Latest Posts by mirimim - Page 3

five and one

rafa x gn!reader, 7598 words, canon typical drug use, hurt/comfort/angst, no happy ending(!!!)

the five times you were his friend, and the one time you weren’t 

a/n: this has been in my docs waiting to be finished for sososo long omg finally the rafito despair is here. enjoy!

taglist: @ashlingiswriting​ @drabbles-mc​ @cositapreciosa​ @hausofmamadas​ @cherixrosa​ @purplesong1028​ @mandaloria314​ @dashavau​ @yeetintomadness @thesandbeneathmytoes​ (as per i have forgotten who wants tagging and who doesnt sorry!)

1

Rafa’s been asking you for weeks. Come smoke, carnale, come on. I have something to show you.

Soon, you told him. I’m busy with school, work, I have to pick my Abuela up from church—I’m the only one who can drive her, remember?

They weren’t made up excuses, even if he thought they might’ve been. You didn’t like it either, having no time for him, but it’s how it went. How it is. He dropped out of school, never made it to college. You did. It gives you different markers now, different structures to shape the friendship around. When you were classmates it was easy, natural: before class, in class, after class. Simple. There you were, there he was. Now, you have to pencil him in like any other obligation.

He isn’t an obligation. You try not to let him feel like one.

Lees verder

Nightcall

Rafa Quintero x gn!reader (no particular warnings? the usual for the show, nothing explicit), 3563 words

a/n : here is a self-indulgent Rafa Pov for @narcolini and I (and all the Rafa babes out there) ❤ Nightcall is also the name of a London Grammar song and it slaps and it's underrated

As always it's the fictional, not the real deal, enjoy xx

It is dark outside when Rafa opens his eyes. He’s not sure what is pulling him out of his sleep, but the silk sheets around him are disorienting. He knows he’s home, there is no doubt in his mind, but still, the way his sweat clings to his body, sticking the sheets to his naked legs, bringing back memories of the nightmare he was having mere seconds ago, it all makes him wonder if he’s really awake. It’s the second ring that grounds him, shakes him to the core, makes his heart skip a beat. By the third ring, he’s already on his feet. His chains are cold on his chest, a harsh contrast against his heated skin.

No one ever calls him in the middle of the night, they always know better. Fix it by yourselves, pendejos, or make sure it can wait until morning. He’s not sure if he should be angry, he’s still so damn tired and his eyes hurt. His palms are digging in his eyesockets when it rings a fourth time. He picks it up, the movement so fast that the wire tenses, almost pulling the phone off the nightstand.

‘’ Rafa? ‘’

It’s you. Your voice sounds far away, a whisper almost lost in the buzzing of the line, but it’s you. He says your name back in disbelief, it's almost a question. He hates how his voice sounds, hoarse, raspy.

‘’ Rafa, dios, I- ‘’

There’s rustling on the other side as if you’re readjusting the phone between your ear and your shoulder, ‘’ I didn’t want to call you so late. Fuck, I didn’t want to call you at all, but I- ‘’

You take a deep breath and he can hear how it gets caught in your throat, shaking on the way out. He knows he should say something, but he feels lightheaded, glued to the floor, like all air has been sucked out of him. He can barely hear you against the sound of his heart echoing back to him through the plastic receiver.

‘’ Are you alright? ‘’

It’s the only words he can muster, pulled out of him before he can even process them. God, it’s you, he can’t believe it. But the carpet under his toes feels real and the breeze coming in from the window makes him shiver. He starts to believe he dreamed it all when you don’t answer him, when the line goes back to being silent. He had stopped dreaming about you after a while, back when your paths had separated, when he had told himself he didn’t need to be distracted by this, by you.

‘’ No? ‘’ It sounds like a question, but it’s hesitant like you’re waiting for him to tell you the answer. ‘’ I mean, yes, but- I- damn it. ‘’

Something clashes on the other side, plastic being cracked, being hit. He knows it’s your doing and he realizes you’re calling him from a payphone. Rafa can see it clear as day, your hand hitting the transparent window, putting your anger on something, anything.

‘’ This was a mistake. I’m sorry for waking you up. ‘’

This stirs something in him. Fear, desperation. You can’t hang up now, not after all this time.

‘’ Don’t. ‘’ He is gripping the phone so hard, he can feel the plastic wince at the strength. ‘’ Tell me what’s wrong. Don’t hang up. I can fix it. ‘’

Fix it, fix this, us. Rafa can hear you breathing on the other side, the rain hitting his window on his right, pouring out on the balcony. He tries again, ‘’ Tell me what happened. ‘’

He hears you shuffling once more and then it’s the sound of coins moving around, hair brushing the receiver.

‘’ Let me- ‘’ A car is passing by, splashing water around. You sniff, ‘’ Let me put more money in this thing, okay? ‘’

He doesn’t like how defeated your voice sounds, how tired it is. Every peso that he hears cling against the metal is torture for him. He had never been a patient man, he’s been told that a lot, he doesn’t care.

‘’ I’ve been doing business con El Golfo, yeah? ‘’

He knows, of course, he knows about you and Ábrego. He couldn’t stop himself from sending someone to sneak around, to pay good money to know your whereabouts. Rafa didn’t believe you, back then, when you had told him you were calling it quits. He had expected you to ease into the coke business as he did, coming back a week or two later, begging for him to let you in again. He would’ve, but you never came back around, not this time.

‘’ We moved around products for them tonight. I think they betrayed me, everyone’s- ‘’

He can hear you swallow. He can see you leaning forward, pinching the bridge of your nose. Your voice quivers.

‘’ Everyone’s dead. I think. Whatever they paid the police, it was good money, they didn’t even bother to arrest anyone. ‘’

His ribcage is hurting him, a weird pain going straight through his chest, he’s sweating again.

‘’ Where are you? ‘’ He croaks. His whole body is stuck in a weird loop, he can’t move, he’s shaking at the same time.

It’s your next words that finally wake him up, feet turning and burning against the carpet. Please come get me, Rafa. I can’t do this. He’s moving now, and everything is so fast and so slow. He grabs a shirt that he doesn’t button up from a chair, a pair of pants from the first drawer. You stay right there, okay? I’m on my way. I’m coming. He’s calling out as he goes down the stairs, screaming for a car to be brought around. He’s angry now. Whatever shock and insecurity were keeping him stuck to the phone vanished. He can feel the cold metal of the gun he tucks into the back of his jeans, he can hear the squeal of his leather boots as they press against the marble floor.

In the back of his mind, he knows. He knows he should call Miguel, to let him know what is going on, to hear him say he might be going into a trap, that you chose your own path, and to let you deal with the consequences.

He knows that. He doesn’t care.

He didn’t care back then either when you had left, couldn’t give a shit, he told Miguel. Clearly, you weren’t up to joining the higher leagues, he thought. Who wouldn’t want more? Sell more, make more? Spend more? It bothered him so much at first, itching in his skin to think you didn’t understand it, understand him. He couldn’t tell when you had started to drift apart, idolizing different ideas, different lives. When he met Sofia a few weeks afterward, he thought it would solve it, solve the burning hole of betrayal in his chest, and oh was he mistaken.

His hands squeeze around the wheel thinking about it. It’s pouring hard outside, wipers going back and forth. He’s not angry at you anymore, not as much.

The tires screech when he finally stops, so fast that the movement sends him forward, bracing against the wheel. He can see your silhouette in the booth, blurred from the rain. You’re on the phone, talking to someone, and for a second, Miguel is behind him in the car, telling him he’s been betrayed again, that he was stupid to fall for it again, that-

Rafa opens the door, water slipping from the roof, soaking his sleeve. He can’t stay inside with his own thoughts. He made his choice. He’s here, like he told you he would be. His hair is sticking to his forehead, water dripping down his jaw. He lets the car run, he doesn’t plan on staying in the open anyway, telling you to stay at this street corner for so long was already dangerous as it is.

He can see your head following him as he walks around the hood. Steady steps, pushing the water out in ripples. He still can’t make out your face through the fogged window and for a second he hesitates again, almost catching the sidewalk with the top of his shoe in the process. He could leave and never think about this night again, he hasn’t looked into your eyes yet, he could go home and pretend he’s dreamed all of it.

You jump when he pulls the plastic door open,

‘’ Jesus, Rafa. Fuck, you scared me. ‘’ He watches your hands open and clenches back on the receiver, ‘’ I mean, I saw you get out. I don’t know why- ‘’

You’re soaked, from head to toe, who knows how long you had been running around before you finally decided to call him. Heavy drops of water are falling from your hair unto your leather jacket, running down the front. It is almost too big for you, your hands haft hidden by the cuff of the sleeves. His eyes fall back to your face, but you’re already watching him, gripping the phone with both hands. He can hear someone calling your name on the other side. You blink once, twice, but you can’t seem to be able to look away. He knows he can’t. You wipe some water off your face, pushing the leather under your nose, using the movement to turn back to your phone call.

‘’ Alejandro, I have to go now. We’ll fix this. ‘’

And then you hang up. Metal against metal, the sound of coins bumping somewhere in the back, sliding the change at the front. He knows you won’t take it. That it will make some kids happy. Candy money. You turn to him, your lips are pale, slightly blue from the cold.

‘’ You’re here. ‘’

‘’ I told you I would. ‘’

He hopes you never doubted it the way he did. That you believed him when he said it, that no one was perched on your shoulder telling you to run away and to not look back. He feels the water that runs down his back, pressing the fabric to his skin. You sniff again, and he’s sure you’ll catch a cold,

‘’ Can you bring me home? ‘’

God, he wishes he could, but he knows you’re grasping at straws, only wishing to be home after a shit show of a night. He shakes his head.

‘’ You know I can’t do that. ‘’

You scoff, ‘’ You can’t say I didn’t try. ‘’

Rafa cracks a smile. It’s small, but it pulls at his lips, showing the long dimples on the side of his cheeks. You had missed him. Missed how easy it was to talk with him, to feel seen, understood without too many words. His brown locks are sticking to his head, curls springing back to life. He passes a hand through them,

‘’ You have somewhere else I can bring you? ‘’

You nod, and you almost have a heart attack when he raises his arm up, pushing the material of his sleeve up with his fingers to wipe some water off your face. The cotton rubs against your skin, leaving a warm feeling across your cheek that you can’t shake away.

‘’ There’s a safe house in a suburb north of here, if you can bring me there, I’ll owe you one. ‘’

Here you are, negotiating again as if he would ask anything from you in return. He knows you prefer to keep things between you calm and civilized right now. Pretend like this is just an exchange of services.

‘’ Don’t push it, now. Come on, bobo, get in the damn car. ‘’

He wishes he could tell you it’s not like that, that it has never been and never will, that you mean too much to just be treated like a distant coworker, but he doesn’t. He can’t, so he stays silent as he steps out of the way, holding the plastic door open, allowing you to brush past him.

Rafa moves towards his side of the car, leaning between the seats to unlock your door from the inside. You fall on your seat, leather jacket squeaking against the leather booth. The moment your door closes, he steps on the gas, leaving the payphone behind in a fraction of a second.

‘’ I told you Ábrego was a prick. ‘’

‘’ You always tell me lots of things, Rafa. ‘’

He’s waving his hands around the wheel and he’s bristling at the thought. Just the idea of Juan Garcia putting his hands on you-

‘’ I told you to stay with us, that we could make this work. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t listen. ‘’

He knows he is channelling his anger on the wrong person, but still, he wants you to be angry at him too. To lash out, to tell him why you left, why you thought you could find better elsewhere without them, without him.

‘’ Stop this, Rafa. This has nothing to do with Guadalajara- ’’

‘’¿A sí? Because I recall you calling us pinche sapos del gobierno or something like that? ‘’

He knew it had always bothered you when Miguel had started to play businessman, mingling around with politicians and CEOs. We are criminals, Rafa, you had told him once, we pay those guys off, we don’t try to do their jobs. You had tried telling Miguel, time and time again, but he didn’t get it, maybe he didn’t even care to.

‘’ Ay, por favor, you know I never liked how close Miguel was to those senators! We were always a politician snitching away from crumbling down! Why am I even fighting with you over this?! ‘’

You sigh, head falling between your hands. He couldn’t stop himself and he hates it, hate seeing you hurt, hate shouting at you like that. When you speak again, it’s muffled by your sleeves, barely strong enough to be heard over the engine.

‘’ If I knew you’d be shitting on me this whole ride I would have just dealt with this myself. ‘’

‘’ You’d probably be dead, is what you would be. ‘’

‘’ Fuck you, Rafa, fuck you, really. ‘’

He stays silent then, there’s nothing left to say. It’s always the same things he brings up, every time, but it never changes the outcome, no matter how much he wishes it did. He thinks back to your words earlier. If you can bring me there, I’ll owe you one. It’s the only thing he can think of to make you understand, to break the silence in the car. He turns to you,

‘’ You don’t owe me anything, you know. Ever. ‘’

You snort, fingers pushing at the vents on the dash, pushing the heat toward your feet. He can feel your eyes on him for a second, he can see the small smile on the side of your face.

‘’ Oh, because we’re friends again, now? You’re gonna stop being a pendejo or-? ‘’

He knows you’re laughing at him, trying to change the subject, to not let this moment get too emotional. His nose wrinkles, shaking his head in a failed attempt to mock you. His fingers reach for the A/C, making sure the heat is on.

‘’ You know I don’t mean it, right? ‘’ Being an asshole, he wants to say, ‘’ I’m just- ‘’

He is met with silence once again. Words stuck in his throat, blocking his airway. He kind of hoped you would finish his sentence so he wouldn’t have to say it out loud. Admit that he is wrong, that he missed you. To let you know how much your call tonight had messed up his inside in a way he hadn’t felt in so long.

‘’ I missed you too, Rafa. ‘’

It’s comforting, the way you say it, it’s soft and meaningful, he can’t stop the sigh of relief that comes out of his chest. Your hand raises up, pressing against his bicep, the fabric of his shirt pushing more water into his skin. Your thumb is moving up and down, warming him up the best you can.

‘’ But you’re still the biggest bitch ever. ‘’ Your hand is higher now, meeting the back of his head with a loud slap, ‘’ Who do you think you were, talking to me like that, tonto, mmh?! ‘’

‘’ Ouch! What are- ‘’

You swat at him again and another time for good measure, he dodges, so you pinch his cheek with two fingers instead,

‘’ I make my own choices and I learn from them. You better not ‘i-told-you-so’ me ever again. ‘’

He snickers, pushing you back into your own seat. For a second, you are kids again, meeting on the playground being the school. No responsibilities, no bounties on your heads.

‘’ It’s my job to knock some sense into you. ‘’

‘’ Maybe you should keep it for yourself, from what I’ve heard you need it. ‘’

He stops in front of a house, it’s dark and small, buried between all the other ones. He knew it was this one you meant, back at the street corner after you gave him the address, your old parent’s house. After you moved from Badiraguato for your dad’s new job it had been a miracle that you ended up finding each other again in Guadalajara.

‘’ You want me to go in with you? Make sure it’s safe? ‘’

Rafa knows that he’s staling, holding on to the last minutes before you inevitably get up and leave. You shake your head.

‘’ I’m sure it’s good. I’ll be fine. ‘’

You sigh, crossing and uncrossing your legs in your seat. He’s not sure what more to say, but you lean towards him, gently taking his hand between yours. It’s awkward, fingers intertwining with yours like you two had never done this before. You smile, it’s soft, barely there, he notices a scar that wasn’t there before.

‘’ You be careful out there, Rafa. ‘’

‘’ You know I’m the one they’re scared of now, hmm? ‘’

You scoff, squeezing his hand with yours, a warning. Listen to me. This is serious, tonto. You look up at him, and it’s sadness he can see in your eyes, regret maybe.

‘’ Don’t be a smartass, you know what I mean. ‘’

The movement is shaky and awkward again, but you bring your joined hands up, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his hand. It’s warm, electrifying and he can’t do anything but hope that you would just stay here with him.

You’re opening the door before he can say anything else, sliding out of your seat before he can tell you that he will be careful if you ask him. As you get out of the car, your hand slipping from his, he leans forward and tugs at your sleeve, pulling you half back in your seat.

‘’ Are you going to call again? ‘’

Rafa feels like he is shouting, anything to have your attention, to make you stay with him a second more. He hates that he can't tell what you're thinking, what's behind your eyes. They're shining from the street lights outside, slightly wet from the cold, completely unreadable to him. He’s begging, he realizes, he never does that, but he doesn’t care.

‘’ Do you want me too? ‘’ you breathe out. Your voice is small, hardly audible over the raindrops falling on the roof.

‘’ I do. ‘’ I really want you to, he is itching to say, please, it’s pulling his chest.

‘’ Then I will. ‘’

He watches your mouth move before the words finally start to make sense. Your head moves down, body leaning to meet his in-between the seats. Your lips touch the corner of his mouth, the skin of his cheek touching his teeth from the motion. You are close to him for less than a second, already moving back to the door before he realizes, but still, he can smell your perfume, taste the rain and the sweat that is mixed in it. Rafa can feel the cold of your fingers on his forearm, the heat that is spilling from your lips into his whole being.

You close the door behind you with a small wave, mouthing him a thank you through the window. It was barely a second, a second where his heart had stopped and his insides had melted. Another second pass and you are gone, inside and safe, door closed, locked. I really want you to, he was itching to say, please, it’s pulling his chest again.

Then I will. You would. Rafa had never been a patient man, he had been told that a lot, and he never cared. But tonight, tomorrow, for weeks or months, he could wait, he decided. He just has to wait for the phone to ring again.

𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟏𝟎

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You and Rooster are in uncharted territory. It makes you act out. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.6k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

When Rooster comes into your bedroom just after sunrise, his lip caught between his teeth and a robe shrugged over his shoulders, he feels guilty. Your room is still dark, hardly touched at all by the yellow light of the sun.

There you are, alone on your waterbed, tangled in your comforter and breathing steadily into your down pillows. Your limbs are a mess and your pajama pants are crooked on your hips--it makes Rooster smile fondly and shake his head. You sleep hard. And before he met you, he never understood what that meant. But looking at you right now, with only a few hours of sleep in your system, he understands it immediately. How else could anyone describe this scene before him? 

He kneels on the ground beside your bed, careful not to rustle the waterbed. That guilt is sitting like ice water in his throat right now--but he knows he has to wake you up. 

“Cherry,” he whispers quietly, laying his flat palm in the middle of your back. “Babygirl.” 

You’re in a dreamless sleep. It’s what you prefer, honestly. You always feel like you sleep better when your brain isn’t busy flooding the back of your eyelids with false images. 

When you don’t stir, Rooster leans forward and presses a few kisses to your bare forearm, carefully pushing the comforter down so it’s under your shoulder. 

“Baby,” Rooster whispers again. 

Finally, you rouse. 

It’s only a little bit--just your eyes barely cracked open, your breathing harsh and curt before steadying itself. You’re blinking at Rooster rapidly, still not entirely sure where you are, and swallowing hard. 

“There she is,” he whispers, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Morning, sunshine.”

Mumbling incoherently, you rut yourself until you’re closer to Rooster. 

He thinks you’re going to get out of bed for a moment but then you open up the covers and close your eyes again. You’re inviting him into bed with you, knowing full well that Rooster can do little except bend to your will. 

He glances at his wristwatch. It’s already 7:21. You two need to be in the makeup chair by 8:15--and even that’s pushing it. But then he feels the plumes of your body heat, the rose and vetiver still staining your skin from the bath he drew you last night, and he’s slipping off his robe and climbing into bed beside you. 

“You’re a real minx, you know that?” He asks. 

You’re already molding yourself against him, tangling your legs in his, snuggling yourself against his throat, smiling lazily. He’s very warm--warm enough to make you wanna pur. 

“Uh huh,” you whisper. 

He strokes your hair carefully, knowing that you’re well on your way to falling back asleep. But he can’t be mad--how could he? He’s holding you. 

“Dennis rang,” he says quietly. “We’ve got a shoot today.” 

You groan quietly, screwing your eyes closed. 

“Me and you?” 

“And Jake.” 

“Three’s company,” you mutter, worming your fingers in the waistband of Rooster’s shorts and letting his hot, taut skin soothe the pads of your fingers. “No scripts then?” 

Rooster shakes his head, lashes fluttering when your fingers dance along the elastic of his briefs. 

“Improvising today,” he says. “You’ve gotta earn your way into Heaven.” 

Wrinkling your nose, you sigh. 

“That’s sacrilegious,” you whisper. “Didn’t Jesus just rise or something?”  

Rooster kisses the top of your head and lets his lips linger there for a long time. 

“Like we’re going to Heaven anyway,” he teases. 

Grinning tiredly, you yawn and then nuzzle your nose against his warm throat. 

“You are,” you tell him. “St. Rooster.” 

He shakes his head. 

“That’s generous,” he whispers. 

Both of you glance down to his knuckles in tandem. They’re still split, but they’re scabbed over and healing now. They’re still pink from breaking that man’s nose and now when he gets angry, the skin there tingles. 

“You take in orphans, fistfight pervs, make me cum,” you yawn. “That’s, like, a golden ticket through the pearly gates.” 

He sighs. 

“What did I do before you?” He asks. He’s only partly teasing.

“Question your status in the afterlife, I guess,” you answer with a sigh. “But I’ve always known where you’re going, daddy.” 

He shakes his head. 

Laying in bed with you, on this lazy morning that is not supposed to be lazy at all, makes him think about Sunday mornings when his ma was still alive. She would do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, eating peach jam on rye toast, as he snuggled into her side and pretended to read the sports section. He was little then, newly a fatherless child, and tried hard to be around his ma whenever he could. She never said it, but he knew that it helped her. He could smell the tears on her cheeks sometimes when he came in early in the morning, warming up his father’s side of the bed even though the space was far too large for him to fill. His feet never touched the end of the bed; his father’s feet always hung off.  

He doesn’t think about this often--not really. He honestly doesn’t think about either of his parents very often at all, but if he does, it isn’t like this: these sun-drenched memories that fill him to the brim with the sweetest and stickiest kinds of grief.

You feel it when he gets quiet.

“Dream anything fab?” You whisper. 

He doesn’t answer, just pulls you closer. You understand that he doesn’t want to speak for a little while. You’re okay with that. You’ll make yourself okay with that. But you also know that you won’t be able to fall back asleep--Rooster won’t let you, anyway. 

So, you begin to gingerly trace the elastic band of his briefs. His hips stiffen beneath your touch, but he doesn’t move away from you. 

When you press that first chaste kiss to his jaw, he knows he’s done for.

With his eyes screwed shut, with his chest tight and growing tighter with every one of your movements, he relishes in this closeness. You with your open mouth pressed against his throat, your hand wrapped around his hardening cock, his arm securing your body against his. 

