#bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x reader

[purelyfiction]

pencils and p.e. - bradley bradshaw!pe teacher x f!english teacher au

coming soon...

[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

[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…

[38livesalone-has3cats]

Hiiiii i have a request 😛

bob floyd gets a concussion and is flustered and embarrassed when wife!reader tells him they’re married, and he doesn’t believe her because she’s so pretty

muaahahahaha😈😈😈 I absolutely loveee this !!!

warnings/tags: v minimal hospital stuff, anxious reader, (y/n) used like twice, fluff, bob is sooo in love lololl, very quick nsfw mention, also bob is southern because I SAID SO, reader is lowkey southern too cause i am and i’m projecting🥀

wc: 1.2k

a/n: sighhh i love bob so much, this was so fun to write :] thank you for the req !! plsss keep them comin !

It wasn't very often you were invited on base. You aren't not allowed there, you just never really had much of a reason to spend the day over there. So that's why you're a little fidgety as you make your way through the parking lot of the small hospital on base. That, and you had received a worrying phone call this morning.

You were lounging at home- enjoying your day off- when your phone rang. You recognized the number from the very few times you had been called by one of your husband's supervisors. A doctor had informed you that your husband had had to make an emergency eject during training and hit his head pretty hard.

You had panicked immediately but the doctor assured you Bob would be just fine; he just has a fairly serious concussion and his memory and motor skills are a bit wonky at the moment. You finished up the phone call and rushed over as quickly as you could.

You aren't waiting in the lobby very long before a nurse leads you back to your husband's room. Your heart almost breaks at the sight of him in his hospital bed, looking absolutely pitiful. He's sitting up slightly with his head tilted back facing the ceiling, his eyes closed and his breathing a bit slower than usual.

"Bobby? Honey, how're you feeling?" You're by his side in an instant, one hand caressing his arm and the other brushing along his forehead as his eyes flutter a few times before his head tilts toward you. His eyes are a bit fuzzy, unfocused, but he's still got that light he's always had- like the sun itself has taken root in him and couldn't help but shine through. "'m doin' okay, how're you?" He mumbles, his tone completely serious. You can't help but laugh at him; those southern manners imbedded deep in him. "I'm okay, just worried bout you, Bobby." You run your fingers along the edge of a small bandage on his forehead, before turning and reaching for his glasses.

Carefully, you slide them onto his face and watch in amusement as his mouth drops open. You go to speak, but he beats you to it; "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." A pretty flush rises to his cheeks and his eyes stay wide open, like he doesn't want to blink and miss any microexpression you might make.

"Oh, thank you, handsome." You grin, cupping his chin with one hand and leaning in to brush your lips against his gently. You're shocked when his shaky arms do what they can to push you away- there's not much force behind his wobbly movements, but you back away and look down at him with furrowed brows. "Nonononono, stop stop- 'm married." He frantically tries to get out despite the slur in his voice.

"Baby-" You start, fighting the giggle in your voice. He shakes his head, a beautiful pout taking over his features. "I love my wife. She's perfect- you gotta back up." His eyes screw shut, he turns his head away from you, and his shaky hands rub his eyes. "Her name's (y/n), she's fuckin' great- pardon my l-language." He mumbles, mostly to himself at this point.

"Bob. My name is (y/n). My last name's Floyd. I'm your wife." You reach out to gently grasp his wrists. Bob whips his head toward you so fast he's dizzy for a few moments. You keep your eyes on him, unsure whether to laugh or call for a nurse. Once his eyes really focus on you he seems to deflate, his arms falling to his lap and his cheeks quickly heat up a bright red. He looks.. nervous. "You okay?" You hum, slowly reaching out for him.

A beat of silence passes before he opens his mouth, his bottom lip trembling, "I missed youuu." He finally says- his hand shooting out to meet yours. He overshoots it a bit, though, and smacks your shoulder. You let out a relieved laugh, grabbing his hand and interlacing your fingers together. God, he really scared you for a second. "You're really my wife? How?" He asks, looking absolutely amazed as you run your fingers along his cheekbones.

"It's a very long story, Bobby. But I love you." You grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. He lets out a dreamy sigh, reaching up with his free hand to grip onto your shoulder. "Yeah? God, you're so pretty." He blinks up at you, unable to fight the smile on his face.

For a moment, you're stunned by just how beautiful he is- pink cheeks, wide eyes, and a boyish grin; a little beat up and bruised but easily the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. You chest seems to swell up with all the love you feel for your husband. You feel a tugging at your shirt and realize he's said something to you. "Sorry, what'd you say, honey?"

"'m tryna sweep you off your feet, sweetheart- you're makin' it hard." Bob grumbles, letting go of your hand to grip at the front of your shirt so he can tug you down with both arms. You let out a breathy laugh, allowing him to pull you closer. "I'm so very sorry." You grin against his lips before giving in.

He tastes the same, he's got the usual enthusiasm, his technique's just a bit wonky. You honestly wouldn't change it for the world. The kiss only breaks when he's gasping and you have to push him away or he won't stop. It's his favorite thing- drowning in you; in your eyes, your lips, your pussy. God, just the thought of having you has blood rushing to his dick so fast he's a bit lightheaded.

You press one last lingering kiss to his lips before you're pulling back and turning to grab a chair. "Doctor said you gotta spend the night here so-"

"Need my pillow- need to move my pillow." Bob's voice is urgent when he interrupts you and you're letting go of the chair and running your eyes over him to see if anything's changed. "Where? Are you okay? You hurting?" You question him as you carefully slide the pillow out from behind him. He just furrows his brows and chews on his lip as you hold the pillow beside him for a moment. "Where do you want it, Bobby?" You repeat, worry clawing up your throat.

"My lap." One of his wobbly arms grabs onto the pillow and tugs it toward him- you don't let go just yet, your fear turning to confusion. A "Huh?" tumbles from your lips and Bob is grinning. "So pretty, my wife.. Gave me a kiss and I popped a boner." He sighs, still fighting with you for the pillow as he starts to giggle to himself over the word 'boner'.

You let go of the pillow with an incredulous laugh and watch as he settles it over his lap. Surely there's no way he's at full mast with all the pain meds in his system- you almost want to check- but you just shake your head and settle into the chair next to his hospital bed. You thread your fingers with his and settle your head onto his boner-hiding pillow, keeping your eyes on his as he traces his unsteady fingers along your features.

Bob stares at you in wonder, wondering what he could've done to ever possibly deserve having you. "My wife." He murmurs, reverently, like he can't quite believe it.

"Maybe we'll renew our vows when you aren't so hopped up on pain meds."

[writesick-lover]

Hiiii,,

Could you write something for bob? Anything. I really enjoyed ‘cry baby’ if that helps.

All the best

A/n: Hiii! I was waiting for the moment when I finally get the kick to write to Bob and this was it! I actually got a bunch of ideas, but in the end I settled for this! Hope it was worth the wait - I do plan to share other tropes for Bob as well... maybe in a Cry baby universe? ;) But for now, ENJOY!

That’s my wife

Robert 'Bob' Floyd x fem!reader

⤞ My masterlist ⤝

═══════☆♡☆═══════

It was crowded in Hard Deck, as it was every Friday night. Bob usually didn't mind, always staying close to his group by the pool, but today was different. All of a sudden, he felt annoyed by the pushing bodies, making it hard for him to see the entrance of the bar. Because today was not an ordinary night at the pub. Something special was happening for Robert Floyd, thanks to special someone about to make an appearance.

And just as he thought about her, he manifested her presence into the bar.

Bob would recognize his wife anywhere. Even in a totally packed Hard Deck, where he probably wouldn't be able to find his own mother. She made her way through those sweaty bodies, her  'excuse me's and 'thank you's flowing through his ears like a melody.

Bob started to look for a place to put his beer to for the time, ready to meet the girl of his dreams at the bar just like they agreed to. When he finally found a small space under the window, he heard a loud whistle. His head snapped.

"And who is this pretty lady," Hangman's voice made the whole company turn as he gazed towards the bar. "Ha, Hangman," Rooster joined him at the staring contest, nudging his ribs. "You can bet, she wouldn't go for a guy like you," he grinned, seeing Jack's shocked face. "A guy like me?" He repeated. "Then what are you? A trashcan?" He retorted, wiping the smile from Rooster's lips in a second.

Bob gulped. He followed the direction in which the two were looking.

His body froze on the spot, trying to figure out what to do. They were eyeing her. She was beautiful, as always. It was these moments, when Bob couldn't comprehend his own luck. His right hand traveled to his left, subconsciously playing with the ring on his finger. Well, shit.

"You're just worried she wouldn't go for a trashcan like you," Hangman provoked and everyone could only watch with a small smile how quickly Bradshaw took the bait. "We'll see about that," and with that, he was on his way to the center of the room, Jake Seresin right at his heels.

Bob was too stunned to do anything. Something in him started to burn, eating him from the inside, pinching every corner of his heart. But he just kept on twisting the golden ring, not noticing the questioning look Phoenix gave him. Her face twisted in surprise at first, connecting the dots pretty quick despite the silence from her best friend. But then she was right beside Bob, nudging his shoulder a little.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "She's got the same ring on her finger," Bob only managed to nod. Natasha's face brightened. "Congrats," she gave him a smile and Bob shared the enthusiasm with a small lift of the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he said, finally picking up the courage to take a step forward. "I told her about you, although I wish this wasn't the way they meet for the first time," Natasha caught his arm in his motion.

"Hold on," she said, nodding towards the three at the bar. "I wanna see this,"

"Hey there," Rooster went all out. His huge frame surely made an entrance for him, but an additional smile and a confident greet couldn't hurt. And beside that, chicks are digging his deep voice.

Before you even got to turn around, another man was standing beside him, his smile brighter as ever. You eyed them both, with Hangman pushing Rooster to the side and stepping forward. "Is he annoying you? I can take care of him for you," Hangman cooed, not noticing your slight lean backwards, away from the two peacocks in front of you. It took you a while to recognize them, but after a few seconds, it was unmistakable who these two were. You knew them from a photo of the whole group Bob was showing you after he got back from his mission. You weren't sure if you were supposed to laugh or cry. Who would have thought you would meet like this?

☆ ☆ ☆

"That's Hangman" Bob pointed at a handsome pilot with a smile that shined with bright white teeth. "Avoid him at all cost," he looked at you, his eyes completely serious, which only made you burst into a fit of laughter. "I'm serious," he said, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "I can see that," you breathed, your hands travelling to his back and rubbing it reassuringly. "But noted," your kiss tickled Bob's cheek, spreading a tint of pink across his face.

"And this is?" you pointed to a tall man with a stache, his big arm hugging your husband around the shoulders. "Oh, that's Rooster," Bob's eyes softened. "And this is Nat, right?" you exclaimed, pointing at the woman hugged by Rooster from the other side. "Yeah, that's her," you two shared a smile as you watched Bob slide his fingers across the photo. "I can't wait to meet them," you said softly into the warm morning and Bob couldn't help but smile sweetly. "They mean a lot to me," he whispered back, gulping. "I know," you turned his face towards you before pecking his lips, both of you falling into a calm silence of comfort with each other.

☆ ☆ ☆

You slightley stretched upwards, trying to look past the men's broad shoulders that bumped to each other, trying to push the other out of the way. Your husband was nowhere to be seen and although you were quite enthusiastic to meet his crew, enthusiasim was pretty far from what you were feeling now. You watched the two glaring at each other and you bit back a smile. If only they knew.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Rooster pushed forward, making Hangman stumble back. "Get in line, chicken," Hangman grabbed his shoulder, forcing himself next to you instead of Rooster. "Boys, I hate to say this-" you began, your fingers falling on the ring on your left hand.

"Come on, sweetheart, let me get you something," before you could finish, you were blinded by Jake's perfect set of teeth, the photo from Bob apparently doing it injustice. "Guys-" you tried to speak up, but to no avail. "Penny, one more on me," Jake called to the woman behind the bar, who only nodded, preoccuppied with other customers. You sighed.

"Don't listen to him," Rooster touched your right hand gently, making you look at him. Ah, missed. The two completely ignored the shiny stone on your ring finger glistening in the dimmed lights of Hard Deck. You decided to let them go in this one, forcing on a straight face as they bickered with each other.

"They are all over her. Maybe I should-" Bob watched the bar, an anxiety creeping into his voice. Phoenix looked closer, noticing the crease forming between his eyebrows and the way he narrowed his eyes. His hands, unbeknownst to him, closed into fists. He was ready to shoot.

"Bob?" she grabbed him by his shoulder, grounding him. He looked at her, his brown eyes a little lost. "I've got your back," she tightened her squeez and that was all Bob needed. It was time to get his wife.

"And why shouldn't she listen to me? She obviously likes what she sees," Jake retorted, nudging you with a flirty smile. "Cause you're a casanova, Bagman," Rooster fought back. "You wouldn't smell love even if it was right under your nose," you had to pause at those words, yanking your hand from Rooster. This was going too far. Bradley looked at you in surprise, to which Hangman bursted out laughing. "You too, so it seems," he got out through heavy breaths, leaning on the bar for support. "Nice one sweetheart,"

"Speaking of love, gentlemen," a woman's voice came from behind the two competing mountains of men. They both turned to the lieutenant who grined at them. If she didn't have ears, she would be smiling all around. "Nat," you sighed in relief, recognising her immediately. "In the flesh," she grinned at you. "It's so nice finally meeting you," she said, Jake and Bradley exchanging confused looks. "Bob told me so much about you," you ignored the two, clinging to a conversation with Natasha like a tick. "Bob?!" the loud yell of both aviators brought you back to the reality. "Are you Bob's sister or some-"

"Yeah, no, I didn't have you for the types to go after married women," Nat giggled, cutting off Hangman as the two completely paled. They slowly turned towards you, their eyes falling on your left hand resting on the counter. A silence fell on the Hard Deck.

"Whose-" Rooster was the first to recover. "Mine," a bright smile blossomed on your face as you saw Bob walk from behind Natasha. "Sorry, looks like I got here first," he grinned as well before stepping in front of you. "Penny?" he called out, but he didn't have to say anything else.

That night, Hard Deck was filled with the dreading sound of a bell and if Rooster and Hangman could become more pale than they already were, they probably did. "Guys," Bob turned sround, his hand automatically traveling to your lower back. "This," he looked at you, his eyes twingkling in the warm light.

"Oh no," Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand through his face.

"Oh shit" Rooster let out.

"This is my wife,"

Your face brightened hearing the words as cheers errupted from around you - everyone ecstatic they will get a free round. And there was a lot of them. "Nice one, Bobby," Coyote and the rest joined the group, not even trying to hide their smiles. They mirrored Bob's contagious smile, the warm atmosphere spreading to everyone around. Well, to almost everyone.

"How do you want to pay?" Penny stopped by amidst pouring shots, smirking at Hangman and Rooster, both still in shock, grilled in their own embarrassment. "We-" the two looked at each other pleadingly for help from the other. "Shit," both said at the same time. "Well, lads," Payback and Fanboy patted their shoulders. "It was nice to know you," they pushed them lightly towards the door leading to the empty beach.

"I'm gonna kill you, Bagman," Rooster glared at his friend, Jake only laughing slightly. "Can you believe it? Our little Bobby found himself a wife! And I went after her!" he laughed at himself. "Yeah, cause you're a fucking idiot!" Roosters last words disappeared into the night, drowned in the laughter and chatter of the people around.

"Well, that was something," you giggled, looking back at the two men, now having it out with each other, their feet sinking in the cold sand. "You're okay? I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Bob started to apologize but you knew how to shut him up.

"I'm okay. Better even, now that you're here," you pulled back. "And here I was, thinking that they wouldn't like me," you joked, making Bob snort as others joined you.

"Congrats, man," Fanboy hugged Bob around the shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. "You seem like a lot of fun," Coyote laughed, pointing at you. "I sure am. If only they listened," everyone followed your motion to the entrance, "they could have had some fun too,"

Everyone laughed as you looked at your ring one more time. "But honestly, Bob, where did you find her? She's hot! Do you have siblings?" Payback had to chime in, other boys only agreeing with his statement and awaiting your answer. You only shook your head, earning a few groans from the group. "No wonder she got those two out of their minds," Natasha smirked.

"Yeah," Robert's eyes fell to the floor, suddenly feeling overwhelmed from the compliments. A sheepish smile spread on his face.

That's my wife

═══════☆♡☆═══════

Let me know how you liked this story with a like, comment and repost!

Who should be next from the Dagger squad?

If you liked this story, you might like -> Cry-baby -> 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

[romerona]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part II

You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.

Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.

But instead, you got up.

Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.

You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”

Great.

You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."

You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.

“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.

You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.

The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”

No. Never.

“...Sure.”

The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”

There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.

Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.

“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”

“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.

The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.

Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.

“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”

Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.

Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.

Forty seconds.

The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.

Thirty-five.

The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.

Too late.

“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”

Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.

The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.

Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.

You wanted to disappear into the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.

“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”

Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”

“I know.”

“And you failed.”

You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.

“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”

You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.

“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.

“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”

Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.

“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”

Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.

As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.

Of course. Of course, it was him.

The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.

His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.

You froze. He straightened.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.

“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.

His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”

You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.

You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”

You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”

He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.

He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”

Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.

“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”

God. No.

Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?

His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.

“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”

He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.

“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.

He noticed.

“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”

You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”

He looked at you then, long and quiet.

“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”

You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.

He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”

You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”

He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.

“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”

His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”

You blinked. “Rooster?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”

You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.

His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.

Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.

“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"

You didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.

You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.

Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.

“But you will.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.

Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”

Days went faster than you were ready for.

You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.

You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.

But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.

It was a new pilot.

She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.

“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.

You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”

“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”

You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.

“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”

You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.

“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”

Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”

She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.

“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.

You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”

She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”

You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.

She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”

Something in your chest loosened at that.

Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.

“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”

Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”

Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.

Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.

You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.

“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.

You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”

“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”

You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”

The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”

The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.

You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.

Your eyes flicked to the screen.

The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00

“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."

The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."

You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”

“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”

You smiled—barely—but it helped.

The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.

“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”

You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.

Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.

“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”

You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.

3… 2… 1…

Deployment successful.

The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.

“Target received,” the system confirmed.

You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”

“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”

You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.

“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.

And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.

You’d finally made it through.

Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.

You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.

“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”

You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”

She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”

Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.

Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”

“Yours or mine?”

She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.

By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.

Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.

There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.

Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.

When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.

By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”

Progress.

“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.

“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”

You stared for a beat too long, processing.

The Hard Deck.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.

“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”

You hesitated.

She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?

Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”

Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.

Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.

You hesitated. “What now?”

She didn’t stop walking.

“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”

You blinked. “That specific, huh?”

Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”

And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.

Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.

A/N:

Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.

And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.

Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.

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[muxshwriting]

family after all

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x wife!reader

Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell x daughter!reader

summary: Pete sees his daughter for the first time in close to a decade at Top Gun only she’s not here for him || warnings: reunions, parental neglect, cutting parents off, slight angst, || word count: 1242 || masterlist

You were anxiously waiting at the gates to see Bradley the moment the carrier docks. As soon as you had the call that he was alive and alright, the stress coursing through your body finally had the chance to fade as your breathing eased. Your husband was alive and alright. He had survived the suicide mission the Navy had sent him into.

Bradley wouldn’t tell you more than that and you’d been so caught up in work that you hadn’t had the chance to fly over to San Diego to join him until two days before his mission flew. You had met none of his teammates and you highly doubted any of them knew about you, considering how Bradley liked to keep you private.

