#rooster bradshaw fluff

[lewmagoo]

Baking Christmas cookies with Bradley, only to notice he already ate the decorations before they could be added to the cookies 🎄

'they were trying to be sweeter than you, but don't worry I took care of it, you're the sweetest again.'

the house smelled of gingerbread and christmas candles. dean martin was crooning holiday tunes through bradley's record player, and the fireplace crackled in the living room. it was a cozy night in, and the two of you were spending it by making christmas cookies.

you'd raided carole's old recipe box, after bradley had insisted that she made the best sugar cookies he'd ever had. you wanted so badly to master the recipe, to give him something that reminded him of his mother. so you set out to do so.

first, it was gingerbread, which was baking in the oven. next were the sugar cookies. you were currently in the middle of cutting out the dough into various shapes, while bradley watched you intently.

you caught his gaze as you worked, his honeyed eyes holding a dreamy look. "what?" you asked, feeling slightly self-conscious. he shrugged, smiling softly. "nothing. you're just so beautiful and i don't know how i got so lucky."

"oh, hush," you replied, shaking your head as you went back to working. he reached out and grabbed a small handful of m&ms out of one of the bowls you'd filled with cookie toppings. you reached out and gently smacked his hand. "i told you to stop eating the decorations!" came your scolding.

"i can't help it, i'm starving," he responded. "here, i have a job for you," you suggested, grabbing the oven mitts and thrusting them into his hands. "get the cookies out of the oven while you're waiting." he nodded and set about pulling the gingerbread cookies out of the hot oven.

he sang along to winter wonderland as he went, harmonizing with dean. you couldn't help but smile at the sight of your boyfriend, dressed in christmas pajamas, complete with a santa hat on his head. he was truly too adorable for his own good.

he pulled the cookies out of the oven and placed them atop it, turning to you again with a smile. "done," he announced. not long after, you handed him your freshly arranged tray of sugar cookies to put into the oven. then you set about cleaning up your workspace, but not before bradley whisked you away to dance around the kitchen.

you let him lead you around, warmth enveloping you as he held you close. you really could stay like this forever. but as he spun you around one more time, you noticed something. you stopped, whirling around to look at the counter. "bradley bradshaw!" you exclaimed. "what?!" he asked.

"did you seriously eat all the cookie decorations?" you turned to look at him, and he had the audacity to laugh at you. "maybe i did," he admitted. "i told you i was starving! you can't set m&ms in front of me and expect me not to eat them all." he pulled you into his arms again, and you went reluctantly, rolling your eyes at his antics.

"besides," he continued, tipping your chin up so you'd look at him. mischief twinkled in his eyes, "they were trying to be sweeter than you, but don't worry, I took care of it. you're the sweetest again." this prompted another good-natured eye roll from you. "i really should be mad at you," you sighed. "but you love me," he responded. you had to nod in agreement, because he was right. "that i do. you owe me m&ms though. don't think i won't hold you to that." his smile shifted into a grin at your words. "i'll get you some more. but i can't guarantee i won't eat them all again."

[halfway-happyyy]

new year’s day (rooster bradshaw)

the result of being purely in my feelings and listening to taylor swift. no warnings, fluff only.

Your home is brimming with friends and a scant few family members, but there aren't enough of them to make it feel like home, to make it feel like San Diego. It’s where you usually prefer to spend the thirty-first of December each year- and you are dismayed to find yourself longing for it, but the decision to stay tucked away in your borough of the city this year had been a mutual one.

Rooster has been the heartbeat of the festivities this evening; an assortment of comfort food from the golden days of his childhood- which he spent the last day preparing- and some of your favourite snacks, lay in an array of dishes on the dining room table. An ancient tabby cat that you had rescued from a dank alleyway a couple of years ago, winds its way through tangles of pant-suited and stockinged legs, blissfully oblivious to the chaos that is about to ensue. His yellowed eyes are keen and utterly uncaring, and you long to follow him to the bedroom at the end of the hall, where you’ll lay down with him on the bed, your fingers lost in oceans of soft, ginger fur. What you really want is to wake up hours from now to the notion that your home is void of people again, the first of January and the rest of the year, laid out before you like a blank canvas.

“You have a beautiful home,” someone tells you as they pass by on their way to the snack table.

You mean to tell them thank you, but they’ve already disappeared into the throng of people.

Clocking the watch face on the underside of your wrist, you take note that you are fifteen minutes away from the countdown and a sigh of relief exits your parted lips in the form of a small puff of air. You couldn’t be sure when the switch had occurred, but at some point in the last couple of years, being around large crowds of people began to deplete your energy in ways you could never have fathomed before. Where you once thrived on the presence of many people, of myriads of conversations, it now exhausted you to every extent.

