When Jake Seresin is peer pressured into taking a last minute vacation, he certainly doesn’t expect Bradley Bradshaw to tag along. He also doesn’t expect to discover that his hotel is a hotspot for newlyweds. Nothing, however, could be more unexpected than finding himself on a fake honeymoon with his coworker, who just so happens to be inconveniently attractive.
OR
Bradley convinces Jake to fake a marriage for a fruit platter (and other reasons).
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chapter 1 - love island is a documentary
chapter 2 - bradshaw(s), baby
chapter 3 - some people are immune to good advice
chapter 4 - tequila sunrise is a truth serum
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thank you to everyone who heard me whinge about/rant about/painstakingly explain the plot of fake honeymoon, you know who you are! shout out @mxrcusflint who talked me off a ledge re: substantially reducing my word count (aka. saving my sanity) and @butchbradshaw and @shorelinetides who lived the nightmare/dream with me in the doc 💖 you may all have one fruit basket.
“Can I fucking help you, Seresin?” Rooster hisses, finally turning in his seat to face him. The office on base is quiet but for the sounds of shuffling feet and fingers on keyboards. They’re meant to be writing reports on the mission, but, well. Jake already finished his, so he’s bored, and bothering Rooster is, as always, the gift that keeps on giving. Jake Seresin may be a decorated service member, one of the most talented pilots of his generation and a grown ass man, but he was an annoying twin brother first. So now that he’s got a whole new type of ammunition, he’s absolutely going to be an asshole about it.
Jake looks up at Rooster through his lashes, eyes wide and innocent. “Whatever do you mean, Lieutenant Bradshaw? I’m just sitting here, thinking my private thoughts.” With the toe of his boot resting against Rooster’s ankle, broadcasting every little thing in his head.
Bradshaw wants him to know — or think — that he’s not amused. His eyebrows are arched, his mouth a thin line, but there’s a tiny crinkle in the corners of those brown eyes as he turns back to his work. And he doesn’t make a move to pull his leg away. That’s all the invitation Jake needs.
So Rooster. If you’re not busy. Do you take requests for when you inevitably pull the plug on the poor jukebox and treat us all to a one woman show?
Jake watches one eyebrow lift, even as Rooster’s eyes stay locked on his computer screen. His fingers, stock still on the keyboard, betray him; Jake’s certain he’s not as focused on the report as he’d like to appear.
Because I think you’re holding out on us by sticking to your usual set of the 80s greatest hits. Man of your talents — you’ve gotta have some range. Know anything from this century?
He spies the tiniest upturn in the corner of Rooster’s mouth. If he’d blinked he would have missed it.
I bet you do a killer Britney impression. We could even get you a little outfit like hers in that one video —
“Hangman. I am trying to write my damn report.”
“And on behalf of the navy, I commend you for your efforts. You’re truly a model officer.”
Here, let me help. ‘I, Bradley Bradshaw, darling of naval aviation, did some very ill advised dashing heroics. Then, right as I was about to get my ass handed to me in the aircraft equivalent of a shitbox lemon, there he was: the best, funniest, most talented, handsomest pilot in all of the United States armed f—‘
“Damn, Hangman,” Rooster mutters under his breath. “I had no idea you felt that way about Captain Mitchell. I think he’s a little old for you, but I could put in a good word if you want—“
Jake’s laugh, barely above a whisper, still rings out in the quiet room.
(Tiny snippet of a mutant!au where Rooster can hear thoughts when he’s touching someone, among other things)
a little hangster soulmate ficlet because it popped into my head today
It takes Jake longer than he'd like to admit to notice the burst of ocean blue on his right bicep. In his defense, the first day actually getting in the the air during advance flight training had been intense.
In his defense, it must have happened in the fucking locker room and he wasn't exactly checking himself out in there—he tends to keep his eyes to himself in the locker room, not looking at anything except what's in front of him.
In his defense, he wasn't expecting to meet his fucking soulmate today.
But he did. He must have brushed against him—and it has to be a him because the only time Jake's bicep wasn't covered by his shirt or flight suit was in the lock room after he'd shower.