“You okay?” You ask quietly, feverishly kissing his cheeks. 

Gripping the sheets, grinding his teeth, he just nods. Your pace is something between languid and merciless--he knows he won’t last long, especially when you move his hand to your underwear and let him feel how thoroughly soaked they are. 

He tries to start moving his fingers against your clit, but you halt him. Instead, you hold onto his wrist, let his hand fall over his own cock, and smear your arousal over his length. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Want me to touch you, babygirl?” 

You shake your head, dizzy with excitement. 

“No,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.” 

When your thumb presses that deliciously sensitive spot on the underside of his cock, the spot that your tongue is well-acquainted with, he instinctively reaches out and grabs onto your hair. He isn’t rough, doesn’t pull; he just anchors the two of you together that way. 

“Cherry,” he whimpers. 

Your chest is hot now. Still, you’re feverishly kissing his flush skin, ignoring the ticking clock and the sunlight that’s beginning to lighten the bedroom. 

Rooster’s suddenly thinking about this being his reality. About waking up with you in the morning, kissing your eyelids, letting you wrap your hand around his cock. He’s thinking about this bed beneath the two of you being your marital bed. He’s thinking about marrying you and moving to wine country and having you all to himself. And fuck, it’s getting him so close, making his throat so tight and warm, tightening that coil in his belly. 

Suddenly, he’s not just thinking about you and him. He’s thinking about the bed having little tiny bodies squished in between the two of you. He’s thinking about their feet never reaching the end of the bed. He’s thinking about little tiny palms pressed to his cheeks, little tiny lips pressed to his knuckles. He’s never thought about this before--with anyone, ever, at all--and it’s pushing him to an edge he’s never stood on before. 

“What, daddy?” 

He groans, a pitiful and loud noise, and holds onto your hair tighter. 

“I wanna cum inside that pretty cunt,” he tells you. “Can you do that for me, babygirl? Can I cum inside you?” 

You comply with vigor. You’re wet enough to ease him into you at once after you’ve pulled your pajamas off. Holding yourself steady with your hands planted on his belly, your hair still messy and sand still peppering the corners of your eyes, you look down at him and he looks up at you.

He pushes his feet into the waterbed, ignoring the sloshing, and thrusts himself into you. You don’t dare tear your gaze from his pretty face, not even for a moment. 

You can tell he’s thinking about something deeply, can tell from the strain of his lips and the furrow of his brows and the heat that’s gathered in his cheeks and over his chest. 

“What?” You ask breathlessly, rolling your hips into his. 

He’s pressing into a gummy part inside of you, one that makes your toes curl. 

He considers saying it. He really, really considers saying it. But then he just does it instead, letting his hand hover in the air for only a moment in hesitation: he presses his palm against your belly and presses down. 

For a moment, you wonder if he’s trying to feel his cock moving inside of you. But then he softly strokes the skin of your belly with his thumb--a fluid and soothing motion--and it dawns on you. 

Oh. 

You clench around him, maybe not even on purpose, and he cums suddenly. It’s all too much for him--you squeezing him, your pretty and tired eyes pouring into his, your partly-naked body doused in sunlight. It’s romantic and beautiful and so fucking hot. 

Every moment of his release is felt in your body--deep inside of you, where the pulsing feels concrete and sacred. 

You stay upright for a moment as he comes down, panting as his bottom lip quivers. And after just a moment, one where he peeks at you through half-shut eyes, he tugs you down and against him. 

He’s too afraid to say anything. He’s worried that he overstepped. He’s never in his entire life felt like that before--hasn’t even wondered about it. He’s just as surprised as you are. 

But you’re not moving away from him. You’re not disgusted. You’re just trying to catch your breath as he softens inside of you. You decide, all at once, that you’re not going to say a word about it unless he does. 

“You alright, kid?” He asks quietly. 

You nod immediately. 

“Super,” you whisper. 

He starts to wriggle his hand between you, starts to press his fingers against your clit, but you just pull yourself tighter against him. 

“You’ll get me later,” you insist. “Just breathe, baby.”

His heart squeezes. He nods, wraps you up in his arms, and kisses your head. 

You liked it. Maybe that’s what is surprising you so much right now. You liked those few moments of make believe where you pretended like you were someone that could get pregnant and he was someone who would get you pregnant. 

He liked it, too. He didn’t think he ever wanted to get married--not to anyone at all, not even Farrah Fawcett. But you change just about everything for him, which is something he’s still growing accustomed to. 

After his parents died, he knew concretely that children were never going to be a part of his future. He didn’t want to be responsible for one--didn’t want to be responsible for breaking their heart if he died prematurely, either. So, he’s always been content just knowing that he will be childless. 

But with you on top of him, your weight heavy and familiar, his fingers are tingling. Something is going to change. Something is already changing. 

“Big plans for tonight?” You whisper, unable to stand another moment of silence. 

He shakes his head. 

“Phoenix is gonna come over for some cocktails. You down?”

You nod at once. 

“I’m down.” 

Neither of you talk about it. 

But you think about it--the way you won’t ever be able to give Rooster what he wants unless you’re playing make-believe. And in big and small ways, that devastates you.

☿

The set is pretty today--prettier than it normally is. There are white curtains, pristine and steamed, covering all the walls of the soundstage. There’s a machine that is emitting a thin layer of sweet-smelling fog, the stuff biting at your knees and permeating the polyester all of you wear. The lights above you are bright and white--the kind that you have to squint against if you tilt your face towards the sky. 

You wish, maybe because the set is prettier than it usually is today, that you were in a less sour mood right now. You’re still partially reeling from your encounter with Rooster this morning, which was so sudden that your neck aches just thinking about it.  

Right now, dressed in this terrible polyester jumpsuit that’s genuinely designed to be ripped apart easily, you wish you were at home with Rooster and Jake. Instead of standing here in these big heels, coming down from that bump you took half an hour ago, watching Dennis direct Rooster to be rougher with you, the boys with their silly little halos on, you wish that you were sprawled out on the sofa. You wish that there was a mirrored tray before you, one that you can snort off of, one that lets you look into your own eyes as you ingest all that shit you’ve been so keen on. 

“I want you to take her real deep. Don’t be a pussy about it, either, alright? Chery’s down, right, babydoll?”

Picking the lint off the glittery, thin fabric covering your thighs, you nod absently. You don’t really care today. You just wanna go home. 

Dennis moved this shoot up an entire month. He watches the market carefully and knows what people want and when they want it. Apparently, just around Easter, there’s a surge in religious stag films. And, for whatever reason, double penetration.

That’s why you’re earning your way into Heaven today--less than a week after Easter. 

Rooster is standing with his arms crossed, his lips a flat line. 

“Shouldn’t we be asking Cherry about this?” He asks. 

Dennis glances at you--you’re unusually still, borderline despondent. You just blink at him, eyes heavy with that gold glitter the makeup department caked you in. 

“She’s good for it--right, babydoll?” He doesn’t wait for your response before he turns back to Rooster grinning. “Cherry’s always down.” 

Jake, who took a short intermission to powder his nose, is noticeably lighter as he bounds back to the soundstage. He throws his arms around your shoulders and presses some lewd kisses to your throat as you lean into him. 

“So, I’ve got the pink, huh?” Jake asks, glancing at you. 

You shrug.

“Looks that way, cowboy.” 

Honestly, you don’t really care either way. It’s unusual for you to feel so apathetic about this, because you really do consider pornography to be your art. Especially in the past few months as everyone flocks to see your films, as men come up to you on the street and ask to motorboat you or kiss you, as the world is starting to learn about the existence of one Miss Cherry Arsan. 

But today, you don’t want to be filmed. You want to have sex--you always want to have sex--but you were hoping for it to be more private. You just wanted to lounge in your panties all day, suck some cock, drink some orange juice, smoke some marijuana, get fucked on the sofa, and maybe swim. 

Instead, you’re here. And you can’t get the feeling of Rooster’s big hand cupping your empty, empty belly.  

“Got a stick up your ass today?” Jake asks, still peppering your face with kisses. 

Sighing, you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” you whisper. 

He barks out a laugh--Rooster glances over at the two of you but doesn’t move from his spot before Dennis. 

“Lemme take you out tonight,” Jake offers. “C’mon, we’ll boogie down.” 

 “You’re supposed to do dinner before fucking,” you sigh, smiling softly despite your sour mood. “Besides, Rooster’s got drink plans with Phoenix tonight. Wants me to be there, I guess.” 

You’re trying to sound casual about it--even though you really, really don’t feel casual about it. You love Rooster and you like Phoenix; but after learning that they tried going steady, that they were in a relationship, you don’t dig the idea of them alone together. 

Fuck, you don’t know who you are anymore to feel this way. You don’t know what Rooster’s doing to you. 

It’s juvenile and it’s silly and it’s the antithesis of everything you believe in to be jealous; but some things just are. And the thought of them alone together, her delicate collarbones begging for his supple lips, makes your knees feel a bit weak. 

Jake watches you carefully--he’s high, but not high enough to disregard your jealousy. And he knows right away that it is jealousy that keeps you where you are right now, in Rooster’s home, away from him.

He wants you to be wrapped up in him for a little while--wants you to bend to his will, to sleep at his house, to fuck him in the mornings. He knows, distantly, that if he just asked that you would say yes. You would do all of that for him. But he doesn’t wanna have to ask you.  

So, he does it. 

First, he shrugs like it’s all casual. Then he stuffs his hands in the pockets of the white robe he’s wearing and watches you watch Rooster. 

“Sure you wanna be there for that?” Jake says. 

He watches your face: your eyebrows knit, your lips purse, your eyes widen. But you’re careful to not snap your head in his direction even though that is what you want to do right now. 

“I’m not picking up whatever you’re trying to lay down.” 

Jake pretends to be all-knowing, making a show of shrugging and yawning before tucking you under his arm again. 

“You don’t know what happens when they’re alone together?” Jake says, sucking on his teeth before shrugging again. “Man, I envy you. They get real nasty together. And, like, not even in a fun way. Like there’s no room for anyone but them. You dig?” 

Something peculiar is happening inside of your body now. It feels like something has dislodged--something big, something heavy. An anchor or a boulder or a fucking ten-ton weight that’s been sitting pretty in your gut is suddenly free-floating through your body. You’re steaming and shivering at the same time, skin goosing, jaw clenching. 

But you don’t so much as let your brows twitch. 

“Is that the skinny?” You ask without breaking your gaze from Rooster. 

Jake nods, swallowing hard. 

It suddenly sets your body on fire--thinking about the two of their bodies connected, washed in the glow of a sunset, their skin smooth and crinkled from bending or pinching. When you think about his flat palm on her belly, when you think about him cumming inside of her, a bitter taste floods your tongue. 

“You’re better off coming with me,” Jake says. “I’ll take you back to the pad once they’re finished.” 

Once they’re finished.

Jake doesn’t know why he’s saying this to you. Rooster and Phoenix hardly, if ever, fuck off-screen. Really, when she comes to the house tonight, they’re probably going to talk about art and film and politics. Jake just finds it all so boring--who wants to talk about Mary Tyler Moore and Sweeney Todd and the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty when you can go to the disco instead? Jake knows--or at least thinks he knows--that you would much prefer to go dancing anyway. He just has to get you there. 

But suddenly, there’s guilt pooling at the pit of his belly. Shit. He knows you’re upset when you hardly react. If you didn’t care at all, the way you’re pretending not to, then you would tell him so. You’d guffaw and wrinkle your nose, pretending to be grossed out. 

You’re just silent and still now, watching Rooster. 

Jake almost starts to say that he’s fucking with you--almost even gets himself to abandon the disco and come to Rooster’s pad tonight for cocktails and stimulating conversation--but instead, he says, “You good?” 

You just nod, pretending like your heart isn’t tight now.

“What’s the hold up?” You call to Dennis and Rooster, crossing your arms over your chest. “Deeper and harder. Got it. It isn’t rocket science, you know.”

Rooster’s spine prickles at your words. He knows you’re high--or at least, you were high twenty minutes ago when he pulled Dennis aside to talk about this scene. You bring the ax down when you’re high--and sometimes you bring it down again when your high is fading. He can’t tell which is which right now. 

“She gets it,” Dennis says, already stuffing a cigar between his lips and patting Rooster on the back. “Just fuck her, okay? It’s real tight back there--you’ll have a good time. Heard it’s out of this world!” 

Rooster swallows all the saliva that’s pooled under his tongue and resists the tingling in his still-split knuckles. 

“Cherry,” Rooster says. “C’mere for a minute.” 

You comply, arms crossed, and stand just a few feet before him. 

“What’s up?” He asks, voice hushed. There’s crewmembers hustling and bustling around you and he doesn’t want them privy to this conversation. “What’s the ‘tude for?” 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. 

“I’m fantastic,” you tell him. “I just wanna film, alright?” 

“What’s the rush?” He follows. 

The two of you stare at each other for a long, long moment. He knows something is wrong--you’re being frigid right now. Maybe by other people’s standards--to the untrained eye--they wouldn’t understand that this version of you is cold. But Rooster’s had the softest, warmest parts of you. And right now, with your spine straight and your eyes dark, he knows that version of you isn’t here now. 

“You know,” you start softly, throat burning at the very thought of Rooster’s lips wrapped around Phoenix’s pert nipples, “I think you’re the only dog in the world that questions where the bone came from instead of just eating it.”

“Ouch,” Rooster says flatly, frowning at you. “Don’t be cruel.”

You don’t miss a beat. 

“You think that’s cruel?” You ask. 

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You’re waiting for him to give it up.  

“What’s up?” He tries again, a bit desperate now.

He shuffles a bit closer to you, inhales that expensive perfume on your pulse points, tries not to get lost in the storm in your eyes. Everything around him dissolves as he stares at you, hands on his hips, trying to have a serious conversation while he has a fucking white robe on and nothing else. 

“You tell me,” you say. “Look, I’m trying to get out of here at a decent time so I can hit the town later. I know you and Phoenix are gonna have all the time in the world at the house, but the clubs close eventually. So, fuck me. And then we can both leave.” 

His brows knit. 

Without really meaning to, he scoffs. 

“What?” He asks, incredulous. “Cherry, I thought you were gonna stay in with us. I bought a new record.” 

Biting your lip, you shake your head. 

“Don’t wanna interrupt,” you say tersely. “I’m going out.” 

He shakes his head. 

“What changed?” 

Everything. Nothing. 

He’s terrified that you’re going to bring up this morning--he tries not to let his face show that. 

“It’s the weekend,” you say. “Why would I wanna stay in?” 

“It’s Monday,” Rooster says, eyes narrowed. 

You shrug. 

“It’s all the same to me,” you say flatly.

Rooster sighs, shaking his head. He’s never seen your mood shift so suddenly. 

He decides, right then and there, that you’re coming down. That’s all this is. You’re coming down, you didn’t want to come into work today, and you’re taking it out on him. You’re taking it out on him because he takes good care of you. 

He loves you. You love him. That’s all this is.

He’s good at talking himself down. He pretends like this is the truth--it’s totally fathomable, anyway. 

“Fine,” Rooster says, voice softer now. “You’re more than welcome to hit the town, babygirl.” 

You blink at him. You weren’t asking for permission.

A part of you, a tiny little piece, was hoping that he would abandon all plans with Phoenix and come with you and Jake. But maybe this proves exactly what Jake told you--there isn’t room for anyone else when Phoenix and Rooster get together. They’re probably relieved that they’re gonna have the house to themselves. 

“I know,” you say. “C’mon.” 

He doesn’t wanna do it like this--doesn’t wanna fuck you while you’re in a bad mood, when you don’t wanna fuck him. But you’re not giving him an option, really.

You wish you were doing this anywhere but here. You wish that you could be somewhere more private, so you could be more vulnerable. You wish that you could relax into this, but you can’t. 

Rooster is lying on his back, stupid robe discarded, and you’re laying on top of him. Jake is between your legs, lips attached to your throat as he buries himself inside of you. It feels good as he does it, pulling out of you then pushing himself back inside. Rooster’s holding your body steady with his hands firmly holding the curve of your waist, his breaths coming out in short pants by your ear. 

“Now, Rooster,” Dennis directs from beside the camera. 

Rooster, with a lump in his throat, lets a hand slide behind your body. You’re taking deep, deep breaths, trying to get yourself ready for this. It isn’t exactly fear or anxiety or worry that’s making you ache--it’s still that sick jealousy. It’s because of the thought of Rooster’s hand on your belly again. 

“We’ll go nice and slow,” Rooster whispers against your ear, kissing the lobe there. “Just breathe, baby.” 

Without another word, he lets two fingers fall between your cheeks. Your skin is hot, damp from your arousal dripping, and he carefully lathers it. He awaits your reaction, kissing your throat when you moan very softly. 

“That okay?” He whispers to you. 

You just nod fervently, trying to focus on the feeling of being full. 

So he gently presses the tip of his index finger in, digging his other fingers into the skin of your belly. 

It doesn’t necessarily hurt--but you have the distinct feeling that if anything changes, if anything moves, it will. So, you’re trying to keep yourself occupied by kissing Jake, who’s pounding himself into you with his eyes screwed shut tight. 

“Get on with it,” Dennis says. Rooster knows he’s talking about him. “None of that pussy finger shit. Use your cock, Rooster.”

You don’t know very much about anal, but Rooster does. He knows that it doesn’t go like this. Usually, it’s something you work up to. But neither you or Rooster or Jake knew double penetration was happening until you got to set this morning. If Rooster had known, he would’ve been working with you at home. Coaxing you into it, showing you how good it can feel. It’s not meant to be something that’s done so randomly, especially not with his entire cock inside you at once. 

Dennis is pushing you because you’re young, hot, and bring in the fucking cash.  

Rooster begins to pull away--but you pull him back to you. You’re afraid that he’s going to ruin the shot. So, you lean back against him and let your mouth fall by his ear. 

“C’mon,” you encourage. “S’alright. I can take it. Fill me up.” 

It’s like you’ve uttered some magic words. He’s been hard, but now he’s aching for you. He’s so hard that it’s making his entire body hot, flushed with arousal. 

“No,” he manages to stutter out, shaking his head. “Don’t wanna hurt you, baby.” 

You’re thinking about Rooster and Phoenix again. Jesus, it’s making your belly turn. 

“Just fucking do it,” you hiss. 

“Stop makin’ her beg,” Jake hisses, honing in on the conversation suddenly. “Do it, man.” 

☿

“No prep?” Phoenix asks, nauseous at the thought. “Fucking Christ.”

Rooster nods, stroking his mustache absently as he gazes down at the spread of cured meats and cheeses he set out on the coffee table. 

“Dennis pushes,” he says. 

Phoenix nods. 

“And Cherry doesn’t push back.” 

Rooster nods now, sighing. 

Phoenix has been here for a few hours now. They’ve finished a bottle and a half of merlot, which they sipped on between bites of fig and brie. She’s only in a sundress, her bare legs tucked beneath her body, as she sits on the couch across from Rooster. 

Neither of them are very tipsy, but they’re loose enough to talk about what happened today. He told Phoenix everything--even about early this morning when he held onto your belly and came inside of you. She is the only person in the world he would tell all this to--because besides you, she knows him the best. 

“I tried to--!” 

Phoenix cuts Rooster off by pressing a manicured hand to his knee. 

“You’re not always gonna be there when she films, baby,” Phoenix says. “And then what? She’s gotta learn to say no.” 

Rooster knows this. Really, he does. But the thought of not being there when Dennis is really pressing something makes him want to throw up. 

“Sure,” Rooster nods. “Fuck.” 

He groans, leaning back so his head is hanging off the couch. He blinks up at the ceiling, the entire room drenched in warm orange light, and wishes that you would just fucking come home. 

“Oh, baby,” Phoenix coos, squeezing Rooster’s knee. She hasn’t seen him so distraught about anything--anyone--ever before. “She’ll learn. She’s a youngblood.” 

He shakes his head. 

“Yeah. I know. I just want her to fucking come home.” 

Phoenix glances at the clock--it’s almost one in the morning now. 

“She will,” she says, trying her damndest to be comforting. “I’ll wait with you.” 

Rooster pats her hand a few times and shakes his head. 

“No, no,” he insists. “You don’t have to.” 

As if to prove her point, Phoenix pulls a throw blanket over her body and cozies up into the sofa, not hearing another word about it. 

“Flip the record,” she insists, nodding towards the record table. “C’mon.” 

Hours pass and you’re still not home. 

Phoenix finally left just after three, apologizing and pressing kisses to Rooster’s cheeks. And Rooster’s been sitting on the couch ever since, waiting to hear Jake’s car rumble up the drive, waiting to hear your obnoxious banter. 

It’s four in the morning when Rooster decides that you’re spending the night at Jake’s. 

He’s in his own bed, arms crossed over his chest, by 4:15. He isn’t tired--knows that he won’t sleep a wink--but decides that it is much less pathetic to sleep here than on the sofa like a dog waiting for its owner to come home. 

Jake pulls into the driveway just after Rooster’s shut his eyes. His car, his precious car, screeches to a halt just before his bumper collides with Rooster’s mailbox. He knows for certain that there are skid marks on the driveway now, knows for certain that he’s probably woken everyone up in this hoity-toity neighborhood. 

But it doesn’t matter right now--not when you’re in and out of consciousness, head lulling from side to side, a steady stream of vomit dribbling out of your mouth and onto the front of your dress. You’ve gotten worse since the two of you left the club half an hour ago--you won’t respond to him. 

“C’mere,” he says, panicked and not attempting to hide it, “I’ve gotcha, Cherry-berry.” 

And then he’s picking you up, holding your head against his shoulder and scrambling to the front door without turning his car off. His heart is racing, his temples are pulsing, his stomach is turning. 

Something’s wrong with you. He doesn't know what, he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know where it happened, he doesn’t know when it happened. But something’s gone wrong.  

You’re not here. You’re somewhere else, somewhere between Nebraska and California, drifting weightless across a plane of black poppies. You don’t know what’s happening to you--only that you’re sorry you had that last drink. 

“Rooster!” Jake screams. And it really is just that--a scream. “Fuck. Rooster!” 

You vomit suddenly all down Jake’s back as he hurries into the foyer, shaking his head wildly, stumbling around in the dark. 

 Rooster feels every hair on his body stand at attention as he sprints down the hall, his heart racing, his mouth dry. And then he sees Jake standing right there in foyer, holding your crumpled form, panicked tears streaming down his red face as he stumbles towards Rooster. 

“She’s in a bad way, man,” Jake sobs out, shaking his head. “I-I don’t know what fuckin’ happened!” 

