murmur as your cheek nudges his shoulder.
He has had plenty of time to consider this question.
āI donāt think about it like that,ā He knows that this isnāt the answer you want, nor will it be the end of this conversation. āItās not how this works.ā
And so it prompts, āBut if you couldā would you?ā
His fingers snake around yours, weaving together. He finally drops his gaze from the sky and looks at you in a beat.
Always cool, the light casts him in shades of blue, muting the gold of his tan and the glint of his green eyes. The blond in his hair is softer, flatter from being touselled under the hat that now sits at his side.
All that sun stained bravado quietened under the approaching dusk, and youāve finally got a read on him.
His eyes are steady and unmoving, his mouth is set and soft - resting. Thereās no challenge in his gaze, no smirk toying at his features, no quirk to his brow. His look is honest, sincere.
And his answer is no.
Knowing what he knows now, he wouldnāt change a thing.
one thing I was not expecting about my frontal lobe being nearly fully toasted is the immense maternal feelings I suddenly have towards children in my favourite media