He studies the mark in the bathroom mirror, it almost looks like the waves rolling off the ocean as he moves his arm. He wonders what color he left on his soulmate. He wonders if his soulmate is standing in his own cramped bathroom somewhere in this same building studying his own mark. He wonders if his soulmate's heart is racing thinking about the implications of his soulmate being a man in a world where the ink on the DADT repeal is still drying.
He wonders who it is.
Honey brown curls and doe eyes, strong shoulders and biting comments, flash through his head before he shakes himself out of it. It's not worth imagining who it could be—who he'd kind of like it to be. That can only lead to disappointment. Instead of thinking about it, he brushes his teeth and walks out of the bathroom.
He lucked out with a decent roommate, Machado's a chill guy, funny and smart, and he doesn't seem to mind Jake's prickly exterior. He's sitting on the uncomfortable couch, a football game on, when Jake leaves the bathroom. Jake declines his offer to join him, suddenly exhausted, and falls asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.
Bradshaw is already sitting in the classroom when Jake walks in the next morning. Jake stops in the doorway, eyes trained on the swell of Bradshaw's biceps under his tight uniform khaki shirt. Almost like he can feel Jake's eye on him, Bradshaw turns to the door, raising an eyebrow at him as if to ask what the fuck Jake is doing just standing there looking at him.
"Mornin'," Jake says, flashing half a smile. He's usually the first one in the room, Bradshaw being here is unexpected.
"Morning," Bradshaw's eyes are on Jake's shoulder, his arm. The mark is covered, Jake had triple checked that his shirt covered it before leaving, but it feels like Bradshaw can see it anyway.
"You're here early," Jake says, walking into the room. "You're must have been with the roosters today."
Bradshaw snorts, but doesn't say anything. His eyes haven't left Jake since he spotted him in the doorway.
Jake makes his way to his usual seat in the front, stealing himself to pass Bradshaw in the second row. He can feel Bradshaw's eyes on him as he approaches. It's stupid and impulsive, but as Jake walks by he shifts, flexing his arm so his sleeve rides up, causing the ocean blue mark to poke out just enough for Bradshaw to see it if he's looking.
There's a sharp intake of breath from Bradshaw and then there are fingers circling Jake's wrist stopping him.
"Seresin," Bradshaw's voice cracks halfway through his name. He sounds so raw.
"Bradshaw," Jake looks down at him and sees it, a sea foam green splotch of color on Bradshaw's left bicep. They must have brushed by each other in the lock room. Jake thinks he might remember it, Bradshaw coming in later than the rest of them, head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
"Is that—is that new?"
"Pretty sure you know the answer to that already, man," Jake's voice isn't loud, but it still feels like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Bradley," Bradshaw—Bradley says. "You should probably call me Bradley."
"Jake," Jake tells him. "Sit up front me with today?"
There's a moment of hesitation. Jake wonders if Bradley is running through all the reasons that a terrible idea. Whatever he's thinking, he must decide the pros outweigh the cons, because he gets up and joins Jake at the front.
"We gonna talk about it?" Bradley asks, fingers tracing along the mark on Jake's arm. If they leaned any closer, their marks would match up.
"Later," Jake says, reaching out to touch Bradley's mark, dropping his hand when he hears voices in the hall. He takes a breath. If he doesn't ask now, he'll lose his nerve. "Dinner, tonight?"
"Dinner," Bradley agrees, knocking their shoulders together. "It's a date."
Jake bites back a grin at Bradley's easy agreement. He's saved from responding by the classroom door opening. He was half expecting Bradshaw to turn him down. Jake knows he's been a bit—well he's been a bit intense during training. Knows he's rubbed some people the wrong way with his persistence and need to be the best. He's well aware that half the class thinks he's an asshole, but he also knows that everyone in this classroom knows he's the best, that no one doubts his abilities in a cockpit. Especially not after taking to the skies for the first time yesterday and seeing him in action.
But here Bradley is, agreeing to dinner with Jake. Looking almost pleased that Jake's his soulmate. Like maybe last night when he was studying his mark maybe he'd thought about Jake's dimples and his eyes, just like Jake had thought about him.