But as the carrier drew closer and you saw the landed planes on the deck, the San Diego sun sent a warmth through you instead of a jab through your skull. The other families waiting all cheered as they spotted servicemen waving from the side of the ship and you let yourself wave back, unable to spot Bradley but knowing he was there. Knowing was enough.

You watched as the naval officers all walked past you and families were reunited with their loved ones. Then the aviators came out, dressed in their uniforms and obviously cleaned up from the mission. Bradley was at the start, sunglasses glistening in the sun and his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for you.

As soon as he spotted you, he broke from his group and started running, a huge smile breaking onto his face. You step out of the crowd as he reaches you, sweeping you into his arms and holding you to his chest, breathing in your scent.

“Roo!”

“Baby!” He shouted back at you and refused to let you go, squeezing you again.

You finally pull away, fussing as you run your hands through his hair, visually checking him for any injuries he didn’t tell you about. “You’re okay?”

“We’re all okay. Everyone got out.” He hesitated, like he was something he was afraid to say. “Look, there’s something I didn’t tell you.”

“What? What is it?”

“I- I may have had a little detour running after Mav but-“

“A detour going after Mav? Maverick? Bradley.” You hardly used his full name but the situation demanded it. “That Maverick? Maverick Maverick?”

Bradley was suddenly very interested in his shoes as he nervously glanced around, trying to spot the man you were asking about. “Yeah…” He finally spotted Mav staring back at him, mouth wide open as he recognised the woman he was stood with.

In Mav’s mind, thoughts were travelling a mile a minute as he watched Bradley run towards his daughter and greet you with a kiss. It was only then that he spotted the ring on your finger and remembered the chain Bradley wore always tucked beneath his shirt.

You see where Bradley’s looking and see your father’s eyes staring into yours, the same eyes you haven’t seen in person since you graduated college. “Dad…”

He made his way over, eyes wide as he was still processing your presence. “Y/N? You’re with Rooster?”

“Are you okay? Roo said he had to run after you-“ You stop yourself, realising you don’t actually know what happened. “What actually happened?”

“Uh…” Mav rubbed a hand on his neck nervously. “My plane went down and Rooster came after me. He really saved my ass.”

“Right after he saved mine. It’s what my dad would’ve done.”

Silence hangs between you all as you try to process what’s actually happening. You’re married to Rooster. Rooster has been flying with your father. Your father is standing in front of you for the first time since college. Your father is finding out you and Rooster are married.

“You-“ Mav sounds choked up as he speaks. “You’re married.” He’s speaking to you, begging to reach out but afraid you’ll push him away.

He wouldn’t blame you for pushing him away, he deserved it. Throughout you’re whole childhood, you had reluctantly been pushed second to flying and Mav could never forgive himself for that. There was no way to replace the time of had missed and it took you until college to realise what love and affection you’d been missing out on.

You and Bradley had grown up side by side, your Dad having to leave you with Carol more than he’d like. From a young age, you barely spent a day without seeing that boy and he was the only face you wanted to see in the morning.

Through your teenage years, you’d grown past the awkwardness and finally confessed the lifelong love you felt for him and your relationship was bliss. Then, your father ruined the one good thing you had. He pulled Bradley’s papers for the Naval Academy and overnight, everything crumbled. In an instant, your only constant in life was missing and your father could offer no reason behind his actions.

There was a rage bubbling in your chest every time you looked at the man that was supposed to raise you. Instead, he had been too busy with his work, chasing a ghost of a man who’s family still cared about him. He parcelled you off to the Bradshaw’s and then ripped that family from you when you were in the final formative years of your life. You loved your father, yes, he was a good man. But he was the worst father you had ever met because he wasn’t really one in the first place.

After cutting you off, unintentionally, from Bradley, you moved away from college and slowly cut contact with your father and made your own way in the world. But your mind would constantly remind you of the world you used to have.

Then you run into Bradley in a packed bar and started talking. You had begged for his forgiveness, cried about your father in a drunken state and confessed that you never wanted to lose him again. Brad had held you close to him, whispering into your hair the whole night as you realised what you now had in the world.

There was no need for you to cling on to the spectre of your father that you had because you had Bradley and the chance to make more friends and make your own family for the future. You cut your father off, showing him the same care and attention he had showed you and although the guilt wrecked you, you had to pick yourself up and move on, for your own sake. If you had stayed clinging on to childish hopes, you would never be able to grow up.

“Yeah… I got married. It was nice, small. We had a courthouse wedding a week after Roo graduated Top Gun.” You tell him, hoping he won’t take it too personally.

Bradley loops his arm around you, not taking his eyes from you. “I should’ve told you Mav. But then Y/N couldn’t make it out until right before we left and I thought we should’ve told you together. But then I didn’t;t end up telling either of you.”

“It’s alright. I get it, completely.” Mav quickly replied. “I’m glad you’re happy kid.”

Neither of you could figure out who the last sentence was aimed at. But that’s because it was meant for both of you. Only now Bradley was as much his son as you were his daughter.

[angelbby555]

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ Leave an impression

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

Word count: 900

⋆. ୨୧˚⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Down 460"

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

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

"Down 470."

"Are you working out or massaging the floor?"

A few chuckles, even Hondo smirked

"Down 480."

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

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

You blinked "Please your chicken arms would snap."

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

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

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

"Get on." Bradley voice was firm.

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

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

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

"Bradley you dont-"

"Down 490."

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

"Down 491."

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

"Down 492."

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

"Down 493."

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

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

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

"And Down 500."

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

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

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

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

"Not to bad for chicken arms huh?"

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

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Could’ve Had Anyone 

famous!actress!reader x bob floyd

The San Diego sun had the audacity to shine even brighter when she stepped out of the black SUV.

It wasn’t just that she was famous.

She was her.

The most photographed, most admired, most untouchably glamorous woman in the world. The kind of woman whose name alone could crash a website. Whose face hung in art museums and teenage boys’ lockers alike. She didn’t just walk onto the Top Gun tarmac—she graced it.

Sleek sunglasses. Designer boots. Wind-swept hair. A presence that made grown men stand straighter and forget their own names.

“Holy shit,” Hangman breathed. “It’s really her.”

“No kidding,” Rooster muttered. “Try not to pass out.”

“She’s even prettier in person,” Phoenix said, and she meant it.

And yet, when she reached Admiral Simpson, her smile was warm. Her handshake was polite, eyes steady, voice kind. She thanked everyone for the tour. She complimented the weather, said the jets looked incredible, asked real questions about the training program. For someone worth billions, she was shockingly… normal. Nice, even.

She took pictures with everyone—every pilot, every crew member, every starstruck staffer on the runway. She laughed with Fanboy. Complimented Halo’s braids. Teased Payback about trying to sneak in two photos.

And then she paused.

Eyes scanning the group again, like she was looking for someone.

Then, pointing just past the main huddle, she smiled.

“Who’s that cutie patootie over there?”

Every head turned.

Bob, who had been standing half-behind a jet wing, blinked in confusion.

“Me?” he squeaked, touching his chest like she couldn’t possibly mean him.

She nodded and beamed at him. “Mmhmm! Hi!”

She walked over like she had all the time in the world—no rush, no pressure—and when she stopped in front of him, she took off her sunglasses and stuck out her hand.

“Hi,” she said, sweet and sunny. “My name’s Y/N L/N. It’s so, so nice to meet you.”

Bob’s mouth opened and closed a few times.

“I—I’m Bob. Lieutenant Robert Floyd. It’s—um—it’s nice to meet you too, ma’am—I mean—not ma’am, I just—”

She laughed softly and shook his hand. “Bob. I love that. You’re adorable.”

He looked like his entire brain just shut off.

“I’ve been meeting so many people,” she said, still holding his gaze. “Would you mind taking a photo with me?”

His eyes went wide. “With—me?”

She leaned in slightly, teasing. “Well, you are the cutie patootie, aren’t you?”

Phoenix absolutely lost it behind him.

“Y-Yes,” Bob said quickly. “I mean, sure! Of course! Yes.”

She handed her phone off to someone nearby and stepped beside him, slipping her arm through his like they’d done this a hundred times. “Ready?”

Bob didn’t know how to be ready for any of this. But the camera flashed, and she smiled up at him again.

“Thank you,” she said softly, like he’d just made her whole day. “You were the highlight of my visit.”

And just like that, she let go, gave him one last smile, and turned to walk back toward the group.

Bob stood frozen in place, flushed from his neck to his ears, still holding his helmet like it might float away.

Hangman clapped him on the back. “The Y/N L/N just called you a cutie patootie and took a solo picture with you. You better laminate that memory, Floyd.”

“I think I blacked out,” Bob muttered.

Phoenix leaned in, grinning. “If you don’t ask her out the next time she visits, I will.”

Rooster snorted. “Like hell you will. I’m still recovering.”

Bob adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers. “Is this real life?”

Fanboy pulled out his phone. “Buddy, the whole thing’s on video. You’re gonna be a meme by tonight.”

———

“America’s Sweetheart & Her Navy Sweetheart”

“Are we sure you want this one?”

Delaney—assistant, social media manager, therapist in crisis—tilted her head at the phone screen.

The photo was perfect.

Y/N looked radiant, obviously. But it was the guy beside her—tall, glasses slightly crooked, blushing like a Victorian debutante—that made the shot so unexpectedly adorable.

The world had seen her with presidents. With Oscar winners. With the Met Gala’s best-dressed. But no one had ever seen her like this.

Smiling softly. Relaxed. Standing next to someone who clearly had no idea how famous she was—or didn’t care.

“He’s so cute,” Y/N murmured, sipping from her iced coffee, sunglasses perched atop her head. She was scrolling through the pictures again like she hadn’t already hearted every single one.

Delaney stared. “You really want to post it?”

“I really do,” Y/N said, brightening.

“Caption?”

Y/N grinned.

Delaney’s eyes narrowed. “You already thought of one, didn’t you?”

Y/N said nothing. Just passed her a post-it.

Delaney read it once. Blinked. Then grinned like a devil.

⸻

@yourusername

📍Top Gun Naval Program

✨found my wingman✨

📸: @delaneydoesit

⸻

It took six minutes for the photo to hit one million likes. Ten minutes before #cutiepatootie trended on Twitter. By lunch, “Bob from the Navy” had a dedicated fan account and trending TikTok audio.

Y/N pretended not to notice.

She was lounging in her dressing room, reading scripts, but her phone buzzed every few seconds with a new mention. Every gossip site was foaming at the mouth. Paparazzi were now camped outside the base—looking for him.

“America’s Sweetheart Gets Starry-Eyed Over Navy Boy.”

“Who is Bob from Top Gun??”

“She Can Have Anyone—and She Picked This Guy?!”

Delaney popped back in with a smoothie and the numbers. “We’ve got 47 million views across platforms and about sixteen thousand girls crying over Bob’s blush.”

Y/N looked pleased. “Good for them.”

“You planning on going back there?”

She didn’t answer right away.

But then, with a coy smile and a glance toward the corner of the room—where Bob’s photo now lived quietly on her vanity—she said:

“I might have left something behind.”

————

Bob didn’t even make it through the hangar doors before he got tackled by a wave of phones.

“BOB. BRO. BOB. YOU’RE FAMOUS.”

“Have you seen Twitter?! You’re a meme now!”

Phoenix shoved a phone into his face. On the screen was a screengrab of the photo—the photo—captioned in Comic Sans:

“me when my celebrity crush notices me and I forget how to speak English 😍”

Bob blinked. “Is that… me?”

“You’re on TMZ,” Rooster called from across the room. “Twice.”

Hangman was grinning like the cat that ate the golden retriever. “My guy. You broke the internet. You broke it.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Bob muttered, cheeks already burning. “She just asked for a photo—”

“SHE POSTED IT,” Fanboy yelled, pointing at the giant screen someone had wheeled in. “With the caption ‘found my wingman,’ Bob! Her wingman!”

Payback looked personally offended. “I’ve been trying to go viral for years. This man just blushed and now he’s the Navy’s newest sex symbol.”

Bob pinched the bridge of his nose. “I—I’m not—”

“Shh,” Phoenix said, holding up her hand dramatically. “Wingman of the Year is speaking.”

“Guys—”

“No, seriously,” Rooster said, laughing, “what does it feel like to be America’s Boyfriend?”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Bob said earnestly.

Just then, Cyclone’s voice boomed from the hallway.

“Lieutenant Floyd.”

Everyone froze.

Bob straightened like he was about to be court-martialed.

“Yes, sir?”

Cyclone appeared, holding up a tablet with the photo in question still open on screen. “Would you care to explain why the Department of Defense is getting press requests for your dating history?”

Bob blinked. “I… I wouldn’t?”

Cyclone sighed, muttered something about “celebrities and chaos,” and walked off. But not before he added, “Tell her thanks for the recruiting spike.”

Everyone erupted again.

“She made you the poster boy for patriotism!” Fanboy whooped. “They’re calling you ‘Top Gun’s golden retriever boyfriend’ on TikTok!”

Bob buried his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare.”

Phoenix patted his back. “It’s a fairytale, sweetie. And she picked you.”

Bob peeked through his fingers. “Do you think… she was serious? About me being the highlight of her visit?”

Hangman, for once, didn’t joke.

“She could’ve taken a picture with anyone,” he said, voice unusually soft. “And she chose you. That means something.”

Bob blinked.

Then his phone buzzed. Again.

And when he looked down, his heart stopped.

A DM. From her.

Y/N L/N:

Hey, cutie patootie. Any chance I can come back for that second photo? 😉

Bob let out a noise that could only be described as a strangled squeak.

“Everything okay?” Phoenix asked.

He looked up. “She wants to come back.”

And just like that—chaos erupted again.

————

Bob had checked his reflection eight times before she arrived.

Phoenix had to physically take his glasses off his face to clean them herself. “Bob,” she said, “you’re fogging these up with your panic.”

“I’m not panicking,” he said, panicking.

“You’re wearing cologne.”

“It’s just—I thought I’d try something new.”

Rooster smirked. “It’s giving: ‘I’m calm, cool, and collected while my celebrity crush returns to base to maybe fall in love with me.’”

Hangman leaned against the lockers. “It’s giving: ‘he practiced what he’d say in the mirror all morning and he’s gonna forget every word the second she smiles.’”

“Thanks, guys,” Bob muttered, already red.

Then the hangar doors opened.

And she stepped through.

Y/N L/N. The Y/N L/N. Actress. Icon. Billionaire. Dressed casually like the cameras weren’t following her every move online. But what hit Bob the hardest wasn’t the press or the way the whole hangar paused just to look at her—it was the way she beelined straight for him.

Like she was looking for him.

“There you are,” she said with a grin. “Hi, Bob.”

The way she said his name—sweet and familiar, like she’d been thinking about it—nearly sent him to the floor.

“Hi,” he croaked.

She smiled brighter. “I wasn’t sure if I’d get to see you today, but I’m really glad you’re here.”

“I—I work here.”

Y/N giggled, and Bob blinked like a deer in headlights.

“You’re so cute,” she whispered, like it wasn’t going to set off every alarm in his brain.

Phoenix watched it unfold with her arms crossed and a smug grin. “We’ve been saying.”

“Oh!” Y/N turned to the others. “You’re his squad, right? You all were so sweet last time.”

Rooster elbowed Bob. “We’ve got a good one here.”

“He’s our best guy,” Fanboy added. “Smartest in the air. Saved my ass twice.”

“Three times,” Payback corrected.

Hangman chimed in, half-teasing: “Don’t let the glasses fool you—guy’s got a heart of gold and he’s low-key the funniest one here.”

Bob, mortified, ducked his head. “They’re exaggerating.”

But Y/N wasn’t listening to them anymore. Her eyes were already locked back on Bob.

“You’re kind of a hero,” she said with a soft little shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal—but it was.

“I—I wouldn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” she smiled. “They already did.”

Then she caught sight of a jet behind him and gasped. “Is that yours?”

Her hand reached out instinctively—like she forgot about the cameras, the audience, all of it—and wrapped gently around his arm.

“Oh my God, is that the one you flew in? That’s so cool—can I see inside?”

Bob might’ve blacked out for a second.

“You wanna see my jet?” he said, dumbly.

“I mean, yeah,” she beamed. “I came back to visit you—and, okay, maybe the plane too.”

She was still holding his arm.

“Tell me everything,” she said, leaning in. “Like—what you do in there, how it works. Please. I’m so curious.”

Phoenix whispered, “Breathe, Bob.”

Rooster added, “This is the best day of my life.”

Bob swallowed hard. “I—I sit in the back. I’m the weapons systems officer. I help the pilot navigate, track targets, communicate with command. I—uh—I read a lot of maps.”

Y/N looked at him like he’d just recited Shakespeare.

“I love smart guys,” she said softly. “You’re just full of surprises, huh?”

Then she grinned. “Show me how it all works?”

Bob blinked. “I—y-yeah. Yeah, I can show you.”

And the second he helped her climb up the ladder into his jet, the rest of the squad turned around like we are NOT watching this man fall in love from five feet away.

She actually climbed in.

Like, willingly. With a bright-eyed smile and a soft little “Oop!” as Bob offered her a hand and helped her settle into his seat—his seat, the one no one but him ever sat in—and now she was swiveling her head around like this was the most exciting thing in the entire world.

“Oh my God,” Y/N whispered, running her fingers over the side console, wide-eyed and glowing. “This is insane. I don’t even know what I’m looking at but I love it.”

Bob climbed in behind her, carefully easing into the front seat. His hands shook a little as he adjusted the straps of his harness—not because he was nervous, but because she was in his jet. Y/N L/N was literally sitting in the space he spent most of his life in, looking like she belonged there, like she might never want to leave.

“You sit back here?” she asked, pointing to the panel of screens and buttons in front of her.

“Yeah,” Bob said. “I—I manage all the tech. Radar, targeting systems, communication. Kind of like the guy behind the guy.”

She looked up, clearly impressed. “That sounds like a lot.”

“It is,” he admitted. “But I like it. It’s… it feels like where I’m supposed to be.”

Y/N smiled, this kind of soft, private smile—like she liked that answer way more than he meant her to. “That’s really cool.”

She looked at the helmet tucked beside his seat. Gently, she reached for it. “Can I…?”

“Oh! Um—yeah, of course,” Bob said quickly. “It might be a little big—”

He didn’t even finish the sentence before she was pulling it over her head with both hands and giggling as it sank just a little too far down her face.

“How do I look?”

Bob’s voice died in his throat.

“Perfect,” he said quietly.

Y/N pushed the visor up and blinked at him, and Bob almost forgot how to breathe again.

“I don’t get it,” she said after a beat, setting the helmet in her lap. “How are you not married? Or dating someone? Or at the very least, mobbed every time you walk outside?”

Bob flushed so hard he felt it in his scalp. “I—I don’t think people really notice me.”

“I notice you,” she said plainly, like it was a fact. “You’re thoughtful. Sweet. You have kind eyes. And you saved your friend’s life. You don’t think people notice, but I think you just don’t realize how worth noticing you are.”

Bob blinked. Stared. Tried not to pass out.

She smiled. “You’re blushing.”

“I—I’m always blushing,” he said faintly.

Y/N reached out, brushing her fingers gently against the sleeve of his flight suit. “I like it.”

And then—God—she just… rested her hand there. Like it was natural. Like it belonged. Like she wasn’t the most famous woman on Earth holding onto a guy who’d spent his whole life learning how to stay small.

Bob didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t.

Because her thumb was gently brushing across the patch on his arm.

And she was looking at him—really looking. Like he was someone she’d been waiting to find.