Rooster is wide awake as he pulls your body off Jake’s and onto his. With the movement that jostles your body, it restarts the heaving again. You’re vomiting all over the tile, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your shoulders instinctively coming together as your fingers go limp. 

“The fuck you mean you don’t know what happened?” Rooster asks. “What the fuck happened to her, man?” 

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: GASPS

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

let her breathe?!?!? 😭😭😭

Taking care of you - Steve Murphy x Reader, Prompt - “Did you put this blanket here?” , I gave connie a wife so she’s not lonely since we’re stealing steve from her, now you may ask why didn’t just write her out and the answer is because i love her 😭 IDC IF ANYTHING IS OOC BECAUSE I JUST WANT TO HOLD HIM AND TELL HIM ITLL BE OKAY AND HES GONNA LET ME.

It was a typical group hangout, your friends, alcohol, some terrible movie you, steve and connie didn’t understand but would still laugh at. You were way too many drinks in because you all had a day off tomorrow. “Okay, we’re turning in for the night” Connie said standing and pulling Maeve up with her. “Really? You have to leave?” You said looking up at her with a pleading look. “Yes, i have a shift tomorrow, are you ready to go? or do you want one of the boys to take you home” She said picking up your hands. “I’ll stay, get home safe okay?” You said leaning up to hug her and Maeve. “We will, love you” and then she was gone.

Now with just you, javi and steve, which with javi practically passed out it was really only you and steve. “Do you want me to change this?” He said pointing to the movie you guys haven’t been watching. “I don’t know, whatever you want” You said leaning against him. “Are you tired?” He said smiling at you. “No, no, you can change it if you want” Your words slurred together. “Alright” He stood to change the movie and once he’d finally found one he turned it on and then turned back to you. Only to find you sleeping peacefully where he was just sat. He reached over to the loveseat and pulled the blanket off the back.

After laying it over you to make sure you didn’t get cold he sat there for a moment just looking at you. He bent down to make sure the blanket was properly tucked in and then he kissed your forehead and turned to walk back to his room. You woke up after hearing someone walk around in the kitchen. As you sat up a blanket pooled around your waist. Looking towards the kitchen you recognized steve standing there. He didn’t see you till he turned back around. “Oh i’m sorry, did i wake you?” He said walking towards you. “No you didn’t,” You lied not needing to add more to whatever is keeping him up. “What time is it?” You asked looking for the clock.

“It’s 3am, you should go back to sleep, or i can walk you to yours” He said sitting next to you. “Oh no, i’m fine here” You said giving him a tired smile. “Did you put this blanket on me?” You said moving closer to him. “Yeah, i didn’t want you to get cold” He said shyly. “Thank you” You said wrapping your arms around him. “It’s no problem” He said leaning into you. “Why are you up?” You said pulling away slightly. “I had a nightmare” He said quietly. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” You said pulling him back into you. “I didn’t want to wake you” He mumbled into your neck. “Steve, you can always wake me up” You said burying your face in his neck.

“Do you want to go back to sleep? You can sleep in my bed, i’ll take the couch” He said pulling away. “Don’t be ridiculous steve, i’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch in your own home” You said laying back into the couch. “You’re not sleeping on the couch” Steve said pulling you up. “Well you’re not either. We can just share the bed, We’ve had to before” You smiled remembering the time you had to stay in a single at the hotel. “Are you sure?” He said following you down the hall. “Positive” You said pulling him down onto the bed with you.

Once you were both laying in the bed, you were both settled in very uncomfortable positions trying not to touch. After five minutes of not being able to sleep you gave up. “Steve?” You said turning towards him. “Yeah?” He said as he turned towards you. “Will you hold me” You asked moving toward him. He didn’t say anything just pulled you into his arms. A much more comfortable position. “Goodnight” You whispered against his chest. You assumed he was already asleep because he didn’t answer, but he was awake. He waited till you fell asleep to say it back. “Goodnight, I love you” He whispered against your head before drifting off.

Has this been done yet ? But i want mando to rescue his fav prostitute (maybe smut👀) I know he would care about her and form a real connection. Happy birthday btw 🎉

One Last Time

A/n: Not by me, that's for sure and thank you!!! He really would, he's such a sweetie in this one, he just doesn't know how to communicate well

Warning: Smut, human trafficking (extremely hinted at), dark themes, I notice a lot of the fics with prostitute reader Mando's mean so in this one he's a sweetie, Mando being delusionally in love, Dark Fic!!!

“I’m taking you.”

You don’t look surprised; you show a hint of sadness before you compose yourself again.

You grab his hand, pressing it to your neck as if you wanted to tempt him to caress your warm skin.

Your forefinger presses against his. He feels the small disk underneath your skin. Then you angle his hand up, the tips of his fingers touching your earlobe.

They apparently have you recorded and tracked. Like an animal.

“I belong here.”

He shifts closer, the cheap material of the couch crinkling from the movement.

“What if you belonged to me?”

Instead of them.

“I don’t belong to anyone.”, you say, like you were trained to do.

He was quiet for a moment. You sat still. He liked looking at you, especially when you weren’t doing an act. Even if you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was frowning.

Your smile was too teasing, too curved. Fake.

“What if I purchase you?”

That caught you off guard. You blink before you respond in humor.

“Your silly, why would they put a price on a person? Even if I did have one, you wouldn’t be able to afford me, even with your beskar.”

He nods as if you were discussing war plans. Crossing out his options and making new ones. His thumb absentmindedly smoothing over your cheeks.

“What if I steal you away?”

Your eyes widen and you swallow thickly. He can see you think, your eyes flickering to him and the door repeatedly.

Then, as you take a breath in and look at him straight on, you present a challenge with a smirk, your eyes brightening with hope.

“That’s if you can steal me away. I doubt it. There are guards at every door, cameras at every angle the second you step out the building.”

You press a kiss to his gloved palm and sit up quickly, his hand running down your arm and to your hand. //

“Y’know, I know most of the guards actually.”

He tilts his head. He can feel heat build in his stomach at your words. He knows who they are, they don’t particularly look nice.

“They talk to the workers when we wake up for breakfast, they slack off…”

You look to him pointedly.

“I don’t even think they pay attention to their own job at that point.”, you sigh.

You hope the droids looking over the footage and sound didn’t pick up the conversation.

For a moment you think of what would happen if they caught you now. A shiver runs down your spine. They would probably ban him from the city at that point, they had the power to do that.

The fear of never seeing him again was far greater than the punishment they would deal you, you realize.

His hand squeezes lightly, stopping your fingers from trembling and directing your focus to him again.

“Do they-?”

“No. They know I’m off limits.”

He nods, staring at the way you try to smile, your eyes reddening and your lashes starting to stick together from the moisture of your welling tears.

“Good.”

You chuckle when he stands, moving to your door.

“I’ll be back soon.”

For a moment your smile falters.

The soon coming after his usual sentence was new. He was always truthful, like that one time he mentioned how he didn’t really care for the uncomfortable lingerie you were forced to wear or how he only chose you because of the way you stood as the head of the brothel showed him around the rooms.

Soon was never going to be the truth for him. He had bounties to hunt, things to take care of and he would come by every two weeks.

His initial request of having himself be your sole “client” cost him some heavy credits. You fucked him the whole night when he came back, just having found out all of your other appointments were cancelled for good, or at least as long as he comes back to pay the next time he returned back for services.

He knew he would be gone, he never lied to you. So the soon was peculiar. You smile genuinely when he reaches for you one last time, urging you to stand and dismiss him.

His helmet makes you shiver, he started bumping heads with you whenever he left two months ago. He said it was like a goodbye kiss, and for once, in a long time, you were the one slightly swooning.

You willed the joyful tears in until you shut the door, collapsing into yourself in a heap on the floor.

They don’t care if you cried after your customers left, they just didn’t want the loose threads to show when the services were being given.

——————————

He lied to you.

The two weeks were up, you cringed when they handed you a tablet, names upon names of clients scheduled for the next week.

You trusted, you gave your companionship to a man whose face you've never seen. You've fantasized of a salvation, of freedom.

An inkling of trust was built when he reassured you that nothing had to happen, that he just wanted to get rid of the pin he was given in exchange for a bounty.

The 'boss' didn't care that much, especially since he kept coming back, even if his free services were up. He wanted to take up your time, give you rest from the others that would come your way.

He thought himself oh so noble, helping someone out, bringing a peace of mind.

It suddenly became something much more, one night he was pent up, tense, and heaving with energy. He had lost a bounty, some credits, but he was always on schedule for you.

You did like you were supposed to. You moved to relieve, expecting him to push you away. Preparing for him to slap your hand away softly like all of the other times, making you chuckle from the shake of his head.

You were surprised when he didn't move to remove your hand gliding up his thigh.

He didn't stop you when you reached into his pants, pressing your robe down so that you could straddle his thighs and so he could cup your breasts.

He was hooked the second you licked your hand covered in his spill. His chest heaved, his hands gripping your hips, your robe now discarded on the floor.

The thought of someone else seeing you like this made him pause. He decided then that this sight was only for him.

You guess he was like the rest. Demented in his mind games, manipulating you to think he had ever cared for you as a person.

You should have known you became an object the moment he started fucking you.

It was only a matter of time before got tired.

——————————

You lay in bed, eyes wide open, watching as the drapes to your room flowed and flapped from the wind.

You dread going to sleep only to wake up with a man that wasn't Mando coming into your bedroom. It was unfair you thought.

Why did he get your hopes up?

As you start to let your eyes droop closed you hear a tapping on your window. You choose to ignore it. But the next time was louder.

You were upset, throwing on a robe and grumbling towards the window to see what the commotion was. You hoped it wasn't those men again, throwing pebbles at windows in order to get the attention of the workers.

Your breath rushed out of your lungs. His shadow looms over the floor, the city lights blooming behind him. His hand was flat against the glass, his fingers tapping repeatedly now that you were up.

His chest fills with pride at the fact that you rush to open the frame. His hulking form squeezing through precariously. You push him inside, closing the curtains quickly.

He chuckles when you look him over, running your hands over his arms and chest, looking for signs of altercations.

"They didn't see you?", you ask, panicked.

He pats his waist, his blaster sitting nicely in his holster on his thigh.

Typically, all weapons were taken at the door, you've only seen him as bare as he could be, armor and his flight suit only. It was jarring to see how many weapons he carries on his person; you wonder how much it weighs, he was practically covered in ammunition and guns and knives.

"I took care of them."

He was dangerous you realized, a splatter of red almost glowing on his helmet. He grabs your hands, and you continue to stare, your body tense in contempt.

His helmet makes you shiver, he slouches so that your foreheads touch. He sighs.

"We need to leave."

You step back.

"We need to get the others..."

He stands straighter, he sighs again. His hands now at his sides.

"We don't have time."

"Please. I've known them for the longest, they deserve freedom too."

He nods. For a brief moment standing still with his hands on his hips. You purse your lips, moving to sit on your bed as he contemplates, most likely coming up with a plan.

"What took so long?", you ask, hating the silence.

The glint coming from his pocket makes you pause. The device in his hands was box like, probes by the sides.

He kneels before you, pressing it against your hands and when you stare down at him in question he points to your neck.

"It deactivates it, I had to search for one that pairs with yours."

From his pocket he takes out a syringe, you tense. You hated medical equipment, you hated needles. Anything to do with doctors. It was never a good sign when you had to go to the doctors.

"It hurts. Badly. It's better if you're numbed for it."

You shake your head.

"I can handle it."

His helmet tilts.

"No, you can't.", he says plainly.

His hand grips onto your shoulder, you try to push him away. The needle was getting closer to your neck, you keep on shuffling back until your body hits the headboard.

"It's for your own good."

You shake your head, his grip on your legs was solid, unmoving. He crawls over you and you close your eyes tightly, knowing you couldn't fight back even if you wanted to.

You feel a prick slightly above the bump on your neck.

For a moment you thought it was over with, and then he pressed down, the liquid now moving through the needle and making you yell out.

He shushes you. It felt like he was shoving half molten metal down your veins. You start to get drowsy, from your head to your toes and all around your body, you felt heavy.

A minute after you lay limp in your bed, he pulled the sheets over you, you could barely move your eyes, your fingers twitching to reach his hand.

He leaves you there and for a moment you think he was going to leave you in the brothel entirely, paralyzed with whatever he injected you with, feeling numb even to the sheets beneath you.

But as he raised the device up to your neck your eyes widened ever so slightly.

He was right. It would have hurt. You could feel the tingle of it, a slight prick as it turned on. You let out a breath of relief when it stopped, but then he lowered the probes to your arm, directly on top of your birth control device.

You watched as it vibrated under your skin, the same prickles you felt from your neck now on the inside of your arm.

The drug's effects were starting to work more efficiently, your eyes started drooping, your hearing getting cloudy and your fingers starting to lose sensation.

The last thing you heard was the sound of whooshing, a heat that you could feel from where you laid, crinkling with energy. His footsteps resound around the room, the door sliding open.

You hear the shouts and screams seconds after, right as you lose consciousness.

You wake in his arms, a fur blanket covering you from the cold of the underground city of Coruscant. You recognize your surroundings as a hangar, a large ship in the center, shiny and luxurious.

Your surprise gasp as the hull of the ship opened amused him, he chuckled as you grip onto his shoulders as he walks up the ramp. It was very clean, seats and amenities lining the walls of the hull, the lighting low and warm.

You pull the coat over your back as your feet touch the ground, warmed from the heater. He leads you to a seat, you yelp when you almost sink into the plush couch, it was soft, and well padded.

Suddenly the ship lurches, and you wait a few moments, the windows open and you could see as you rise to the upper levels of Coruscant. You finally see the sun and you stare until it felt as if your eyes were burning.

His hand meets your shoulder, kneading into it.

"Don't cry.", he whispers.

"You're safe now."

You smile at him, wiping tears you didn't even know were falling and chuckling.

"Thank you.", you stutter through emotion.

He likes the way you smile, and he likes the way you smile because of him.

——————————

You stare into the mirror. It was strange to see the bandage on your neck, you didn't even remember him taking out the chip, or the small pill shaped metal on your arm.

He told you it was better that way, the small incisions he made would heal quickly, if you were conscience, you would have risked messing him up.

The bandage was expensive, bacta patches were hard to come by, especially the good kind, but bacta shots and cream?

The cut was practically gone as you peeled off the bandage. You stare amazed at how neat the line was.

And then you look around the bathroom. It was big for a ship, some products were lined against the walls, high end shampoos and conditioners that you've seen be gifted to some of the girls at “work”.

Oils, hair masks, lotions and waxes were sprawled around the cabinets. Makeup you couldn't even recognize their uses for as well. A bottle of lube makes you chuckle.

There was even an array of options for your shower head. You tried all of the various pressures and settings, deciding on a harsher spray, wanting to rid the feeling of Coruscant off of your body.

You stay there for a while, half amazed at how the water was still running warm and trying to take your mind off of where you were before.

Your anxiety raises when you think or where you were going to travel to, where you would stay, and what if they somehow found you again.

He startles you as the door slides open. You clutch your chest, hiding and for a brief moment, shaking your head from the way your heart beats out of its chest.

He starts taking pieces of his armor off, you let your hands fall to your sides. He was wordless whenever he came into your room. Most of the talking was done after the deed was done.

You step from the shower, starting to lift your legs out of the tub but he lifts his hand for you to stop. You look at him quizzically.

You appreciated that about him. He liked you to feel good too, comfortable. He was the only person to make you cum, the only one that gets turned on by hearing your moan and squirm in his hold.

He was good with his hands that was for sure, he even gave you a pair of his gloves once. Something to remember him by as you got lonely.

You were concerned when he stood in front of you, unmoving, his hands flexing nervously.

When you extend your hand he takes it, you've done this several times, calming someone nervous, someone unsure of themselves. You didn't expect yourself to do this for him.

"You know me. Don't be nervous."

He nods stiffly, and he does the unexpected. Using the hand that was held in your own he lifts his helmet. You stare and suddenly he feels younger, worrying if his crush likes his haircut, if you like the way his nose sloped downwards into his plush lips, if you thought the patches of grey on his beard were attractive or not.

Your eyes narrow and he feels vulnerable, much more vulnerable than you even if you were the one completely naked, at least he still had his underwear on.

"What if I told you I expected you to be orange."

He tilts his head down, smiling sheepishly, his full head of hair attracting your hand like a magnet. It was soft, of course it would be if he wore the helmet all the time.

Your hand tightens over his arm, pulling him in to stand at the edge of the tub.

"Who knew I got lucky with such a looker."

He finally sees you, without a filter, without cameras or the helmet. He couldn't help but lean in, to feel your lips against his even if he didn't really know how to kiss.

But you stop him, a finger on his lips, tapping playfully. He didn't see the way you swallowed harshly, too focused on the way you smiled teasingly.

Of course, why would you want your first kiss to be in a random ship's fresher. How unromantic of him.

"No kissing, Mando."

"Din.", he corrects breathily. "Din Djarin. T-that's my name."

You cup his cheek lovingly. He was giving you the eyes, it was strange. It was making your heart race ever so slightly. Maybe, you thought, this last time before he left you god knows where, should be special.

You kiss right next to his lips, pushing down his boxers, and gripping his cock. He kicks off the fabric with his foot before getting in the tub, crowding your towards the wall, having a spray of water cascade over your both as you kiss down his throat.

You were surprised when he took the lead, holding your hips against his and leaning down to nip at your jaw. His tongue lays flat against your skin, drinking in the water that slides down your neck and to your clavicle.

It was holy. It touched your skin, making a path down towards your breasts and to the peaks of your nubs.

He sucks it in greedily, moaning as if he were drinking water for the first time, thirsty for more. Your taste was intoxicating, it was making him feral at the thought of sucking something else from your nipples.

More sweet and nutty than the floral taste of your skin.

Now that your birth control was deactivated, he thinks that in the next few months, it could be possible.

He moves further down, your hands caressing through his wet locks as he bites over parts of your flesh, gripping and squeezing as he explores you with open mouthed kisses.

He gets down on his knees. He stops and stares in between your legs.

"Can I...?"

You shift but his arms around your waist keep you still.

"No one's ever... I don't know if it'll be good."

He feels many emotions at once. In one hand it's pride that he gets to be the first to have you like this, on the other it's the anger that no one had ever attempted to.

"I don't want to dissapoint you..."

In our last time you wanted to add, but he shushed you before you could speak.

He looks up at you, his palm pushing your thigh up until it was over his shoulder. You swallow thickly, feeling his breath on your folds. He licks his lips curiously.

He's never done this before, but he's seen holos, holos of men and women going down and spreading legs, kissing and sucking as if they were real lips. Making their partners shout out into the air, their backs arching and their hips twitching to their mouths.

He's seen how the crook of a finger can make someone gush mouthfuls of arousal. He wanted that for you, he wanted to do that for you.

He dreamt of the day he could finally taste you.

He shuffled forward and your back met the wall making you shiver so hard you had to grip onto his head to stabilize. You chuckle awkwardly. He was looking up at you, his head level with your mound.

His intense gaze broke and he pushed his face into you. He adjusts you upwards, making your back slide against the walls.

You were on the tips of your toes, the backs of your shoulders pressing harshly against the metal walls and your back arching, pressing your hips into his mouth so that his tongue could slide in deeper.

This was amazing you thought, all of the years of giving pleasure and just now getting it back in return because of Mando-no-Din. It made you sad, it made tears fall from your eyes from how lucky you got.

You would pray to whoever gave him the pin in the first place, get down on your knees and bow for leading the only kind soul you've ever known in your life to you.

He moans for you, for the musky taste of your slick, now spreading around his face and down his throat from the spraying water. He kneads your thigh, his other hand pressing against your ass so that he could push you closer to his face, so that he could tighten your legs around his head.

He wanted to suffocate, he only wanted to live to please you.

His fingers run over your opening and his lips wrap around your clit. When he pushes in two of his thick digits you cry out, your hands moving over his head to pulls at his locks He sucked relentlessly, furiously as he feels his scalp burn.

His hand thrusts quickly, and he licks greedily from your opening, interchanging between his mouth sucking on your clit to lapping at you as more of your arousal is scooped out with the curl of his fingers.

He hits the sensitive spot at the edge of your opening every time he flicks his hand.

Your chest was burning, your stomach tightening as he continued, your orgasm approaching like a train, hard and heavy and knocking the breath out of you.

Your whole body burned when he continued despite the way your cunt tightened around his fingers so tightly he couldn't even move, despite the way you practically threw your head back against the shower walls and gave an animalistic cry.

"Din!", you shouted. He growled at that.

A harsh suck on your swollen and overused nub finally makes your body shake uncontrollably, your voice was lost to half silent groans and the way your body was willing your lungs to stop working.

You gushed over his hand, the lower half of his chest covered in you. He licked what he could, the water washing off most of it from his chest.

He stares at your pussy, amazed. It was so swollen and you were still twitching. Even as he moved your thigh off his shoulder and gently put you to your feet, he could still taste you in his mouth.

He hummed from the way you clutched onto his shoulders, shaking and only able to stand for so long before your legs gave out and he had to lift your legs up and around his waist.

He holds you, angling the showerhead against your back and head so that you wouldn't get cold.

Your hot breaths against his neck made him shiver. You chuckle when you stop shaking, finally able to take a full breath in without panting.

He presses you against the wall again, your legs still tightly wound against his waist, your pussy rubbing against his cockhead, hard and aching.

He groans when you shift against the wall, reaching to the base of his cock and angling towards your opening. When you tighten your legs he groans, simultaneously pushing himself into you as your ankles lock together.

You stay like that, leaning most of your weight against the wall, reaching for bottles of shampoo and conditioner and massaging it into his scalp.

He moans every now and then, fighting the urge to bury his head back in your neck when you pull him back to rinse off his head with a smirk.

You wash him with a sponge, moaning softly and stopping to close your eyes and rock gently against him every now and then.

"Fuck, Din, you've always been huge.", you murmur, catching your breath against his collarbone.

He thrusts when you rinse him off completely, getting lost in the way you moan his name so sweetly, the way you claw at his back and clench down tightly.

The water stops, already run out and you don't even notice from the steam surrounding you, both of your bodies producing enough heat to keep you warm.

His thumb lazily traces around your folds, moving over your clit when you bite into his shoulder, sucking bruises after your, this time less powerful, orgasm.

He grunts, pushing as deep as he could, your hips flush against each other as he cums for what feels like minutes.

You both catch your breath. You rub his back and rest your head against his shoulder as he keeps you plugged with his cock.

“I love you.”, he moans, kissing the side of your head.

Your hands tighten around him as he moves, curling around the back of his neck.

You moan lightly from the way you bounce lightly on his cock as he carries you to a room, as spacious as the bathroom and just as full of goodies you didn't know the uses for.

