YOUR SMILE COULD LIGHT UP NEW YORK CITY AFTER DARK
synopsis: You've started to learn the tells of Aaron's face. Most of them being quite serious. So, you've made it your mission to get really familiar with another: joy.
pairing: Aaron Blackford x f!reader
warnings: naked (they're in a bathtub), not proof-read, use of the word 'god' not in a religious sense but as an exclamation, horny reader, sex and its variants
word count: 4.4k
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His low dark brows are often furrowed. A small crease between them leaving indents in his skin. His lips are flattened into a line, little-to-no amusement. Blue eyes bored, lacking a joyous gleam. Jaw held tight, only parting to correct and deliver information.
That's how you know Aaron. It's how plenty, if not most, people know him. Stoic, stone-faced, and seriously focused. The man you've been seeing–dating–for the last few weeks doesn't give much away. At first, you thought he was dating you to occupy his time. A corporate American man in need of a bit of socialisation and a hobby. If it weren't for the fact that he asked you out, you would've easily believed him to be disinterested in you.
But, over many plates of food, you've started to learn how to read him.
A subtle raise of his right eyebrow. Just enough to get his point across.
What is going on?
His brain would take a second to process whatever ridiculous thing was going on. Then, his eyes would narrow just after, the colour shadowed away.
Seriously?
Aaron's head would turn towards you, gently–so no one else would really catch his micro-expressions–tilted and eyes cast downwards on you. He'd wait for you to express a similar amount of confusion, albeit with a bit more joy, and then continue his silent judgement of the clever Times Square mascots. He'd specifically keep his scrutiny on Elmo, his hand tight in yours.
When frustration would mount, usually because of New York traffic or lax coworkers wasting his time, his eyes would shut. Briefly, his pale skin would cover his eyes. A quick squeeze and crinkle, as if the force he's exerting on his face would be enough to calm him down. It usually isn't. So, he'd accompany it with a roll of his neck. Maybe even with a deep breath to widen his chest. Then, he'd return his attention back onto his laptop and type away. You'd watch in silence, sat nearby on his couch as the two of you catch up with some work before ordering takeout for dinner.
Then, there was a new one. It happened when the two of you were soaking in his tub. Your back was damp against his chest and his arms wrapped around your torso. His legs caged yours in, bracketing you. Despite the suds and heat coming from the water, it was tame. Just a peaceful bath on a Friday evening to end the work week. Your coworker had been pissing you off, always coming into your office and asking you to head your headphones out. It's not the first time Aaron has heard of him. You've made your dislike and displeasure very clear.
"And so he's telling me off about not dressing up for 'wear your pyjamas to work day'." You sigh, the bubbles tickling your fingertips as you ghosted your hand over the surface of the water. "First of all, I didn't even know that was a thing. Like, who does that? Maybe if we were a smaller company in a more relaxed setting but it's the middle of Midtown and most of us commute to work. Plus, I had meetings all afternoon so I was not going to show up on a video call in a giant t-shirt with Garfield on it."
"Hm," Aaron hums and presses his lips to your shoulder.
"And then he was like 'oh, does your boyfriend not let you wear your pyjamas outside? he's so controlling, I would never do that' blah, blah, blah." You feel Aaron freeze behind you but continue on. "And so I'm sitting there with a blank face and have to tell him that you're normal and that I'm normal for not wearing my literal pyjamas to work. Ugh."
With a deep breath, you tilt your head back until it lands on the crook of his shoulder. From your angle, his jaw is the first thing you see before your eyes travel up to his. His expression isn't as grumpy as it usually is, the bath and bubbles to blame for that, but there's a pinch between his brows and a sharpness that definitely wasn't there when you got into the tub.
"Relax," you pat his hand, pressing it further against your skin, "he's definitely overstepping but I also constantly mention you whenever he does."
"That's not what I'm the most worried about."
"Oh? So what are you worried about?"