“Is it okay,” she asked gently, “if I take a picture in here?”

Bob blinked, startled. “Of course—I mean, yeah. Yeah, that’s totally fine.”

Y/N gave him a grateful smile and pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. “I won’t post anything classified. Promise.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re probably more careful than half the people who actually work here.”

She leaned back against the seat and angled the camera just right, catching her reflection in the canopy glass with all the panels glowing softly around her. A quick click. Then another. She turned slightly toward him.

“Do you mind getting one with me?”

Bob froze.

“In here, I mean,” she added quickly. “We don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable—”

“No!” he said a little too fast. “I mean—no, I don’t mind. Not at all.”

Y/N smiled like he just handed her the moon. “Okay, come here.”

He leaned back slightly, trying to get into the frame behind her without knocking anything important. The proximity alone nearly did him in—her shoulder brushing his chest, her phone held high between them, her perfume subtly filling the small space of the cockpit.

She angled the phone, checked the lighting, then whispered, “Smile.”

He did.

God help him, he did.

Click.

She glanced down at the picture and beamed. “This one’s my favorite.”

Bob didn’t even ask to see it. Just knowing he was her favorite anythingmade his head spin.

The rest of the visit flew by in a haze. She climbed down from the jet with his help—thanked him again, touched his arm again, asked the others about the air show schedule, then got whisked away to meet with the base commander for a quick tour. She hugged Phoenix on her way out. Promised she’d be back soon.

But just before she disappeared around the corner, she glanced back at Bob—gave him a little wave. Just for him.

And smiled.

Bob stood there long after she was gone, helmet still tucked under his arm, lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Phoenix came to stand beside him, arms crossed.

“Hey, loverboy,” she said. “You might wanna check your phone.”

He blinked down, startled—and saw that he already had seven missed messages. Three missed calls. Two voicemails.

Because Y/N’s assistant had posted.

⸻

📸 @delaneydoesit

✈️💋 “backseat beauty and the brains that fly it”

#TopGun #YNLN #BobNation #betterthanmaverick #callmeMrsFloyd

The post featured three pictures:

1. Y/N alone in the cockpit, head tilted playfully, sunglasses on, the helmet in her lap.

2. A shot of her and Bob together in the plane, his glasses slightly crooked, both of them smiling like they’d won the lottery.

3. A blurry candid of him helping her down from the ladder, one hand holding hers, the other steady at her waist.

The comments were already blowing up:

@selenagomez: oh she’s in love.

@pilotwivesunite: WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE WENT BACK FOR HIM

@aviationfan69: bob is all of us. we are bob. bob is america.

@ynlnupdates: can confirm she did say “he’s the cutest” out loud in front of everyone

@roosterdaddy: as a pilot and a man, I salute you, Bob.

⸻

Bob didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even look up from the screen.

Phoenix patted his back, amused. “You’re a national treasure now, baby. You better start practicing your red carpet smile.”

He was already blushing.

And somewhere across the base, Y/N was laughing as her assistant read the comments out loud, heart full, cheeks warm, and only one name echoing in her head:

Bob.

———

The hangar was quiet. Late afternoon light spilled through the high windows, casting golden stripes across the floor. Most of the squad had cleared out, letting the adrenaline of the day wear off in the locker rooms or the parking lot.

But Bob was still here. Still trying to breathe normally.

Because she was still here too.

Y/N lingered by the nose of the plane, running her fingers along the cool metal with a curious little smile, her assistant off somewhere taking calls. Her hair was up now, sunglasses on her head, and she looked impossibly cool even while doing absolutely nothing.

Bob didn’t realize he was staring until she turned.

And walked straight up to him.

“Hey,” she said softly, smiling like they were old friends. “I was hoping I’d catch you before I left.”

He blinked, managing a nod. “Y-Yeah. Still here.”

She tilted her head. “I was wondering if… it would be okay if I got your number?”

Bob stared.

Not because he didn’t hear her—but because every nerve in his body just lit up.

“My number?” he repeated, voice slightly cracked.

She nodded with a soft laugh. “You don’t have to say yes. I just— I’d like to talk again. If that’s okay.”

“Y-Yeah,” he said quickly, fumbling for his phone. “I mean—yes. Please. Of course.”

She handed him hers without hesitation.

He typed it in carefully, checking it twice. Then handed it back.

Y/N looked at the screen. “Bob Floyd,” she read aloud, smiling softly. “I’ll text you.”

He tried not to look as stunned as he felt. “Okay.”

She lingered for half a beat longer, then gave him the gentlest touch on the arm.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For everything today.”

And just like that—she was gone.

⸻

Two weeks passed.

No text.

No call.

No new post with his name anywhere.

At first, Bob kept checking. A dozen times a day. Every buzz in his pocket made his chest jump. But as days turned to a week—and then another—he stopped.

He just… stopped hoping.

She’s a billionaire, he reminded himself. She travels constantly. She probably forgot. Or changed her mind. Or—

Or it was just a sweet moment to her. Not… not something real.

He never said anything out loud. Just kept his head down, flew his drills, smiled politely when Hangman joked about his “Hollywood girlfriend.”

But inside?

He felt like he’d dreamed the whole thing up.

⸻

Until one night.

Bob was lying on his couch, glasses slipping down his nose, a rerun humming softly on the TV, when his phone lit up.

Unknown Number:

Hi Bob. It’s Y/N. I’m so, so sorry it took me this long to text you. Please don’t think I forgot. I’ve been to five countries in two weeks—Australia, Japan, Glasgow, New York, and now finally San Diego again.

I’ve been thinking about you this whole time.

Can I take you to dinner?

He read it twice.

Three times.

Then let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

His fingers hovered above the screen.

Then, finally—

Bob:

You had me worried.

A minute passed.

Then:

Y/N:

I know. I’m sorry.

Let me make it up to you?

And just like that…

Hope came roaring back.

———

Bob had never gotten dressed so slowly and so nervously in his life.

He changed shirts three times.

Debated cologne.

Put on a jacket, took it off. Put it on again.

He even cleaned his glasses twice, just in case. Because Y/N L/N—the most famous woman on the planet—texted him and said, Can I take you to dinner? Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

And it definitely wasn’t normal when she sent the location with a simple:

“Come hungry :)”

When he pulled up, Bob did a double take.

It was Joe’s Diner. A little 24-hour joint he knew well. Kind of rundown, all-day breakfast, the kind of place you could get pancakes and a cheeseburger at the same time. Local favorite.

But tonight?

The neon sign was glowing—and every booth was empty.

Except one.

Right in the corner.

With her.

She was already seated, sipping a milkshake with a red-and-white straw, grinning when she saw him through the glass.

Bob walked in slowly, trying not to trip over his own feet. “Hey…”

“Hi!” she said brightly, standing to greet him. She looked insane. Like she just stepped off a magazine cover—jeans, heels, a tight black top and diamonds like they were casual. Hair loose. Smile soft.

And still—somehow—completely down to earth.

“I hope this isn’t too much,” she said, biting her lip. “I tried to pick somewhere low-key. But when I got here it was packed and I got nervous and I kind of… rented the whole place out.”

“You what?”

She cringed playfully. “It was just a little panic move. I didn’t want people filming or asking for pictures while we were catching up, and I—I tipped!” she added quickly. “A lot! And I gave everyone working tonight $500 each. Just as a thank-you for letting me be a drama queen.”

Bob blinked.

“You rented out a diner… to get pancakes with me?”

She smiled. “Yeah. I missed you.”

He swallowed. “That’s… really nice.”

“You’re really nice.”

She sat back down, gesturing for him to slide in across from her. “I hope you like breakfast for dinner.”

“I do,” he said as he sat, heart pounding in his ears.

“Good,” she grinned. “I already ordered. I got waffles, pancakes, eggs, bacon, hashbrowns… and a milkshake.”

He blinked. “All that for you?”

“No,” she laughed, nudging his foot under the table. “For us.”

⸻

The food came fast—heaping plates of breakfast heaven—and Bob couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk to her. Like nothing had changed. Like the weeks apart hadn’t happened. Like he wasn’t sitting across from the most beautiful, famous woman in the world while she poured syrup like a child and kicked her heel against his under the table.

She asked about his flights. His callsign. His favorite movie. If he liked dogs or cats. If he’d ever been to France.

And when he turned the questions on her, she answered just as openly.

Her eyes sparkled when she laughed. And Bob couldn’t stop smiling. Not once.

By the time they were finishing their second milkshake—sharing it this time—Bob didn’t want the night to end.

Neither did she.

Outside the diner, the night air was cool and quiet—except for the low murmur of four very serious-looking bodyguards stationed at every possible entrance and exit.

They stood at full attention, one by the curb, two by the diner’s double doors, and one tailing discreetly behind as she walked with Bob to his car.

Bob had never felt so… important. Or awkward. Mostly awkward.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying not to look like he was floating on air.

“I had a really, really great time tonight,” she said softly, slowing her steps as they reached his car.

Bob nodded quickly. “Me too. I… yeah. It was amazing. The waffles, and the shake, and you—uh, not that you’re—no, I mean—you’re amazing, I just meant the diner—the night was amazing, with you, and—”

Y/N giggled, cutting off his ramble with a gentle touch to his forearm. “Bob,” she said, and he shut up immediately. “Can I…?”

Before he could ask what she meant, she leaned up and pressed the softest kiss to his cheek.

Bob went rigid.

She pulled back just a few inches and blinked at him, shy for the first time tonight. “Was that okay?” she asked, suddenly unsure. “I—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. That might’ve been—”

“That was more than fine,” Bob blurted out.

Her smile bloomed slow and warm. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She paused. Tilted her head.

“…What if I actually kissed you?”

Bob blinked. Then swallowed. “Like… kiss kissed?”

She nodded.

“Oh my God please.”

She laughed—full and sweet—and before he could process it, she leaned in again, this time meeting his lips with hers.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t too much. It was… perfect. A little hesitant at first, then deeper when Bob finally remembered how to move. His hands hovered at her waist, not quite touching, until she pulled him just a little closer by the lapel of his jacket.

One of the bodyguards cleared his throat.

They pulled back, breathless.

She looked up at him through her lashes, smile dizzy and sure. “Now that’smore than fine.”

Bob was red. Like full-blown scarlet. But he was smiling, too.

“Should I… text you again?” she asked.

Bob nodded quickly. “Please.”

“I’ll try not to wait another two weeks.”

“I’ll survive,” he promised, and meant it a little too much.

She kissed him once more on the cheek for good measure before her security detail politely reminded her it was time to go.

But Bob stood by his car, lips tingling, heart thrumming, eyes locked on her retreating figure like he’d just watched a miracle walk into the night.

Because maybe he had.

———

Bob walked into the hangar the next morning like he’d just discovered heaven. Or touched it. Or made out with it behind a classic 1950s diner while four bodyguards pretended not to look.

He had that kind of dazed, floaty, not quite all the way here look about him. Hair tousled. Coffee half-sipped. Smiling to himself like an idiot.

And the squad? Oh, they noticed.

Phoenix clocked it the second he walked in. “No. No way.”

Payback leaned over. “Bro. What is that face?”

Bob blinked, snapped halfway back to earth. “What? What face?”

“You’re grinning,” Fanboy said, pointing. “You never grin. You… barely smile. You smirk at best.”

Rooster walked by with a protein bar and raised a brow. “Did you get laid?”

“Bradley!” Phoenix hissed.

Bob choked on air. “No! I—God, no! I mean—not no, I just—wow, what?!”

Phoenix crossed her arms and smirked. “Okay, so not laid. But something happened.”

Bob’s ears were already going pink. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, it’s a huge deal,” Payback grinned. “You haven’t even taken your backpack off. You’ve just been standing there smiling at the floor like a golden retriever in love.”

Fanboy leaned in. “Tell us.”

Bob hesitated. Bit the inside of his cheek. Then—

“She kissed me.”

“OH—”

It was like a bomb went off.

“NO. NO WAY.” Rooster shouted.

Phoenix straight-up slapped his arm. “You’re lying!”

Bob held up his hands. “Swear to God. At the diner.”

“She kissed you?” Payback repeated.

Bob’s smile got a little dreamy again. “Yeah.”

Fanboy let out a slow whistle. “On the cheek or…?”

Bob didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” Phoenix whispered. “You got kissed kissed.”

He nodded.

“You got kissed,” Rooster said, pointing dramatically. “You got full-on superstar, movie-premiere, Hollywood-kiss kissed.”

Phoenix looked ready to explode. “Okay, so when’s the wedding?”

Fanboy gasped. “Did she post again?!”

Everyone immediately whipped their phones out, and sure enough—

@ynln

📍San Diego

🎬 had to see my pilot again before flying out to shoot the next movie 🤭💋

[photo of her in the cockpit next to Bob, hand on his shoulder, both of them beaming — and Bob? Blushing like hell]

And then the caption below the pic:

@ynln:

also, someone tell lieutenant floyd that i’m gonna marry him if he keeps being this cute

Rooster screamed. Phoenix looked like she was going to pass out. Fanboy started pacing in a circle with his hands on his head. Even Payback was speechless.

Bob stood there, stunned silent, staring at the screen.

Phoenix grabbed his arm. “She posted that? About you?!”

Bob nodded faintly, barely breathing.

Fanboy turned to him, deadly serious. “Do you know what this means?”

Bob blinked. “That… she likes me?”

“That you’re America’s Boyfriend now,” Fanboy said. “And also maybe her future husband.”

Payback grinned. “How’s it feel to be the luckiest man alive?”

Bob, still dazed, just whispered: “Unreal.”

———

Bob was pretty sure he was dreaming when the email showed up in his inbox.

Subject: 🎬 You’re Cordially Invited

From: Y/N’s personal assistant

Ms. Y/N L/N formally invites Lieutenant Robert Floyd and members of the Top Gun program to attend the official U.S. premiere of her upcoming film “Starlight Syndrome” in Los Angeles, California. Transportation will be arranged. Tuxedos required. Press will be present. Photos encouraged. Please RSVP within 48 hours.

Phoenix screamed when she found out. Literally screamed. Rooster nearly choked on his gum. Hangman tried to act unfazed, but even he ended up checking the mirror twice after hearing what the dress code was.

But Bob?

Bob just stared at the invite like it was written in gold. Like it might disappear if he blinked.

It had been two weeks since their diner night. Two weeks of silence. Two weeks of maybe she forgot or maybe it didn’t mean as much to her. He’d told himself not to get his hopes up. He tried not to check his phone. Tried not to look at the diner pic she left in his messages. Tried not to imagine her red carpet photos with someone else.

And then—this.

“You okay, Bob?” Fanboy asked, glancing at him.

Bob looked up slowly, blinking back into reality. “…She remembered.”

⸻

Cut to:

Red Carpet Night

She’s in some GOWN that looks like it cost six months of rent. Diamond earrings. Hair curled like old Hollywood. Makeup perfect, but not tooperfect—still the soft-eyed, sweet-talking girl who once whispered, “sorry, was that fine?” before kissing him behind a diner.

Bob steps out of the black SUV in a fitted tuxedo he nearly passed out putting on. Everyone looks great, but the second the press cameras see him—

“Lieutenant Floyd!”

“Bob Floyd, over here!”

“Are you the pilot she mentioned in her caption last week?!”

“Are you dating Y/N?!”

Bob freezes. Phoenix leans in. “Don’t lock up, just smile and wave like a politician.”

And then—she’s there.

Coming down the carpet in heels that cost more than his car, glowing,smiling, her eyes scanning through the crowd until they land right on him.

She walks right up to him and grins. “Hey, Lieutenant Floyd.”

Bob clears his throat. “Hey, Ms. L/N.”

She laughs softly, slipping her arm through his like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “So glad you made it.”

“You invited me,” he says dumbly.

“And you came,” she says, then pauses. “Sorry I didn’t text sooner. Press tour had me all over the globe. again. I didn’t forget you. Not for a second.”

Bob blinks. “You didn’t?”

She leans in, brushing her lips against his cheek again, soft and familiar. “Of course not. I’ve been thinking about you the whole time.”

And the flashbulbs? They explode.

——

As soon as she spots the squad getting out of the black SUV, she beams.Instantly waves them over, not caring that half of Hollywood is watching.

“There they are!” she says to the press with a laugh, her earrings glittering as she turns. “These are my guys!”

She doesn’t wait for them to approach—she walks toward them in her heels like she’s floating. Her team freaks out behind her. “Wait, Y/N! Stay in your mark!”

But she just waves them off. She’s on a mission.

“Rooster, Fanboy, Phoenix, Coyote, Payback, Hangman…” she’s pointing at each of them, remembering all their names. “Come take pictures with me—please. I need at least a hundred.”

They’re all caught off guard, not used to being the ones asked for photos, but they rush in, adjusting ties, smoothing hair, suddenly aware this moment will be everywhere.

They take group shots, laughing, hyping each other up. She makes them laugh for the wide angles, does one where they’re all pointing at the camera like a boy band. And then:

“Okay. Solo shots. Come on.”

She poses with each one—smiling with Phoenix, pulling Hangman into a fake headlock, matching sunglasses with Rooster—but when it’s Bob’s turn?

She turns fully toward him, voice dropping just slightly. “Hi again.”

He’s already red. “Hi.”

She wraps her arms around him, warm and confident. “This okay?”

He nods quickly. “Y-Yeah.”

“Good,” she whispers, and leans her head on his shoulder for the photo.

The cameras go insane.

Click. Flash. She’s giggling in another. Click. Flash. She’s turned toward him, both hands holding his now. Click. Flash. One more, and she hugs him again, resting her cheek briefly against his chest.

“You’re gonna break the internet,” Phoenix mutters behind them.

Bob’s eyes are wide. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Hangman says, actually impressed. “You look like the lead in a romance movie.”

⸻

And when the photos hit Instagram that night?

Her official account posts a carousel.

📸🎞️ Premiere night magic

🎬: #StarlightSyndrome

💫: Thank you to the real-life heroes who showed up tonight—your support means the world to me.

(Also yes, Bob gives the best hugs.)

swipe ➡️

First photo: her and the whole squad, all grinning.

Second: her arm-in-arm with Bob, her cheek against his shoulder.

Third: them mid-laugh, eyes only on each other.

Fourth: just Bob, caught off guard in a tux, smiling small but real.

———

The venue is glowing—low golden lights, deep velvet couches, a live band in the corner playing sultry jazz that occasionally slides into pop covers. The crowd is dressed to the nines, champagne everywhere. But she’s not interested in Hollywood small talk. Not tonight.

Because when she walks in and sees them—the squad huddled around a table near the back, already laughing with drinks in hand—her smile lights up the whole room.

“There’s my table,” she says to her assistant, ignoring every producer who tries to pull her away. “Don’t let anyone drag me off. I’m going there.”

And she does.

She walks right over, hugs Phoenix from behind, taps Rooster’s glass with her own. Bob stands when she gets there—of course he does—and she gives him a grin before leaning in and kissing his cheek.

“Hi, Bob.”

He’s already red. “Hi. You—you look stunning.”

“So do you.” She sits right next to him. Doesn’t even hesitate.

⸻

She makes the rounds from there—laughing with Coyote over bad pick-up lines, cheers-ing Payback when he dares her to take a shot. She dances with everybody.

At one point, she pulls Fanboy into a spin. At another, she drags Phoenix out for a full choreographed moment when the band switches to Beyoncé. She even twirls Rooster like he’s the belle of the ball and he goes with it.

“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” Hangman asks.