He was emotional you assured yourself, he just came in you without protection, your taste probably still on his tongue. It was just an overdose of oxytocin running through his body. Of affection.

He didn't mean it.

“Flattered.”, you murmur. He chuckles while lying down with you on top of him. A small oof coming from your lips as he adjusts on the bed.

His hands wound themselves around you and as you finally dried amongst the warm air, he pulled the sheets up your body, covering you both completely with the scent of cleanliness.

Your head rests against his chest, your stomach on his.

You didn’t do cuddles. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t before. But now, with Din holding you close, feeling his breath as his chest lifted and fell, you think you liked them.

——————————

It was strange seeing him with his armor again. You felt honored, as if you knew a secret no one else did. But when he led you outside, wearing clothes that fit you perfectly and that were of the finest quality you've ever seen, you thought he was jesting you.

Of all places to dump you in, he decided that Tatooine was where you belonged?

Just as you were about to plead for him to at least take you to the planet over a short woman with a strong mane of curly hair pops out behind a pile of crates, small droids following behind her.

"Take this piece of space trash out of my hangar Mando!"

She stalks to him with a wrench in her hand, but stops when she sees you, slightly behind him and sticking close to his side.

"Oh not you sweetheart. That."

She points to the ship; you nod as if you understood.

"What happened to the starfighter?"

She gasps, not allowing him to speak. He sighs.

"Don't tell me it was incinerated by the imperials again."

You turn, clutching his arm in worry.

"Imperials?"

He turns between you both quickly, stuttering.

"No. It's fine. I just have special cargo at the moment."

She looks between you both, your hand lightly on his forearm and his chest puffing beside you.

"aaah. I see."

She eyes you up and down and you shift on your feet, feeling nervous.

He told you he was going to introduce you to one of his friends, someone who was going to help you. He also said that she knows about you. How much is what you worry about.

She turns suddenly, shouting over her shoulder about a gift she had for a green baby? and that she had to scrounge around for it.

You look back at him, and he shrugs shaking his head.

She came back, procuring a small doll and shoving it into his arms as the tiny droids dragged you by the pants to the side, a small door sliding open and revealing a room.

It lifts its arms, as if shouting 'ta da'. You smile softly, imaging a life here. At least the start of it.

You think of maybe learning a few things from Peli, start working along with her, maybe expand to other towns in Tatooine.

Your heart warms at the prospect of friends, maybe finding someone to spend your life with. Someone kind and caring. Someone who didn't see you as an object.

That would be nice, you think.

Peli shouts your name. You walk over to them, Din was discussing something with her, expressing himself with his hands clasped together in front of him as if he were explaining something to a child.

You chuckle when she waves her hand, pulling you roughly by the arm to her side.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll take care of her, alright?"

You chuckle, she was growing on you.

But then she let go of your arm and Din stepped forward, his hands placed on your waist and pulling you forward. You look up at him, your brows furrowed. The way he was holding you was intimate.

"Din, what-"

His helmet made you shiver, he stays still against you for a while, holding you close. He backed away slightly, his hands caressing over your arms.

His hand lands heavily on your shoulder, Peli was watching intently.

"You'll be safe here. I'll come back once I finish preparing our home for your arrival.”

Our?

Your head perks up at that. You look up confused. His words repeated in your head. Our... home?

But he was a client. A friend, someone you trusted. That was all he was, you thought he knew that too.

You repaid him for rescuing you in the shower, you didn't think that you owed him anything after that. You wanted a normal life, with normal friends and a normal spouse and normal kids.

Surely he didn't think you would stay with him after everything that happened. After everything it seemed he was dealing with in his own life.

His palm covers your cheek, his thumb rubbing over it lovingly.

You smile, he was too lovesick to realize it was the same face you made when you were attending other clients. He leaves with a nod to Peli, his hand sliding down your arms and squeezing your hand.

She gives you a once over when his ship was finally out of sight. You looked dazed, you were probably tired. And by the crease of your eyebrows when he mentioned home, you were out of the loop.

“He lives on a planet near Mandalore. That’s where he’s taking you. Your going to meet his son, Grogu..”

Son?

Now you were even more confused. Everyone knew about him and his son, they practically became legend.

“You don’t know who he is, do you?”

You shake your head. She sighs exasperated.

“He’s the most powerful mandalorian in the galaxy. He’s their ruler.”, she says proudly.

He was her friend and he saved her life maybe once or twice. She also liked to boast that she practically knew royalty.

“I thought he was a bounty hunter, he told me he was a bounty hunter. That was the reason he could afford-…”

“Oh, he is. But it’s mostly for sport now.”

You stay quiet.

“He talks about you all of the time. This woman he met that makes his heart squeeze- my words not his- he’s not the sentimental type, at least not like that.”

You seemed fidgety, your legs shifted, you fiddled with your hands. You were cute she thought. You easily flustered.

“You wanna know something?”

She didn’t look to you for a response.

“He told me once that he thought you would be a good queen.”

Your heart stopped, your eyes were watering.

“Aw don’t cry! I hate to ruin the surprise, it’s just I heard so much about you! I couldn’t help it, I’m excited.”

You smile, wiping your face, forcing yourself to appear content.

“He said he’ll make you the most beautiful wedding too. You two will make such cute babies afterwards, I’ll even lend you the nurse droid I just fixed up. It’s in the back actually let me go get it.”

She scurries to a storage room full of scraps and metal, leaving you standing and looking up to the sky, wondering how the hell you were supposed to manage so many surprises at once.

——————————

A/n: I like the idea of Din just going to tatooine and spilling his life to Peli, failing to mention that he met this really stelar woman in an illegal brothel 💀

Probably blushing and talking it up about future baby names and his entire imaginary wedding in one night half drunk

I’ll write a fic about it or sm i don’t know I need ideas for Din being vulnerable and talking about his love life

Peli still offers to babysit even when Din said he wanted a whole army of children; she thinks they’ll come out the womb with full beskar armor low key and thinks that would be super cute

facing the music

pairing: joel miller x reader (pairing from the soccer parents au, but can be read as a stand-alone)

summary: joel’s got a secret. you’re determined to figure it out. 

word count: 4.4k

warnings: mentions of cheating and insecurities around cheating (but no actual cheating), joel is being a little suspicious, joel in his musician era, a bit of arguing, angst, fluffy at the end, au: no apocalypse, very lightly edited

author’s note: thank you all so much for 2k followers!! i hope you enjoy this fic! comments and feedback are always appreciated :)

Lees verder

𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟖

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You have a nightmare. Home feels like a layered word right now. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.3K ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

You’re in your childhood home back in Nebraska. 

Chicken shit coats your throat and nostrils thickly;  it’s been waiting for you to come home. The lights above you, strung up beside sticky fly traps and cobwebs, are buzzing. It’s cold in here. Maybe because there’s still a foot of snow on the ground--or maybe because you’re stark naked. 

The kitchen table is set with an old gingham tablecloth--one that has been constantly darned and sewn and patched in its sad life. There’s chipped china at every burlap placemat, the plates smothered with oily peas and thin gravy and chewy steak. The silverware isn’t very silver anymore and the cloth napkins are so worn that they’re translucent. 

 The table itself is an antique--older than you and your brother--and it creaks and groans with every movement, even if it’s only your brother reaching for the salt or your father cutting his steak. It’s hard and solid beneath your naked body, splintering the soft skin of your rear and the delicate flesh of your thighs.

All around you, in their usual spots, your family is eating dinner. You can hear every little human sound: chewing, sighing, sniffing, smacking, swallowing. You can’t move, though nothing is actually holding you against the table. 

They are eating their dinner, their oily peas and thin gravy and chewy steak, with their not-so-silverware as they watch you. Their eyes are glassy, far-away. No one’s face reads any obvious emotion: no one looks horrified, resentful, furious, disgusted, morose. They’re all just watching you like this happens every night.

They can see you lying here. But none of them have acknowledged your presence--and you haven’t said a word to any of them. You’re just lying here under the buzzing light, counting the flies on the flytrap.  

What is strange about all of this is that you thought that you would feel ashamed. The only time you were ever caught by your brother, when he pulled you out of the truck and got you sent to California, you felt the heat of shame for a few moments. Shame that something so private as sex had been shown to your family. But then that shame suddenly snapped and dissipated because of Dennis fucking Goldman. Now you can be naked in front of your family at dinnertime and it doesn’t matter.

“Good thing she can’t get herself in trouble,” your brother says suddenly. 

You know that he’s talking about getting pregnant. 

Your lips are paralyzed, congealed with faux sealant.  

“Doctor told us when she was fourteen,” your mama adds, sighing. She’s chewing still, her eyes untrained but lingering on your form. “Knew something was wrong earlier, of course. Hadn’t gotten her menses yet. Girls in my family always get it young. I was ten myself. Happened in church--I was wearing all white.” 

Swallowing hard, you try to drown her out. You try to just listen to the humming lightbulb. But you can’t. 

“She doesn’t ovulate,” your mama continues, shaking her head. A steady stream of gravy flows down her chin--she doesn’t move to clean it. “No eggs wanna take that chance.” 

Quit it, mama you want to hiss. You don’t move. 

“We weren’t heartbroken,” your mama continues, glancing at your daddy. “Were we?” 

“No. No we were not,” your daddy answers. He sits back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest. “Apples don’t ever fall far from the tree.” 

Your brother snickers.

“She’d leave all her apples on the ground. Rotten, maggot-infested. Nasty things,” your brother says. He’s chewing with his mouth wide open--there’s mashed peas in his back molars. “God knew what he was doing.” 

“Amen,” your daddy says.

“Pass the peas, ma,” your brother says. 

You wake up suddenly. 

The waterbed is sloshing beneath your form as you sit up straight, gasping for a breath of the cool breeze floating in through your open window. Your lungs feel stunted, like you can’t fill them up all the way. And when you press your palm to your chest, all the heat of your skin makes your hand sizzle. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, blinking through the darkness.

It’s late, past three in the morning. You should be sleeping still, should be getting all the shut-eye you can get for the shoot in a few hours. 

Instead, though, you throw your covers off and plant your feet firmly on the shag carpet, blinking at the dark. Your thighs are quivering, your lip wobbling. 

Fucking Hell.   

This is the first time you’ve dreamed of home since you left it. And you hope--sincerely and truthfully--that it is the last time you ever dream about it. It’s a strange thing really, because you knew you were home: the flyraps, the big kitchen table, the chipped china, the chicken shit. But it didn’t feel like home anymore--it just felt like a place you used to live. 

In the middle of this dark almost-morning, you blink at the painting on the wall and wonder, for the first time, if there exists a home for you. It prickles the skin on your thighs to think about it--a place you exist and keep existing that feels like yours. Home. 

You don’t turn any lights on as you walk, barefoot in your nighty, across the quiet house and to the telephone in the foyer. Rooster doesn’t sleep well usually--you don’t want to disturb him, not over something as trivial as a nightmare. A part of you, one that is stunted in its growth, wants to slink into his bed and snuggle into his chest and selfishly wake him up so he can comfort you. 

Instead, you dial the number. It’s something you’ll never forget--you know that. Does anybody ever forget their home phone number? 

A part of you still feels like you’re dreaming--like everything is fuzzy and warm and confusing. Nothing quite feels real yet, especially since the sun has not risen and your eyes are still puffy with exhaustion. Even the phone against your ear, all the heavy and hard plastic that purrs as it rings the ugly rotary phone on the kitchen counter in Nebraska, feels more like a toy than anything else. 

It’s five in the morning in Nebraska, which means that your family is up. Your mama starts the coffee at four-thirty and has breakfast ready by the time your daddy walks out of the bedroom in his overalls and mucking boots at five-fifteen. Right now, your mama is probably frying bacon and dropping biscuits in a cast iron pan, her hair pulled back into a bun and her face void of any color. It’s still winter there. It always snows in March in Nebraska. 

You don’t even really know what you’re doing. What are you doing? 

The line rings and rings, your grip growing moist around the telephone. 

Home. It seems like a very far away place. And not even just in distance--but in memory. You aren’t sure what kept you there for so long--that little shitty room and your mean older brother and your quiet daddy and your unhappy mama. Why were you bringing the ax down on chickens day in and day out when you could’ve been here the entire time?

You shift all your weight to the left side of your body, holding your hand to your cheek, wondering why you haven’t hung up yet. You wonder, too, why no one has answered. You know that they’re awake. You know that your mama is only a few paces from the telephone. You know your brother is probably sipping coffee now. 

It rings for a long time. No one picks up. 

With a breath caught between your teeth, the thought of your mother’s lips stained with gravy still pressed into your frontal lobe, you let the phone fall back on the receiver. 

Rooster isn’t sleeping. He feels like he never is, even when his entire body is sore from the afternoon he spent on the beach with you yesterday. He wants to sleep--wants to sleep so badly that he’s had his eyes closed for the past two and a half hours, unwilling to interrupt what might happen. 

So, when he hears your bare feet on the tile outside of your room, he finally opens his eyes and glances at the alarm clock on his nightstand: 3:10 AM. You must not be able to sleep either. He knows you’re trying to be quiet--you always feel bad about waking him up--but you can’t exactly be quiet in such an open, cavernous house. Even your bare feet on the tile echo down the hall and into his room. 

He hears your footsteps coming closer just after 3:17. What have you been doing for seven minutes? Certainly not getting a snack--you haven’t been eating much these days, especially not in the middle of the night. 

You knock on Rooster’s door hesitantly, something resembling grief sitting thick and heavy on your tongue. Your lip is still wobbling, your breaths still stunted.

“Come in,” Rooster calls at once, sitting up on his elbows. 

The door swings open and you stand in the doorway, dressed in that little red nighty. Your hair is wonky from the pillow and your eyes are little slits, but what makes Rooster’s spine stiffen is your posture. You usually stand so straight and proud, your shoulders squared and your jaw stiff. But right now, you’re almost cowering: shoulders drooping, legs bowed, eyes downcast, lips bitten. 

“Hey, daddy,” you sigh. You still haven’t gotten off the Daddy Warbucks jokes--Rooster is beginning to think you never will. “Want some company?” 

Rooster pats the chilled sheets beside him, eyebrows knit. 

“C’mere, baby.” 

Closing the door behind you, you crawl into bed with him, glancing at the Joni Mitchell painting mounted above the bed before you climb on top of Rooster. He takes it in stride, opening the covers for you, letting you nuzzle your face into his throat and slot your legs between his. He even tucks you both in under the covers, pulling them up to your neck before he encircles you in his arms and holds you against him. 

He likes to lay with you like this, even if his legs eventually fall asleep. He can feel everything you do--breathe, swallow, sigh, speak, flex, hiccup, fidget, twitch. All those little things that keep you alive, he can feel against his skin. 

“Can’t sleep?” Rooster whispers, kissing the top of your head. 

You sigh softly, shaking your head. 

“I was asleep,” you whisper. “Then I had this gnarly nightmare. I mean, it was a nightmare and a half.” 

Rooster nods. He knows about nightmares--his mother used to have them a lot towards the end. He can still remember pressing the cool cloth against her forehead, shushing her, luring her back to a fitful sleep. 

“Oh, yeah?” He asks softly, pressing his fingers to the back of your neck. You nod against him. “What, did you dream you were living at Hangman’s pad instead of mine?” 

Pinching him softly for teasing you, you shake your head. 

“I don’t think I even wanna talk about it,” you mumble. 

And really--you don’t. What are you supposed to say, anyway? It was just a nightmare. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Okay, okay,” Rooster whispers. “What should we talk about then?” 

“Don’t you wanna sleep?” 

Rooster scoffs.

“Me? Sleep?” He asks. “C’mon, baby. Get real.” 

“Why don’t you sleep anyway? Don’t jive me.” 

Rooster swallows hard. He hasn’t been asked that in a long time. A million years ago, when Phoenix would spend the night in his bed, she tried just about everything under the sun to get him to sleep. Lavender on his bedside table, chamomile tea after dinner, even acupuncture once. But she never thought to ask why he doesn’t sleep well. The only person who had asked was his doctor a handful of years ago, who only half-listened, anyway. 

You’re waiting patiently for his response, not pushing and not pulling. You’re content in your spot on his body, just waiting for his answer as you measure your breaths in terms of calmness and softness. You know, even without really knowing, that’s what Rooster needs right now. 

“Remember how I told you about my ma? And how she was sick?” He asks you. You nod against him. He clears his throat, smoothing his palm down your spine and letting it rest at the base. “Well, I was taking care of her and filming for Dennis, you know? So, I was spread pretty fuckin’ thin. Needed to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for filming, but had to wake my ma up for her meds during the night, too. To give it to you straight, baby, I just didn’t have time to sleep. That’s how I got on speed.” 

Speed. You try to imagine it--Rooster on cocaine. But you can’t really imagine him high, can’t imagine his pupils blown and his mouth wide open. 

He feels it when your body stiffens just slightly, when you jolt with realization. 

“I didn’t know that,” you tell him. 

He swallows. 

“No one does, kid,” he tells you. “Anyway, she used to get these night terrors, too. Nasty side effect of all those pills she was on, you know? So, I guess I kinda got used to not sleeping.” 

“You adapted,” you whisper to him. “Like a survival tactic. Evolution.” 

He nods.

“I guess I did. I was strung out all the time.” 

What he doesn’t tell you, what he hasn’t told anybody in the world, is that he sleeps like a baby when you’re in his bed. You’re an impolite sleeper, throwing yourself across his body, attaching your lips to his chest, needling your limbs through his. He thought that would make sleeping worse, thought that your hot breath on his throat would keep him up. But then he woke up late in the morning, eyes crusted with sleep, muscles slack. 

You sit up slightly, just enough for you to look into his eyes. They’re big and brown, staring back into yours just as sadly as yours are looking into his. You cup his cheek, swipe your thumb along his stubble. He holds you tighter against him like it’s an instinct. 

“You’re so good,” you tell him, really meaning it. “Do you think we deserve each other?” 

His throat is entirely dry. 

“How do you mean, baby?” 

“I’ve never done anything good in my life,” you tell him. You’re not exactly upset by this--it’s just something you’re stating. “You know, I’ve never, like, lived for anyone else. It’s always been the Cherry Show. You dig?” 

He thinks for a moment, not really sure what to say. He studies you, your creased brow and your earnest eyes. You look so honest bathed in the moonlight, nothing to hide from him. 

“Who says we’re supposed to live for other people?” Rooster asks.

“The bible,” you answer. 

He chuckles lightly. 

“Oh, yeah, I forgot how religious you are,” Rooster teases. “Cherry, I didn’t choose to live for my ma. There really wasn’t any other option.” 

You nod, chewing your lower lip. 

“But you did it,” you tell him.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I did.” 

“And you’d do it again, I bet,” you answer. 

He doesn’t even have to think about it. He just nods. 

Yeah, he’d do it again. He would.

“What do you think it means that I can’t have babies?” You ask him. 

You’ve never asked anyone else this before. Honestly, you’ve never really wondered about it. It doesn’t break your heart. It’s a reality you’ve been living with since you were fourteen-years-old. 

“Nothing,” Rooster answers without missing a beat. “Nada. Zilch.” 

Cheek returning to his chest, you nuzzle yourself against him. 

“Do you think it’s some, like, cosmic sign?” You ask him. “Like, I’m too fucked up to be someone’s ma. My apples are rotten or something.” 

Rooster shakes his head profusely, tutting. 

“You could never make something rotten,” he tells you seriously. He holds you tight against his body, tight like he’s about to shoot the both of you off into outer space and he has to keep you buckled into him. He has to keep your bodies together when gravity is gone and you’re all each other has. “You’ve done plenty of good in your life, kid. I know it. I swear it.” 

It’s quiet for a moment as you two settle into each other. You sleep together often, not bound to your room by anything other than conventionality. Your room is his room and his room is your room. More often than not, you fall asleep on the couch with your head in his lap or by the pool during a party or in his bed after fucking. 

His body is solid beneath yours, anchoring you to this waterbed, this earth. 

Your body on top of his is heavy with comfort, something he is used to now.  

“Do you think they miss me?” You whisper. 

Rooster knows that you’re talking about your family. 

He swallows. You’ve never talked about them before--not in terms of your absence. 

“Sure, I’ll bet they do,” Rooster answers. “Unless they’re dumb.” 

Maybe they are dumb. 

“You know, I called them just now. Let it ring. No one picked up. I don’t think anyone’s tried to find me,” you whisper. You don’t sound sad about this exactly--just factual, serious. “Like, I don’t know how they would. I’m not a minor, you know? And I’m not a Californian legally. But--I don’t know, I guess I thought there’d be something. Like, maybe I’d show up on a milk carton sometime. Or at least a flier.” 

“Is that what you want, kid?” Rooster whispers, tone even and fair. 

You shrug. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I don’t wanna go back. I don’t even really wanna, like, see them ever again. I feel like I’ve made my peace with that. But then sometimes I think about how I left home and never came back. And I think about what they did with all my stuff--not that I even care about it, anyway. But where is it? Did Carlton take my room?” 

You’re almost positive that you know the answers to these questions. Your stuff is probably ashes now, burned out in the east pasture when it was dry enough--that’s what your family does with trash. Carlton probably didn’t take your room, not when his has enough space for a double bed. 

Rooster just listens. 

“And--what, do they think about me? Or did I just, like, peace out and they were stoked? All the photographs of me on the wall and the art I made when I was little--where does it go now? Do they have a daughter still?” 

Both of you are quiet for a moment. 

“Cherry,” Rooster whispers. He kisses the top of your head again, letting his lips linger there as he breathes in the soap on your scalp. “Do you want them to be your parents?”

Slowly, you shake your head. No. You don’t. 

“Then they aren’t,” he tells you. “Simple as that.” 

“Says who?” You whisper. Your eyes are growing heavy. 

“Says me,” he tells you. “We can be orphans together, huh?” 

“You’re twisted,” you laugh. 

He keens at the sound of your laugh--you’re okay. You’re okay. 

“Untwist me, then,” he mumbles. 

You sigh, raking your fingers across the hair that grows on his chest. 

“Can’t,” you breathe. “I’m twisted, too. Perverted, really.” 

Rooster’s grinning now. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He kisses the top of your head again and inhales all of that Cherry that sits so thickly there. 

“No more doom and gloom tonight, baby,” he tells you. “Why don’t you go to sleep, huh? I’ll stay up and scare off any more nightmares, okay?” 

He used to tell his ma that, too, all those years ago. He’d take a few bumps, sit in a wooden chair beside her bed, and watch her face contort as she slept. He would wake her up before the nightmares would twitch her awake. 

“I love you, Roo,” you tell him. 