"His lack of understanding and boundaries." His voice is gruff, that strained exasperated tone you've only overheard in passing. His palms flatten against your stomach and tug you closer into him as if fusing you to him will help his sense of protectiveness.
"Well, if it's any consolation, I hardly ever have to work with him. And thankfully he's my coworker's responsibility, not mine."
"Maybe I should come up to your office when I pick you up from work."
"And waste a good five to ten minutes that could've been spent driving back home? No."
"Fair enough," Aaron sighs. Gently, his fingers come out of the water to grip your chin. It's damp and gentle the way he tilts your head, just enough so he can press a lingering kiss to your lips. When you blink your eyes open, the stormy look is still there. It doesn't matter that you're in his bathtub, naked and resting against him watching the New York skyline, he worries all the same whether you're glued to him or not.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Dinner with your friends is something you always look forward to. You take turns deciding the restaurant for the evening, and your friend Teresa has chosen a nice bar and bistro tucked away in the East Village. You're all dolled up, makeup done and a nice dress. Your coat is folded over the back of your chair, shoulders brushing with your friends'.
Snow has started to fall outside and you're sure that by the time your meal is over it will have picked up into a flurry of snowflakes and harsh wind. Inside is warm, not only with the heaters working overtime, but the atmosphere. It's busy, couples and friends and business partners filling out the dining area this December. Your booth is lucky, tucked away in a corner with gold pendants over you. The walls are a mix of antique wood panelling and a warm burgundy wallpaper. On it are framed black and white photographs of the patrons over the years. Between the dark tables, waiters zip through, handing out orders and making sure the turnover isn't worryingly fast. You're sipping your beverage, nodding along as Summer complains about some sports centre being overbooked for the winter. Midge then moves onto her macramé and job at the retirement home over appetisers. Nikki groans in boredom and tells you all about her recent concert near Central Park. And then the conversation baton bounces over to you.
"I don't know," you shrug, taking a bite of your ravioli, "work has been good. Busy but good. I've been spending more time with Aaron. He's been picking me up from work more often and I'm pretty sure I have at least a couple of outfits at his place."
"Aaron?" Summer's head whips so quick and if she weren't a professional athlete you'd be more worried. "The boring guy who never smiles?"
"He smiles." You give her a look.
"So he just chooses not to?" Nikki jabs.
"He smiles a normal amount."
"Which is never, in his case." Teresa joins in.
"Oh my god, guys. He smiles. I swear he does. Guess what? He even laughs."
"Then how come we've never seen him do it?" Nikki presses on.
"Because you met him once."
"He didn't even smile as a 'hi'." Midge snorts. "Talk about a ray of sunshine."
"Okay, fine!" You hold your hands up. "I'll get a picture or even a video of him smiling just so you guys can shut up about this."
"You're not allowed to flash him," Summer mutters around the rim of her glass.
"I wasn't going to."
When your stomachs are full and enough gossip has been passed around to last weeks, you pay your share of the bill and slip your thick coat back on. It's only then, when you're standing by the door and checking your reflection do you finally grab your phone.
3 texts from Aaron.
Clicking on them, a grin spreads across your face when you read through them.
Hi, baby. How's dinner?
Let me know if you want me to pick you up. I really don't mind. It's cold out so send me a text when you're ready to leave.
Stay at my place tonight?
You type out a series of replies, two 'yes's to his questions.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
It's about a week later when you remember what your friends had said. Great timing too because you were just about make yourself a hot chocolate.
Aaron's kitchen has become very familiar to you in the last four months of your relationship. Sleek lines, gorgeous maple wood cabinets, and Italian stone counter tops. You're a little jealous. But it's a feeling that's quickly soothed over when you realise just how much of you is in the space. There's a carton of lactose-free milk in his fridge. A mug he had bought you at the MET's gift shop. His 'engineers don't cry, they build bridges and get over it' mug that you had gotten him on a whim. Refrigerated fruit you kept on buying from street vendors despite him reminding you that grocery stores existed. But did they sell perfectly crunchy green grapes at half the price?