Now isn't the time to think about this though. Now he needs to focus on training. And that's just what he does. When he and Bradley are paired up to practice taking off and landing, Jake feels giddy with it.
He gets to fly a fighter jet. He gets to fly a fighter jet with his fucking soulmate. They can figure the rest out later.
They meet before the marine layer’s burned off, the sun high behind the marble-gray clouds. Jake squints behind his aviators, looks around the tarmac at his fellow classmates. Some he knows from the Academy, like Fatman, some he doesn’t. But he notices the guy all the same, standing half a head (or more) taller than the other pilots. Jake doesn’t recognize him, but Jesus fuck, that’s one hell of a mustache.
He overhears one of the others introducing the guy. “—Bradshaw, callsign Rooster.” So when the guy eventually makes his way to Jake and Fatman, Jake says, “Hey, Rooster. Did the seventies call and ask for your upper lip back?”
He can practically feel Fatman rolling his eyes, but Bradshaw doesn’t flinch. His eyes are hidden behind his own pair of aviators, a pair that looks older than every pilot on the tarmac.
“I’m Fatman,” says Fatman, shaking Bradshaw’s hand. “The asshole is Jake.”
“Hangman,” Jake says, the back of his neck heating.
“Hangman,” Bradshaw says, like he’s thinking about something. His voice is mellow, rich. “You were at the Academy with Phoenix.”
Jake almost frowns — Bradshaw knows Phoenix? — then grins. “What, she sing my praises? Tell you I’m the best pilot this side of the Mississippi?” Fat chance.
Bradshaw’s mouth quirks, and oh, interesting. “Not exactly.” He steps away. “Nice meetin’ you both.”
finally started posting my first sereshaw fic | part 1 of 3 is up now
Their first stop is a tiny bakery downtown, where Jake orders four breakfast tacos and doesn’t let Bradley say a word as he pulls out his wallet. They find a small patio table and sit down, but Bradley pulls Jake’s plate away before he can dig in.
“What’s your problem?” Jake asks.
“My Instagram demands photos.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “The only person who cares about your Instagram is Mav, and he doesn’t know how to work the damn thing.”
“Well, sue him for wanting to know how his reconnected godson is doing on his fake-boyfriend Texas escapade.”
“Can you just eat the fucking taco?”
Bradley sighs, and Jake grins as he watches him shove a taco into his mouth.
His grin drops, though, as Bradley lets out an egregiously loud moan.
“Good lord,” Bradley says, mouth still full. Jake swats his arm, his face reddening.
“We’re in public, Bradshaw!”
“And this taco and I are having a private conversation. In my mouth,” he adds, indignantly moaning again.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to leave you on this fucking patio,” Jake whispers loudly, scanning for appalled passerby. Luckily, he finds none. He swipes Bradley’s second taco, though. For good measure.
Bradley pats his mouth with his napkin. “Fine. But when did you start caring about public decency? I once saw you smack Javy’s ass so hard you probably left a five-star.”
“That was in the Hard Deck. Not my Texas hometown.”
“We’re in Austin,” Bradley deadpans. “Not your buttfuck-nowhere backwater Hicksville suburb.”
Jake huffs. “What’s gotten into you?”
Bradley points to the plate Jake stole. “Not my second taco.” Jake rolls his eyes. “I get hangry,” Bradley says with a shrug.
Jake sighs and slides the plate back across the table. Bradley beams and—this time—takes a smaller bite.
Hangster, explicit, 7.3k, domestic, old men in love
He slides his eyes over to Bradley, and flushes slightly at the hungry look he finds. Transfixed, Bradley reaches out and cups his jaw with his hand, thumb rubbing gently at the rough stubble covering his cheek.
“Your beard has a little bit of grey in it,” Bradley says with awe, and Jake winces, leaning down to place his glass on the ground at his feet. Bradley, you beautiful, perceptive bastard.
My Endless Summer Exchange fic for @allforreading-fandomthings ☀️