“I love you, Cherry-girl,” he tells you. “You’re my baby.” 

☿

The bump you took with Jake before filming sets in as you’re standing in the shitty saloon the prop team threw together in a few days, a tight bustier pushing your breasts up to an almost unnatural height. You’re backed up against the wall by Jake, who’s wearing a leather vest and no shirt with a cartoonishly large cowboy hat. 

“Well, I do declare that you are the rudest man I’ve ever encountered!” You say, clutching your faux pearls. There’s a slight Southern twang lilting your voice, one you and Jake worked on for a little bit a week ago. “I am a spoken-for woman, Mister Cowboy!” 

Jake is feverishly kissing your throat, nipping and sucking, caging you against the wall with his hands firmly planted on the wood. The camera is close to you two, zooming in on his lips against your skin. You know better by now than to look directly in its lens unless Dennis directs it. 

“Shut your trap, lady,” Jake responds. You two ran lines for an hour before shooting, then each took a bump to get your blood pumping. The two of you can recite this script forwards and backwards by now. “If you really wanted me to stop, you’d use that gun I know you’re holding!” 

The prop gun--a silly five-barrel pistol--is pressed into the cheap fabric of your skirt. You pull it out, just like you rehearsed, and press it against Jake’s taut belly. 

“Fine! You caught me. Don’t underestimate me, boy! I will shoot you dead! You’re an outlaw, afterall. Everyone will thank me!” 

Dennis is sitting in his usual chair, smoking a cigar, following along with the script. He’s pleasantly surprised at how easily you memorize scripts and how seamless your line interpretation is. 

He’s already had a couple calls from other big producers asking about you, trying to sniff out your contractual obligations. But Dennis isn’t fretting about it--you’re locked in tight with him. And with the way things are going now, your popularity rapidly on the rise, he knows you’re gonna be bringing him the big bucks. 

Jake’s pupils are blown. As you look into each other’s eyes, hearts racing, you both recognize that the other is high. Yes, the bump has definitely got your blood pumping. 

“I reckon you’re too much of a lady to shoot a gun,” Jake says, giving you his best snarl. You look up at him with big doe eyes and parted lips, your cheeks hot. “Prove me wrong, sugar. Shoot me.” 

You’ve rehearsed this bit a few times--you gritting your teeth and attempting to squeeze the trigger. Jake staring down at you with a smirk, still holding your body against the wall. Then you gasping melodramatically, letting the gun fall to the floor. 

“See,” Jake smirks. “I’ll bet I can make you do some unladylike things, sugar.” 

And at that, just like you practiced, Jake swiftly rips the bustier wide open and exposes your bare breasts. After you gasp, widening your eyes and pressing your shoulders against the wall, Jake hungrily kisses down your sternum and starts to kiss your breasts. 

“Perfect,” Dennis says from behind the camera. He takes a long drag, crossing his legs. “Make sure you’re still biting, Hangman. You’re an outlaw.” 

Something is cold in your belly, coiled up like a snake. When your eyes flutter shut as Jake sinks his teeth into your nipple, your mind hums with nothingness. You’re not really here right now, you’re somewhere else. Somewhere on your own, somewhere that your face is on every milk carton and where every lamppost has fliers covering every square inch of them. You’re somewhere wrapped up in Jake and Rooster, smushed between them, keening at their lips against your cheeks and their warm bodies against yours. 

“Cherry,” Dennis says, suddenly pulling you from that warm place. “You missed your line, babydoll.” 

Wrenching your eyes open, you blink at Jake and then at Dennis. Jake is cupping your breasts for decency purposes so you’re not entirely exposed in front of the crew. Brows furrowed, he’s staring down at you. 

“God, I’m such a space cadet today! I’m sorry, Dennis!” You say, heat spreading across your chest. “It won’t happen again! Swear it!” 

Dennis nods, lips flat. 

“We’ll pick it back up from I turn little ladies like you into whores. Alright? Let’s fuck.”

Jake nudges you with his forehead, eyes finding yours. 

“Y’good, berry?” 

You nod hurriedly. 

“Never better,” you whisper.

By the time you wrap up, it’s almost sunset. You’re sore from being fucked so harshly, which is what Dennis called for, but you’re satisfied at least. The coke is wearing off and you’re in your jumpsuit again now, sprawled out over the couch in Jake’s dressing room as he combs his mustache in the mirror. 

“Y’alright, Cherry-berry?” He asks, glancing at you. 

You’re twiddling your thumbs, blinking up at the ceiling. 

“Yeah,” you answer. “I’m groovy.”

He knows you aren’t telling the truth. You’re quiet. Usually, after filming, you’re asking for notes and telling Rooster how stellar he was and buzzing. You practically bounce off the walls after filming. Even though this is your first scene with Jake, he knows all this. He knows that something is off about the way you’ve totally thrown yourself over the couch.  

“Something’s on your mind,” Jake says softly. You won’t return his gaze, eyes trained on the ceiling as you fidget. You haven’t even bothered to take off the Western-themed makeup, so your cheeks are ridiculously pink and there’s a little beauty mark above your lip. “Lay it on me, honey.” 

The truth is that you’ve been thinking about it all day--why your parents didn’t answer the telephone. They were all in the kitchen, just a few paces away from the telephone. Your family will answer the phone during meals--even supper. They never go out of town overnight. There is no possible way they knew you were the one calling besides intuition, but even then, it seems unlikely. Why didn’t they pick up? 

Rooster made you feel better--holding you close, stroking your hair. But as soon as Jake picked you up this morning to drive to the set, that doom and gloom rolled in like a thick fog in the distance.  

“Cherry,” Jake says, drawing you from the dark corners of your brain. He’s facing you now, arms crossed over his chest. “C’mon. What’s going on?” 

Finally, you turn your cheek and look at him. His pupils are still blown, but his gaze is unwavering and earnest. 

“Had a wicked nightmare,” you tell him. You sigh, swallowing hard. “Just…thinking about that, I guess.” 

Jake studies you for a moment. You look deflated, tired. He doesn’t know it, but you slept with Rooster last night, letting your head rest in the crook of his neck all night. The nightmare disturbed you, but your parents not answering your one and only call disturbed you to the point of needing human connection. Jake doesn’t know any of this, but he knows that you need some air pumped back into you. 

“What was it?” He asks. He leans against the mirror now, still staring at you. “Trust me--I’m a dream decoder on the weekends.” 

You bite your lip. 

“Finally had to get that side-gig, huh?” You tease. “Shame that fucking didn’t work out for you, cowboy.”

Jake waits quietly for you to tell him, a smile tugging on his lips. 

“It was bogus, really,” you finally start, his silence nudging you towards the truth. You run your palms up and down your bare arms, your eyes untrained and lingering on the naked bulbs that line the mirror. “Back home in Nebraska, lying naked on the dinner table like a cadaver or something freaky like that. Family just eating dinner around me like everything’s hunky-dory. Started talking about me being all…twisted up inside. You know, like, baby-wise.” 

Jake nods. His fingers are beginning to tremble. He needs another bump, but he’s straining through the cold sweats and the dry mouth to listen to you. He cares about you--more than he expected himself to--and he cares about what you have to say about nightmares and dreams. He thinks, even, that he would listen to you talk about paint drying. He just cares. Simple as that. 

He’s trying to be good for you. He hasn’t tried to be good for anyone since Gentry.  

“What else?” He asks. 

In the warm glow of the room, you look very soft right now. In fact, for the first time since he’s met you, Jake thinks that you look young. That’s what you look like--a girl. A lost little girl. But then he blinks and you’re Cherry again, sinking your teeth into your lip and stretching your arms above your head.

He really needs a bump. 

“I guess that’s all,” you answer, sighing. “It’s kinda just given me bad vibes all day. You dig?”

You aren’t sure why you’re telling these fragmented truths. You aren’t sure why you’re telling two halves of the truth to different people, allowing integral parts of the story to stay shrouded in the dark. Rooster knows that you called. Jake knows what your dream was. Maybe if they ever talk about you with each other, maybe if they connect the dots, they’ll understand a part of you that even you don’t understand right now. 

“Here,” Jake says, fishing in the pocket of his jeans as he crosses the room to you. He sinks to his knees, the buttermints container in his hand. “I’ve got something that’ll put a little pep in your step.” 

He strokes your hair and you bite your lip again, eyes trained on the container. 

“I don’t think Rooster digs it when we get high and he doesn’t,” you tell Jake, wringing your hands together. “He kinda gets stuffy, doesn’t he?”

You’re thinking about what Rooster told you last night--how he used blow to stay up and keep staying up. You can’t imagine, really, just how spread thin he was by the end of it all.  

Rooster doesn’t outwardly try to be in a bad mood when you and Jake are high--but you know that he is. You’re hypervigilant to his moods, which is something that happened suddenly and completely one day. Every twitch of his mouth, wrinkle of his nose, nod of his head reads so clearly to you. You know when he’s losing his patience, when he’s holding in a laugh, when he wants to say more but won’t.   

Jake scoffs, cupping your cheek. His palm is clammy on your face. 

“That’s just cause he’s got a stick up his ass about sobriety,” Jake tells you. He pinches your cheek softly. “C’mon, we don’t have to go to his pad. We can go anywhere you want, Cherry-berry. The beach, The Dresden. Shit, we can go to fucking Vegas for all I care!” 

You sit up on your elbows, chewing the inside of your cheek. You want to feel better--you want that more than anything right now. You don’t want to feel bare naked anymore today unless you’re neck deep in the ocean. 

“Vegas? You really are an idiot savant, cowboy,” you tell him, grinning. You nod for him to open the container and he beams at you. 

“I ain’t just a woofin’, honey,” he tells you, making quick work of opening the container. “I’m the real deal.” 

“No phonies here,” you agree. 

He takes a bump first, a long and hard snort. And then, like he always does, he spreads the flowery stuff against your gums. You swallow, letting your eyes fall shut as the familiar feeling numbs your mouth. 

“I’ll never get over how foxy you are,” Jake tells you, shaking his head. 

He means it, too--you sucking on his finger, eyes fallen shut, blue eyeshadow caked on your eyelids--you really do something to him.

“Eat your heart out,” you tell Jake, grinning.   

He kisses you suddenly, quickly. His lips are wet and parted, his tongue pressing itself onto yours as he holds your neck gently. 

“Let’s go to the beach, huh?” You whisper against his mouth. “We can skinny dip in the ocean.” 

“Don’t be a bunny,” Jake tells you, resting his forehead against yours. “We’ve gotta eat before then, huh? Let’s purge on some burgs!”

☿

Rooster watches the sunset outside, hands on his hips and foot tapping impatiently on the concrete, in between incessantly checking his wristwatch. You left early this morning, detangling yourself from him and pressing a thousand kisses to his face before bounding out the door. He knows you must be done shooting by now--but you’re not home. 

It isn’t that he has plans for the two of you or anything. You’re not late for some big dinner, you don’t have a date, he doesn't have Cockwalk 3 for you to watch, he doesn’t necessarily have anything planned for the two of you except to sit in each other’s company. 

And he hates it, really, that it’s upsetting him so much. He expected you home by dusk, if not earlier than that. He expected to order a pizza and have a few drinks--maybe even go out and grab dinner. You’ve been talking about getting your own car now that you’ve gotten a  few paychecks--he thought you could talk about that tonight.  

He hates it that he’s worried about you not having a cardigan with you because even though you tell everyone you’re hotblooded, you get cold. And he knows that your ego is too big to admit it--which is why you always nuzzle yourself into him as the night grows darker, cooler. He hates that he knows that if you’re with Jake, he won’t recognize that you’re cold. He isn’t Rooster--he won’t shrug off his jacket and give it to you and you won’t ask.

He hates that he feels like a father waiting for his daughter to come home. He hates that he feels like someone’s old man left in the dust, worrying himself sick about you being cold or lost or hurt or upset. 

He hates that he was waiting all day for you to come home, replaying your conversation before bed, rubbing the knots out of his spine from your body weight resting on him all night. He’s been smiling today, finally well-rested. He hates that he slept so well last night, hates that he only sleeps that well when you’re in his bed.    

He doesn’t even have it in him to finish his Tom Collins. He leaves it on the tiki bar, ice melting in the highball glass, and doesn’t bother to shoo any of the bugs away when they come to collect its sugary contents. 

Just past midnight, you’re leaning against the passenger door of Jake’s car, damp hair dancing in the wind as Jake drives you home. You’re still in your jumpsuit, though it’s soaked thoroughly with ocean water now. Your shoes are tossed somewhere in the backseat, your makeup is smudged, and there’s sand all over your body--from your bellybutton to your toes to your ears. 

You’re coming down now, having taken more bumps today than you even care to remember. That ecstasy is fading as the morning grows nearer and nearer, as unavoidable as Rooster’s going to be when you get home. 

Jake is still high, taking a bump just before hopping behind the wheel, and he has the radio turned up too loud. Pretty Baby by Blondie is thumping through the speakers and vibrating your tongue. 

You feel like you can’t talk right now. You’re so full. Full of burgers, coke, cum, sand, ocean water. And even if you were clean--if you were freshly bathed and crawling into clean sheets--you would still feel too full. Too much emotion, too much regret, too much sex. You’ve been fucked five times today, all by Jake, and you’re sore all over. 

Cherry Arsan is always game--but right now, you just want to go home and sleep. Maybe that means you’re not Cherry right now. Or maybe you just don’t know her as well as you thought. You’re too tired to decide what is right and what is wrong. 

You don’t even know that you’re asleep until you’re suddenly being lifted from the front seat of Jake’s car and thrown over his shoulder.

“Oh,” you say softly, balling his shirt in your hands. It’s still wet, still sandy. “Didn’t mean to be a buzzkill, cowboy.” 

Jake shakes his head, starting for Rooster’s front door with you still slung over his shoulder. Your jumpsuit is wedged between your cheeks and you don’t have it in you to fix it. You don’t even have it in you to hold your head up--you’re just limp on his body. 

“It’s alright now, honey,” Jake tells you, perky as ever. His high hasn’t faded yet--he isn’t sure if it’s from his orgasm or the coke, but he is far from complaining. “Just chill.”

Rooster’s waiting in the foyer. He heard Jake from all the way down the street, tires screeching and radio booming. He drives too damn fast, especially when he’s high--it irks Rooster. 

 “Honey, we’re home!” Jake sings loudly as he bursts through the front door. 

Jake is surprised when he sees Rooster standing right in front of him. Rooster is still in his collared shirt and slacks, his belt and wristwatch still intact. Usually, by midnight, Rooster would be in his pajamas. And if that isn’t indication enough that something is off with Rooster, his body language is a dead giveaway. His arms are crossed over his chest, his posture is stiff, his eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is set. 

Rooster is, simply put, fucking furious. 

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Rooster hisses, crossing the foyer and pulling you off Hangman’s shoulder and onto your feet. “You can’t carry her like that!” 

Jake just rolls his eyes, bumping you with his elbow. 

“I think dad’s pissed,” he whispers to you, eyeing Rooster. 

Rooster doesn’t smile.

“You alright, kid?” Rooster asks. 

“Groovy, baby,” you tell him. Your voice is quiet--thin. “Just need to get some shut-eye.” 

Then begins his examination of you. He tilts your face from side to side, taking note of the heat in your cheeks and the sand in your hair. He notices the little bite marks scattered along your collarbones and chest and the way your jumpsuit is ruined with saltwater and sand. Your makeup is running off your face, your skin is peak-ed, and your shoulders are slumped. There’s even a dash of white powder on your top lip and he knows exactly what that is. 

Jake is whistling, kicking his shoes off and heading towards the bar to make himself a drink. 

“Did you nab any more Aperol?” Jake asks. “You’ve been out for a hot minute, brother!” 

Rooster chews on his bottom lip.

“You’re not on my good side right now, man,” Rooster tells Jake, his tone still even but deep and serious. “I think you need to just go the fuck to bed.” 

Your ears are ringing. You’re exhausted, wilting where you’re standing. 

Jake just raises his eyebrow at Rooster, still looking through his liquor collection. 

“But, dad! I’m not tired! Please let me stay up until the television signs off!” Jake teases, chuckling.    

Rage is burning hotly in his veins now, which he isn’t all that familiar with. He usually doesn’t let himself get this angry, especially not at Jake. But there’s something about the state you’re in right now that’s changing that. 

“I’m not fucking around,” Rooster tells Jake, hands on his hips. “If you wanna keep partying, fine. But you’re not doing it here.” 

Jake freezes finally, heart racing still. 

He straightens himself, beholds Rooster standing in front of you with his chest puffed out like he’s some sort of hero. 

“Yeah? How come?” Jake asks coolly. 

“I had no idea where you two were tonight,” Rooster says, narrowing his eyes at Jake. “And I was expecting Cherry home by dinnertime, man. I was worried sick.”

Jake blinks at Rooster.

“Baby’s got a bedtime, huh?” He says, glancing at you. “She didn’t tell me that.” 

“I don’t have a fucking bedtime,” you sneer quietly, reaching for the buttons of your jumpsuit, which you fumble with. “Get real.” 

“Listen,” Rooster says, holding a hand up at Jake. “You can tease and fuck with me all you want, but I’m not gonna sit here and act like this is hunky-dory, alright? If you wanna fuck around, get high, and fuck on the beach then do that. But don’t drag Cherry into it!” 

Jake scoffs. 

“Yeah, she wasn’t exactly kicking and screaming, man,” Jake tells Rooster. “Don’t know if you know this, but she’s not your fucking orphan, man. She can make her own choices. Which she did--and she chose to fuck around with me tonight. Sorry that pisses you off.” 

Now Jake is pissed, anger burning the tips of his ears. 

Rooster and Jake stare at each other, both of their jaws tight with irritation. You slink out of your jumpsuit and leave it in a wet heap on the tile. You’re almost naked now except for the panties you have on, which are ripped from earlier today. 

“I find it hard to believe that she asked you to get her high,” Rooster says finally. 

When you walk out before him, fully intending to get away from the two men that are arguing over something that’s making your head pound, he suddenly reaches out and halts you with a big hand on your shoulder. 

“Really?” Rooster asks Jake, scoffing. “Had to mark her up, huh? Jesus, man. You can’t be doing that. Not in this line of work.” 

He’s talking about the love brands that cover the back of your throat and the top of your back, little purple bruises.  

 Jake holds his hands on his hips, growing hotter under the collar. 

“Oh, cause you didn’t mark her up nice and good over Valentine’s Day, huh?” Jake asks. Rooster pales a bit, but doesn’t break his gaze from Jake. “She wanted it, man. That’s why I did it!” 

It’s true--you did want to be marked up a bit. You were high when you asked him to do it and he was already taking you from behind up against the hood of his car. In that moment, as he suckled your skin and bruised it, you felt like you belonged to someone. Like actually, thoroughly belonged to someone. 

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m sure you’re all about what Cherry wants, right? And you never do anything because it’s what you want, huh?” Rooster spits. He shakes his head at Jake and scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t fucking jive me, man.” 

“What’s your problem, man?” Jake asks, truly incredulous. “Cherry isn’t yours.” 

Cherry isn’t yours. 

It echoes in the house, knocks against your skull like a brick. It sobers you, opens your eyes, stops the pounding in your ears. 

“Fuck off,” you suddenly sneer, lips twisted. Jake stumbles in place, eyebrows raised. But then you turn to Rooster and narrow your eyes at him, too. “Both of you.” 

They’re both shocked--blinking at you with their mouths agape. How you’ve managed to render them speechless--smaller, younger, and naked--is truly a power that only you possess. 

“Don’t fucking talk about me like I’m not here,” you say, stepping out of Rooster’s grip and looking at the both of them. Their shoulders are starting to wilt. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, alright? I can fuck whoever I want, I can eat whatever I want, I can snort whatever I want. Don’t fucking box me in, man.” 

“I wasn’t trying to box you in,” Rooster says, his voice even again. “I was worried about you.” 

Liquid magma is boiling in your belly. 

“Well, don’t worry about me!” You tell him, hands raised. There’s suddenly water in your eyes now, weighing down your lashes. “It’s pointless.” 

What you mean is: you can go missing and no one will look for you--not even your parents. And they won’t answer the phone, either. 

You turn to Jake, ignore Rooster’s gaze burning the back of your head. 

“Don’t call me a baby,” you tell Jake. He nods. “I’m not a baby--I’m not anyone’s fucking baby.” 

It’s quiet for a moment--the only sound is your heavy breathing. 

“Cherry,” Rooster starts, cheeks pink. “Listen, I’m--!”

“Goodnight,” you sharply interrupt, spinning on your heel and heading towards the bathroom. 

You slam the door shut. Jake and Bradley both startle at the sound, cowering in each other’s gazes. All the anger has suddenly dissipated, vanished. 

“Is it cool if I sleep in the spare?” Jake asks softly, testing the waters. 

Rooster nods. 

“Of course, man.” 

☿

Rooster isn’t sure what to do. 

He’s been waiting outside the bathroom for thirty minutes now. And before that, he was turning off all the lights and throwing your jumpsuit in the dirty laundry and changing into his pajamas. You’ve been in there for a long time--too long, really. 

He has decided that he won’t be able to even lay down if he knows you’re upset with him. He doesn’t even know where it all went wrong, really. He was just worried about you. He just wants you to be okay. And right now, he doesn’t think that you are--not with makeup all over your face and love brands all over your body. He knows he fucked up, which he doesn’t often do. And he knows that he has to make it right. 

Another ten minutes pass and he’s still standing motionless outside the bathroom. And finally, finally, he gets the courage to knock very softly a few times. 

Your response is immediate. 

“Come in.” Your voice is so little, almost lost beneath the crack of the door. 

Rooster’s response is also immediate--at once, he’s turned the handle and come into the bathroom, beholding your wilted form before the counter. You’ve showered and shrugged your robe on. Now, you’re looking at yourself in the mirror, your cheeks tear-stained and your lips swollen. 

“Baby,” Rooster whispers. He freezes when he remembers your words: don’t call me baby. I’m not anyone’s baby. But you don’t move to correct him. And your face doesn’t screw up with disgust. “I’m sorry.” 

You nod, sniffling. There’s still makeup staining your face, despite having tired to scrub it all off in the shower. 

“Me too,” you tell him. “I didn’t want to worry you. Was your night a total bummer?” 

Rooster shakes his head. He wants to reach out and hold you close to him. He wants to kiss your face. But he keeps thinking about what Jake said, what you didn’t dispute: Cherry isn’t yours. 

  “No, baby,” Rooster says quietly. “But I’m glad you’re home.” 

Home. The word feels so layered right now.

“Yeah,” you respond quietly. 