Moving through the space, you heat up a saucepan with some milk, sugar, cocoa powder, and a dash of salt. Stirring, you set the mugs to your right. On your left is a pressure canister of whipped cream. Once warm and combined, you divide the hot cocoa between the two of you and top the mugs with a generous amount of whipped cream. Finally, you carry them into the TV room where he had finally picked out a Pixar film to watch.
"Here you go," you hand him his mug, smiling. He returns it, the corners of his lips tipping up and his eyes crinkling.
"Thank you," he takes a sip. The two of you enjoy them in silence with a heavy blanket draped over your laps and his side flush against yours. Even though his smile settles back into his usual flat expression, you rejoice at the fact that it stayed throughout the duration of your hot chocolates.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The next time you made Aaron smile, it was new. It wasn't his usual deep laugh or charming smile that followed your rambling or your flustered expression after his flirting.
You weren't expecting it at all. It was just a nice and casual dinner. Some sort of slow-cooked lamb dish he had put in the oven in the morning and forgot about while the two of you continued on with your Saturday morning routines. For him, it meant going on a run since the late spring weather allowed it. For you, you had taken full advantage of the end-of-May sun streaming in through the windows of the building's indoor pool. Then, lunch was followed by a painting pottery class you had forced him into. Sitting side by side on stools in canvas aprons, he did smile. Small and soft whenever he'd glance over at you. When the two of you had gotten back to his place, changing into comfortable pyjamas and the sound of cutlery filling the air, his leg had started bouncing. If you weren't constantly ogling him, you wouldn't have noticed.
Quick, frantic bounces on his left thigh. They'd stop for a second before starting back up again. And just when you were going to say something, he beat you to it.
"Baby," he sets his fork down before wiping his hands onto a napkin. "We've been together for ten months now."
"Oh, god." Your eyes widen and the words tumble from your lips in horror.
"'Oh, god'?" He repeats, blinking. His shoulders pull back and straighten up at your tone.
"You're not proposing or breaking up with me are you? Because it is way too soon for the former and completely unexpected for the latter."
"No. No, I'm not proposing nor breaking up with you," he sighs and picks some of his confidence back up. "We've been together for ten months now and I like doing this with you. Being by your side, waking up together and going to sleep with you in my arms. Honestly, it's not often enough."
He grabs your hand, his thumb warming over the back of your palm as he brushes it back and forth.
"Move in with me. You can sublet your apartment for the next two months and stay here already." His gaze locks onto yours, the conviction and certainty is as reassuring as it is terrifying. "You can have the bigger walk-in, decorate the place however you'd like-"
"Yeah, I don't think you'd enjoy too much clutter or frills, though."
"Then we'll decorate together. It also means I'll be able to drive you to work everyday and pick you up."
"I like taking the subway."
"Somehow."
"Wow. I had no idea you were such a snob, Blackford."
"You literally told me two weeks ago about some guy trying to sing to rats like a snake-charmer."
"A for effort, that's for sure." You cock your head and huff. His head ducks down, eyes finding yours again. That unrelenting determination is there. He wants this. Aaron wants to spend his time with you. He wants all of the mundane everyday things like laundry and ironing. He wants to debate over the grocery list and end up with a couple items extra in the cart because he just can't say no to you. He wants to get to know you beyond shared meals and occasional sleepovers. He wants a synergy and synchronous rhythm that only comes with time and experience.
"Move in with me, baby?"
"Okay." You smile and the words are barely done being pronounced before a large grin splits his face.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Wednesday evenings have become yours and Aaron's apartment reset days. A day meticulously chosen after months of indecision. Mondays were too brutal. Fridays are for date nights and fun. Saturdays are for getting things done. Sundays are for relaxing. It took a couple of months, cycling through New York's whirlwind of seasons but finally during the city's all-over-the-place early spring it was settled. Mid-week cleaning is mandatory. Sure, he hires a cleaning service to come in weekly when the two of you are off to work but it doesn't mean that you don't have to keep up the place.