“On set. You think I’m gonna waste those choreography lessons?” she quips, grabbing his hand and flipping it to lead him into a swing move before pointing dramatically to Bob.

“Okay—my turn. Come on, Bob.”

He freezes. “What?”

“Dance with me.”

“I—uh, I don’t really dance—”

“Lucky for you, I do,” she teases, grabbing his hand. “Let me lead?”

He can’t say no. So he lets her pull him in. It’s awkward at first—Bob trying not to step on her toes, her laughing gently when he almost trips—but she never lets go.

“You’re doing great.”

“You’re lying,” he mutters.

She laughs and leans closer, her forehead brushing his. “I don’t lie to you.”

⸻

Eventually they all collapse back at the table, flushed from dancing, laughing too loud, sipping drinks with messy garnishes and half-melted ice.

She looks around at all of them—grinning, bickering, teasing each other—and then looks at Bob beside her.

“This is my favorite table in the room.”

His chest tightens a little. “Yeah?”

She nods, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. “And you’re my favorite part of it.”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he could, not with his throat tightening and his heart thudding like that. But he doesn’t need to.

Because she’s still holding his hand under the table.

———

The after party was in full swing—music pulsing, people dancing, drinks flowing—but Bob had somehow ended up on the balcony. He wasn’t avoiding anyone. He just… needed air. Or maybe he needed to think. About the night. About her.

And speak of the devil—there she was.

She stepped out, her gown glimmering under the soft patio lights, her heels clicking gently on the tiles. She was holding two champagne flutes and passed one to him like it was the most casual thing in the world.

“You disappeared,” she said, smiling like she already knew where he’d gone.

Bob cleared his throat. “Just wanted some quiet.”

“Good. I needed a break too.” She leaned on the railing beside him, shoulder just brushing his. “This was nice. All of this.”

He smiled. “It really was.”

Then she turned slightly toward him, something playful in her voice.

“Do you think your friends like me?”

Bob blinked. “Like you? Are you kidding? They’re obsessed with you.”

She laughed, tipping her head back slightly. “What about you?”

And that was when it happened.

He looked right at her, soft-eyed, serious as ever, and—

“I was obsessed before I even met you.”

There was a beat of silence. A pause. Then his entire face turned red.

“Wait—I didn’t mean— I mean, I did, but not like—I just meant—”

She was smiling, watching him unravel, clearly trying not to laugh.

“I mean, I’ve always admired you. A lot. Not just how you look—God, not just that—I mean you’re obviously—you know—but you’re really… you’re so kind. And smart. And I just—okay. Yeah. I’m gonna stop talking now.”

She took a small step closer.

“Bob?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you said it.”

He blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I’ve been obsessed with you since you stuttered out your name that first day.”

And then she clinked her glass gently against his.

“To quiet balconies and flustered pilots.”

Bob leaned against the balcony railing of her rented house in San Diego, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of water, the other loosely tucked into his pocket. She stood beside him, the hem of her dress fluttering in the warm breeze, her elbow barely brushing his. They’d been talking about nothing and everything for the past hour. He had never felt more at ease.

Then his phone buzzed in his back pocket.

He glanced at the screen. Mom.

“Give me one sec,” he murmured, stepping away a little, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hey, Mom—”

Her eyes were on him immediately. She didn’t even try to hide it. She could see the way his body stiffened before she could hear anything, see the way his free hand shot to his mouth, pressing against it hard like he could physically hold the sound inside.

His knees nearly buckled. He leaned hard against the balcony wall, his face dropping out of sight.

“Bob?” she asked softly, already moving.

He didn’t answer. The phone slipped from his hand and hit the wood with a dull thud.

She was there instantly, no hesitation, both hands coming to his shoulders. “Bob—hey. Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart, look at me.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “What happened?”

He turned to her, eyes already glassy, and in a choked whisper, he finally got it out.

“It’s my grandpa.”

A beat.

“He’s gone.”

The silence that followed was still—but not empty. She pulled him into her arms without a second thought, his face buried into the curve of her neck as his shoulders began to shake. Not a full sob at first—just breathless, body-wracking grief that broke through the careful calm he always carried.

“I’m here,” she whispered, over and over, her hands running up and down his back, her heart splintering for him. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. Shhh… I’m not leaving. I’ve got you.”

Minutes passed like that. She didn’t rush him. Didn’t speak unless he needed it. Just held him, solid and unwavering, while the sky dimmed behind them.

When his breathing finally slowed, he still hadn’t let go. His cheek was pressed against her shoulder, and his voice was barely audible.

“C-Can you come with me?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Of course I will,” she said, tightening her arms around him. “Just tell me when we’re leaving.”

⸻

The next morning, her team was already mobilized before sunrise.

Flights were canceled. Meetings postponed. Her stylist sent condolences. Her assistant was on the phone coordinating with security.

They boarded her private jet just after noon—Bob sitting quietly by the window, hands clasped in his lap, while she curled into the seat next to him, fingers laced gently through his.

The six security guards kept a respectful distance. No press knew what was going on. She made sure of it.

The funeral was quiet and heartbreaking. Bob’s family welcomed her immediately, touched by her presence and her grace. She stayed two full weeks—meeting cousins, helping his mom with errands, holding his hand through every difficult moment. She was dressed simply, spoke softly, and never once made it about her.

She was just his—the girl who didn’t blink when he fell apart, who flew across the country to sit beside him at the hardest table he’d ever faced.

And every night, when the house fell quiet, she sat next to him on the porch swing with two mugs of tea. She never said too much.

Just enough.

———

It was late. Almost midnight. The crickets had taken over the soundtrack of the sleepy Texas town, and the porch swing creaked every so often with the rhythm of the night.

Bob had gone inside to help his mom with something in the kitchen, leaving her sitting alone with a cup of tea she’d made herself at this point. Familiar now. Natural.

The screen door opened behind her, and she turned to see a woman—older, warm-eyed, and sharp in that matriarchal way. Bob’s Aunt Carol.

“Mind if I sit?” she asked.

“Please,” Y/N said instantly, scooting to make room. “Of course.”

Carol sat down with a sigh, her hands folded over her lap. She looked at the actress—the actress—the same one Bob had had posters of on his bedroom wall since he was sixteen—and gave her a long, thoughtful once-over.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said gently.

Y/N smiled, not offended in the slightest. “I get that a lot.”

Carol nodded, still watching her. “You’re sweet. Not just in a polite kind of way. I can tell. You see people. You saw him.”

She swallowed, caught off guard. “I… I hope so.”

“He’s always been our quiet one,” Carol continued, glancing toward the house. “Shy. Gentle. Loves deeper than he lets on. Lost his dad young. Took it hard. Carried more than he ever should’ve.”

Y/N blinked back sudden emotion, nodding slowly.

“You holding him like that?” Carol said softly. “Out there when that call came? I saw it. I know what that meant.”

Y/N pressed her lips together, heart tight in her chest.

Carol leaned in slightly. “So I just have one question for you.”

“Okay,” Y/N said, barely above a whisper.

“Are you gonna break my nephew’s heart?”

The question didn’t sting. It settled heavy. Honest.

Y/N looked her dead in the eyes, shoulders square, voice unwavering. “No, ma’am. I’d rather someone break mine first.”

Carol sat back, studying her for one long moment.

Then she smiled. “Good. Then you’re welcome here. Anytime.”

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

From inside, Bob’s laugh echoed faintly through the walls. She turned toward the sound, like gravity had shifted just slightly in his direction.

Carol watched her for another beat and said, “You love him already, don’t you?”

She didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even look away.

“…Yeah,” Y/N murmured, lips curling just barely. “I think I do.”

———

The house had quieted, humming low with the sounds of settling: dishwasher running, floorboards groaning under the weight of memories. The kind of silence that only came after a long day filled with too many emotions.

Bob stopped just outside the guest room, like he always did. He never let her walk alone, not even down the hall in his childhood home.

She turned and faced him at the door, her hand still on the knob. Her expression was unreadable—soft, but serious.

“Can you come in for a second?” she asked.

His heart stuttered.

He hesitated for half a breath too long.

“…Yeah. Sure.”

He stepped inside, standing awkwardly near the dresser while she sat on the edge of the bed. She motioned for him to sit next to her, and when he did, the mattress dipped with the weight of what he thought was coming.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, trying to keep it neutral, but his voice betrayed him.

She folded her hands in her lap, took a breath. “There’s something I need to say. And I’m a little nervous, so please don’t interrupt, okay?”

Bob nodded immediately. Scared stiff.

She met his eyes. Really met them.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she started. “I didn’t expect to come to a Navy base and meet someone like you. And I definitely didn’t expect that you’d be the one person I couldn’t get out of my head.”

His brows furrowed slightly, unsure. Guarded.

She went on.

“And when I asked for your number, I meant to text you the next day. But things snowballed. Press junkets, red-eyes, interviews… I didn’t even have time to breathe. And I thought about you every single day.”

Bob’s throat moved with a quiet swallow.

She scooted a little closer on the bed, her knee brushing his. “I know this isn’t normal. None of this is. I have six bodyguards and a schedule that’s insane, and you fly jets for a living and barely look at your phone.”

That made him smile, just a little.

“But I want to try,” she said. “I want you. I don’t care about the noise or the press or how different our lives look on paper. I care about the way you treat me. The way you look at me like I’m just a person. The way you make me feel safe without trying.”

He was frozen. Wide-eyed. She reached for his hand, gently easing it into hers.

“I don’t know how this will work,” she said, voice softer now. “But if you want to try, too… I’m in. No matter what.”

Bob blinked fast, then looked down at their joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe they were real. “I thought… I thought you were about to say this wasn’t gonna work,” he admitted.

She smiled. “I kind of figured you’d panic.”

“I was preparing myself for the worst,” he laughed nervously. “Like full breakup speech.”

She shook her head and leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to his. “No breakup. Just… beginning.”

He pulled back slightly so he could look at her, really look. And then, voice barely a whisper:

“I’ve wanted this since the moment you called me a cutie patootie in front of everyone.”

She laughed, breathless. “So… you’re in?”

Bob nodded, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

“I’m in,” he said. “Completely.”

[purelyfiction]

and they were roommates. - a bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!roommate au

coming soon...

[idkwhylou]

Trouble

Summary : You grew up on military bases, always under the shadow of your admiral father—and always just out of reach of the Navy boys you weren't supposed to want. But Bradley Bradshaw had always been different.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/militarybrat!reader

Warnings : bad knowledge on military settings, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex (nothing graphic more suggestive), flirt, Hangman, no use of y/n, bit of angst ?, happy ending dw

Words : 6K

A/N : It's the first time I write for Bradley, actually this have been hidden in my drafts for too long soooo. Didn't check before posting, sorry for the mistakes

+ your last name is Andrews (not important I just named the admiral father like that so)

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

Being a military brat wasn’t exactly a dream, but you’d learn to survive it with style.

Endless relocations, half-finished friendships, birthdays celebrated on video calls while your father was halfway around the world—Admiral Andrews always had bigger battles to fight. You grew up in hangars and on tarmacs, your lullabies was the roar of jet engines and the bark of orders through static-filled radios. Discipline was second nature. And so was pretending things didn’t hurt.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. They were…perks. 

Namely, the men.

They came and went like seasons—loud, fleeting, and always convinced they were unforgettable. Each one walked with the same cocksure strut, flight suits unzipped just enough to suggest ego rather than comfort, and eyes that burned with that reckless, high-altitude gleam. You learned fast—faster than you were probably supposed to—how to recognize the pattern. The polished charm they wore like a second skin.

You didn’t fall for it. Not once.

You watched, studied, catalogued the way they spoke when they thought they were being clever, the way their smiles sharpened when they were about to flirt. You learned how long it took them to show their tells—the subtle shift in tone, the not-so-innocent brush of an arm, the pause that lasted just a beat too long. They weren’t as mysterious as they thought or tried to pretend. They were pretty predictable actually.

But you never chased them. That, was the key.

You let them notice you instead—just enough to spark the thought, just enough to stay in their mind when the hangar got quiet. You were a test they didn’t realize they were failing. 

Every. Single. Time.

But your father had made it crystal clear from the start : “No navy men”. Which was funny, considering that’s all you were ever surrounded by. Anyway, the irony wasn’t lost on you and neither was the challenge. 

He thought keeping you on base and away from the navy bars meant keeping you safe. But the Admiral never realized that some of your favorite games were played right under his nose. You knew the base like the back of your hand—every shadow, every corner, every overlooked bench, every hangar edge where you could linger just out of sight. You didn’t need loud scenes or public displays. You had subtle smiles, quiet glances, late-night conversations shared against metal walls still warm from the day’s sun. 

Flirts came and went; a wink here, a stolen moment there. You kept things light and unattached. You weren’t naïve—you knew better than to fall for boys who wore dog tags. But God, it was so fun watching them fall just a little bit for you. 

Over the years you got really good at it. You learned how pilots saw you, how they move around girls, how they lie without meaning to. You recognized the ones who were all show, the ones who tried too hard, and the rare few who didn’t try at all. You knew how to draw attention without begging for it. 

And at first, they all tried.

When you were younger—barely out of high school but already too clever for your own good—the attention was constant. New recruits, cocky lieutenants, even a few seasoned officers too sure of their charm. They came at you like it was some unspoken initiation: flirt with the Admiral’s daughter, see how close you could get before it blew up in your face.

One did get close. Too close.

You’d spent the night tangled in Navy sheets and heat; a moment of rebellion that tasted too sweet to regret. It wasn’t love—just curiosity with hands and mouths, a quiet hunger you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying until it finally spilled over. He was older, confident in a way that didn’t feel forced, and for one night, you let yourself fall into the thrill of being wanted, seen—not as the Admiral’s daughter, but just as you.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the morning did. You hadn’t even had time to slip your shirt back on when you heard the footsteps—sharp, purposeful, unmistakable. The door creaked open before you could speak, and there he was: your father, Admiral Andrews, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to actually. One look. One breath drawn through his nose. One flick of his eyes to the discarded uniform trousers on the floor. 

That was enough.

The silence that followed was deafening. He didn’t yell, didn’t bark orders. He simply turned and walked away with the kind of fury that came wrapped in control—and that was somehow worse. By the end of the week, the boy was gone. Transferred without explanation to another coast. Scrubbed clean from your world like he’d never been there. And no one said a word about it. 

Not your father. Not the guy. Not anyone. Not even you, because you knew it was best to keep your mouth shut if you didn’t want to end up in the same situation.

But the message was heard loud and clear across base. You were off-limits now. Untouchable. The Admiral’s daughter—marked. 

After that, most of them backed off. The stares were more cautious; they’d smile quickly, maybe toss a joke your way, but nobody dared get too close. Well, not unless they had a death wish—or a transfer request ready to go.

And you ? You adapted. The flirting became harmless, more performative—just enough to keep things fun.

And still, now and then, someone would forget. 

Some new recruit, fresh off a carrier and drunk on his own reflection, would mistake your easy grin for an invitation. Or maybe it was the way you leaned in when you laughed, the way you held eye contact just a breath too long. You knew the signals you sent. You just knew how to pull them back, too.

They’d catch on. Eventually. Maybe it was the way the older pilots watched you a little too closely, not with hunger but with caution. Maybe it was the subtle tension that snapped into place anytime your father’s name left someone’s mouth like it was a warning label: ‘Admiral Andrews’s daughter’.

And then there were the whispers. Low-voiced and half-believed, traded like ghost stories in locker rooms and smoke breaks. The one who got a guy sent away. Some were curious, others called it poison, most didn’t dare. But a few still tried: the ones too bold or too dumb to care, or maybe just the ones who didn’t know.

Which is why you noticed right away when someone didn’t get the memo.

That night at the Hard Deck, the music was low, the air buzzing with the usual mix of sweat and beer. You were nursing a drink more out of habit than thirst, letting the noise wash over you in waves. That’s when he showed up—Jake Seresin, golden boy swagger and all.

He didn’t look at you like someone warned him. He looked at you like a dare.

“Funny,” he said, leaning an elbow on the bar like he had all night to kill. “I come here a lot, and I don’t remember seeing you before. That feels like a personal tragedy.”

You turned to him, unimpressed but not dismissive. “Maybe I’m very good at not being noticed.”

Jake smiled slowly, eyes sweeping over you—not crude, but confident. “Not with a face like that.”

You snorted softly, swirling the rest of your drink. “Do those lines actually work, or are you just here to collect L’s ?”

He laughed, tilting his head. “Just here to see if lightning strikes. What’s your name ?”

You considered it for a beat too long. “Wouldn’t you rather guess ?”

Jake’s grin grew wider. “Trouble. Definitely trouble.”

You leaned in slightly, letting your shoulder brush his just enough to register. “Only for people who don’t know how to handle me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, “I specialize in handling.”

You raised an eyebrow, your expression unreadable but amused. “You sure ? You look more like someone who talks a big game and taps out when it gets interesting.”

His hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me.”

“I’m just being cautious,” you replied, your voice silk over steel. “I’ve seen a lot of pilots walk in here thinking they’re bulletproof. Turns out, most of them flinch when the safety’s off.”

Jake chuckled, eyes narrowing slightly. “So you are military. I was betting civilian.”

“Does it matter ?” you asked, letting the question linger.

“Only if you outrank me.”

You smirked into your glass. “You have no idea.”

For a moment, the air between you was still—charged with the kind of tension that made everything slow down. Jake looked at you like he wanted to solve you. You looked at him like you’d already read the answer and were just waiting to see if he’d catch up.

From across the room, someone called his name but he didn’t move. Not yet. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink. Worst case, you put me in my place and I go home with a bruised ego. Best case…”

You tilted your head. “Best case ?”

He leaned in, just a little. “You stop pretending you're not having fun.”

You didn’t answer right away, just held his gaze. Then, with a slow, calculated smile, you slid your almost empty glass toward him.

“I’ll take a whiskey,” you said. “Neat. No bullshit.”

Jake’s laugh was soft and genuine as he flagged down Penny. “Now that’s a girl after my own heart.”

He returned quickly with the drinks in hand, sliding yours across the table next to you like a magician revealing a card trick. “One whiskey, neat. No bullshit—just how you like it.”

You took it with a nod, your fingers brushing his for half a second. He was easy to look at—lean, tan, jawline too sharp for his own good. The kind of guy who probably had a mirror above his bed. But he was charming, you had to admit. There was something in the way he grinned at you like he already knew you were trouble and still wanted a bite. Maybe you’d give him one. Just a taste.

“You’re not so bad, Hangman,” you said, sipping your drink.

He perked up. “So you have heard of me.”

“Hard not to. The ego arrives five minutes before you do.”

Jake laughed. “That’s fair.”

You let the conversation drift, leaning back against the wall, letting his stories and confident smirks wash over you. It was easy to play this game. Familiar. Like slipping into old shoes—ones that still fit but didn’t take you anywhere new.

And then, the door swung open.

You didn’t look at first, still listening to Jake—he was mid-sentence about some dogfight in training—but then you felt it. A shift in the air. Your eyes flicked toward the entrance.

Bradley fucking Bradshaw.

He walked in like he didn’t need the room to notice him—and yet it did. He had that kind of quiet gravity, the kind that pulled attention without asking for. He wore one of those old Hawaiian shirts—sun-bleached and fraying a little at the edges, probably one of his dad’s—left unbuttoned, sleeves cuffed like it was second nature. A pair of aviators rested low on the bridge of his nose, catching the bar lights just enough to hide his eyes. In his hand, he still held the keys to his precious bronco, twirling them once around his finger like a nervous tic, though nothing about him looked uncertain. 