There is almost too much to unpack right now. You have a million things to say to Rooster, all of which make you cry. And Rooster has a million things to say to you, each one achingly close to a confession of some sort. But it’s too late. You’re too tired, he’s too upset, Jake is too close, you’re still coming down. You can talk about all of it when you’re sober, when you haven’t been crying. 

“Here,” Rooster says, catching your gaze in the mirror. He nods to the counter. “Hop up.” 

You do without a word, facing him with your shoulders slouched. 

He slots himself between your legs and takes the washcloth from your hand. He turns on the tap, lets it run warm as you fix your gaze on his bare belly. And then he holds your chin, tilts your face so you’re looking up at him. There’s that little hot coal sitting in both your bellies when you look at each other--all that honesty, all that love, all that respect, all that affection. It’s there, even now, after you told him to fuck off. Even after Jake said you weren’t his. 

Tenderly, very tenderly, he begins to dab at the leftover makeup on your face. The washcloth is so warm that it prickles your spine. And Rooster’s gaze is so endearing, so full of adoration for you, that your bottom lip wobbles. He’s never seen you cry before--but he knows that’s what is going to happen when you start to blink rapidly. 

But he’s good about it. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t call attention to it. Even when fat tears begin to roll down your cheeks, he just dabs at them and continues to wipe your face clean. When you sniffle, when snot begins to drip down your top lip, he doesn’t flinch: he just wipes it clean. 

You two don’t speak for a long time. For a long time, the only sound in the room is him dipping the washcloth in the water, wringing it out, then pressing it to your skin. Little sniffles and wet breaths occasionally echo off the tile, too, but you know it’s something that you can’t stop and Rooster knows it’s nothing he can stop either. So, it just happens. 

“There,” he whispers, setting the washcloth beside you and resting his palms on either side of your thighs. “All clean, baby.” 

You’re still crying. 

“Thanks a million,” you whisper to him. Your chin trembles. “I’m your baby, right?” 

Rooster’s brows knit, but he nods immediately. 

“Of course,” he tells you. “And you know what? I was about an hour away from calling the pigs and getting a search party started, baby. We’re talking every milk carton, every lamppost. Fliers plastered on department stores--the whole nine yards, baby.”

It makes you laugh, a thin and pathetic thing. And then it makes you sob. 

That’s when Rooster finally wraps his arms around you, when you finally let yourself go and cry openly into his bare shoulder. And the scent of his skin, vetiver and cigar smoke, makes something settle in your belly. 

This is home, you realize. This shoulder, this skin, this man, these arms. 

This is home. 

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: posting this here now that Tumblr has let me out of horny jail. I need all of you to know that I absolutely adore you and my time in Tumblr jail would've been miserable if not for all of you people. you're all my little chickens and I love you!

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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#DadSwap by Twitter user Adonyne

Wait...

ooooops

dammit. I looked to see if she had a tumblr first I swear! I checked tha Carrd and everything!

Well idk, shit, uh... here's her instagram! Please follow the original artist!

I'm Not Interested | Oberyn Martell x F!Reader

Synopsis: Being a handmaiden meant you lived to serve, to make sure you were keeping the young queen safe. But when a certain golden fellow makes his way in from the South, he cannot help but to become infatuated with your aura. So many stories you have heard about the Prince of Dorne, how uninterested it made you. But would he be able to woo you?

Warnings: Language, Angst, M/F Sexual Situations, The Hatred the Reader Has For Oberyn is A S T R O N O M I C A L, Reader has the last name of Flowers since they are a bastard from The Reach,

Rating: M

Author’s Note: Listen, I love me a good hate fucking AU

Word Count: 7.3K

—-

Lees verder

Elementary, Chapter One

gif credit: @magnusedom

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x teacher!reader

chapter rating: M (no smut yet but all my works are 18+, talks of children with difficult home lives, widowed/single dad!joel, unbeta’d and unedited bc i refuse to proofread my shit)

word count: 2.8k

series masterlist | joel masterlist

The sound of your alarm clock buzzing hit you like a brick, the burn in your eyes causing you to wonder if you got any sleep at all. You rolled out of bed with a yawn, your back cracking as it adjusted to being upright.

“Christ,” you groaned as you stood up and padded your way over to the bathroom. “And only twenty-eight.”

As you stood in the shower nearly catatonic, you thought about the day ahead of you. Parent/teacher conference day. The worst day of the year.

Typically, you loved going into work. Your class of fifth graders were a godsend, making up for all the mischievous ten and eleven year olds you had last year. But today wasn’t about the kids, even if it was supposed to be. Today was about dealing with their opinionated, or even more tragic, absent parents.

No matter which way they leaned on the spectrum—involved or absent—none of them ever seemed to be pleased with your assessment of their child. If their children were straight A students, you simply weren’t challenging them enough. If they were rowdy, it must be your fault because “they aren’t like that at home”. Never satisfied.

But the worst and most draining part of the day was sitting there with your students waiting for their parents to show up, both of you knowing they wouldn’t. You had to watch the light fade from their eyes as the minutes ticked on. You had to watch them struggle to ask to use your desk phone to call home. On more than one occasion, you had to watch the child go off in the backseat of a police car, their parents MIA and having no other way home. It broke your heart in ways they never taught you about in school, ways you never prepared for.

Sitting down at your desk, a half hour left until the first bell rang, you flipped through the pile of report cards, ordering them by meeting time rather than the alphabetical order they were in now.

“Morning, Miss,” a small voice called your attention, your eyes lifting from the papers to watch as Sarah Miller, one of your better students, walked in.

“Sarah, class doesn’t start for another half-hour.” Your brows furrowed as she hung her backpack on her chair and sat down.

“My dad had to be at work early,” she informed, tugging out a book and cracking it open.

“Well, why don’t you go have some breakfast since you’re here early?” you suggested, unsure of her home situation given that her father missed last semester’s conference, leaving them unacquainted.

“No, we had breakfast burritos on the way,” she assured, already lost in her book. You nodded to yourself and resigned to having some company as you went through your morning prep.

As you jotted down today’s date and lesson objectives, Sarah called your name.

“Yea, Sarah?” You turned around to look at her, her brow laced in concentration as she pointed at a word in her book.

“What’s this mean?” You walked over and looked at the spot she was pointing to, sucking your teeth at the word at least two grade levels ahead of hers.

“Assiduous—means careful,” you read it out loud so that she could hear it pronounced, her small voice repeating the word earning a nod from you. “What are you doing reading such an advanced book?”

“It’s my dad’s,” she shrugged, flipping to the cover. “Figured if he’s smart enough to read it, so am I.”

You laughed and nodded, amused and impressed by her wit.

“I don’t know your dad, but I’m sure you’re right.” The bell rang signaling the start of the school day, your door opening as your class of thirty started to file into the room. “Good morning, everybody. Did everyone have a good weekend?”

“My cat died!” Tommy, one of the more talkative students announced to the class over a sea of other responses.

“I’m so sorry about that, Tommy,” you sympathized, watching as he shrugged.

“It’s okay. He was kind of a jerk.”

You weren’t sure whether or not to laugh, so you refrained, taking a deep breath before clapping your hands together.

“Alright then. Let’s, uh, let’s get out our journals and start our morning logs, shall we?” You stood at the front of the classroom and watched as your students tugged out their composition notebooks and cracked them open. “The subject for today is dreams. You can write about your dreams for life, for the future, for yourself and for family, or you can write about an actual dream you had. Whatever you end up writing about, remember to use some describing words. Set the scene. Just because you can see it in your head doesn’t mean the reader can, so really try and paint a picture with your words. Alright, everybody ready?”

You pressed the timer after your students confirmed they were ready to start, and walked back over to your desk to check your emails. As you sat down, your phone lit up with a message alert from the guy you’d gone on a date with on Saturday—a guy who almost literally bored you to tears.

Hope your day is going well! Can’t get you out of my head. 💞

You sighed at the message, locking your phone and flipping it over as you shooed your failing live life out of your mind to focus on work.

“Sorry,” Sarah apologized as she paced around by the door, her eyes glued to the hallway as the two of you waited for her father to show. “He promised he’d show—“

“Hey,” you heard a man’s voice from in the hall, Sarah’s relief clear as she welcomed him inside.

You were a little taken aback by how attractive and young he was, his dark brown hair matching his eyes as he stepped over to your desk. He held his hand out for you from over your bulky computer and you accepted it quickly.

“Sorry I’m late, I, uh—“

“Just over here,” you interrupted him to lead him over to the half-circle table at the back of your class, Sarah joining the two of you.

“I just started a contracting company, and it’s…hectic to say the least,” he offered you a polite smile, hoping to wipe away the look of disappointment on your face as you seemingly wrote him off as just another absent parent. “It’s just me, so…hard to be in two places at once.”

“It’s completely understandable, Mr. Miller,” you assured with a warm smile, forcing your eyes away from his handsome face to grab Sarah’s report card and your progress notes. “So, Sarah is doing incredible this year, as I’m sure you already know.”

Joel looked over at his daughter with a proud smile, nodding at her.

“Her grades are great, her attendance is great, the only concern that I have is her social skills.” You watched as his smile faded into the frown that you’d come to expect in these meetings.

“Her social skills? What’s wrong with her social skills?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing! Nothing. She’s an excellent communicator and teammate when she’s put in groups,” you flickered your eyes over to her, watching as she looked guiltily at the table. “But she rarely socializes with her classmates outside of team-assignments. Have you considered putting her in some extracurricular activities? So that she can socialize a bit more and make some friends? I know the soccer season is starting soon.”

“Sure,” he nodded, looking to his daughter. “Whatever she wants to do, you know, I give my permission.”

“I don’t want to be on the soccer team,” Sarah chimed in, glancing at her father. “No one would show up to my games anyways.”

“Hey, now,” Joel sounded hurt as he shifted in his seat to face her better, your eyes falling to the tabletop awkwardly as you let them talk it through. “I’m tryin’ my best here.”

“I know,” she assured with a sincere tone and a nod, no malice in her voice, just resolution. “But it’s still true.”

“It doesn’t have to be soccer,” you spoke again, wanting to ease the tension. “A book club is always an option. I lead a women-only book club every week at the public library on Saturday afternoons. It’s ladies of all ages, our youngest is a five year old who comes with her mom, and our eldest is ninety-seven. Why don’t the two of you swing by and check it out this weekend?”

“Am I allowed?” Joel asked with a hint of a playfulness, bringing a smile to your face.

“We’ll make a one-time exception,” you assured.

“Appreciate it,” Joel chuckled and stood up, holding his hand out for yours again. “Well, thank you for all you do. It was a pleasure to meet you. I’ll see ya on Saturday.”

“On time, hopefully,” you teased and felt your chest swell in pride as his smile widened.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Joel was standing at the stove, scrambling a pan of eggs while he waited for the pancake in the other pan to be ready for a flip when Sarah came hurdling into the room, still half-asleep. Joel shot her an amused look, chuckling at her disheveled state.

“Mornin’, baby girl,” he greeted.

“You’re up,” she croaked with confusion.

“Yep.”

“You never wake up on your own,” she noted suspiciously as she slugged her way over to the fridge, tugging out a bottle of orange juice before catching sight of the freshly flipped pancake. “And we’re having pancakes? Who died?”

“Nobody,” he quickly replied. “I’m just tryin’ to get us to your book club on time.”

“Yeah, so you can see my pretty teacher,” she teased, elbowing his side as she stood beside him at the stove, tending to the eggs.

“I should’a never told you that,” he sighed, his momentary lapse in judgement leading him to make a comment about how much prettier you were than he was expecting on the drive home from the meeting on Monday.

“It’s okay if you have a crush,” she assured, her words mildly surprising him. He’d expected her to be against the idea, her loyalty to her mom who passed away five years ago causing him to avoid the dating scene entirely. “I just don’t know if she’d be into your whole…situation.”

“My situation?” He questioned her with a smirk as he plated their breakfast before carrying them over to the table.

“Yeah, you know, the whole overworked, messy, single dad thing.” Joel stared at her in playful disbelief as she listed off his flaws casually, seeing so much of her mother in her. “But maybe she’s into that.”

“We aren’t goin’ to get me a date, we’re goin’ so you can make some friends,” he reminded as he cut into his pancakes.

“Maybe you can make a friend, too,” she pointed out. “Maybe somebody who can help you with your time management skills.”

“Time management,” he repeated her words. “You’re gettin’ too smart for your own good.”

“Good.”

“Alright, I know we’re all eagerly awaiting the reveal of this month’s book, so without further ado—oh.” You were interrupted by a familiar father-and-daughter duo sneaking into the room quietly, Joel mouthing a silent apology as he took a seat with Sarah in the back. “We’ve got a new face today—well, two new faces, technically. Everybody, welcome Sarah and her father…”

“Joel,” he introduced himself, surprised that he forgot to do so during the conference.

“You arrived just in time for the reveal of this month’s book,” you smiled as you walked over to the stack of books hidden underneath a table cloth. “Are we ready?”

“Yeah!” The five year old you’d mentioned during the meeting cheered, making you laugh.

“Alright, this month’s pick is…” you pulled the tablecloth off and lifted the cover up. “Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.”

“About time,” croaked the eldest member of the club, Harriet, the book having been her vote every month since she’d joined the club a year ago.

After handing out copies of the book to the entire room, including Joel, you announced that it was “mingling time” and were delighted to see Joel and Sarah making a beeline for you.

“I’m glad you guys came,” you greeted them with a smile, pointing at the book in their hands. “It’s a pretty good read, not my usual cup of tea but not bad. And given the books you’re used to reading, Sarah, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle this one.”

“Hey,” a girl Sarah’s age approached her with a friendly smile. “I’m Jessie.”

“Sarah.”

You and Joel looked on as the two eleven year olds got swept away in conversation about some show you’d never heard of, both of you proud of her for branching out.

“So what’s this club all about?” Joel asked, the two of you now alone as Sarah walked off with her new friend. “Just reading and snacks?”

“Pretty much,” you confirmed with a chuckle. “We do more throughout the month—activities based on the book we’re reading and stuff—but it’s the first meeting of the month, so it’s usually just spent with all of us catching up and hanging out.”

“Well, she looks happy,” he pointed out before holding up the book in his hand. “Anything I should be worried about her reading in this?”

“As in sex, drugs, and violence? No. But if you’re worried about 19th-century gender dynamics, then yeah, there’s some stuff.” Joel laughed and nodded, tapping the paperback against his palm. “You, uh, you made progress. Only five minutes late this time.”

“And I woke up early, too,” he added before flushing in embarrassment as he revealed his eagerness to get here on time. “Yeah, uh, Sarah’s used to pullin’ me outta bed—she was floored to see me already awake when she woke up.”

“Sounds like you need a better alarm.”

“Or more days off to actually get some decent rest,” he replied with a sigh, shaking his head.

“She knows you’re not intentionally doing it, you know?” you offered, the affection you felt for both him and his daughter teetering in inappropriate given that you were simply her teacher, but you couldn’t shake it no matter how hard you tried to all week.

“I feel so guilty,” he confessed, suddenly looking more vulnerable and exhausted. “She’s missin’ out on bein’ a kid and havin’ to take care of herself all because I decided I wanted to be self-employed.”

“Her mom—“

“Passed away five years ago,” he filled you in softly as you walked him over to the snack table to grab a water bottle. “Just got her uncle and I left.”

“Well, you guys aren’t doing too bad,” you complimented with a smile, watching as he rolled his eyes. “Seriously, she’s a funny kid. Quick, too.”

“That’s all her mama,” he replied with a smile that screamed affection.

“Well, she must’ve been quite a woman, then.”

“She was,” he nodded, his eyes turning away from yours as he reached to grab a water of his own. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Oh, you don’t need to thank—“

“No, I do,” he shushed you gently. “Sarah’s other teachers never cared enough to look out for her like you do. It’s really…I appreciate it. You’re even extending that kindness to me, so…thank you.”

You felt overwhelmed by his words, having never received such kindness in your career. You were used to crying over criticism, but now your eyes began to well for a whole new reason.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you cry—“ Joel reached to touch your shoulder but refrained, not wanting to cross any lines without consent. You sniffled and wiped away the tears that had yet to spill from your watery eyes, chuckling at your own emotional state.

“No, I’m just…not used to a parent being so nice,” you laughed again and this time Joel joined you. “So, thank you and, by the way, I appreciate you too.”

“Maybe we can—“

“Oops, I spilled my wine!” Harriet announced, cutting off Joel’s attempt at asking you out.

“Harriet! Where’d you find wine? This is a public library,” you scolded, starting off towards her before turning back to Joel. “Sorry, I, uh, I have drop-off duty on Monday morning, so I’ll see you when you drop Sarah off?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, swallowing his failure. “See ya then.”

I love the spectator sport AU and the hurt and comfort! Can you write Joel having a nightmare? Maybe the reader comforts him?

in the dead of night

pairing: joel miller x reader (pairing from the soccer parents AU)

summary: joel has a nightmare, you comfort him.

warnings: nightmare, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff

word count: around 400

author’s note: i wrote this in a few minutes on my phone. i cannot be held liable for any grammatical errors.

i’m also taking more drabble requests!

Being a mother, you’d woken up to all sorts of strange things in the middle of the night. Whether it was Chloe shaking your shoulder because she had a nightmare and didn’t want to be alone, or the absolutely lovely sound of your baby wailing through the night. Despite your extensive knowledge of strange wake-up calls, this one was definitely a first.

Fingernails dug into your skin, causing you to wake up with a yelp. A cold dread washed over you for a second, your sleepy brain thinking that maybe there was a deranged home invader whose preferred method of invasion was scratching their victims awake.

The reality was far less scary—for you, at least. As your eyes adjusted to the dark room, you recognized the fingers gripping you extraordinarily tight as your partner’s. You slowly became a bit more awake, and realized that Joel was shaking just the slightest bit, and that perspiration beaded at his hairline.

“Joel,” you whispered, removing his tight grip from your shoulder. After quietly saying his name, all you got in response was an unintelligible murmur.

“Joel,” you repeated, this time slightly louder, but still aware of the fact that your children were sleeping in the next rooms over.

At this utterance of his name, he stirred slightly more, but was very clearly still asleep, and still grappling with whatever strange thing was happening in his dream that had him sweating and gripping onto you like you were going to slip from his fingers.

You set your hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him while saying his name one more time, this time with a sense of urgency and concern. That somehow managed to be enough to finally wake the man in bed with you up, and Joel gasped as he awoke.

“Joel,” you said softly, hovering over the man. “Are you alright?”

He looked up at you wordlessly, blinking a few times before pulling you into a rib-crushing hug.

“I thought I lost you,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

“Oh baby,” you cooed, playing with the hairs at the back of his head as he tightly embraced you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Hips Don't Lie || Pedro Pascal

a/n: my Spanish isn't the best now that I'm older, so if what i wrote is wrong, I'm so sorry 😭. i made A's and could actually speak fluently, but then i lost it after high school and college 😡. i may just have to re-teach myself in my free time. it's always good to know multiple languages! plus. Spanish is such a beautiful language, oh my word.

warnings: alluded smut at the end, Pedro being cheeky about having dessert first, sweetness, established relationship 💗

word count: 699

Pedro Pascal Masterlist || My Library

“What on earth are you doing?” You ask your boyfriend as you stumble into the kitchen. Music blared from the speaker, Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie. Pedro had a spatula in hand, brown eyes heavily focused on the pan on the stove. 

Whipping his head up, brown locks disheveled slightly from what appeared to result from a much-needed nap, Pedro’s smile fans across his face. 

“I was trying to surprise you?” He says. “I didn’t think you’d be home this early, sweetheart.” He motions you over. 

A soft giggle escapes you as you wrap your arms around his waist. “Smells amazing,” You look down into the pan of red pasta sauce. 

“Let’s hope it tastes good,” He laughs. He takes some of the sauce onto the spatula and brings it to your mouth. Parting your lips, you take some into your mouth, moaning at the luscious taste. The moment he sees your eyes tip back, he knows he’s declared the winner. 

“Shakira?” You chuckle. Pedro was unavoidably moving his hips in enchanting circles, your eyes focusing on his backside that jostled back and forth in a pair of athletic shorts. 

“Can’t go wrong with her,” He winks, bringing you forward after setting the spatula on the ceramic plate. He takes your fingertips, lacing his through yours, and begins to move you back and forth. 

Laughter escapes you as you allow him to move you. Front and back the two of you go.

“Come on, baby!” Pedro exclaims, holding your hips. He pushes them in fluid motions. “I know you’ve got it in you. I’ve seen you dance.” 

Giggling, the fluidity of your hips put Pedro in a trance, his eyes hyper-fixated on you. “Esa es mi chica,” He purs, accent flooding your ears. 

He twirls you in circles, bringing your back to his chest. “Back and forth, there you go,” Pedro continues holding your hips. 

“You’re putting us in a questionable position, Mr. Pascal,” You giggle. 

“Any position is questionable with you, mama.” He laughs in return, kissing your neck. He glances over his shoulder and puts the stove eye on a lower heat before returning to you. 

You’ve got each other by the hand, taking turns around the bar in your kitchen. He’s soon picking you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. 

“Pedro!” You squeak as the backs of your thighs meet the cold countertop.

“Mmm?” Pedro purs, finding the softness of your neck with his lips. Still dancing to the beat of the music, he holds your hands in the air while kissing your sweet spot, inflicting the roll of your eyes. You arch your back slightly, feeling him slowly drop your hands. 

Pedro pulls his fingertips down your arms while yours lace over his shoulders, caging him to you. He grins against your throat, slowly finding his way up. With playful pecks leaving a hot trail on your skin, he’s under your jaw.

“You smell so good, baby,” He inhales your perfume. He wants to fall into a pool of it. 

You’re not able to break the smile from your face. You lace your fingers around his cheeks, stroking lightly the stubble on his cheeks. 

“What happened to dinner?” You ask him, cocking an eyebrow.

Pedro being quite the prince of seduction, allows his eyes to sinisterly trail the length of your thighs before promoting the floodgates to open based upon the daring look he gave you.

“Dessert sounds good right about now…” He bites into his lip, taking one of your hands and bringing it to his warm mouth. 

“You’re always so horny!” You giggle.

“Are you complaining? The counter’s a wonderful spot to be. You’re off the ground, you’re essentially on a plate for me… Come on, baby,” He giggles. You roll your eyes at him, but feel as he hops on the vacant side. 

“Pedro!” You yelp, especially when he starts to push your back to the cold surface now, gently holding your head on the way down.

“What can I say, baby?” He sighs. “I can’t resist you. No matter how hard I try.” 

With that, he seals his lips to yours, solidifying the fact that dinner wouldn’t be until much later.

𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘧𝘶𝘭 || joel miller x reader

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 || joel wasn't looking for a follower, or a protégé, or an employee— whatever you're supposed to be— when he saved some dumbass kid from a couple runners. but he ended up with you anyways, and you swore to always be faithful to him... in every way.

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 || 9.2k

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 || smut (18+ only; oral f receiving, unprotected sex, very slight dacryphilia kinda?, a touch of degradation and dumbification in there, and virginity loss with some pain and one mention of blood), heavy age gap (not specified but the reader is absolutely an adult), insecure crybaby reader, unrequited love/pining, reader wants to fuck joel so bad it makes her look stupid (and we love that for her cause same), angst, tess getting kinda screwed over but only because it's absolutely necessary for the plot, emotionally repressed joel, mention of reader's parents being deceased (implied to be infected)

this fic does not contain spoilers for anything but minor details from episode one!

They were doing that thing again— where they talked in front of you, as if you weren’t there.

“So we make the run tonight,” Tess decided, standing while Joel sat on the worn-out sofa with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on his knees.  “We should be back by four, that’s when the FEDRA boys have their shift change, so we can avoid too much risk of getting caught.”

“What should I do?” you piped up.  They both looked at you with that oh yeah, she’s here glare and Tess sighed; she didn’t try very hard to hide her frustration with you, but at the same time, she was actually nice to you when she was in a good mood (which was rare).  Joel was less mean but also less nice— he stayed steady in his neutral-to-mildly-irritated state, and you figured if he wanted you to fuck off, he would’ve said so (probably in those exact words, too).

At the same time, they both instructed you flatly: “Keep watch.”

You sighed, shoulders sinking.  “Again?  Can’t I at least—?”

“You’re safer here,” Joel insisted.

“Yeah, and your gun is safer in the box under the bed, but it’s not gonna do shit to protect you if you never take it out,” you countered.

Tess scoffed.  “And what are you gonna do to protect us?”

“I wasn’t,” you admitted.  “You know I’m a great shot, but I wasn’t gonna try to shoot anybody.  I’m quieter than both of you.  I can get in and out better— and nobody’s looking for me.  Everybody knows you’re smuggling—”

“Not everybody,” Joel defended himself in a mumble.

“ — so if I do get caught, I can probably get out of a search,” you bargained.

“And what are you gonna do to get out of a search?” Tess smirked.  “Bat your eyelashes?”

That did sting, but you rolled your eyes and hoped you had effectively looked like it didn’t affect you at all.  “If implying that I’m pretty enough to get out of a search is supposed to be an insult, I can’t wait to hear one of your compliments, Tess,” you replied— but your voice was soft and almost shaky, not as confident as the comeback merited.  That summarized you pretty well: you had the will to be tough, but when it was time to really go for it, your body failed you and your hands got shaky and your eyes watered.  Almost anything could make you cry, Tess had already made fun of you for it; Joel just seemed to get really uncomfortable when you started crying, but you always did your best to hide it from him.  It just didn’t usually work.

Your whole face probably lit up when you caught Joel’s suppressed smile— did he think your joke was funny?  He hadn’t been smiling when Tess made fun of you, so it had to be what you said— or maybe he was thinking of something he would say if he cared enough to say it, some comment about how you could do more than that to get out of being searched.  He didn’t seem the type to make comments like that, but he was well aware what guards might let (or make) a girl do to avoid punishment.

“Whatever,” Tess decided, shaking her head, “you’re not coming with us, that’s the point.”

“Joel gets a say, too!” you blurted out.  “You can’t just pick for him that I’m not coming, he has to—”

“You’ll stay here,” he interrupted.  So much for getting Joel to let you go— you thought maybe he would side with you, for once.  Deflating, you nodded, and they stopped paying attention to you at the same time that you stopped paying attention to them.

Your mind wandered in times like this, when they were talking and it was clear that it didn’t concern you; Tess said once that you had an ‘overactive imagination’, but she hadn’t said it in a really mean way (like she said most things).  You didn’t want Joel to think that you were always daydreaming, but you couldn’t help it sometimes— you really just hoped that he didn’t know he was the subject of so many of your thoughts.

Truth was, he’d caught your eye long before he even knew you existed.  You’d seen him around, doing all those odd jobs he did to make ends meet, and thought he was… well, handsome, but not just that.  Mysterious.  Intimidating, though he didn’t exactly intimidate you— okay, he did, but not like he did everybody else.  He intimidated others because they were afraid he would hurt them; he intimidated you because you kind of wanted him to hurt you.  Not, you know, bad, just… maybe a hand around the neck or pinning you to a wall or something?

It wasn’t in spite of your inexperience that you had thoughts like that— it was because of it; you had been lonely for a long, long time, and maybe it was just fantasy, but you always wanted someone like Joel.  You wanted someone to take care of you, protect you.  You were just guessing that he was capable of that, but he proved it when you met for the first time.

It wasn’t exactly a meet-cute, or even just a pleasant way to meet; you were short on rations, because you’d given most of yours away to Mrs. Davis who was too old and weak now to earn any extra for herself, and someone offered to pay you ten if you snuck something they could sell out of the old mall in the QZ… well, that went about as poorly as anyone would’ve expected.

You asked Joel what he was doing there, after he’d saved you from the runners, but he refused to tell you.  Either way, it was the best luck you ever had that he showed up and fought them off.  For a moment, he’d held you close to him as he pulled you away from the Infected; you wished, later, that you hadn’t been too terrified to appreciate that.

Ever since, you’d sworn yourself to him— in more ways than one, but he only knew about the main one: you wanted to assist him however you could, figuring after he saved your life that you should dedicate it to his service.  Well, Joel had never been interested in your assistance, or anything else about you.  It was actually Tess' idea to let you stay: "if she wants to help, let her do it for free," she whispered to Joel, and he shrugged, and he did.  That was how it ended up like this: you were the squeaky, wobbly third wheel of Joel and Tess’ operation, more often than not doing the least important work if not filling your time with essentially goose-chase tasks they invented to keep you occupied.  Keep watch and listen to the radio were your biggest assignments; just wait here was another common one, when they were too lazy to call it one of the other two.

Tess left a little while later, and Joel laid down on the sofa.  You broke away from your thoughts and tried to make yourself useful— you got up to rinse the dishes, humming a random tune to yourself as you worked.  You were already back inside your head, wondering if you should tell Joel it was a song you’d heard on his radio and had stuck in your head ever since.  Probably not worth it; it usually didn’t go well when you tried to talk about things like that.  Joel and Tess talked about before a lot— well, it wasn't that often, because it wasn't very productive to talk about it.  But they talked about it occasionally and you never had anything to say.  Once, you tried to weigh in: they were reminiscing on concerts before the outbreak, bands and artists they remembered, and you chirped about how "I read about that in a book once!"

They both glared at you, and you didn't say anything else.  But you didn’t take it too personally, they just didn’t want to feel old— but you didn’t think either of them were old!  These days, old wasn’t a matter of years, it was really just about usefulness— like poor Mrs. Davis, she was old, she couldn’t do much for herself anymore— and they were both… actually, they were both significantly more useful than you.  That made you sad.  But at least Joel had helped you get better with guns— not that he ever let you carry one. 

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Joel broke the silence as you washed his favorite mug.

“I know,” you said back, voice light and chipper.  “You don’t have to.”

You felt his eyes linger on you for a moment after that, but he didn’t say anything else.

~

Though they had decided already that you weren’t joining them on the run, you ended up there— mostly by happenstance— when Joel and Tess met with the buyer who wanted half of what they managed to bring back.  Not many people in the QZ could afford that kind of contraband, so it made sense that it was one of the FEDRA soldier’s bankrolling this.  They were by no means rich, but they had a lot of pull and could provide all sorts of ration cards and promises to look the other way if future issues arose.  He couldn’t guarantee safe movement out and back in through the boundaries of the city, but he at least promised to look the other way in any future run-ins with the law.

“So that’s it: you’ll leave at eleven, you’re back by four, and you bring me my share the next day during my break?” the soldier confirmed.

“Yep,” Tess agreed.  “Quick and painless.  Hopefully.”

You didn’t expect the man’s eyes to land on you, but you didn’t particularly care for it.  "Is your little lap dog coming, too?" he smirked, glancing at Joel after he was finished raking his stare over you.

Your face got hot instantly, with shame and confusion.  "I— I'm not in his lap," you denied, "that's not— we don't—"

“No,” Joel interrupted firmly, “she’s not coming.”

There was an awkward silence, the place where he might’ve said and she’s not my lap dog, if he cared much about the accusation.  Tess seemed to be hanging onto that silence nearly as tightly as you were.

“Whatever,” the soldier finally brought everyone’s attention back to the conversation, “just meet me here tomorrow at half past one, and we’ll see what you’ve got.”

You were still thinking about that conversation that night— while you were keeping watch, like Joel had asked you to.  It was really boring; you spent most of the time on the couch, reading a book you’d bought off someone for a few rations.  After a while, your curiosity got the better of you, and you started snooping around Joel’s apartment.  There wasn’t much to look at… he didn’t own much, just a few shirts— actually, you thought those jeans he always wore might be his only pair…

Your search led you to his bed.  Even with no one here to see you do it, you were a little embarrassed to lean in and take a whiff of his pillow— but it was totally worth it.  It smelled just like him, that warm piney kind of scent he had; in times like this, not many people could afford to smell nice, but Joel could.  Not to say that he was the type to splurge on all the nicest stuff, you were pretty sure he didn’t even own cologne, but he owned shampoo and deodorant, so that put him in the 80th percentile for hygiene in the Boston QZ.

But it wasn’t just those products you smelled on his sheets— there was something quintessentially Joel to it all, something impossible to define but incredibly addictive.  It was instinctual, the way you got in his bed and curled up in those sheets, burying yourself in the comfort of him.  It was so easy to imagine how he might hold you, now that you were here— all you were missing was his strength, his weight, slow and steady breaths behind you as he drifted to sleep…

You woke up when you heard the door shut.  Startled into sitting up, you were hoping you’d have time to get out of his bed before he saw you— but he was already standing there, staring at you.  He was just a shape in the dark, so you couldn’t see his face, but you heard the exasperated sigh.

“I thought I told you to sleep on the couch,” he said.

“R-right, sorry,” you coughed, recalling last time this happened with a pained wince.

“Better yet, I thought I told you to keep watch!”

“You know you just say that,” you mumbled, “so you can keep me away from the real work.”

He didn’t say anything, probably because he knew you were right— but even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t, because Tess walked in a second later.  “Can’t believe he tried to stiff us,” she was saying as she walked in, half-laughing in frustration.  “Well, yeah I can,” she added a second later.

Her attitude changed when she saw you in the bed.  “I— I’ll go back to my—” you started, but you ended up just getting up and leaving in a hurry before you could really finish your thought.

Wiping a small tear from under your eye quickly, you walked out of Joel’s apartment and started for your own bunk across the city— even though it was more likely than not that somebody would hassle you for walking around during curfew.

Yes, if you had a little more self-respect, you would just stop hanging around those two and find some other work to do, but Joel had done something for you that you could never repay and never forget.  He didn’t have to love you the way you loved him— and you’d been sure for a while that he never would— but couldn’t he at least be a little nicer?  You wouldn’t feel right being anywhere but at his side, no matter how much he made it seem like he never wanted you there at all.

~

Honestly, you did consider not going back the next morning— but you figured they might actually need you for the next part.  Okay, not need, but they could at least use you for something: after smuggling anything in, you need a fence, someone to pawn this stuff off.  Joel and Tess did a decent job of keeping a low profile, but it was even easier to do so when they had someone like you moving contraband around Boston’s population.

So, after a few hours of sleep on that radically uncomfortable cot, you decided to head back to Joel’s place.  The sun was just above the horizon by this time, but only the people working early shifts for their rations were up now; you liked the city best when it was quiet like this, but then again, you liked almost everything better quiet.

Usually, Joel’s apartment was the same way.  But when you walked in, the energy was completely different than you were used to.  Where you’d normally find Tess counting up the score while Joel sipped on coffee (or liquor, depending most on the hour), instead you walked in on what was clearly a lover’s quarrel.

The thing was, this was not your typical argument— they were doing it Joel and Tess style, which is to say, as repressed as possible.  In fact, they weren’t even talking when you walked in, but just the way they were standing was indicative of the discomfort they were clearly trying not to acknowledge.

Tess was at the window, arms crossed, looking at the view; and you knew that was a bad sign, because there was no view to be had, the QZ was an eyesore and she complained about it all the time.  Joel was sitting at the table, facing the other way, his hand squeezing his own fist instead of the handle of his mug— it didn’t look injured, but his face still had a hint of pain on it.

“I’m sorry—” you mumbled, not sure what you were apologizing for yet, but Tess interrupted you.

“I’ll go,” she decided, walking over to the table.

“Okay,” Joel agreed, not looking at her.

Well, you were no relationship expert, and you didn’t even know what they were arguing about… but you knew that was pretty cold.  “So that’s all you’re gonna say to me?” Tess prompted him, her tone tight and her eyes red.

You kept your head low, as if that would hide the fact that you could clearly see and hear all this.  

“Yeah,” Joel decided, not as aloof as usual; it reminded you of how he usually spoke to you, that frustration, but it was definitely different.  More… exhausted.  “Yeah, it is.”

Tess put her weight predominantly on one leg, her hips shifting, as she let out a scoffing sort of breath.  For a moment, she looked at you; you looked back at her shyly from beneath your brows before looking away.  Why would she look at me right now?

Shaking her head, she left, mumbling to herself but you couldn’t make it out.  The door slammed behind her.  Joel sighed next.

“Everything okay?” you asked sheepishly, twisting your boot on the floor to watch the shapes it made in the thin layer of dust.

“Clearly,” he insisted, and the sarcasm was obvious though his voice was neutral.  You could tell he didn’t want you to prod more— anyone who knew Joel for two minutes would know that— but you still chewed your lip as you wondered what you should do.

Your attention turned to the stacks of contraband on the table; most of it was perfectly legal material to own, just not legal to acquire from outside the city’s perimeter.  “Looks like a good haul this time,” you noticed, hoping a change of subject would soothe him a little.  Maybe it did, but he didn’t show it.  He just kept squeezing his fist, and you gently sat down across from him at the table— and you started doing what you figured you should, going through what they’d brought back and starting to figure how much you could get for it.

For a while, he entertained that conversation, though with as short of responses as possible.  Not even a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, just hums and grunts that got the point across.  You could tell he was thinking, but you could also tell he didn’t want to be— that he’d rather forget about all that.  For once, he was struggling to do that.

It scared you to imagine doing something he so obviously didn’t want you to do, but you knew you couldn’t ignore it forever.  “What made her so upset?” you asked softly, finally.

He paused for so long that you thought he was just ignoring your question, but he did eventually say something.  “She told me something I wasn’t ready to hear,” he answered, “and… and I guess I said the wrong thing.”

“What did you say?”

“Actually, I didn’t say anything,” he admitted with a thin laugh.  “But, I said nothing in the wrong way.”

"... Do you think she'll come back?" you pressed, and his sigh was answer enough.

You had to wonder if he'd make you a real partner in all this now.  Probably not, right?  He thought so little of you before, that wouldn't change just because Tess was out.

“I’m sorry,” you decided.

“It’s not your fault,” he promised.  “It was me.”

You didn’t press on that, already thankful and pleasantly surprised by how much he’d shared.  He stood up a moment later, leaving the table and moving to the kitchenette so he could make some coffee; oddly, that comforted you.  Like things were going to go forward now, like life could be normal again and he would still drink his coffee.

For a while, it was quiet— just how you liked it, and how you figured he liked it, too.  He was humming a song at one point but you didn’t think he realized he was doing it.

It was so quiet, in fact, that when you went to lay on the sofa later, you ended up accidentally dozing off.  You couldn’t say how long you were asleep— you were pretty underslept, but it didn’t feel like more than an hour— just that you were awoken to the sound of movement in the kitchen area.

Sitting up, you tilted your head when you saw Joel had begun packing up the contraband haul— well, half of it.  “What are you—?” you began to ask, but then you saw the time, and you remembered; but he answered you anyways.

“Our buyer’s on his break now,” Joel announced as he stuffed a pack of bandages into his bag.  “I said I would meet him to show him what we got.”

“I can go with you!” you announced.  “You know, if Tess isn’t—”

“It’s fine,” he insisted, “I can do it myself.”

“Joel, please,” you pressed, “I promise I’ll do whatever you need me to, I just wanna help—”

“I need you to stay here,” he frowned.

Some things never change, huh?  “Why don’t you just let me go?  Let me help you?” you whimpered, lip shaking as you started to cry.  You hated yourself for it, but you knew you couldn’t stop it.

There was a pause before he responded.  “I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Joel explained, but you doubted that was the real reason he didn’t want you to come.  “It only takes one of us, you’re better off here.”

“Tess was gonna go!” you reminded him, getting more upset.  "I know I'm not…" you trailed off as you tried not to cry too much or too loudly.  "I can't do what she can— I'm not strong…"

He sighed as he knelt down in front of you, resting his hand on your knee.  You peeked out from behind your fingers, but looked down again.

"I'm not— I'm not smart, either," you whimpered.  "I don't know anything, about before, about now—"

"That's not true," he mumbled, but you weren't finished yet.

"Nobody knows why you even keep me around, I sure don't," you shrugged, dropping your hands defeatedly, hot tears running faster down your face and dripping onto your pants; his hand reached up and wiped your cheeks with a gentleness you never knew he had.  “M’not… I’m not tough, like you guys…”

"You know what you are, little girl?" he replied quietly.  "You're good.  You're sweet.  Me an' Tess, we need someone like you to keep us from bein' sad old assholes all the time…"

He sighed, and you thought was done talking, until he spoke again, softer.

"I need someone like you."

Your heart swelled, and light filled your chest, until you had just enough confidence to finally blurt out what you'd been holding in for months: "Joel, you should know that I always—"

"Shh," he soothed, nodding.  "I know."

Your face got hot instantly again, and your heart sank.  "I think everybody knows," you mumbled awkwardly, giving him a half-smile through the drying tears.  "But I thought— it's just that you never—"

“I couldn’t,” he insisted.  “You understand that?  I couldn’t, not with you—”

“Why not?” you snapped.  “Why can’t you?”

“If you don’t know why, you’re more hopeless than I thought,” he frowned.

“I know— I know I’m… a lot younger than you…” you mumbled, almost not wanting to say it in case he actually hadn’t noticed that.  “I know you think I’m not very mature and stuff… but that shouldn’t matter when you really love someone—”

“Woah, hey,” he coughed, “love?  Sweetheart, you’ve got a crush—”

“No!  Don’t tell me how I feel,” you snapped, surprising both of you with your sudden ability to stand up to him.  “You can tell me what to do but not what to feel.”

“Okay,” he softened up, “fine.  That’s fair.  But it’ll pass—”

"I've never loved anybody before," you whimpered, "and I'm never gonna love anybody like I love you.  I know that!  I know you think I'm just a stupid kid who doesn't understand love, but I know that I really love you!  Okay?  So just… just stop talking!  Doesn’t need to take this long for you to reject me, geez…”

There was a pregnant pause, you were too caught up in your own frustration to really notice it: the way he looked to the side, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment.  You weren’t expecting him to say anything after that, so it nearly startled you when he spoke.  “It was last night, after you left,” he explained.  “I— I thought about telling you to come back, figured you’d be safer on the couch than walking back across the city at that time…”

Wrapping your arms around your chest, you smiled a little imagining that, but you knew you couldn’t have taken him up on that offer: it would’ve killed you, trying to sleep on that sofa while Joel and Tess shared the bed.

“She told me not to,” Joel continued.  “That’s… that’s how it started, I guess…”

“That girl’s so obsessed with you,” Tess laughed lightly, toying with Joel’s lapel.  “It’s cute, really.  I mean, it’s sad— but it’s cute.”

“Hm,” Joel said first, not really listening— it took him a second to properly react.  “Why is it sad?” he asked when her words processed completely.

“‘Cause she thinks she might actually have a chance,” Tess explained.

That was it, what he did wrong; he sees it now, in retrospect, but at the time he figured saying nothing was his safest bet.  Apparently, he didn’t have to say anything.

“Shit,” Tess said suddenly, moving instantly from shock to anger.  “Are you fucking serious?”

“What?” Joel spat.

“You know fucking what,” she returned sharply.  “That look— you looked away.”

“Okay?  So?” Joel tried to defend himself, but he knew that she knew now— believe it or not, he really wasn’t much of a liar.  Especially with her.

“She’s a goddamn fetus, Joel,” Tess reminded him.  “She hasn’t seen a hundredth of the shit we’ve seen, she hasn’t lost anyone—”

“Lost her parents,” Joel corrected.

“Well, we all lose our parents,” Tess rolled her eyes, “that’s part of life.”

Not the way she lost them, Joel wanted to add, but he was going back to his original plan of saying nothing.

“She’s not like us,” Tess insisted.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Joel decided.

That was the point of no return; because Tess had never thought of you as competition, she barely even thought of you at all, but if innocence was something he wanted… then the competition was already over before it even started.  The silence was heavy, more sad than angry, and Joel knew he really fucked up because he’d never really seen Tess speechless before.  Is it bad that he didn’t regret it, though?  Maybe he could’ve handled things better, but telling her the truth couldn’t be wrong.  It’s not like he’d been hiding it, really— he never even acknowledged it himself, not often.

“I can’t believe you,” she shook her head, and shame twisted in his gut.  “Part of me always— not always, I guess, but part of me wondered.  Sometimes the way you looked at her…”

As she trailed off, Joel looked down, too afraid for her to look in his eyes now.

“You’d do anything to keep her safe,” she said instead of finishing that last thought.  “I told myself you didn’t look at me like that because you knew I could protect myself.”

“I do,” he promised.

“So what do you want?” she asked point-blank.  “Something you can protect, or something you don’t have to?”

“And what did you say?” you asked hurriedly.

“I told her what I wanted,” was all he replied, and your heart skipped.  “And that’s… that’s why she left.”

Joel nodded slightly, looking away.  But you reached out and touched his face, turning it back towards you.  Impulsively, you leaned forward and kissed him; it took all the courage you had, and a hand on his shoulder for balance, but you felt him kiss you back after a moment.  It was gentle, for how sudden it was, and you sighed as his hand moved higher up your leg.  

You were still crying, because of course you were, but he didn’t mind as much as you’d worried: he only wiped your tears away, holding onto your face, standing up and pulling you with him.

“I love you,” you whispered as he embraced you, wanting to say it a thousand times now that it wasn’t the worst-kept secret in Boston.  “I love you, Joel—”

“I know,” he promised, whispering back into the kiss which got deeper with each passing moment.  “I know, darlin’.”