A pair of arms, warm and utterly familiar in their touch circle your waist and Rooster drops his chin to the curve in your shoulder, his breath fanning out over the back of your neck in warm waves.

“Have you eaten anything tonight, kid?”

You smile and gesture toward the laden food table. “I ate my weights worth in pimento cheese about an hour ago.”

“That’s my girl.” He laughs and presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head.

You turn in his embrace and cock your head to the side, studying his features. There are no readily telltale signs that he misses Fightertown as much as you do, but you also know him better than that.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” You ask, after a couple of minutes.

Rooster grins wide and nods his head, his top-shelf whisky orbs are bloodshot and unfocused with unbridled happiness and the glass clutched in his grasp is a mere sip away from being void of wine completely.

“Can I tell you something?” You ask.

He nods his head.

“You have to come closer though,” You whisper.

He offers you another wide beam and bends his head low so that you can tell him what you need to say.

“I love you, Rooster.”

He pulls away to reveal a shyness you haven’t been privy to in years- and a gruff laugh to match, as he circles his arms around your waist ever tighter. 

“I love you too, kid.”

Ten minutes lapse, and you decide at the last minute to head to the balcony to ring in your new year. You lose yourself in the noise of the city around you, and in the cacophony of everyone else’s celebrations. Though its loud, it’s nothing compared to the inside of your house, and you allow yourself a deep breath of fresh air. A December (or is it January now?) chill stings your cheeks and makes you feel more alive than anything behind you- save for maybe Rooster, ever did. You can hear them all inside now; the choir-like chant of a myriad of voices counting down the final seconds of the year. The balcony door opens, and with it a rush of warmth. Rooster appears beside you, sporting a headband with golden stars that depict the new year, and flop around merrily in the wind. Wordlessly, he adorns you with the same headband and places two glass atop the metal railing.

“It’s almost time, kid.”

He pops a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on five, and pours for you, the distinctive orange label nostalgic to you in every way. You view his figure in the scattered lighting around you, clad in a crisp, white button-up, black pressed trousers and multi-colored socks. Taking a sip of the effervescent alcohol, you revel in the tickle of the bubbles on your tongue, and in the slight sting as they slide down your throat and warm in your belly. The muffled notes of your guests inebriated version of Auld Lang Syne can be heard from inside.

“Three… two… one… Happy New Year!”

He reaches for you then, pulls your frame against his and kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever have the pleasure. When he breaks away, you are both breathless and grinning like idiots.

“Happy new year, kid.” He murmurs.

Another gust of warm air as Jake steps out onto the balcony with you, brandishing a polaroid camera.

“Smile, you two!”

Doing as he’s told, Rooster slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the warmth of his chest. Though sleepy from the bubbles catching fire in your belly, your smile is wide and genuine.

Rooster settles in a few seconds later, eyes fluttering shut as he sinks into the blissfully warm, sudsy water before you.

Your home is void of the last inebriated straggler around one o’clock in the morning. The only indications that they were ever there at all, are in the scattered wine glasses, polaroid photos, and confetti littering the hardwood floor- precious remnants from an evening well spent. You know it all needs to be dealt with, but the hour is nigh, and your bathtub calls out to you like a siren song. Rooster follows you to the washroom down the hall, where nimble fingers work the zipper down your dress, where you shed the useless material with an audible sigh of relief. You settle into the tub running while he discards his own clothing, and sidles in to the near-scalding water with a very audible sigh of relief.

You are quiet as you revel in your first few minutes of aloneness and utter silence, and when his eyes fall open again, he is grinning sleepily.

You quirk an eyebrow in question. “What?”

“You have a piece of confetti on your cheek.” He reaches toward you, a dripping finger brushes the shiny piece of plastic away from your face, leaving a miniscule trail of lavender-scented suds in its wake.

You regard each other with an intensity reserved only for painfully intimate times. Neither of you feel compelled to say much- one of things you love about him (and there are many things) is that the silence never feels imposing.

He reaches for your hand, takes it in his and brings it to his lips, indifferent to the suds that now gather on them.

“I am eternally grateful for you, kid. For our home, for the cantankerous feline that takes up just the right amount of space, for our life together.”

He squeezes your hand thrice beneath the water.

I love you…

Melancholy- caused by the imminent passage of time, had packed ice around your heart all evening, and now, a warmth gleaned from his words and from the tender way he’s looking at you now, helps to thaw it out. You take a deep breath and smile at him, the promise of looming adventures, of boundless laughter to be had with him, warms your heart even further.

“Happy new year, Rooster. I can’t wait to see what this year brings us.”