You're folding up pants and socks, hangers on the foot of the bed waiting to be used. Aaron's ironing out each item before handing them to you. The air is thick, a fog of comfortable silence filling up the room. Your little routine is perfected. A couple minutes ironing is just the right amount of time for you to fold and move onto the next item. You're both still in your work clothes, anticipation thrumming beneath the surface. In less than an hour, you'll be able to take a nice warm shower and change into one of Aaron's old football t-shirts and nerdy maths equations pyjama pants an aunt had gifted him five Christmases ago. With that renewed energy, the two of you finish fast. Before you know it your hair is clinging onto damp steam and his hand finds yours as the two of you pad out into the hallway.
Aaron opens the fridge and you lean against the island facing his back. Taking a moment, your eyes take in the broad expanse of his shoulders and just how snugly the cotton of his t-shirt wraps around him when he leans forward.
"There's some chicken, pita bread, vegetables, and leftover tzatziki if you want to have some makeshift wraps for dinner?" He glances back at you from over his shoulder, his face catching all of the right shadows.
God, it's unfair. He looks like a marble statue if it was somehow also modelled after those devastatingly handsome actors from the fifties.
"Hm?" You blink, head tilting like a deer caught in the headlights. "Yeah. Sure. Pita wraps work."
"Okay." He shuts the refrigerator door once all of the Tupperware boxes are on the counter. Staying quiet, you watch his bicep flex when he reaches down to open a drawer and pull out a pan. Following the vein across said bicep down to his forearm, you want to scream. If you were better at anatomy, you might be able to notice just how many muscles are actually there. But you don't dwell on it long, too busy enjoying the moderate dark dusting of hair up to his wrist. His fingers grip the handle of the pan and in the background you can hear the clicking of the gas flame igniting. His fingers are long and thick, a slight pinkish hue that blooms across the surface of his skin whenever they press against something.
Your mind replays sounds and images like a violent kaleidoscope. Aaron's fingers pumping in and out of you until you're begging for more. Then it's a languid and deep curling that has you blabbering nonsense while he nods slowly and eases you through your orgasm. Next, it's that same hand holding onto your jaw as he rocks into you from behind. A pure white tingling travels up your legs, his other arm hooked around your stomach to hold you up on the edge of the bed on your hands and knees. You think you remember your face being damp, overwhelmed tears falling slowly. His thumb brushes over your cheeks, soft cooing and dirty reassurance set against the rough pace of his hips.
Your name coming from his lips startles you, momentarily unsure if you're imagining it or not. His eyebrows are drawn together and his hip leans against the counter as he watches you.
"Back on Earth?" He reaches for a pair of metal tongs, flipping the chicken over as it reheats.
"Yep." You lie straight through your teeth. He can tell, eyes shimmering with amusement. You've never been a good liar. Or any good at hiding any of your emotions.
"Uh-huh. Convincing."
"Uh-huh. Thank you." You parrot, adding twice the sass he did.
"I'm more than a piece of meat, you know?"
"Yeah, you also bore me with efficiency and inertia." You brace your hands behind you on the stone.
"You don't seem so bored."
"The eye candy makes up for it."
The scoff he lets out is dramatic. And you wouldn't have it any other way. You parry your overgrown drama queen with a roll of your eyes.
"I'm making dinner for you and you somehow manage to objectify me and insult me all at once?" He sets the tongs down and steps towards you. His palms find your hips, resting there. Aaron stays in your space, his chest in front of you and his body barely shortened. You have to lean back a little to meet his smug face.
"Well, it's mostly for you. I'm not the one making the biggest dent in our grocery budget." The megawatt smile you give him shines even brighter when the words land and his jaw bunches. "No offence, but you honestly could eat a whole cow."
"Full offence taken."
"Doesn't count. I said 'no offence'."
"That's not how it works."
"How would you know? I know you're older than me, and a little outdated, but you were not there when the English language was invented."
"I-" He sighs, his head hanging. "Conversation over."