Jake was still talking, something about g-force and cocky teammates, but you weren’t hearing it anymore. You and Bradley had known each other for a while now. Enough to share inside jokes and glances that didn’t need words. He made space for you in conversations without trying. He remembered things you hadn’t realized you’d said. He was kind in a way that didn’t need an audience.

The blond said something and you nodded absently, but your eyes followed Bradley as he made his way toward the bar. Rooster hadn’t seen you yet, or maybe he had and was just taking his time. Either way, he walked with the ease of someone who didn’t have to prove anything. While Jake was all angles and spotlight, Bradley was all depth and quiet corners.

Hangman finally paused, catching your shift in attention. He followed your gaze and let out a short laugh, “Is it the porn ‘stache or the ugly shirt ?”

You blinked, snapped back. “What ?”

“Bradshaw,” Jake said, nodding toward him. “Didn’t peg you for the boy scout type.”

You shrugged and let out a soft chuckle, “I don’t have a type.”

Jake tilted his head, that ever-present smirk tugging at his mouth. “Sure you don’t. Rooster ? Really ? You’re goin’ soft on us sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, feigning boredom as you sipped your drink. “Bradley’s just a long-time friend.”

Hangman leaned in a little, elbow brushing the table as his voice dropped low. “Mm-hmm. Funny, because you don’t look at your other friends like that.”

You smirked. “What’s the matter ? You’re jealous ?”

His grin widened into something smug. “Jealous ? Please.” He gestured at himself. “Sweetheart, I’m not worried. ‘Cause let’s be honest—Rooster’s too busy thinking about the right thing to say. Me ?” He leaned in just a bit closer, voice smooth and low. “I actually know how to treat a girl like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Oh yeah ? And what kind of girl is that, exactly ?”

His gaze flicked down briefly—too quickly to be respectful, too slowly to be innocent. “Smart mouth, sharp tongue… but you like a little danger. You want someone who doesn’t ask permission to touch, someone who knows when to talk… and when not to.”

You let out a soft laugh, but there was heat beneath it. “Wow. You rehearsed that one ?”

Jake’s grin turned lazy, cocky. “Sweetheart, that was the improv version.”

You leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing, teasing. “If I wanted a man who thought with his ego, I’d pick one with better stamina.”

His eyebrows lifted, that cocky smirk faltering just a second—then came back twice as bold. “You volunteering to test that theory ?”

You were about to say something sharp, something that might’ve made the temperature between you boil over, but a voice cut the moment clean in half. “Seresin.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. But you did.

Bradley stood there, calm as ever, jaw tight, that unreadable gaze flicking between you and Hangman. The keys to his Bronco hung loosely in his hand, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. “Didn’t know we were giving lectures on respect tonight,” he added, his voice level, but unmistakably pointed.

Jake raised both hands in mock surrender, a laugh in his throat. “Easy, Rooster. We were just talkin’.”

“Sure you were,” Bradley said, gaze not leaving Jake’s face.

Hangman didn’t move, his grin just a fraction but his stance still confident, as if daring Bradley to push further. “So, what’s the real deal ? I’m not one to back off, you should know that Bradshaw.”

Bradley’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping low but steady, laced with quiet authority. “You remember Admiral Andrews, right ? You’ve got his sweet little girl right in front of you, idiot.” He took a slow step closer, his tone sharpened with warning. “So maybe think twice before you mess around with something you can’t afford to break.”

The blond blinked, the easy cockiness flickered for a moment, surprise crossing his features as Bradley’s words hit harder than he expected. He glanced at you, then back at Bradley, sensing the line he wasn’t meant to cross. You see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but he didn’t back down. You liked that.

“You think a name’s gonna scare me off ? I’m not like you chicken. Plus I don’t see her old man anywhere.” He smirked.

Bradley stepped forward just enough, his voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of authority. “Maybe not. But I’m the one standing between you and a whole lot of trouble. So why don’t you save us both the headache and walk away ?”

Jake let out a slow sigh, the fight draining out of him as he finally nodded. He looked at you and winked, “When he's done bothering you, you know where to find me sweetheart.”

You weren’t angry—Bradley did this all the time. Always stepping in, always cock-blocking you when you least expected it. It was almost infuriating how often he played the protective big brother role. But you knew it came from somewhere deeper. He wasn’t just interfering for the sake of it; he was looking out for you. You mattered to him, more than most people realized.

Bradley’s eyes softened as he looked at you, a quiet honesty in his voice. “I know it’s annoying. But you’ve got people watching your back—including me.”

You shook your head with a small laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Big brother mode activated. I get it.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow as you both moved toward the bar, where Penny was serving other patrons. “Come on,” he said. You followed him, feeling the familiar pull of comfort in his presence—someone who knew the real you, without pretense or judgment.

Bradley didn’t waste a second. He caught Penny’s eye and commanded, “Six shots of tequila Pen’.” He shot you a knowing look, his smirk softening just a little. He knew exactly how you liked it. 

Before you could even think about pulling out your wallet, he slid his card across the counter. “On me. Don’t even.”

You slid onto the stool next to him, the wood creaking softly beneath your weight. The air between you buzzed with a tension that had settled there years ago—familiar, low-burning. You barely had time to adjust your seat when Bradley, without a word or a glance, reached out and tugged your stool closer to him. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either—firm, like muscle memory, like this wasn’t the first time he’d wanted you that close.

You didn’t protest, you didn’t need to and absolutely didn’t want to. 

From across the bar, Penny slid the six shots in front of you with practiced ease. She arched a brow, smirking as her eyes flicked between the two of you. “Bradley,” she said, tone dry but affectionate, “keep an eye on her tonight, will you ? She’s trouble in my bar—and you’re the only one she actually listens to.” 

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, but didn’t deny it. And Bradley just smirked, like he already knew he’d be doing just that. Trouble, after all, had a way of finding the two of you. Or maybe you were just better at finding each other. You took the salt and pour some on your palm, Rooster stretched out his hand to you, so that you could put salt on his too. You, then, reached for the first glass without hesitation, fingers brushing the cool rim just as Bradley’s hand closed around his own. Your eyes met in the half-second, you raised your shot in a toast. 

“To trouble then.” You said, your smile lazy, knowing. 

He chuckled warmly under his breath as the clink of glass between you was soft, but it echoed—more than sound. You tipped yours back easily. The tequila was sharp at first, then smooth as you bite in your quarter of lemon. His gaze lingered a second too long on your mouth, as you lick your lips. 

You leaned your elbow on the bar, chin in hand, feeling your throat burning. “You’ve always got my back, haven’t you ?”

He gave a half-shrug, eyes flicking down to his empty glass. “Someone had to.” That was always the thing about Bradley—he didn’t posture. He didn’t need to. While others circled like moths to flame, trying too hard, talking too loud, he simply stayed. The only one who never looked at you like you were something to win or just a piece of meat.

You studied his profile for a beat—the strong jaw, the crease just forming between his brows. He looked like he always did: calm, grounded, the kind of calm that only made you more aware of your own pulse. His fingers tapped once against the bar, a quiet rhythm. Nervous ? No. Calculated for sure. Like he was trying not to look at you again, trying not to give too much away.

Then, without breaking the silence between you, he reached for the second shot. And slid yours toward you.

No words this time.

Just the soft scrape of glass across wood—and that heat blooming in your chest again, heavier this time. Not from the tequila. From the way his fingers brushed yours, just long enough to feel intentional and deliberate. 

For now.

You tilted your head, voice low and teasing. “What is it with you, Bradshaw ? You always this cautious, or just with me ?”

He gave a soft breath of a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t make it easy.”

That was honest. A little too honest.

You clinked your glass to his again. “Good.”

The second shot burned a little deeper, less sweet and more heat. You didn’t look away this time. You let your eyes linger on him as you set your glass down with a quiet clink, and this time, he was already watching you.

But not in the way others did. There was nothing lazy or possessive in it, just that familiar, weighted gaze. 

“You ever think maybe I’m not trying to make it easy ?” you murmured, lips just shy of a smirk.

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly on his feet, as if trying to find steadier ground. “I think,” he said finally, “that you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And I think,” you replied, leaning in just a little, “you’re still trying to pretend it doesn’t get to you.”

His mouth twitched, like he wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. Instead, he glanced away, jaw tight, hands folded in front of him like he needed somewhere to put the tension. “I can’t risk it,” he said under his breath. It wasn’t for effect. It wasn’t a line. It was a confession.

Your smile softened just a fraction. “Then why are you still sitting here, Brad ?”

That pulled his gaze back to you—harder this time, deeper. Something in it cracked, just slightly. And between you, the third shot sat untouched, waiting, as the tequila warmed your chest. Spread slow through your veins like liquid confidence. But Bradley’s eyes were too serious now.

“I’ve known you too long to fuck this up,” he said quietly, “You’re his daughter. You know what that means.”

And there it was; the sting. The salt no softening it at all and no smirk to hide behind.

Your smile faltered for half a second before you caught it, masked it in something lighter—your defense, always. “Well, good thing you’re not in uniform tonight. It doesn’t count then.”

You tried to make it sound like a joke. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. 

You leaned in, slow and unhurried, “So what’s your excuse now, Lieutenant ?”

But before you could get too close, he shifted. Enough to let the air slip between you again, enough to say nowithout the words. You froze for a beat, the rejection subtle but sharp in the places that mattered. He didn’t meet your eyes right away, his fingers tense against the wooden bar. 

“I don’t have a good reason,” he said at last, voice rougher now. “Only the right one.”

You didn’t flinch, but something in you pulled tight. Slowly, you leaned back, the teasing edge fading from your smile. Your fingers toyed with the rim of your empty glass, tracing a circle like it might give you answers. Right. Of course, it was the right reason. It always was with him. That was the problem.

“I forget sometimes,” you said quietly, your gaze fixed on the bar. 

He looked at you then—really looked—and there it was again, that quiet storm always behind his eyes. “I know what they see when they look at you. I’m not proud of how many I’ve wanted to punch for it.”

You huffed a breath, something like a laugh but thinner. “And here I thought you were the calm one.”

“I’m not calm when it comes to you.”

The confession dropped between you like a weight, and for a moment neither of you moved. The room felt too still. Too exposed. You turned, met his gaze again, your voice soft but steady. “Then don’t be. Just for tonight.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look away either. And that silence said more than either of you were ready for. From behind the bar, Penny raised a brow and took discretely the two empty glasses—cutting through the moment like she knew. Of course she did.

You glanced down at it, then back at Bradley. “Last one,” you murmured. “You gonna let me drink alone ?”

His jaw flexed, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Bradley’s fingers wrapped around the last shot glass as he held your gaze. Then he tipped it back in one smooth motion. You watched his throat work as the tequila slid down, the way his eyes fluttered closed for just a beat—like he needed the burn to make a decision. Like he’d hoped the fire would settle something inside him.

But when he set the glass down, he didn’t say a word. Just pushed the rim gently toward the center of the bar and stood. No glance toward you. No smirk. No half-joke to soften the blow. Just the subtle clench of his jaw and the quiet scrape of wood as he stepped back from his stool.

Your breath caught. “Bradley—”

“I can’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. But it hit harder than if he’d shouted.

Then he turned and walked away. You sat frozen for a second, the heat of the liquor blooming in your chest, spreading too fast. Too deep. Penny didn’t say anything—just watched with that knowing look she always had, as if she’d seen a hundred near-misses like this before. You stared at the empty glass in front of you. Still warm. Still full of everything he didn’t say.

You stared at the empty space where he’d been, pulse thrumming beneath your skin like something trying to break loose. The tequila sat in front of you—untouched, waiting. Like a dare. 

You picked it up without thinking. “Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, then knocked it back. The burn hit harder than the first two. Bit deeper. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was him—but the moment the glass hit the bar again, you were already sliding off the stool.

You pushed past the quiet hum of the Hard Deck, ignoring the knowing look Penny shot your way, ignoring Jake's low whistle behind you. All you could focus on was the sight of Bradley’s broad back, just slipping through the door, his frame half-lit by the hazy dusk spilling across the beach.

“Bradley !” you called, the wind catching your voice as you jogged after him.

He didn’t turn around at first. Not until you caught up, your hand brushing his arm, fingers curling. He stopped like he’d been struck. Then, slowly, he turned. His sweet brown eyes found yours in the dim light of the parking lot, a storm behind his quiet irises. You let your hand drop from his arm, but his warmth lingered on your skin like a brand. 

“Why do you always do that ?” you asked, voice lower now. “Push me away like I’m some damn risk you can’t afford.”

Bradley didn’t answer right away. He looked past you for a second, jaw tight, as if picking his words from a minefield. “Because you ae,” he said finally, “You’re an Admiral’s daughter. You’re trouble I can’t walk away from clean.”

You flinched, not from the words themselves but the truth behind them. “I’m not a fucking kid Brad.”

“I know that,” he said, eyes falling shut for a second, like he was trying to steady something inside him. He pinched his nose, “Trust me, I know.”

“Then stop acting like you don’t want this too !” you snapped. “You’re not wearing your uniform tonight. You’re not my babysitter. You’re just… you. And I’m just me.”

His eyes opened because of the sudden rise of your voice, “You think that makes it easier ?”. You didn’t respond and he sighed looking down, then he stepped forward, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body again. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I’m not asking,” you said, tapping your head back to meet his gaze. “I’m telling you I’m right here. And I want you.”

Bradley’s hands twitched at his sides, and for a moment it looked like he might pull away again. But instead of retreating, he exhaled slowly, like he was holding himself back. His expression shifted in something sharp flickering in his eyes, frustration simmering just under the surface. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair as his voice edged harder. 

“You don’t get it,” he said tightly. “You think I can just pretend that your dad wouldn’t end my career the second he found out I even looked at you twice ?”

You sighed and then took a shaky breath, your voice defiant. “You think I care what my dad thinks ?” you scoffed, shaking your head. “Plus he likes you Bradley ! He trusts you and-”

He cut you off by letting out a bitter laugh, “Yeah,” he muttered, “because I’m not trying to fuck his daughter.”

The words hit hard—crude, sharp, and a little too honest. 

“This isn’t a game for me.” Your name escaped his lips so softly you almost forgot you were arguing. 

“I never said it was a game,” you said barely over a whisper. “But thanks for assuming I don’t understand.”

His jaw clenched. He looked away, down the road like it might offer an easier answer than what stood in front of him. “This is exactly why I walk away.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “Right. Because walking away’s easier than actually admitting you care.”

That made him freeze. Just for a second. But it was enough.

He turned, keys still dangling in his hand, posture tense like he was ready to bolt.

Your heart squeezed.

You took a step forward, voice gentler now, cracking just a bit. “Bradley—wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn. His shoulders stayed tense, his jaw locked as your words settled in the quiet between you.

“Can I just…” you hesitated. “Can I just have one thing ? One second. You don’t have to do anything else. Just let me… just let me have this.”

You stepped in slowly, cautiously, like approaching something wild that might bolt at any sudden movement. Your hand brushed his chest, fingers splaying gently over the fabric of his shirt. His heart was racing and so was yours.

“I don’t want to stay mad at you,” you said softly, searching his face. “I don’t want you to stay mad either.”

And then, without waiting for a yes—just holding your breath—you leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Slow, barely there. Lingering just long enough to make your heart break a little when you pulled back. It wasn’t about heat or seduction, it was something quieter; a confession. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d done it. There had been quiet moments over the years—late nights, stolen conversations, the way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t looking—when you let yourself lean in and leave that barely-there kiss on the corner of his mouth. Just enough to remind him you saw him. Wanted him. Hoped he’d want you too.

And every time, Bradley would pull back with a small shake of his head, or a sharp sigh, or that carefully constructed silence that meant he was burying the thought before it could bloom.

But tonight… he didn’t move. He let you do it. He didn’t flinch or step away. He just stood there, breathing you in like it hurt, letting the moment happen. And that—more than anything—made your heart thud painfully in your chest.

You took a step back like you hadn’t just laid every card on the table. “That’s all,” you whispered.

Bradley exhaled, something raw and helpless in the sound. His eyes found yours—dark, unreadable—and then dropped to your lips. “You’re a real brat,” he muttered, almost like a prayer.

And before you could respond, he reached for you—fast, like the dam had finally cracked. One hand curled firmly around your waist, grounding you, while the other slid up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair like he needed to anchor himself. 

Then he pulled you in. 

His lips met yours, like he’d been fighting the pull for too long and finally, finally gave in. There was nothing hesitant about it, no more restraint, no more carefully measured distance. It was deep, consuming, years of tension unraveling in one breathless moment. He kissed you like he was starved for it, like every second he’d held back had only built the hunger. 

Bradley’s lips were deceptively soft, contrasting the sharp angles of his jaw and the rough edge he carried with him everywhere else. They were warm, shaped with a natural fullness that made every half-smile feel like a secret, every smirk a challenge. When he kissed you, they didn’t hesitate. There was no awkwardness, no uncertainty—just a grounded, confident pressure that spoke of restraint worn thin.

They tasted faintly of tequila and whatever gum he chewed out of habit, but underneath it was something that was just him ; clean, familiar, and dangerously addictive. And when they moved against yours, slow at first then deeper, there was a quiet intensity in them, like he'd been holding back for too long and finally let it slip.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing unsteady, like you’d knocked the wind out of him. His voice came low, hoarse and rough with everything he’d tried to bury.

“I should’ve known better than to think I’d ever be safe from trouble like you.”

“That’s why you love me.” You chuckled and gave him a quick peck, “And, don’t worry ‘bout my dad, I’ll take care of it.”

“If he sends me at the other end of the universe, you’d better follow me, you brat.” He teased, pinching your side playfully. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll follow you anywhere Bradshaw.” You kissed him again and you felt his body softening under your touch. 

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Gentle

Pairing: Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. Minors, DNI.

Notes: No physical reader descriptions, no use of y/n. Also not beta-read. Because it never is.

Length: 3.6K

Warnings: Bradley took Reader's virginity and didn't know it; Reader was an older virgin; mentions of public sex; under-negotiated kinks; wrist restraints (belt); protected sex; vaginal sex; dirty talk; rough sex; aftercare

Summary: You expect him to be so righteously angry—a pinched expression, a knit brow, a tight jaw. But there’s something in those warm, dark eyes that looks so painfully mournful. 

It’s unfair. You both came. What’s he so put out about?

You’d almost prefer his anger to whatever the hell this is. Anger you could handle—but does he regret last night?

It’s a throwaway comment, one that you’re positive he’ll miss. The bar is bustling and so busy that it's a wonder he’s heard your friend crow it at all: 

“To seeing you with that freshly-fucked glow for the first time!” 

You aren’t scandalized by what she says. You’d told her the truth of it last night—offered sparse details and omitted names. You laugh and cheers with your friends. You’re not embarrassed by the mention, the tease.

But your insides are burning hot at the sight of Bradley in your periphery, his beer frozen halfway to his lips. You drain your drink and clear your throat, simply offering, “Getting another one,” As you push away from the table. You’re determined not to look at him as you go, praying that he just lets it pass. 

But Bradley Bradshaw has never been good at just letting things go. 

You’d been grateful for that last night. 

There had been something zipping between the two of you all day—little looks and lingering glances that had fanned your flames, blossoming into a wildfire as he’d led you into the alley by the bar the night before. You had felt the heat of him behind you, thrilled at the scent of his cologne, the bristle and prickle of his mustache and lips against your neck as his hands had grasped your hips to still you. 

