rodrikstark's headcanons (part 1)

f. adler + his tropical shirts

i need to LOUDLY bring up what everyone seems to forget: this man was canonically a college professor

he's not just a boat mechanic (though we love that)

he can be so refined and intelligent and charming and damn, he can also look good in a suit

he left mary with roberta for the weekend while you accompanied him to a faculty reunion in boston. he made you promise to stay next to him all evening, knowing that a conversation or two would veer in the direction of diane, and he wanted an escape route

but you didn't mind. you didn't know anyone here anyway, and you enjoyed hearing his laughter with old colleagues and his smart-sounding talk about dead philosophers

and, again, he just looks so fine in his suit, adjusting his watch, sipping his beer, loosening his tie, his muscles straining against the stiff fabric.

eventually you make it back to the hotel where you lay on the bed watching him strip. he wants to change into more casual clothes so you can head out for a night of drinking with his BU friends

"mmm, wait," you say, as he slips on one of his silky floral shirts. it's blue with yellow flowers. he hasn't had the chance to button it yet, and his chest hair and tattoos peek out.

he chuckles. "what?"

"come over here."

he crawls over to where you lay on the bed. you tug at the loose sides of his light shirt, your thumbnail catching on one of the little white buttons.

"as much as i love professor adler..."

he groans at that, putting more of his body weight on you.

"these shirts really do it for me."

"we're gonna—" he starts, faltering as you slip your hands down, nails combing against his lower abdomen. "we're gonna be late."

you shrug, yanking him down for a kiss.