Christmas On Deck

Can you do some Christmas fluff with rooster? 💕

Sure! Thank you for the request <3 Hope you like it :D

Christmas On Deck

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

Summary: You're stuck at the airport on Christmas Eve and, naturally, you meet a pilot. What's his name, again?

CW: Fluffity fluff with a smidge of angst

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, are you kidding me?” you groan in response to the latest flight delay announcement over the airport intercom. The gate is packed with equally irritable travellers whose flights have been postponed on account of the blizzard. You let out a weary sigh and plop down into the only available seat in your vicinity, which happens to be right next to some dude with a pornstache who’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt – even though your destination is Vermont – and Ray Bans – even though you’re indoors.

“What a nightmare,” you hear him mutter under his breath, his lip curling sideways underneath his bizarre facial hair. He’s got several scars running down the side of his face.

You eye him inconspicuously as he pulls a book out of his backpack, partly because he smells nice but mostly because you’ve got nothing better to do. When he leans back into his seat, his shoulder brushes against yours accidentally. He looks up at you apologetically.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

You give him a tight smile, wondering if he’s going to keep his sunglasses on while he reads. “It’s cool,” you respond. “It’s not your fault we’re all cramped in here.”

He chuckles, trying to squeeze his broad shoulders inward, but his arms still manage to extend beyond both sides of his seat. Finally, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs, and opens his book.

For some reason, the low rasp of his voice and the way he seems greatly unfazed by the prospect of being stuck at an airport on Christmas Eve makes you weirdly interested in striking up a conversation with him. “Is it a little bright for you?” you say cheekily, noting that he hasn’t removed his shades.

The man turns his head slowly to look at you over his shoulder. He straightens his back slightly, a small smile forming underneath his ridiculous mustache that, you hate to admit, is becoming increasingly attractive with every passing minute. He lifts his hand to tap on the frame, letting the glasses slide a touch down his nose as he squints at you, studying your face. Instead of answering your question, he poses his own: “You going somewhere special for the holidays?”

“Home,” you say. If you ever get there. “You?”

He takes off his sunglasses and hooks them into the collar of his white undershirt. “Some friends are going skiing,” he says, shrugging.

You nod, not really sure where to take the conversation next, when there’s another announcement indicating that all flights have been cancelled for the rest of the night. You close your eyes in disappointment as the rest of the terminal groans in response to the news. “Great,” you say. “Christmas Eve and Christmas morning at the damn airport.”

The man watches you sympathetically for a few moments before saying, “Yeah, bummer.” His eyes scan your face for another several seconds and then he shoves his book back into his backpack and stands up. “Come on,” he says, motioning with his head for you to follow.

You furrow your eyebrows at him suspiciously, not at all eager to accompany a strange man to an unknown destination, regardless of how good-looking he may be.

He senses your hesitation and extends his hand. “It’s not far,” he says. “Promise.”

You swallow uneasily, putting your hand in his. His warm fingers curl around yours and he gently pulls you out of your seat. He doesn’t let go of your hand once you’re up, holding onto you instead while he navigates the crowd of angry passengers at the gate. He draws you out of the horde and down one of the largely empty corridors of the airport. “Where are we going?” you ask cautiously.

“Here,” he says, turning a corner into a dimly lit room with large windows exposing the flurrying snow outside.

“Wow,” you breathe, taking a step forward when he finally lets go of your hand. You walk toward the window spanning the entire wall from the floor up, watching the storm blanket the terminal, snowing in several parked planes.

Mustache walks up behind you. “It’s the observation deck,” he says, looking out onto the apron with a smile.

You glance up at him, admiring the shape of his jaw, and his neck, and his broad shoulders, and his mustache, goddamnit, and wonder if he’ll ever tell you his name because, at this point, it feels awkward to ask. You grin to yourself and then sit right down onto the carpeted floor, crossing your legs. “In that case,” you say. “Let’s observe.”

The man chuckles lightly and takes a seat next to you on the floor. He unzips his backpack and pulls out a bag of chips. “Salt and vinegar?” he offers, ripping the bag open and holding it out to you.

You laugh. “This is dinner, isn’t it?”

“This,” he says, and then pulls out a box of Ritz crackers. “And this.”

“Yes!” you exclaim, grabbing the box out of his hands.

“And, for dessert…” he adds, digging his hand back into the bag and pulling out another box.

Your jaw drops in your excitement. “Oreos!”

He nods. “I’ve got a lot of Oreos,” he says, pulling out several packages of the cookies.

“Amazing!” you say. “I hit the jackpot sitting next to you, didn’t I?”

He grins, his teeth grazing over his lip as he curls it in. “I was thinking the same thing about you,” he says.

You glance up to meet his gaze, blushing slightly.

He reaches out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “You’re really fucking pretty,” he says.

You smile at him, deciding that being stuck in an airport on Christmas Eve isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.

You spend the next couple of hours eating and chatting. You find out that he’s a pilot in the Navy, that his father died when he was just a boy, and that his mother passed away when he was a teenager. He tells you about Top Gun, about his squad, about how he’s indifferent when it comes to Christmas because he doesn’t really have anybody to spend it with. He even tells you what his favorite food is. What he doesn’t tell you is his name. And he doesn’t ask for yours.

You don’t bother either; what the point? After tonight, you’ll never see him again, so there’s no sense in getting attached. It wouldn’t be the first time you spent the night with a stranger without so much as exchanging numbers. Unfortunately, besides being exceptionally cute, the guy is actually boyfriend material. He’s genuine, and funny, and considerate, and you’re finding him especially easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s because both of you know that, by this time tomorrow, the stranger you’ve shared all your secrets with will be out of your life for good.