You feel the heat of him as he comes to stand beside you now, smell his cologne as he sets an empty beer bottle down on the bar. Neither of you speak for a few moments. You’d hardly looked at him last night, either—pressed face-first against the brick wall of the alley, your pants around your knees with Bradley’s hand over your mouth to quiet you, his hot breath, soft groans and bitten-off swears pushed against the shell of your ear. 

It's a shame, you think, that you’re locked into this pattern with Bradley. He does have the sweetest eyes. 

“You should’ve told me.” 

He says it just loudly enough for you to hear it over the murmur of bar noise, the conversation, rattle of cocktail shaking, and the distant strain of REO Speedwagon over the recessed speakers. 

Maybe you should’ve. There had been a split-second when you considered it, but it had all happened so fast. 

It wasn’t how you’d always expected it to be. There was no bed covered in rose petals, no romantic music. You’d been so caught up in your need, in the thrill of feeling Bradley as desperate for you as you were for him.

You’d decided, as you’d showered last night, felt the ache of him between your thighs, eyed the bloom of bruises on your hips and a scrape on your cheek from where you’d been pressed against the brick a little too hard, that it was okay. You didn’t need roses or romantic music. You’d just needed the ferocity that Bradley had fucked you with, and the brush of his rough, work-worn fingertips against your neglected clit, and the moan of his voice in your ear as his hips stuttered and slapped against yours. 

“You didn’t ask.” 

You realize as Bradley shifts testily beside you that it’s the wrong thing to say, and maybe a little unfair. You tack on, “Doesn’t matter.” 

“Yeah, it does. I figured—” 

“I know. S'okay. Let it go, Bradshaw.” It’s unlikely, but worth a shot. If there’s one thing Bradley loves, it’s proving people wrong. You know as well as he does just how stubborn he can be, how by-the-book. But some things just nag and nag and he has to litigate them.

You can tell that this’ll be one of the things that he won’t stand for. Dog with a bone. Knight with a righteous cause. 

“You should’ve told me.” 

It’s his new refrain, you realize. You can’t imagine how he must’ve felt when he heard your friend, saw you laugh, waited for you to correct or argue with her. And did he notice the scratch on your cheek then? Did he think of the push of his body against yours, the quiver of your thighs as he’d stretched you wide around him, the buzz of your whimper against his fingers as he finally fucked you? 

"Doesn't matter,” You insist again. “Drop it.” 

“You should’ve told me—” 

“Lower your voice.” 

“I would’ve been more gentle.” 

“I didn’t want you to be more gentle,” You snap, finally turning to meet his eye. You realize immediately that it’s a mistake. You expect him to be so righteously angry—a pinched expression, a knit brow, a tight jaw. But there’s something in those warm, dark eyes that looks so painfully mournful. 

It’s unfair. You both came. What’s he so put out about?

You’d almost prefer his anger to whatever the hell this is. Anger you could handle—but does he regret last night? You sure as shit don’t. 

Your jaw works tightly as you fold your arms against your chest and turn back to the bar. He can regret it all he wants, if that’s what this is. 

“Anyway,” You press on, “I enjoyed myself. Thought you did, too.” 

“I did—” Small wonder, “But—” 

“‘But’ nothing, Bradshaw. We both had a good time. Just…Forget it.” 

You hear Bradley draw in a deep breath before his hand lightly comes down on the bar. When he curses this time, it doesn’t make your stomach flip with excitement. It just pisses you off. 

-- 

“Get in.”

Your annoyance has cooled and shifted to nerves. You glance around the parking lot, openly unsure. You can get a car to take you home. It could be there in two minutes, have you home in twenty. 

Bradley stands still as a statue, hand holding open the passenger side door as he waits. It wasn’t a question like he’d asked last night—”Wanna take a walk?” It isn’t a murmur accompanied by a warm hand on your lower back, steering you away from the thudding bass of the bar, from your friends as your stomach fluttered with anticipation. 

It’s an order, one that you’re tempted to disobey. 

But you climb into the Bronco and buckle up. You look straight through the windshield as he gets into the driver’s seat and starts the car. The drive is quiet, and does nothing to calm your nerves. Once Bradley parks, he just warns, “Don’t,” when you reach for the door handle. You expect him to launch into a lecture, but he gets out, rounding the car and opening the door for you. 

He’s practically your shadow as he follows you to the front door. You step aside once it’s open, unsure if Bradley will turn and head home, his self-appointed duty done. But he steps inside, shrugging his jacket off and throwing it over the back of your couch. He’s been there once or twice, but he still takes his time looking around as you lock up behind him and take off your shoes. 

“Shoes off, Bradshaw.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You want something to drink?” You ask, stepping past him. 

“Water.” 

“You hungry?” 

“No.” 

You nod, flipping on the light in your kitchen and grabbing a couple of glasses for the two of you. You can hear Bradley's footsteps as he drifts lazily through your living room, joining you in the kitchen and taking the proffered glass of water with a murmur of thanks. The two of you sip in silence for a few moments. 

“Maybe I should’ve—” You start, then back off as you feel Bradley turning to look at you. You take another gulp of your water. “There just didn’t seem like the right moment to mention it. And bringing it up—it all would’ve felt like a bigger deal. I didn’t want that.” 

“Could’ve told me afterward.”

“We were more focused on getting back to the others.” 

“You tell ‘em it was me?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it’s none of their business. Besides, they wouldn't care—and they didn’t ask.” 

“Seems to be your answer for everything these days.” 

You roll your eyes, setting your empty water glass in the sink.

“Okay. You bring me home just to scold me?” 

“No.” 

Bradley steps closer, lowering his water glass into the sink beside yours. You watch his hand lift. Your eyelashes flutter as he cups your jaw, turning your head toward him, his thumb sweeping gently across your skin. 

“Look at me.” He orders. Your focus sweeps up slowly, mapping the swell of his lips, the scattering of scars, the line of his nose before your eyes finally settle on his. He’s devoid of anger, still, and the sorrow is gone. Bradley’s expression seems deceptively neutral, and that’s far more concerning than any look he’s given you before. 

“Where’s your room.” 

-- 

There still aren’t any roses, but at least there’s a real bed this time. Bradley doesn’t guide you face-first into one of your walls or against the door. He keeps a firm grasp on your jaw as his tongue slips between your lips. You wind your arms around his shoulders, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

You try to urge him back toward the bed, but Bradley slides a hand down to your throat, giving it a warning little squeeze that makes you melt. You smooth one of your hands down his front, fingers skating along the cool metal of his belt buckle. Before you can undo it, Bradley catches hold of your wrist. He breaks your kiss, using the grasp on your throat to tip your head up to the side, and smoothing his lips along the exposed skin. 

“Slow down,” He murmurs against your jaw, the buzz of it tickling your skin. 

“But—” 

“Slow down.” It’s firmer now, and you have to tamp down a grin. You know what that tone is like from Bradley. You’re certain you can wind up face-first on your bed if you play your cards right. 

You just have to piss him off a little. 

You wriggle your wrist from his grasp, tipping your head down against the press of his hand, desperate to catch sight of his belt buckle as you fumble for it with both hands. You hear the short, irritated huff of Bradley’s breath before he catches both of your wrists in one hand. Your mouth waters at the clank of his buckle being undne as he gives your wrists a squeeze and shoves them away from him. 

“Take your clothes off,” He orders. “All of them.” 

There’s steel in his voice now. You begin to turn, your hands curling around the hem of your shirt when you hear him tut.

“Face me.” 

Your face burns hot as you go still. Bradley’s expression is flat again: mirthless eyes, and a firm press to his lips. You tug your shirt up and over your head, undo your bra, then shove down your pants and underwear. 

“Get on the bed.” 

You sit, and wait.

“Lie down.” 

You should scooch back toward your headboard, but instead, you flop down where you are, feet still on the floor. You yelp as Bradley lands a slap on your outer thigh. 

“Don’t play dumb,” He warns. “Go on.” 

You finally slide back, watching Bradley undress and fish a foil packet out of his back pocket. You eye his body covetously as he walks closer, climbing over you and straddling your hips, tossing the condom by your pillow.  

“Hands up.” 

You raise them obediently, holding perfectly still and hardly breathing as he loops the belt around your wrists. He holds your eye as he winds the belt around your wrists and the bedposts, a single brow raised. You can call it off now—you know he'll unwind it, pull back, stop.

When you nod, Bradley tightens it, the leather biting into your skin. 

You want what he gave you in the alley—the rush, his force, his ferocity and bruises. But Bradley kneels on the bed in front of you, curling his hands around your ankles, skimming them up slowly. You squirm, feeling exposed and vulnerable as his hands slip over your thighs, up across your belly. 

“Bradley—” 

“Hush.” 

You suck in a soft breath as his fingers smooth over your sides, pressure just firm enough to keep from tickling you. His head dips, kissing over your belly, up to the underside of one of your breasts. You try to arch into his lips as he leans further up. 

“Please,” You whine, but his tongue sweeps between your lips before you can say another word. You wilt back against the bed, your fingers curling and flexing around one another as your wrists strain against the belt, the buckle clanking against the bed frame. You want nothing more than to grasp and pull his hair, feel the slide of the strands against your skin.

“But—” You breathe as he breaks the kiss.

“Shuddup.” It buzzes against your skin as his kisses travel back down, sucking at each nipple, sweeping past your belly button as his shoulders push your thighs wide. You pull in a shocked breath as his hot breath skates across your pussy, chased by the teasing flicker of the tip of his tongue. You whimper, chasing the slick heat before Bradley’s hands curl around your hips. You open your mouth to complain again—but it dies on your tongue as Bradley laps broadly across your lips. He buries your face between your thighs, moaning lustfully against your slick skin. Your nails dig into your palms at the rattle of his groan shakes through you.

You whine, knees tightening around his shoulders as you shove your hips down against his lips. And though you’d expected him to reprimand you, Bradley’s hand slides up between your thighs, fingers teasing at your pussy. It’s only a moment before he slips one inside, curling it before adding another. You huff softly, cunt squeezing around him as his fingers pumping in and out—and in and out again as your hips chase his manic rhythm.

Your wrists yank against the belt, hips bounding as you chase the curl and snap of your orgasm, Bradley’s name falling from your lips as your pussy rolls against his tongue. He hums, lapping at your pleasure as your cunt clutches at his fingers. Your voice quiets as you settle, cunt pulsing as Bradley nuzzles your thigh, lightly nipping at the skin and slickly soothing it as your movements slow.

As you come back to yourself, you can’t deny the thrill of catching Bradley’s eye—the heat of it as he peers over your belly; the sly glint as he laves his tongue back and forth, fingers curling in your still-pulsing opening. You part your lips, waggling your tongue and grinning as Bradley surges up. 

You whimper as you taste your arousal on his tongue, shiver as his fingers withdraw and his cock twitches against your inner thigh. Your hips tip up on instinct, chasing the heat as Bradley’s length twitches against you. He reels back just far enough to grab the foil packet by your head, ripping it open with his teeth, and sheathing his cock in the latex. 

“Please,” You mumble before he can ask or tease, “Please—Need it, Bradley, I—Oh, fuck,” You gasp as he drives into you with a single stroke. Your pussy clutches at him, your nails digging into the leather of the belt as you push your hips up into his. Bradley’s hands land on either side of your head, flexing in the fabric of your pillow case as he holds himself steadily over you. 

“Shuddup,” He groans again—But my god, it’s a tighter sound than it was before, and it makes your pussy grasp at him as his face presses into your neck. 

“Bradley–”

“Quiet—”

“I need it,” You whimper, shoving your hips up against his, “Fuck, you feel so—Mm, Bradley, please—” 

“Just—” 

“I want more, Bradley, ‘m so—” 

You gag at the sudden intrusion of two fingers sliding between your lips. Your mouth falls open, eyes glazing and tongue laving against the rough pads of his fingertips as they rub over your tongue.

You let your jaw go slack, whines spiraling from between your lips as he finger-fucks your mouth, hips slapping against yours in tandem. Your toes curl in the fabric of your sheets, wrists yanking against your restraints. Bradley plants his knees against the mattress, his hips slamming against yours as the headboard rattles against your wall. You wind one of your legs around his, sucking in a breath as his free hand grasps and squeezes your thigh. 

Bradley pushes his face into your neck, fingers slipping from your mouth to hold your hips. You can’t fight the way your voice stutters in his throat at the slow, concentrated roll of his body against yours. You try to push against him, to urge and speed his pace, but Bradley seems to neither hear nor feel your urging and whines. 

It’s no use. Bradley’s grasp keeps you pinned in place, the slow grind of his hips drawing your orgasm nearer and nearer. 

“That’s it,” He encourages against your jaw. He groans as your cunt pulses around him, your hips bucking as your back arches. 

“Faster,” You breathe, then gasp as his strokes slow and deepen. Your eyes slip closed, pressing your head back against the pillow as your push your body up against his. You shiver, knees squeezing around his hips as the coil of pleasure in your belly tightens. 

“Look at me,” He urges, hand lifting to curl around your jaw. Your head flops like a ragdoll’s, eyes blinking blearily up at him. Your heart stuttering in your chest at the heated focus on his face—the parted, panting lips, and the way his dark eyes skate from your mouth to your slightly unfocused gaze. He tuts when your eyelashes flutter, giving your jaw a squeeze before you can close them. 

“Ah ah. Eyes on me, baby,” Bradley orders. “Show me how bad you want it—Show me,” He repeats as my mouth falls open to insist, “Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna hear another fucking word. You’ll take what I give you,” He growls, “And when you’ve cum, you’ll fucking thank me for it.” 

Your eyes roll back into your head as you buck up against Bradley, mouth falling open in a stunned, guttural shout as you cum, cunt pulsing around his cock. Bradley curses, dipping his head and laying a bite on your shoulder as his hips continue to grind slowly and steadily, fucking you slowly through your orgasm.

You wait for him to follow, to tip over the edge, but Bradley’s hips don’t stutter and slow like they did last night. Instead, his fingers slip between the two of you, teasing over your tender, swollen clit as his tongue sweeps across the freshly laid bite mark. You hiss in a shocked breath, hips bucking up into his rough touch. 

“Br-Bradley—” 

“Gimme another one.” 

-- 

Your hands slowly slip down to rest over your head as Bradley unwinds the belt from your wrists, dropping it across his other clothes where they were discarded by the bed. You sigh contentedly as you feel the bed dip and shift beneath you, and hear the soft pad of his footsteps as he leaves the room.

You know that you should move your arms, get some blood back into them, check your wrists, but for a few moments, you just lay there and let your body settle. Your cunt still pulses from the slow, sensual rolls of Bradley's hips, the sure and even way that he’d fucked you through another two orgasms before finally coming undone himself. You draw your knees together, shivering again as you squeeze your slick thighs together. 

“Here,” You hear. Your head lolls to the side, eyes blinking open as Bradley sets a glass of water down on the bedside table. Before you can try and push yourself up, Bradley sits beside you, hooking his arms around your back and helping you slowly sit up. Your head swims a little, and Bradley shushes you softly as you close your eyes to stop your head from pounding, resting your head forward onto his shoulder. 

“Y’alright?” 

“I think so,” You mumble. 

“Give it a minute.” 

“Mm.” You lean back against the headboard, eyes still closed as Bradley’s hands gently brush over your quivering thighs. “I should get cleaned up.” 

“We will,” He says. “Water's heating up for the bath.” 

You peek open one eye, brow raising in surprise. We, huh? But Bradley holds your eyes steadily, unflinching as he picks the water up and holds it out. Your arms throb slightly as you lift them to take the cup, drawing in a sip, then a gulp. 

“Slow down,” He chuckles. 

“Mmm. That again?” You ask, passing back the glass. “All I got tonight was slow.” 

Bradley sets the glass aside, scooching closer and nudging his nose against yours. He searches your gaze for a moment before his eyes dip to your lips. 

“You deserve slow,” He murmurs, “You deserve thorough. And one’a these days, I’m gonna teach you,” His lips ghost yours, “How good gentle can be.” 

“That’s not what tonight was?” 

“With a belt around your wrists? No, baby,” He chuckled. “That’s not what tonight was.” He leans away, grinning as you lean up, lips chasing his. “I’ll go check on the bath. Finish that water.” 

“Yessir.” You watch him get up, swiping your tongue over your lips. “Bradley?” 

He turns, brows raised expectantly, and smiling when he sees you reaching for him. He leans back in when you smooth your hand over his neck, submitting to the soft, searching kiss that you pull him in for.

“For the record," You tip your head back, "You were exactly what I wanted—last night and tonight."

Relief flickers in his warm eyes, lips quirking in a slight smile as he covers his mouth with yours again.

"For the record," He murmurs. "You're gonna like gentle."

"I know I'm gonna like it," You insist, leaning back against the headboard, "Long as it's with you."

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; 

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989 @nominalnebula

[romerona]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which was so unfair.

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

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

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

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

Which is how you ended up here.

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

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

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

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

... And now you were sweating.

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

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

Just pilots.

Right. And a nuclear warhead was just a firework.

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

This was going to be a disaster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

Pure, excruciating silence.

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

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

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

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

Oh, great. His voice is hot too.

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

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

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

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

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

A chorus of nods. "Yes, sir."

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

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

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

Solid. Real professional.

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

Nope. Not looking at him.

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

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

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

Someone exhaled sharply. Another shifted in their seat.

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” You nodded with a grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twisted at the mention of being airborne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dismissed,” Cyclone finished.

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

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

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

“Doctor, Stay for a moment.”

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

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

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

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

His stare didn’t waver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You inhaled sharply. No pressure. None at all.

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

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

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

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

You were definitely going to puke.

Part 2???

[sometimesanalice]

Dream a Little Dream

Summary: After a long week away in Lemoore, all Bradley wants to do is come home to you. The only thing is, you’re just not where he expects to find you.

Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: so much fluff and a truly smitten Bradley Bradshaw (mdni)

(author's note: this is a fic is set in the 'Like I Can' universe, however it can be read on its own!)

Bradley throws his head back and lets out low groan as he hits another red light.

Nothing in the past week he’d spent up in Lemoore had felt as long as this drive home from base.

Not the stuffy dinner with the higher ups that had Mav and him exchanging looks from across the table, both of them clearly wishing to be anywhere else than done up in their Dress Whites. Not the long nights sharing a room with Hangman, who snored louder than the multiple phone alarms that he’d kept snoozing instead of turning off, as if the scratchy Navy provided sheets weren’t bad enough on their own. Not the drills or the lectures or the reviewing of the new procedural guidelines or equipment requirements with the crew stationed up there.

He'd felt the all the tension that had been building up over the week melt off of him the moment he’d turned the key in the ignition- the engine to the Bronco rumbling to life after a week of sitting on a parking lot on North Island- knowing that he was finally on his way home.

Technically, he was on his way to your apartment. But it was the same difference to him.

Wherever you were was where he wanted to be.

That was home. You were home.

Minus the fact that the San Diego traffic controllers seemed to have it out for him.

He thought for a moment he’d make it to your place in record time considering that there weren’t many people on the road a 2am. He hadn’t even bothered to turn the radio on, but even 105.3 THE ROCK where hits go to die would be preferable to the way he was agitatedly drumming his thumb on the steering wheel. But he was stubborn and now he left it off out of spite when his drive became a game of ‘How Many Times Will Rooster Hit The Red’.

It had been more stop than go at this point.

“Finally,” Bradley mumbles to himself when the light turns green and shifts out of neutral into first.