A laugh bubbles up your throat, loud and echoing in the kitchen. Your vision goes blurry as your eyes crinkle up and your chest shakes. Slapping a hand onto his chest, you shake your head.
"You are such a sore loser."
"Oh? I'm the sore loser?" He leans in, a smile climbing up his face and a chuckle joining in with your laughter. "Remember mini golf?"
"You cheated!"
"I have good aim."
"Your arms are longer."
"You're closer to the ground and the club."
"You had the score sheet."
"You know how to count. You just have terrible aim."
"The chicken is burning."
"The chicken-what?" His head snaps to behind him, the chicken starting to smell a little stuffy. He dials the heat down and checks up on the meat. Plating it, he lightly toasts the pita while you grab the two of you two glasses of water.
"Guess I win," you mutter while setting the island to eat, missing the infatuated look he gives you.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Is he going to propose?
That question has been running through your mind on a loop since Aaron told you about your summer plans. Three weeks are all you have. And so far all you know is that five days will be spent near the Mediterranean, another four in France, and then the remaining time in Seattle.
You had your nails done before you left, a gut feeling telling you to remain cautious and to not get a design you've never had before. You packed wisely, ensuring that all of your clothes fit and that you at least had three white options.
He's proposing, right?
Certainty was starting to settle and calm your doubtful mind. He rented a nice car, driving down the Côte d'Azur and pulling up to a hotel you could only dream of. A sprawling estate with a private beach and old stone walls. Your luggage is whisked away on a silver caddy. When the door to your room opens, you turn slowly, staring back at your boyfriend with wide eyes and a warning look. Then when the evening catches up on you, jet lag dragging you down onto the thousand thread count bed, do you relax. In a fluffy white bathrobe and mind sluggish from the flight, you don't even process Aaron's footsteps faltering.
Your legs dangle off of the edge of the mattress, arms thrown above your head like a terrible snow angel. Through the open windows, you can hear the rustling of the leaves and the gentle rhythm of the waves crashing.
He can't propose now, can he?
With a yawn, you sit up. A question of when he's going to join you in bed dying on your lips.
He's on one knee, sweatpants on and hands holding open a dark velvet box. Inside it, the diamond on a band glitters under the low light. It's nothing compared to the look on his face. Nerves, hope, love, fear, certainty, determination, devotion, vulnerability. It's all there and nearly warbles when he says your name.
"I know you've been wondering when I'd ask. If I'm being honest, I've known and wanted to ask for months now. Waking up beside you and falling asleep with you in my arms isn't enough anymore. I see you in my dreams. I hear your voice in my mind when I can't focus. My body remembers yours no matter how distant you are. You've made me the happiest man just by being here. By challenging me. By being by my side. By getting mad at me–even when you used to worry about scaring me off. And, god- I hope that I make you happy. Every day I look for that light in your eyes. Every day that light grounds me. Reminds me just how lucky I am. You've always have been and always will be it for me. This brightness and pure light that draws me in without even trying."
You're not sure what you're doing or how you're reacting. Your body moves on its own, a vague feeling of nods and tears.
"Will you marry me?"
Yes.
Your body collides with his, crashing onto him and onto the floor.
"Yes. Yes. Yes! Yes! Yes!" Words sprint out of your mouth and barrel onto his lips between excited kisses. His hands steady you onto him, tethering you back to your body. His teeth knock against yours, clumsily and rough but neither of you care. Your smiles are too wide and permanent. Sobs wrack your chest and you nod frantically. Your body is telling him 'yes' in a million different ways and you can barely keep up when the cool metal ring slips onto your finger. Without sparing it a glance, you tug on his shirt with finality. Aaron's lips slot against yours and you come back down onto Earth.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
"I've never seen Aaron so happy."
You laugh, for the fifth time today, at the constant repetition of those words. From your parents, his parents, your friends, even distant relatives.