This is great. This is therapeutic. This sort of transient camaraderie is what travelling is all about. You don’t build lasting relationships with random people you meet at the bus stop, or at a train station. Why should an airport be any different?

There’s a chiming in the distance and you look down at your phone. Midnight.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

You look up at him with a small smile. “Hopefully Santa knows where to find us.”

He chuckles while you rub your hands together. “Cold?” he asks, pulling a blanket out of his backpack.

“Is there anything you don’t have in there?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I like to be prepared.” He hands you the blanket.

You unfold it and move closer to him, trying to wrap it around both your shoulders and his.

“Here,” he says, shifting to lean his back against one of the seats and spreading his feet so you could sit between his legs.

You stand up to walk around him, and then lower yourself in front of his body. His hands are on your legs the moment your knees bend, helping you down. His touch sends a shockwave through you, and you glance back to see him looking up at you lustfully. You gulp as you sit down, his hands sliding slowly up the sides of your thighs. You lick your lips, sliding backward until you feel your hips align with his, and then you slowly lean your back against his chest and pull the blanket over both of you. His arms close around yours under the fleece and he lets out a sigh. You rest your head on his shoulder and he lowers his face to press his cheek against your hair.

“This is nice,” you mutter, already warming up as his large hand closes around your arm. His thumb begins to brush your skin as he makes a soft humming sound in agreement.

…

You wake up to the hot sun radiating through the giant windows of the room. You’re lying on the ground with the man you met last night beside you under the twisted blanket, his extremely heavy arm crushing your shoulder. You don’t mind it, though; his sculpted arms kept you warm all night.

You rotate onto your back and he stirs, lifting his hand to rest it over your abdomen as he nuzzles his face against the side of your head.

“Good morning,” he whispers, his fingers gently stroking your stomach.

You smile at the ceiling, your eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the room. “Merry Christmas,” you say.

He sighs and his hot breath bathes your neck. “It is,” he murmurs, his hand tangling in the blanket as he grips your waist to pull you closer.

You shut your eyes, enjoying the very best Christmas present you’ve ever received. But, just when you’re about to turn your head and finally give your companion a kiss, a loud beep followed by an announcement indicating that flights have resumed interrupts the moment.

You exhale slowly, not bothering to conceal your disappointment, and Mustache chuckles into your ear, tickling the side of your face. “I wonder if Santa found us,” he says quietly.

You glance over at his mischievous smirk and sit up. There’s a Christmas tree in the corner of the room that you hadn’t noticed the previous night because it was too dark. Under the tree, there are an assortment of snacks – including more Oreos – that he must’ve gotten from the vending machine overnight. You giggle as you make your way toward it. There’s also a small package of travel socks, a neck pillow, and an airplane keychain. You pick it up, observing that the plane doesn’t resemble any commercial airline.

“It’s a Rhino,” he says, and you look up at him in confusion.

“It’s an airplane,” you respond with a smile, dangling the ring from your index finger.

He chuckles. “F-18,” he clarifies. “It’s the jet I fly.”

“They sell these here?” you ask, although you already know the answer.

He shakes his head and then shrugs. “Just something to remember me by,” he says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants.

You blink at him without responding, thinking that his name might also help. But you’ve already decided that it’s best not to know. “Thanks,” you say finally, closing your hand around the tiny plane. “I, uh, didn’t get you anything.”

He grins. “Yes, you did,” he says. “You gave me the best Christmas Eve and morning I’ve had in a very long time.”

You smile back at him. “We should do it again some time.”

He chuckles but his face falls slightly, as though he’s not optimistic about the likelihood of an encore. “Same time next year?”

You hold his gaze for a moment before the intercom blares, declaring that you have ten minutes to get to your plane. You gather the snacks, dispersing them between your carry-on bag and his, and make your way back to the gate.

The attendant calls on the back rows to start boarding and you give Mustache one last look. He squeezes your hand, and you don’t want him to let go, but he does anyway.

“I bet you have a really pretty name,” he says. It must have occurred to him also that there would be no point in knowing it.

“Have a safe flight,” you say.

He nods. “You too.”

Your mouth is taut when you give him a final smile and turn away, but before you make it past the checkpoint, you turn back to look at him again. He waves at you but you step out of the line anyway, going against the stream of bodies desperate to get onto the aircraft. He gives you a questioning look when you arrive before him. “Uh,” you start, unsure how to express what you mean to say. “Not just this flight.”

“What?” he asks.

“You’re a pilot,” you clarify. He narrows his eyes. “So, I just wanted to say, may all your flights be safe.”

He watches you solemnly as you chew on your lip. Then, you throw your hands around his neck just as he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you off the ground in a passionate embrace. He kisses your neck as you sink your head into his shoulder. When he puts you down, his mouth is still trailing up the side of your face, leaving in its wake a string of delicate kisses. He brings his hands up to take you by the shoulders, resting his forehead on yours. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Bradley. It’s nice to meet you.”

You smile, watching the lower half of his face transform when you respond. “Hi, Bradley. I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he whispers, his lips hovering over yours. “I knew you had a pretty name.”

You chuckle briefly, but then his hand starts gliding along your shoulder and up your neck and, suddenly, you’re not in a laughing mood. “How long are you going to be in Vermont?” you ask, closing your eyes.

“How long are you going to be in Vermont?” he responds.

You smile as his mouth connects with yours, as his fingers trace swirls into your cheek, as his tongue drifts along your bottom lip before he catches it gently between his teeth.

“You taste like Oreos and Coke,” he murmurs.

“That’s what you gave me for breakfast,” you respond against his lips.

“I’ll have to do better next time.”

You look up at him after pulling away. “I thought it was perfect.”

He nods, his eyes perusing your face as his hand slips down to grasp yours. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.

You grin. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

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