When Jake had dropped him off at base after their five-hour road trip back to San Diego, he’d decided to suck it up and stick around to get some of the paperwork that he’d been putting off out of the way so that he could enjoy the days off he had lined up after the trip. He might have lost track of time and caught a second wind filling out flight logs with only the whir of the overhead fluorescents to keep him company, working until he reached the point where he felt like he couldn’t keep his eyes opened anymore. His eyelids getting heavier and heavier with each passing minute he stayed seated at the desk he’d commandeered to work at.

It had been a week of sleeping like shit. And not just because of the creaky, lumpy mattress or Hangman’s snoring. But because he’d gotten used to your soft, warm body pressed against his and the sound of your gentle breathing to lull him to sleep. He’d had a taste of what true luxury was like and now it was hard to go back to the bare minimum he’d known before.

He’d known even before he’d left the building that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep unless you were tucked against him. He’d barely slept 300 miles away from you, but it would have been even worse to go back to his condo knowing you were closer than ever and yet still so far.

Being in the same city wasn’t enough for him. He needed to be under the same roof, under the same covers.

Four red lights later, he’s turning onto your block. By some kind of miracle there’s an open spot big enough for the Bronco near the main entry without him having to maneuver into it with too much effort. It’s another reason why he’s dying to have you move in with him, the parking at your apartment complex is trash. And there are never enough guest spots, even with the parking pass he kept in his glove box.

Bradley lets himself in to your apartment as quietly as he can, opening the door slowly as to not wake you. The spare key you’d given him when you’d first moved here had lived on his own set of keys for the last couple of years, along with the fighter jet keychain you’d picked up for him when the two of you were teens during a family trip to Pensacola as thanks for looking after your hermit crabs. Even if one of them did lose a claw on his watch, which he’d felt guilty about for days, until you told him it would most likely grow back.

He’d never had a lot to be sentimental about, but that keychain with the charm whose silver finish had long been worn off around the edges was one of the few things that had been everywhere with him, so it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

He gingerly sets the key on the console table you had near the front door, trying to keep them from clattering together. Carefully, he toes his boots off and sets his bag down next to them, making sure to keep it off the runner you had in the entryway. He knew you wouldn’t care if he tracked in some dirt on it, but he did.

One of the things he’s always liked about your apartment is how lived in it was.

Even in the dark, Bradley could make out the ruffly curtains you’d hung up over the door to your balcony. And the impressive gallery wall that framed your TV, one that was a mix of your own photos and art that you’ve accumulated along the way. There were more pillows than he thought was necessary on your couch, but made for one of his favorite afternoon nap spots. You usually had fresh flowers on your coffee table, the ones there now from what he could tell looked a little wilted, so he made a note to pick you up something from the shop next to the grocery store when he goes out to restock his fridge.

He lightly treads past your kitchen- and the two different types of coffee makers you had lined up on the countertop- towards your bedroom.

Bradley could already see it in his mind’s eye. The curve of the dip of your waist as you slept under your white comforter with the light blue piping along the edges. Always with a foot kicked out. The framed picture of the two of you on your nightstand. The chair in the corner where your pile of folded-and-to-be-put-away-later clean clothes sat. Your dresser topped with some leafy green thing and your tray of jewelry, where you’d cleared out not one but three drawers - which was a whole half of wooden unit he’d helped you build when you first moved in- for him to use for his things. Not to mention space in your closest too and room on the shoe rack you kept in there.

It was more than what he needed, but that was you. You’d always been the type to go above and beyond for the people you cared about. But now it meant more because you weren’t just sharing your space with him, you were sharing your life with him.

The blinds aren’t pulled closed, so your room is illumined with more city light than he was expecting. And he can see with clarity that everything is in its place.

The picture of him kissing your cheek- your nose scrunched up in that way he knows so well- in the grassy park where you’d surprised him with a showing of one of his favorite movies on one of your first dates together. The white linen covered chair with your clothes had an old sweatshirt of his tossed over the back of it that he knows if he were to pick it up would smell more like you than him. The plant in the white ceramic vase on your dresser was one you’d bought at the farmer’s market almost two years ago now to commemorate your big move there, you’d proudly carried it around for the rest of the morning while he’d carried your ever-growing collection of bags.

Everything right where it should be, except for you.

Your bed is perfectly made up. Well, the side he usually sleeps on is. The are corners still tucked in with the same crisp precision you use to wrap presents. The right side, however, looks like the comforter and sheets were hastily thrown back, a rumpled pile of fabric in the spot where he thought you’d be sleeping.

There’s only one other place where you would be.

Bradley doesn’t even try to quiet his steps as he struts back towards the door with a new destination in mind. He shoves his feet back into his boots, not bothering to retie his laces, as he scoops his keys out of the little bowl he’d just put them in barely even five minutes ago. Only slowing down long enough to make sure he’s properly locked the door behind him before he’s back in the Bronco for the second time that night.

This time the drive feels like nothing. Especially since he hits green lights all the way there.

His lips turn up in an automatic smile when he sees your all-too-practical white Honda Civic parked in the drive way of his condo. He doesn’t think he could find the words to describe the feeling that wells up in his chest at the sight of it.

It just felt right.

Bradley lets himself in, using his own key this time.  

His condo had always felt more like a place to land, rather than a home. Over the last few months though that feeling has changed for him.

For Bradley’s whole life things have felt temporary. The people he met. The things he owned. The bases he lived on. You made him crave permanence in a way he’d never experienced before. The two of you had a couple decades worth of history, but he knew he couldn’t be truly content until his ring was on your finger and you shared his last name.

He can see your fingerprints in this space from the knit blanket draped on his couch to the framed print on the wall over the breakfast nook. He can see the promise of a future together in the fancier-than-he’s-used-to coffee maker on the kitchen counter.

It’s quiet, but not the empty kind.

The light above the stove is turned on illuminating the kitchen.

That was usually his final task of the night before going to bed. Flicking off the brighter overheads in exchange for the softer one that gave him just enough light to avoid crashing into things in the darkness if he woke up in the middle of the night and was on the hunt for something to eat or drink while still half-asleep.

Although it hits him now that he can’t remember the last time he’s turned it on himself.

It was something he’d noticed that you didn’t do at your own apartment when the two of you had first started sleeping together. But now if he thinks back on it, every glass of cool water out of the filtering pitcher you kept in the fridge and every bowl of late-night cereal he’s had that little light has been on to guide him into the kitchen while you slept peacefully in bed.

It’s a realization that lands squarely behind his ribcage.

Bradley kicks his boots off next to your sandals by the door and turns the lock back into place behind him. Normally, he’d take them up to be put away in their proper place, but for now he’s got other more important things on his mind.

He takes the stairs two at a time as soundlessly as he can, avoiding the step that sometimes pops. The first door on the left has been left slightly ajar, just wide enough for him to slip into.

there you are, his heart registers before his eyes do.

Tucked under the green comforter- with that one foot kicked out- on the wooden canopy bed he’d recently purchased is you.

He couldn’t fight back the smile on his face that the sight of you curled up there on his side of the bed, with your face pressed into his pillow, even if he wanted to.

Bradley still doesn’t know how he got to be so lucky that he gets to be the one to see you like this, at complete ease as you sleep, as relaxed in his bed as you are in your own. He’s grateful for every morning he gets to wake up with you and every night he gets to fall asleep with you in his arms.

It’s never been like this for him, not before you. It’s a good thing he’s already told you he loved you, otherwise he doesn’t think he could have been able to hold himself back from waking you up right here and now to tell you.

Quietly, he steps up the side of the bed, taking a moment to admire you looking soft and warm and like everything he could ever want. The few FaceTime calls the two of you had had over the course of the week couldn’t even begin to capture just how beautiful you were. Bradley leans down to brush a featherlight kiss against your temple and straightens back up. You let out a contented hmm, and he hopes you’re dreaming of him.

He’s never needed anything more than to be under those covers with you.

Bradley undresses quickly in the walk-in closet and strips down to his boxer briefs, leaving his khakis to decorate the floor until sometime later when the sun was back up in the sky. Realizing as he takes off his watch that in his rush to get here that he’d left his bag with all his other laundry by the door at your apartment. A grunt of exasperation escapes him, and he’s glad that you’re a deep sleeper and the fact he keeps his baseball bat in the garage. Especially since he’s the one that taught you how to power swing.

The only sound in the room is of your even breaths and his carpet-muffled footsteps as he pads across the room. He lifts up the covers on your side of them bed and slides into the cool sheets, the stiffness in his joints loosening at the contact, and scoots in closer until he can feel your warmth.

He’d been in San Diego for the better part of four hours now, but he hadn’t been truly home until about thirty seconds ago.

Bradley debates for a split-second whether or not to let you sleep or if he should wake you up so you’re not startled to find a 6’ 1” aviator back in bed with you. But he knows you well enough to make an educated guess. He murmurs your name, rubbing a hand gently up and down along your back, and presses his lips together when you let out a soft, sleepy sigh.

You jolt a little as you ease back into consciousness. “B-bradley?”

“It’s just me,” he hums in confirmation as he squeezes your hip, all sleep-warmed skin under his palm. He doesn’t miss the way you relax instantly against him at the sound of his voice, settling further back into him.

“You’re home early.” You reach back for him, your hand finding the base of his head, lightly scratching at his scalp as you weave your fingers through his hair.

“Mav either pulled some strings or took one for the team by staying another day, but we all jumped at the chance to get out of Le-snore early.” You let out a little snort at that.

“’re you hungry?” you offer sleepily, the words a bit slurred and strung together. “Do you want me to make you something?” Bradley is equal parts amused and endeared that you’re not even half way awake yet and wanting to look after him.

His sweet girl.

He presses an affectionate kiss on the back of your neck and wonders if you can feel his soft smile, the one that’s reserved for only you.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, resting his chin on your shoulder, “I promise.”

He’d snagged a couple protein bars from the mess on base and had scarfed them down as he filled out his overdue flight logs. But also, there was no way he was getting out of this bed now that he was in it. Not for anything in the world.  

Bradley leans in close, letting his lips skim against your ear, “You know this could count as breaking and entering, kid. Always knew that good girl thing was just an act.”

You lightly tug on his hair. “I don’t think that would hold up in court of law seeing as you gave me a key and all,” you retort, you voice still low and raspy from sleep.

“I’m pretty sure I gave my best friend a key,” he drawls, teasingly, “Don’t remember giving my girlfriend one though.” He drops a kiss to your soft-cotton covered shoulder. The shirt you were wearing was one he’d completely forgotten about until you sent him that picture of you in bed sometime past 2am in the early days of when you’d started dating, before the two of you had sex for the first time. His name was printed on the back- right at the very top- along with all the other players on the Washington High Cardinals baseball team from the year they’d won the championship. “Think ‘m going to have to fix that.”

You shake your head amused into his pillow before looking at him from over your shoulder and turning to lean back into his chest. When your eyes meet, there’s nothing but fondness reflected in them. Yours is a face he’s known most of his life, he could read you as easily as any book, and it’s even more apparent just a few inches away from his just how happy you are to see him.

He slides a hand around the side of your neck, his thumb caressing your cheek as he drinks you in. His eyes travel over your forehead, and along the curve of your cheekbones, and down the bridge of your nose, and lands on the dimples framing your smile.

thereyouarethereyouare

Bradley dips down to kiss you for the first time in a week. Your lips part easily, like you’ve been waiting for this too. There’s no rush. Your kiss is slow like honey off a spoon. Just as sweet as it’s meant to be savored. And there’s no doubt in his mind that this was always how it was supposed to be.

You and him.

Him and you.

Together.

“Hi, sweet girl,” he says, warmly.

“Hi, Bradley.” You tilt your head up for another kiss, one he has no intention withholding from you. “I missed you.”

It’s a new feeling for him, knowing he has someone to miss him when he is away. And having someone to miss in return. It’s been a long time since he’s had that in any real way that truly mattered. Bradley knows he’s due for a deployment soon, one that’ll take him from you- from this bed- for months. He’s already found the perfect thing to give you for when he leaves, something to show you how he’ll be thinking of you. But he doesn’t want to dwell on that inevitable reality.

For now, he just wants to share your warmth and focus on the feel of you pressed against him. Enjoying the luxury of getting to have this with you.

He just lets himself hold you the way you deserve to be held. He lets himself kiss you the way you deserve to be kissed. He’ll love you the way you deserve to be loved for as long as you’ll have him.

“I missed you too.” Whispering your name because he likes feel of it in his mouth.

“I think I was having a dream about you,” you murmur against his lips.

Bradley grins. “Yeah? Was it dirty?” You laugh in response, it’s his favorite sound. Happy. You make him so damn happy. He buries his face in the nook where your neck meets your shoulder and breathes you in. Lavender and cedar. Your favorite lotion to put on before bed, and something of his that he can’t put his finger on. “Mm, you smell good.”

“I took a shower before bed, used your body wash,” you tell him, running your hand along his arm. He senses you smile before he hears it. “And you smell like Jake.”

He groans and rubs the coarse hairs of his mustache against the soft skin of your neck. You giggle and try to squirm away from his prickly retaliation, but he’s got you basically pinned to the bed now. All your perfect curves against his firm angles.

“I can’t believe he’s still using a black ice tree air freshener like a damn sixteen-year-old,” Bradley grumbles. As if him and Seresin hadn’t spent enough quality time together over the week, now he was basically in bed with him and his girlfriend.

“At least you’ll know what to get him for his birthday,” you offer less than helpfully, playfully nudging his foot with yours.

Bradley chuckles and props himself up on an arm to gaze at you. He can feel the need for sleep settling over him, the long day and the longer week catching up with him that now he’s home and here with you. He can tell you’re drowsy too from the dewy way you’re blinking at him, and appreciative that you’re indulging him in this bit of pillow talk. In the quiet of his bedroom, he admits, “I went to your apartment first.”

You look almost bashful when you say, “I like these sheets better.” Both of you know that’s not your real answer for why you’re in his bed instead of yours.

He lifts an eye brow, meaningfully. “You have the same ones at your place.” Bradley knows because he made sure to check and buy the same kind for his own bed.

“Semantics,” you reply, breezily. Although he catches a hint of a pleased smile before you lean into trail a few kisses along the underside of his jaw. “Do you want your side of the bed back?” you ask.

“It’s our bed, sweet girl. You can sleep wherever you want,” Bradley says, “I’m good just as long as I can hold my girl.”

You thumb at the dimple of his chin, gazing up at him, “Have you gotten much sleep this week?”

Bradley just hums in response.

The softest of looks coast over your face. Understanding, sympathy, tenderness. It’s all there painted on your face from the little furrow between your eyebrows to the thoughtful search in your eyes as you read his face in return. He didn’t even say a word and you’ve got him figured out.

You tug on his arm and turn back over, taking him with you. Snuggling in so that your body is cradled closer to his, his chest all but pressed against your back. He slides his arm under your pillow and finds your other hand, threading his larger fingers between your own.

He situates your pillow beneath his head, sighing as he gets comfortable on the supportive mattress. He runs his palm over the familiar dip of your waist as you stretch and burrow in further, getting ready to go back to sleep. His fingertips find the edge of your cotton underwear and he follows it over your hip and along the side of your stomach, slipping one under the band to stroke at the soft skin near your hipbone.

It's the same spot where he’d find you butterflies if the two of you weren’t reversed from the way you usually fall asleep facing the other direction. Their location was a pinpoint in his mind, memorized from the moment he’d seen them that very first night together. He liked imagining he could feel the delicate lines of them under his fingertips as he drifted to sleep.

He hears the almost inaudible catch of your breath at his touch. “In the morning,” he promises.

You make a half-hearted noise of dissatisfaction, already well on your way to falling back asleep. He feels more than a little self-satisfied that he’s the one getting these reactions from you, that you want his touch just as much as he wants yours.

“Tease.” You nestle in closer, your ass brushing against his cock in a way that leaves no question it had been done on purpose.

“Menace,” he chuckles, lightly.

You hum, a pleased sound and reach for his wrist, removing temptation for the both of you and slide his hand beneath your shirt right to the very spot above your bellybutton where he normal finds its drifted to during the night on the mornings he wakes up with you in his arms.

The two of you fit together better than he ever could have possibly imagined.

“Hey, kid, what’re you doing tomorrow? I wanted to take you to breakfast.”

“To the place with the banana pancakes?”

Kisses the crown of your head, and he thinks he hears you sigh. “Wherever you want.”

“I could get away with a little hooky,” you yawn, “Maybe we could go to the beach too. Wanna spend the day with you.”

Bradley pulls you in closer, and closes his eyes. “Sounds like a plan.”

“I can’t wait.” It’s more of a sleepy mumble than anything else, but he’s already looking forward to waking up.

He listens as your breathing slowly evens out, knowing when you’ve fully drifted off. It didn’t take you long, the way it never seems to when he’s in bed beside you.

Maybe one day soon he’ll get to have you here with him every night. But until then, this is more than enough, he’s happy to fall asleep with his dream girl tucked on his arm.

Bradley lets himself imagine the day where you come and stay and it’s for good this time, because all of your clothes are in the closet and your mail gets delivered along with his.

And it won’t be just his favorite dream, it’ll be his reality.

I will never not be down bad for a smitten Bradley Bradshaw! Thank you to @yourlocalcringydaydreamer for sending the ask that inspired this soft fic!

Thank you for reading!

You can read more about these two or check out all of my stories here!

and just for grins and giggles, here is the gift that Bradley has picked out for her when he gets those deployment orders. He's the sentimental type.

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted  @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange 

[angelbby555]

Salon's Barber

Summary: Bradley comes to bother his wife all week with haircuts and washes when you take over your mother's hair salon. Word count: 3k

⋆. ୨୧˚⋆

Two times every year Bradley's mother-in-law either got sick or went on a vacation to celebrate her wedding anniversary. Those 2 weeks she took off, she needed someone to take care of the hair salon she owned. Since your mother had taught you her skills from beauty school, you were to fill her shoes at the hair salon.

Or aka the best week of Bradley’s life.

When his wife was in Bradley was strutting into the hair salon meant for women like he owned the place, to come bother his wife with free hair washes and trims during his lunch break.

If Bradley could live in a workplace this would be it. Because he adored everything about the salon. The smell of girly hair shampoo and burnt hair from the flat iron. The sound of a loud blow dryer and the soap opera playing in the background while he listened to gossip that didn't concern him. But most of all the best part of being in the salon was getting to see his pretty wife.

Bradley had missed going to the hair salon, he found himself even missing the older women who worked there. Roxanne and Jasmine were always very flirty and sweet with him, and Bradley liked to think he got brownie points from the two ladies since he always brought lunch for everyone when he came in.

On Monday morning Bradley was practically buzzing with excitement when he parked in front of the small business. With 5 deli sandwiches in a takeout bag, Bradley swung the door open and was greeted by the smell of hair spray and eucalyptus while the sound of bells chiming overhead.

Both Roxanne and Jasmin's attention turned off their clients in the salon chair and to him. They both grinned ear to ear before squealing excitedly.

"Bradley!!" They both broke into cackles.

"Hello, ladies." A lopsided grin found his lips. It felt like he was a king returning back to his throne. "I've missed you both terribly, and I brought food so my wife doesn't yell at me." Bradley moved towards both women and kissed their cheeks and they returned the gesture.

"Oh, how can anybody yell at this handsome face!" Roxanne playfully squeezed his jaw.

"Great here we go again." His wife appeared out from the storage room holding a box of shampoo to restock the shelves upfront. "As if I don't see you enough at home." You tossed the comment with a smile on your face.