Richard is at the microphone, standing beneath stone arches and a domed ceiling. Intimate lighting and linen covered tables fill the space, the crowd seated and facing the stage. You're sat at a table with your husband, hands linked over your lap. The soft fabric of your gown tickles your wrist. But so does the ring on your finger. Aaron's shoulder is pressed up against yours, glued to you with a grin despite the spacious hall you rented. It's warm and exactly what you need. Every time you glance around the room it seems to fill. Your parents are at the in-laws table, sipping on some champagne. Thea is sat beside them, wiping her eyes whenever she even glances towards you and her son. Aaron's dad chuckles before continuing with his speech.
"He's always been so serious. He gets it from me, I guess." The self-aware comment gets a few wry laughs. "Since he was little, always so focused. First it was number and letter blocks, then it became homework and football. When football no longer made him happy–or maybe a better word is focused–he moved into engineering. Focus has been his constant companion these thirty years. But for the last three, so has joy. And I don't want to put that pressure on his wife. Aaron knows happiness and he knows joy. But being around you-"
Your eyes lock with Richard’s and warmth rushes over you.
"You make it seem as easy as breathing for him. In life, you find your people. The people who fill up your personal space, mind, and lungs with emotion. People who you want to hold onto until your dying breath. I have–without a doubt in my mind–that you will always be one of those people for him. The person, and vice versa. Cut from the same cloth or moulded from the same mound of clay. So congratulations to the happy couple, and for many decades to come."
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Author's Note: I've got to confess that I've been in love with the Spanish Love Deception since high school. I've got my qualms about the writing and pace and character backgrounds and the amount of time the author dedicated certain plot points to but I'm so, so, so in love with Aaron Blackford. Is he realistic? No. Is he or this life even attainable? No (but take me to Mamdanistan immediately).
A few things I wanted to add that I've added or changed to Aaron's original lore:
His parents and extended family do not die of illnesses because that would mean that he has a high chance of the same. I don't want that. I want me and the reader to be able to enjoy him until we're on our deathbeds together.
Both of his parents are alive and they have a generally good relationship. I think he still would have had a rough phase with his dad when he decided to pull from the NFL draft but since Thea would've still been alive it'd have been a lot more understandable and mediated. They reconcile and it does take a couple of months of Aaron working in New York for Richard to see that his son is doing something that he prefers and makes him happy. I also wanted to change the relationship to this because despite the love Catalina has for her family, it's very bittersweet and will always be clouded by their gossiping and underestimating of her post-Daniel breakup. I feel like she (and I and YOU, reader) need and want to be with someone whose family is just good. Kids want to visit and call their parents regularly. The dynamics are healthy and things are talked through to get past them and move on.
They're rich. Already canon but Elena Armas never specified how much. With millionaires becoming more and more common via the internet, I think his family would be well off. Like near billions. Aaron mentioned having enough flyer points for seat upgrades. I counter this, his family owns multiple airlines under the American Airlines Group on the Abbot side from nearly a century ago. They also own multiple real estate ventures across the West Coast. On his dad's side, aside from being a huge coach in the NFL, they also run and fund multiple smaller scale sports associations and schools across the North-West. So, yeah, they're rich.
He owns a penthouse in Dumbo. When I looked online for water view lofts in Dumbo a year or two ago when I tried looking for spaces to help me visualise the book, I couldn't find much that I liked. So, he owns a place in Olympia, Dumbo. Ideally PHB with the excuse that the extra bedrooms are for when his parents want to fly in or if any cousins, nieces, or nephews need a place to stay short-term in the city. Also because the views are gorgeous and I want to live there.
Also I did name all of the reader's friends after the Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse characters. They're my 'sex and the city' girl group.
Finally, I want to end this author's note by letting you guys know that I am more than willing to discuss this book! It has such a strong hold on me despite my also very strong (and often negative) opinions on it. I spent the whole day writing this because I couldn't get the character out of my head. If you also want to comment about your own opinions on some other characters I might know, I'm all ears! Personally I have a hard time finding ways to understand and characterise Bruce Wayne for an 'x reader' story and struggle with seeing Clark through an often too naive and innocent lens.