"Hey, gorgeous." He moved closer to you like a moth drawn to a flame.

"Hi, handsome." You grinned when he hooked a finger in your belt loop pulling you closer to him. Bradley guided you forward to his lips by the back of your neck. When he pulled away he rested his forehead on yours and his lips quirked up.

"Prepare yourself, I'm gonna be here all week."

Then Bradley ended up in the hair-washing chair after he ate his deli sandwiches and caught up with the gals. Bradley was already holding back moans when the cold spray of water greeted his scalp like an old friend.  But the second his wife's hands were massaging his scalp Bradley couldn’t hold back the pleasure.

"Oh my god, marry me." Bradley groaned. His eyes fluttered shut when the citrusy-smelling shampoo hit his nose.

"I already did." Your beautiful laughter adds to the already amazing experience. Bradley could see the fluorescent lights through his eyelids and he almost mistaken it for heaven.

"Alright then have my babies." Bradley's voice sounded like a plea.

"I will someday honey." Your manicured nails scratched his head, and it further sent him into a meditative state.

"Some day." Bradley scoffed and opened his eyes to look at you. "No like right now. I need to fill you up with my kids today. Seriously get off the pill, you would look so great carrying my baby." Bradley didn't even hear the other two employees laugh because he was so far away caught in bliss with his wife's hand in his hair.

"Alright, I get it." You gently hushed him.

"As soon as we get home I'm gonna-"

"Bradley sh!" You cut him off before he could finish his dirty thought. But the women could already figure the rest out, erupting the whole room in a fit of laughter.

Tuesday afternoon, Bradley was wearing a black cape as he sat in the salon chair getting his second haircut of the week. Through the reflection Bradley watched you clip a few curls from his head, while your tongue poked out in concentration. There was something about you working at the hair salon that made you look more sexier than usual. With your hair pulled back like a busy woman with zero time on her hands. The cute little blouses you wore gave him a good view of your breasts when you leaned over to wash his hair. Good thing he was wearing the black cape while getting his haircut to hide how his dick uncomfortably pressed up against his jeans.

Besides him, Jasmin was chopping a middle-aged woman's hair into a short bob while gossiping about a college student named Margaret. He heard the gossip about the small-town girl yesterday. It wasn't his intention to eavesdrop, but Jasmin talked loudly and he was interested.

"Supposedly they saw Margaret out of town with another guy that wasn't Joseph." Bradley snapped his head towards Jasmin.

"What? But Margaret is so sweet and good to Joe!" It's like his soul was floating out of his body when he butted into a gossip session that didn't involve him.

"Bradley, stop moving your head." You positioned his head back to the front.

"I'm sorry baby, I'll keep still." Bradley glanced at his perfect wife through the mirror before accidentally turning to Jasmin again. "You would have never thought Margaret would do such a thing."

"Honey, what did I just say?" You placed a hand on your hip, losing your patience.

"I'm sorry." Bradley quickly swiveled his back into position.

On Wednesday, Bradley was late to the salon because Maverick had annoyingly held him up by telling Bradley a deployment story. When Bradley entered you were sitting at the front desk with a black cordless home phone pressed up against your ear.

"What are you doing here?" Your hand covers the receiver of the phone and your eyes shift off the appointment book. Your look read half murder and half "really?" Bradley could tell he was getting to a canonical point of the week where his wife was getting sick of seeing him.

"My hair's dirty again." Bradley set the Chinese takeout bag on the desk like a peace offering.  Silently showing you that you weren't allowed to get mad at him since he brought food.

"No, it's not, I washed your hair yesterday."  You pressed your lips into a thin line.

"You know I sweat a lot. I don't know what to tell you, honey." Bradley rested his hands on his hips. When you narrowed your eyes at him, Bradley thought you might kick him out that second. But you took your hands off the phone receiver before looking down at your appointment book again.

"There's a spot tomorrow at three-thirty if that works for you." He was sure you were gonna ignore him until you looked back at him with tender eyes and pointed towards the back with your thumb. "Go sit down. I'll be there in a second, Brad."

Bradley tried to hide a smirk as he obediently listened to you. "I love you, baby."

"I love you too honey, go sit down."

Since Bradley arrived late yesterday, on Thursday he drove his car faster than he had ever driven before. But his speeding didn't help him because the second he arrived at the salon, it was packed. Teenage girls took up space on the waiting chairs and all 6 salon chairs were filled. There were three other women he hadn't met before, pitching in with styling hair. There was so much happening at once. Girls were chatting. Loud blow dryers were in use, the air smelled like burnt hair and hair spray.

His wife, Roxanne, and Jasmin didn't greet him with attention, making him frown. All three were too busy to notice that he had walked in. The girls sitting on the couch were either staring at him because he was the only man there or because he was extremely attractive in his uniform. But Bradley wasn't looking for their attention, he was looking for his wife's.

So he cautiously moved down the aisle of salon chairs before he got to you. Since yesterday you looked like you could kill him, and today since you had a lot more on your plate Bradley didn't want to piss you off anymore. But... he was still trying to get his hair washed.

Bradley should have given you space but he still wrapped his strong arm around your waist and pressed his lips to your soft cheeks.

"You gonna pencil me in sweetheart?" Bradley muttered against your cheek, kissing you again. Your stressed eyes meet Bradley's through the full-length mirror. The only touch you offered Bradley was your elbow brushing up against his arm, while you used a curling iron on a brunette's head.

"Darling, I can't attend to you today. I'm a busy baby." You sighed, as Bradley rested his chin on your shoulder. Your use of pet names while attempting not to get frustrated with him weirdly turned Bradley on.

"That's okay just squeeze me in baby." Bradley pressed his lips against your ear.

"Sweetie are you listening-"

"I know baby, slid me in somewhere," Bradley smirked in your ear.

"Brad I'm serious-"

"Do this for me, and I promise I'll be very, very good to you later baby," Bradley whispered in your ear, squeezing your waist in reassurance. You didn't respond right away too busy wrapping a strand of brunette hair on the curling iron.

"Okay, honey." For a brief second your hand squeezed over Bradley's in agreement. Bradley buried his face in your neck to hide his excitement, leaving a kiss on your pulse point before looking back down at your hands at work.

"I don't know how to use that, or cut hair but I can help with something." Just that second the phone on the front desk started to ring.

"Perfect. Go pick up the phone." You instructed as steam started to rise from the brunette hair.

"Yes ma'am." Bradley nodded and removed his arms off of you. When he turned around he felt you pat his ass making him smile.

Bradley sat at the front desk while eating his burger taking calls and writing them in the appointment book. He felt really useful in taking a bit of the stress off his wife. After Bradley had even taken care of the register and the money that was being handed to him by all the girls walking out, At that moment Bradley realized it was graduation season, and it was no wonder why the place was so packed today. Once Bradley's lunch break was done, he kissed his wife goodbye and drove back to base.

At four o'clock Bradley came back to the salon and there were still a few girls left getting their hair done. In the meantime, Bradley swept the chopped hair on the floor, restocked all the hair care products up front, and took a seat and watched the soap opera playing on the TV while flipping through a magazine. The dramatic series had captured Bradley's attention long enough that he didn't realize an hour had gone by.

The only time he snapped back into reality was when his wife was standing in front of him staring at him with a warm and gentle look. Bradley closed his hung-open mouth when he saw you laugh at him.

"Oh, Bradley." Your voice was strained from exhaustion and a hint of pity. "I'm gonna give you a buzz cut, so you don't have a reason to keep coming back for a hair wash." You let out a dry laugh before collapsing down in his lap.

"Don't say that when I've been waiting all day to get my hair washed." Bradley pulled your legs over his lap, while your kitten heels hung off the armrest of the couch. You comfortably settled down, while Bradley's chin rested on the top of your head.

"I'm sorry, I made you work." A breathless laugh fell from your lips.

"Please, I would live here if I could." Bradley's lips pressed onto the crown of your head. Roxanne blew a kiss to Bradley, and he waved goodbye as she silently left the salon. "Let's get going, baby." You pressed a hand on his chest keeping him down in the chair.

"No, you waited long enough for your turn Bradley." You kissed his parted lips. Your hands wrapped around his neck as you gave him another peck before pulling away. "Plus I have to keep my end of the deal in order for you to keep yours," Bradley smirked before his lips were on yours again.

Friday was the last day you worked at the salon, when Bradley set foot in the building his wife was already shaking her head at him.

"Baby you can keep shaking your head all you want but at the end of the day we both know I'm gonna end up getting my hair washed."

Just like that, he was right. His head was resting against the indent of the hair-washing basin, while your magical hands shampooed his hair.

"You better enjoy this because this is the last time I'm gonna do this- besides when we're in the shower together." His wife's comment made him smirk and then frown. Bradley wished you actually worked here, so he could keep coming to bother you. But Bradley understood that your mom would be coming back from her wedding anniversary trip and you would have to go back to your own job.

"I'm gonna cry," Bradley stated, puckering his lips up for you to kiss. You scoffed but leaned down anyway and pecked his lips. "You know what I'll save my haircut for when I get out of base." Bradley really didn't want the pampering to end so he would drag it out as much as possible.

"Don't worry Sugar, you can come visit us any time and we'll cut your hair for free," Jasmin said from across the salon where she was dying highlights in a little girl’s hair. But Bradley hesitated making both the other women erupt in a fit of gasp and scoffs.

"We see you hate us, Bradley." Roxanne laughed. "That's cool, that's okay we see how it is." Bradley loved both women dearly but he could never picture or imagine any woman's hands in his hair that didn't belong to his wife.

"I'm sorry ladies, I can't cheat on my barber." Bradley looked up at you with a love-sick gaze. It was so sincere you had to lay a fat kiss on him.

When Bradley was in the locker room changing into his flight suit, Fanboy walked by him and Bradley gave him a fist bump. But Fanboy lingered instead of heading to his locker.

"Damn Bradley you've been looking a little too sharp with these haircuts." Bradley pulled his black t-shirt over his head, feeling his ears grow hot at the compliment. "Who's your barber?"

"My wife," Bradley smirked when he replied a little too quickly and a little too cocky.

"Really?" Mickey leaned against the locker a cross from Bradley's, staring at how incredible his fade was.

"Yeah. It's a salon though, but she can cut men's hair too." Bradley applied his deodorant before he started to untie the sleeves of his flight suit around his waist.

"Where's the salon at? My hair getting too long and I'm trying to look that good." Bradley smirked while zipping his flight suit up. Roxanne and Jasmine's compliments felt a little too real now since he was hearing it from Fanboy too.

"It's in the North Park neighborhood. Little pink place." Bradley slipped his arms in the sleeve before fully zipping it up. "If you're gonna go, you should go today since it's the last day my wife's working there."

"Alright thanks, I'll stop by after." Mickey leaned over the wooden bench in the middle to fist bump Bradley again.

"Yeah, Don't mention." Bradley's knuckles touched Fanboy’s giving him a head nod. Now that would be Bradley's charity work for the day, recommending his wife for Mickey's haircut.

Every time Bradley showed up to the hair salon, he didn't bother changing out of his flight suit, too anxious to see you. This was the last time Bradley would be getting pampered and he was even more eager than usual for his spa treatment. This morning Bradley didn't bother shaving around his mustache because he wanted his wife to do it for him.

When Bradley pushed through the door. A groan immediately left his lips when he saw all the guys from his base at the salon. When Bradley had told Fanboy not to mention it, he really meant that.

"Hey, you guys aren't allowed here. This is a girls place!- You're ruining it for the girls." Bradley looked directly at Hangman when he said guys and when he said girls he meant himself.

"Bradshaw you can't gate keep your barber forever." Jake winked at him and then turned back to flip through the magazine. "I'm next after Mickey."

"Sorry Jake, Bradley's next." You said as you unbuttoned the black cape from Fanboy. Mickey looked like a whole different man with his hair neatly styled instead of long and slicked back.

"I was here before Rooster." Jake fought back.

"Well, Bradley's my husband so I say he gets to go first." You brushed the stray hair off of Mickey's neck before he got out of the salon chair. Having husband privilege never felt so good, as Bradley was being chosen before Jake.

"Haha in your face, she loves me more!" Bradley couldn't resist immaturely taunting Jake as he strutted to the salon chair. Making sure he gave you a filthy kiss on the mouth for Jake to see you were all his. You laughed against his lips.

"Sit down." You placed a hand on his chest.

Thanks for reading! I'll try to write everyday this month but my max amount is a 6 day streak haha

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Car. Now. 

bob floyd x fem!reader

friends to lovers

Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst with a hard smut payoff, grinding, mutual pining, backseat sex, some dom!bob energy, confessions, dirty talk, emotional climax, unprotected sex (wrap it IRL), established tension, messy hair and messier feelings.

The Hard Deck is glowing—low neon lights, sweat and summer in the air, pool cues cracking, people pressed together and laughing too loud. Bob’s laugh is the kind that rumbles low and warm, and it’s been your favorite sound for years.

You’re both a little tipsy, not drunk—just floaty. Elbows brushing. Your back pressed against his chest during that last dance. He even twirled you once. He never twirls. But you laughed, and he looked like he was about to say something—say it, finally—but then—

“Let’s play a game!” Hangman slams a bottle down on the table, eyes lit with mischief. “You know the rules. No lies. One shot for every answer you don’t give.”

You roll your eyes. “This again?”

“This always,” he grins. “Now sit down, sweetheart.”

You settle in across from Bob, who’s already watching you. You give him a wink. He gives you that little almost-smile, the one only you know.

It’s easy. Fun. Until it’s not.

Hangman squints over his drink. “Okay, Bobby-boy. Your turn.”

Bob leans back, lazy, confident. You nudge his knee under the table.

Jake grins, wicked. “I’ve seen you with her.”

He jerks his chin toward you.

“The way you hover, the way you look. So tell me. Are you two a thing?”

The table goes quiet. Even the music feels like it drops out for a second.

Bob doesn’t look at you when he answers.

“No.” He gives a light chuckle. “Never in a million years would we be a thing.”

It hits you like a slap.

You blink, forcing a smile. “Ouch, Bob.”

He finally looks at you. Shrugs. “What?”

You keep smiling, but your voice goes sharp around the edges. “You think I’m too much for you to handle?”

He sips his drink. “Nah. You’re just… not my type. I’d never go after someone like you.”

The words land like bullets. You don’t let it show.

Just laugh. “Good to know.”

You stand. The chair scrapes hard across the floor. You don’t look back as you head for the door.

“Wait—hey—wait.”

Bob’s voice follows you out the door. “Where are you going?”

You whirl on him, eyes blazing. “Home. Away from people who say shit like that.”

“What did I even say?” He throws his hands out. “It was a joke.”

You laugh, bitter. “You think that was funny?”

He frowns. “Why are you so mad?”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your voice comes out cracked:

“Because I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

You shake your head, a breathless laugh tumbling from your lips. “And now I get to live with the memory of you saying, in front of everyone, that I’m not your type. That you’d never go after someone like me.”

“Wait—” Bob steps forward. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it?” Your voice breaks, loud and raw. “God, Bob. Do you have any idea what it’s been like being next to you all these years? Laughing at your stupid jokes, stealing your fries, sharing your damn bedwhen you have nightmares? You think I do that with just anyone?”

He’s stunned silent.

You sniff, eyes burning. “So yeah. I’m mad. I’m mad because I love you, and you made me feel like I was nothing.”

Bob doesn’t speak.

He just walks up to you, slow and shaking, cups your face in both hands—

—and kisses you like it’s killing him.

It’s clumsy at first—messy, furious. Like he’s trying to erase what he said with the way his mouth moves. You gasp into it, half from the shock and half from the weight of it, all the repressed tension finally boiling over.

His hands are rough when they cup your face, but they tremble slightly. Like he’s scared if he touches you wrong, you’ll disappear.

You fist your fingers in his jacket, yanking him closer. You kiss him like you’re mad at him, like you’re trying to carve the shape of your heartbreak into his ribs.

“Say it again,” you pant against his lips. “Say I’m not your type.”

He growls, mouth on your neck. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“Because if I told the truth—” He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are glassy. “If I told the truth, I’d lose you.”

You stare. “You almost did anyway.”

He groans like it physically hurts him and pulls you back in, lips crashing into yours again, hands sliding under your shirt, palms hot and rough as they explore familiar territory now suddenly forbidden.

Your jacket’s already off, somewhere on the ground. Bob’s comes next. His hands are on your waist, your ribs, gripping like he needs to feel you to believe this is real.

Then—

“Car,” he rasps. “Now.”

You don’t even make it to the backseat with any kind of grace.

The second the door slams shut behind you, he’s on you again. The dome light glows for a second then fades, and now it’s just the two of you, breathing hard in the dark, surrounded by silence and the salt air.

“Tell me again,” he mutters, pulling your shirt over your head. “Tell me you love me.”

You look up at him, flushed and vulnerable, chest heaving.

“I love you.”

He exhales sharply. “Say it like you mean it.”

You grab his jaw and kiss him again, deep and slow.

“I’ve always loved you, Bob.”

His hands slip under your thighs and he pulls you across the seat onto his lap like it’s nothing. You straddle him, gasping when you feel the hard press of him between your legs through layers of fabric that suddenly feel suffocating.

“Christ, you feel good,” he mutters into your collarbone as he mouths along it, teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver.

You tug at his shirt. “Off. Now.”

He chuckles—low and dangerous—and peels it off.

Bob Floyd is all golden skin and long lines, strong and lean from years of flying, and in this low light, his pupils blown wide, he looks like something feral.

“Always thought about this,” he confesses, one hand sliding down your back to grip your ass. “Every time you stayed over, curled up next to me. You’d wake up, and I’d still feel you in my arms and have to pretend it didn’t wreck me.”

You kiss him again, slower this time. More intentional.

More real.

This isn’t just years of friendship bursting into something physical. This is everything you’ve ever wanted—everything he’s wanted—and finally getting to have it, messy and broken and so right.

The moment you grind down onto him, both of you still in your jeans, Bob lets out a low, broken sound like he’s about to lose his mind.

“God, sweetheart,” he pants, gripping your hips hard. “You’re killin’ me—”

“I want you to lose it,” you whisper against his ear. “I want you to lose it for me.”

You’re still rolling your hips over him when his control snaps.

His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and open and needy. His hands—those perfect pilot hands—are everywhere. Tugging your bra down, thumbing over your nipples until you gasp, popping the button of your jeans with one hand. You do the same to his, both of you fumbling, breathless, frantic.

The second you’re bare—panties pushed to the side, his cock springing free—you sink down on him, both of you groaning in relief.

“Fuck—” Bob’s head hits the seat behind him. “You feel like heaven, baby.”

You’re panting. Hands on his shoulders. Moving. Slow at first, because you want to savor this, then harder when you realize he can take it. Wants it just as bad.

And he talks.

“Oh, you’re so good.”

“You were never too much—never.”

“Want you like this forever, baby, just like this—”

Your nails dig into his back as you ride him, faster, needier, more desperate.

When you start to tighten around him, gasping his name, he catches your face in his hands.

“Eyes on me,” he says, voice wrecked. “Come on, Y/N. Let me see you.”

And when you fall apart in his lap, crying out his name, he wraps his arms around you and loses it too, burying his face in your neck with a deep, guttural groan.

It’s quiet, except for your heartbeat in your ears and Bob’s hand rubbing circles on your bare thigh.

“You really love me?” he asks, voice quiet, raspy.

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Always.”

He kisses you again—slower, softer this time. Reverent.

And in that messy little car, tangled in clothes and each other, something inside both of you finally settles.