That was enough for you— that was plenty: the way he kissed you, and held you, calling you darlin’ in that rough-yet-gentle voice… you were weak already, melting into his touch, ready to give him anything.

In fact, he had to put a hand on your shoulder and gently push you away to get you to calm down, and your face heated up as you realized how eager you’d been.  “Don’t need to get so worked up, m’gonna take care of you now, okay?”

“You always take care of me,” you noticed.

“A different way,” he explained.

Just the way those brown eyes darkened, just the way he said that made your thighs clench against each other.  “Y-you’ll miss the meeting with the buyer,” you realized.

“Fuck,” Joel grumbled, and you smiled a bit.  “Waited this long and now I’ve gotta fuckin’ leave you again.”

Your hand rested on his chest, the soft flannel of his shirt transmitting some of the warmth of his body, and you looked up with him with wide, wet eyes.

“I know you hate waitin’ here, but… I always liked it,” he admitted, his voice softer yet deeper.  “I always liked knowing you were here, waiting for me…”

Your heart swelled.  “Y-yeah— I didn’t mind waiting for you so much,” you admitted in return, “just didn’t want you to think that’s all I was good for.”

He kissed your temple, making your chest flood with warmth.  “I know,” he promised.  “You’ll be here when I get back, won’tcha?  Can’t disappear on me now.”

“I won’t, I’ll be here,” you assured, turning your face to peck his cheek in return.  It seemed to surprise him, like he hadn’t had tenderness of that sort in a long time.

~

Funny how you’d waited for him all night before, but that half hour felt longer than all of them combined.  You were quite sure you knew what he meant before— about how he would take care of you in a different way— and it put you on edge all afternoon.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d kissed you, about his hands pulling you closer.  Or his eyes: if he’d ever looked at you like that before, you hadn’t noticed (which was probably what he intended).  

For how much time you spent wondering what you would do, what you would say, when he returned, you ended up not doing much of either: he was on you the moment he stepped in the door, though that was sort of what you’d been betting on when you decided to strip down to just your underwear and wait for him like that.  Not that you minded the idea of him, you know, tearing your clothes off like one of those romance novels— you just didn’t like the idea of having to wait any longer than you already had and this shirt had way too many buttons.

He did take a moment to stare you down when he came back, to appreciate your nakedness, and despite imagining showing yourself to him many times before, you felt a little self-conscious with his eyes just piercing through you like that: you didn’t cover yourself, ignoring a slight instinct to do so, but you did wrap your arms over your stomach and cross your legs as you sat on his bed.

Waiting for him to say something— or, possibly, waiting for yourself to find some courage to speak— you were a little taken aback when he grabbed you and kissed you.  And you realized, as his lips moved with yours even harder, deeper, needier than before, that there was nothing else to say.

He climbed on top of you on that bed, laid you down on it gently, as his weight pressed you down into the mattress.  You could've sworn you heard him growl when he rocked his hips against yours, a firm bulge in his jeans pressing right up to where heat had gathered between your legs.

Fingers weaving in his hair, you hummed as you did all you could to keep him close, as if he might just disappear if you didn’t hold him near to you.  But he didn’t seem like much of a flight risk, considering his tight grip on you— so tight it could leave marks, which you hoped it would.  You needed more than just memories of this.

“Tell me this is what you want,” he demanded, his voice breathless yet somehow not weak at all.  “Need to know you want this.”

“Fuck, Joel, f’course,” you promised— wasn’t it obvious?  It probably was.  But you could understand if he was still fighting back some guilt; you just wanted to do everything you could to help him forget about that.  “So bad,” you continued, “for so long…”

“Since I saved you?” he assumed, his teeth grazing your lip like a threat to bite down harder— a threat that made you throb from the inside out.

“Before,” you admitted, smiling sheepishly.  

“Didn’t even know me before,” he noticed, raising an eyebrow.

“Saw you around sometimes—” god, am I blushing as hard as it feels like I am? — “thought maybe you could… you know…”

Protect me.  Hold me.  Take care of me.  And fuck me like the world is ending even though it already did.

He smirked at you proudly, leaning in to kiss your neck this time, following some invisible trail that made you even more sensitive to the touch of his lips; after he kissed right under your ear, he whispered to you.

“Then just go ahead and take what you want, darlin’.”

After a shiver ran over you, so strong you thought it might never end, your hands shot down between you so you could get to work on his belt and fly; you felt his smile against your skin, then his teeth a moment later, as his hand rubbed the curve of your waist gently.

Both of you gasped when your fingers wrapped gently around his cock, for different reasons.  The skin was so smooth, it was hard to believe something this soft and silky was part of Joel— and it was hot, or maybe your fingers were just cold, but you hoped that didn't bother him.

He was already starting to move his hips just a bit, rocking into your touch, and you hummed when he suddenly grabbed your hand to force it to press firmer against himself.  "You thought about touchin' me like this before?" he asked in a voice that was breathy and low— you loved hearing the pleasure in his voice.

"Y-yeah," you admitted shyly; when he let your hand go, your touch wandered, your hands sliding up under the bottom of his shirt so you could feel the skin there— the firm muscle, the thin scars, the graying hairs that formed a trail down his stomach…

Grabbing your wrists, he pinned them down above your head, and you let out a joyful whine.  "Keep those there," he ordered, and you nodded as you watched him intently.

His hands traced down your body, making shivers run all over your skin; how could a man with so much strength touch you so delicately?

He purred as his fingers ran down to your panties, toying with the edge of the fabric before carefully pulling them down your legs.  You tried not to wiggle too much, but your hips were desperate for some friction, for some attention from him— they didn't have to wait long, though.  He groaned at the sight as he parted your legs, grabbing himself to rub his fat head through your folds.  "Fuck," he mumbled, your channel clenching on nothing as you saw how far apart his tip forced your swollen lips, "so wet for me already, bet I'll slide right in…"

Your back arched with a moan just imagining that, and he pushed your stomach down flat with his free hand so you wouldn't angle too far away from him, laying his body atop yours.  Though you tried to stay still, you couldn’t stop shaking as he lined himself up; it felt surreal, it felt hyperreal— his skin against yours was unlike anything you could’ve imagined.

You’d sort of wondered if he’d say something before he put it in, maybe a quick you ready? or even here it comes which would’ve been stupid but an appreciated warning nonetheless.  Instead, he just looked at your face carefully, and pushed inside.  It was sudden, sharp; your whole body tensed up and you sucked in a breath before biting your lip.

He only made it halfway in, struggling against how tight you were.  You were doing everything you could not to give away your pain, but he must've seen it in your expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.  "I'm hurting you…"

"No— Joel, please don't stop—"

You wrapped your legs around his hips to try to keep him inside, but he pulled out most of the way and looked down— and you winced when he saw the blood.  "Baby, you… are you— is this your—?  Fuck, why didn't you say something?"

"You wouldn't have done it with me if you knew it was my first time," you explained with a whimper.

"No, baby— I just would've taken my time with you, s'all," he sighed, "would've helped you— sweetie, it didn't need to hurt like that…"

Clutching tighter at his shirt, you pulled him down into a needy kiss. "Hurt me more, Joel," you pleaded into it with a breathy whisper, "do whatever you want to me.  I'm yours— that's all I want, just to be yours."

He kissed you back, slow but passionate; but, much to your dismay, he pulled out and sat up.

"No, Joel, I'm sorry," you whined, "I'm sorry— I didn't mean to lie, I'm so sorry, I promise I can be good!  M'gonna be really good for you!"

But he just shook his head, and you bit your quivering lip as tears ran down your temples.  He smiled, just a little.  "Such a crybaby," he scolded you softly.  "What am I gonna do with you, little girl?  You can't even keep yourself together."

He leaned down again, but he slid his knees down on the bed so he could position his face between your legs.  He kissed your inner thigh first, and you jumped because it tickled.

Then he held your hips, running his thumbs over your skin soothingly, and you tried not to squirm too much as he looked up at you with those dark eyes— much darker than before.  “You want me to taste you?” he asked, like it was your idea or something.

“Uh, yeah,” you mumbled sheepishly, and he actually laughed for a moment.  

“Yeah?” he repeated.  “Could you be a little more specific?”

Oh— he wants me to beg.  “Um— please?  Taste me, Joel…”

He smiled, but not like a haha funny smile or an oh that’s nice smile— a really dirty kind of smile, even though his teeth were actually in better condition than most out here.  “Okay, baby,” he agreed.

He was subtle about it at first, just giving gentle kisses all around; you felt… exposed, even more than you had with his face between your legs before.

“Is that alright?” he asked, his voice rougher than the last time you heard it.

“Y-yeah,” you choked, clearing your throat.  “Don’t… don’t stop, please…”

When he got back to it, he was much more aggressive— long, slow licks between your lips, sloppy kisses with his eyes shut tight; and you whined as you held on tighter to the sheets.  You didn’t realize how hard you were shaking until his grip on your thighs was bruisingly tight.  And as he held you down, he just dug in deeper: every time you thought he’d stop escalating the intensity of it all, he just did it more— he just did everything more— until you couldn’t control your moans and gasps anymore.

His tongue was the fucking devil; he slid it inside you and your eyes rolled back.  He sucked greedily on your clit until your hips bucked uncontrollably, moaning against your skin just enough that you could hear it over your own shameless cries.

"Joel, fuck, how are you—?  Oh god—"

"Mm?" he encouraged you to finish your thought without breaking away from you.

"How does that feel so good?" you sobbed.  "Oh my god— please don't stop, never stop, oh fuck!"

All he was doing was flicking his tongue over your bud, such a small interaction with a tiny little organ, and your whole body was shaking.  Reaching down and grabbing his hair, you didn't mean to tug on it so hard but you also didn't expect him to moan deeply when you did.  

His mouth moved a little higher, focusing on the bud you were sure had never been this swollen or this sensitive.  Doing so freed your opening, and one of his thick fingers prodded at it.  "Please," you panted, wanting any part of him to be inside you again.

He pushed it in, the roughness of his skin creating the perfect friction on your delicate walls.  You were waiting to feel his knuckle against you, but instead he only put it in maybe halfway, not very far at all.  It didn’t make much sense to you, until he started to rub one place just inside and a gasp instantly inflated your chest.

“Oh—” you choked, and he was licking harder on your clit at the same time that he added a second finger; you’d never felt anything like it before.  “Joel!” you squealed, hating how girlish it sounded but helpless to the control he had over your body with just two fingers and his tongue.

His rhythm wasn’t all that fast but it was relentless, the exact tempo you needed for that pleasure to build and build, toes curling and vision getting all spotty— you tried to look down at him sometimes, but your head wanted so badly to tilt back and let everything go black.

“I— oh, fuck— I’m gonna— fuck, Joel!” you sobbed, grabbing on tighter to his hair; you took one glimpse at it, and when you saw the scattered silver hairs peeking out from between your fingers, it just made you even more overwhelmed.

He hummed and looked up at you, encouraging you— his fingers pumped faster and faster suddenly, and when it hit, you felt like your whole body was going numb.  It started where he was touching you, but then a moment later it was in your head, then it was just running all over and you were too weak to do anything but give into it.

Suddenly it became too much, and the hand that had been holding him down by his hair was suddenly pushing him away; you blinked away the spots in your vision to catch a glimpse of him with that beard soaked in you, but his fingers hadn’t stopped yet.  “Oh… ohhh my god…” you whined, breathing harder than you could ever remember breathing before, your head getting all dizzy and cloudy as he smirked up at you and continued fucking you with his hand.

Your hole was pulsing, flexing over and over, waves of slick leaking out until you could feel the puddle spreading under you.  Your cheeks burned with humiliation, even though he kept praising you as his fingers milked everything from your swollen spot.  "Good girl, good girl," he said over and over, "fuck, good job, soak the sheets, baby— soak my fingers, keep going…"

"Joel," you sobbed, desperate for some relief from the overwhelming sensation.  He didn't really stop, just slowed down a lot, but he kept twisting his fingers and rubbing that one place until your quivering body collapsed completely onto his mattress.  And then he went on for just a little bit longer after that.

Then he stopped.  When you thought you might fucking pass out.

He climbed up your body and brought his two soaked fingers to your slack lips.  

"You want a taste, too, baby?" he purred.

You dutifully opened your mouth and did your best to clean his fingers off, sucking and licking as he hummed a bit; his eyes got a little darker as he felt your tongue run all over his rough fingers.

"What do you think?" he prompted when he pulled his fingers away, and you swallowed as you made a little face.

"I dunno if I like it," you admitted nervously.  "Kinda sour."

"Really?  I think your pussy's fuckin' delicious."

Your face flushed, but you didn't say anything else because he was reaching down to hold his cock again— and your heart started racing.

"Ready to do this the right way?" he prompted, and you nodded eagerly.  "S'gonna feel so much better, now you're all ready for me.  Ready for something this big inside ya— but it might still sting at first, okay?  Just hold onto me tight."

That you did, tighter than you thought you could— apparently you were stronger than you realized, especially considering that orgasm nearly took you out a minute ago.  But you had to hold on that tight as he began to push that fat head inside you, stretching you so wide before he'd even gotten the ridge of it past your opening.  It didn't sting like before, or at least not as much, but it was still completely overwhelming.  You forgot to breathe until he was halfway in: you gasped out his name, reminding yourself he was inside you and above you and everywhere, everything.

"See how much— fuck— how much easier it is now?" he grunted, sliding into you slowly until his hips met yours.  "See how you're takin' all'a me?  God damn, still tight as hell, though."

You were delirious already, he hadn't even moved yet.  You didn't think it could get much better than his mouth on you, than coming because of him, but this?  This perfect stretch, this addictive friction, knowing he was completely inside you and that he liked how you felt?  This was ecstasy, bliss.  And he hadn't even fucking moved yet.

"Gonna have a hard time being gentle with you now," he admitted with a growl beside your ear.  "You've got one of those perfect little pussies that just needs to be fucked hard— suckin' me in, just beggin' for it rough and fast."

"Joel," you whined, "fuck me however you want, please… I can take it, I swear, I want you so bad…"

Still, when he moved, it was slow and patient.  Too goddamn slow.

"Fuck," you sobbed, back arching up off the bed as he carefully savored every detail of you.  "Fuck, Joel, I can't— I can't believe you're— I can't believe it's you.  I wanted you so much I couldn't fucking breathe."

He smiled at you, and leaned in to kiss your neck; you let out what could only be described as a joyful whimper.  “Wanted you too,” he finally admitted.  “Tried not to, you’re so young… jus’ couldn’t help it after a while.”

"Faster," you whined, "please, fuck, please please—"

"You are so goddamn spoiled, you know that?" Joel grunted— but then he did it, he fucked you even faster than you'd imagined.  His thrusts were still deep and long, but they came at you quicker than you could process and you nearly screamed.  

You were even more sensitive after he’d made you come the first time; it was just overwhelming, the feeling of him, and you felt like your mind had left your body— like your mind had left you entirely.

“Y’feel fuckin’ perfect, darlin’,” he praised lowly, kissing your neck with all the gentleness and patience his thrusts lacked.  “So good for me.”

Maybe it was pathetic, but being good for him felt fucking amazing— not just physically, obviously.  It felt like having a purpose; you’d never really felt that before.

You lost track of time; honestly, you lost track of everything.  Everything that wasn’t this had fallen away, and it was just you holding on for dear life as Joel wrecked you all over again with every motion.  "Hear that?  How wet you are for me?" he groaned, and yes, there was a squishy-wet sound that filled the room with each thrust.  You tried to answer him, say something witty about how he made you that wet so many times, but only moans came when you opened your mouth.  "I asked you a question," he reminded you.  "Can you fuckin' hear it?"

Whimpering, you could only bite your lip and nod.

"Oh," he smiled, "I see— you get stupid with cock in you, huh?  Get fucked right and that silly brain just turns off?"

You nodded again— wasn’t much else for you to do.

"Just gonna be a dumb whore for me now?" he asked.  "Just kidding, I know you already were."

“Fuck— Joel—” you choked.

"No no, it's okay— it's good,” he soothed you, kissing a tear from your temple that you hadn’t even realized was there.  “You don't need to think.  I don't need you to think.  You can just be my fucktoy, okay?  You can just be my slut.  Say it."

"I-I'm your slut, Joel…"

He hummed appreciatively; your moan caught in your throat, and you tried to hide your face in his shoulder— you couldn’t believe he was still dressed, for all you knew he still had his boots on, and meanwhile you were stripped of everything.  Not just your clothes: you were stripped of all pretense (didn’t need it) and dignity (didn’t want it).  You’d thought of yourself as his for quite some time now, but now that he’d really made you his, it was more than you could’ve imagined.

When you came with him inside you, it wasn’t like how it was before— definitely similar, obviously the same thing at the core of it, but very different.  Before it was so… sudden, like a firework going off and then glittering into darkness (at least, that was how you understood fireworks to be, you’d only ever had them explained to you).  This was more like a deep pressure that just built and built and built, and then at some point you’d crossed that threshold and you were there but it didn’t go away, it just stayed at the peak while he kept moving inside you.

He grunted as your walls beared down on him, watching the tears of ecstasy stream down your face.  “Tryin’ to milk my cock, huh?” he accused with a snarl to his tone.  “S’that what you want?”

You weren’t really paying attention, you couldn’t while he was fucking you like that.  Digging your fingers into his shoulders through the flannel shirt, you just whimpered and nodded.

“S’workin’, baby,” he smiled, “little pussy’s got me so tight— is it a little too much, honey?  You’re cryin’...”

“I— I always cry,” you sniffled.

“M’not gonna make you take too much more,” he promised, “doin’ so good honey— gonna let you rest soon—”

“No, d-don’t stop,” you begged, and he laughed a little.

“I’m close,” he explained, and even though that should’ve been obvious, it made you feel better.  “Normally takes me a little longer, but… never had a pussy like this.”

That was probably just flattery, but you were happy to believe it.  Happy enough to just lay back and let that pleasure wash over you, but of course, he expected more of you than that.

"Tell me where I can come," he ordered.  

"Fuck, Joel— anywhere you want, anywhere," you pleaded, struggling to keep your train of thought but desperate to appease him as best you could.

"Inside you?" he pressed.

"Yeah, fuck, anywhere," you insisted.

"I bet that's what you want— you want it inside.  You want this cunt full and dripping."

“Fuck— yeah,” you agreed, “s’what I want— please, please—”

“Shh, don’t need to beg,” he assured sweetly, kissing your neck again— burying his face in the crook of your shoulder, until his panting breaths echoed on your skin.  “Don’t need to beg, darlin’, gonna fill you nice and deep—”

“Please,” you said again, ignoring his assurances.

“Just like you need it—”

“Please, Joel— love you so much,” you sobbed, your thighs starting to go a little numb where his jeans were rubbing against them and your clit getting sore from the way he stayed deep inside and grinded himself against you.

“I know,” he promised again, “jus’ say it one more time.”

“I love you, Joel,” you cried, and it was over somewhat suddenly: he stayed still, and you could feel his grip on you tighten, and you heard that sound that was like a groan and a sigh at the same time.  You’d hoped you’d be able to really feel it inside you, the warmth of his come, but everything was so hot that it was all the same— what you did feel was full, even more than you had just from his cock in you, and it was enough to make you clutch at his shoulders again despite having almost no energy left in you.

Though he stayed inside for a little while after, he did eventually have to pull out; you were too exhausted to even think about trying to close your legs when he stared down at you— at his come leaking slowly from your hole.

You knew there would need to be a conversation soon about what this all meant— what should happen now with the business, with your relationship, even just what should happen tomorrow morning since you’d both given in to instinct rather than take the safer route and have Joel pull out…

But that would have to wait; you still couldn’t think straight, you couldn’t think about anything but him in fact.

Thankfully, Joel was just fine with the silence.  He just held you, let you wander between sleep and wakefulness, and wiped that last stray tear away from your face.

“I’m sorry I keep crying,” you offered quietly, breaking a long silence.

“I don’t mind,” he promised.

A bad informant

pairing: Javier Peña x fem! informant! reader

warnings: smut( oral sex -m receiving-,a little bit of facefucking, unprotected penetrative sex)

a/n: this man could do literally anything to me and I’d still thank him.

Lees verder

POV: Your camera roll but you’re dating Pedro Pascal (part 2)

The Double Birthday

A/N: This is very self indulgent because not only is it Lewis’s birthday it’s also mine! So happy birthday to me and Lew (and my twin) and to anyone else who shares the glorious January 29th birthday!!!

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, Oral (F receiving), hand-job, unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it), breeding kink (if you squint)

Main Master-List

———

As the sun peeked through the windows of the house, other than the pitter patter of paws on the hardwood before they scratched at the closed door of the bedroom, it was quiet.

Shifting in the sheets, Y/N’s brows furrowed before a gasp let her mouth and her eyes fluttered open as her body tried to curl into itself. Yet Bob’s hands held firm against her hips as he moved her legs to frame his head, his nose bumping against her clit as his tongue delved into her sweet cunt. Her legs tensed as moans fell from her mouth “No fair!” she whined as her hand moved down to tangle itself into Bob’s hair.

Feeling her nail against his scalp a groan left his lips “Oh Sweetheart”, sending a vibration though Y/N’s core causing her toes to curl. Taking one long lick from the bottom of her cunt up to her clit, Bob relished in hearing the sweet moans that emitted from Y/N before he lifted his head up and rested his chin against her hip bone. “It’s your birthday Sweets… I just wanted to give you a good…. Morning” as he spoke the last few words one of his hands slipped from her hip down to her core, slipping his middle and ring finger into her, the coolness of his ring sending goosebumps across Y/N’s legs as he slowly started pumping them in and out of her. “Can’t I give you a good morning?” he smirked as he felt Y/N’s heel dig into his back as she threw her head back into the pillows.

“But it’s your birthday too” She panted “Wanna give you a good morni- Oh Fuuck Bobby!” she gasped breathlessly as he dipped his head back down, to nip at her clit as his fingers picked up their pace. “Ahh! Yes!” Her hand tightened its grip on his hair as Bob interlaced his free hand with her’s “Please don’t stop!” she pleated “Please Bobby! Feel’s so good!” Starting to rock her hips against his face, Y/N noticed how the whole bed started to rock before she glanced down seeing how Bob had buried himself in her cunt as he rutted his hips into the mattress.

Biting her lip, Y/N took in the sight before grabbing onto Bobby’s hair and raising his head, a sigh left her lips before her hands pulled on his shoulder to bring him up to her. Making his way up the bed, his nose brushed against her as her hands pushed the waistband of his sweatpants down. “Happy Birthday Bobby” she hummed, nipping at his bottom lip while her hand slowly stroked Bob’s cock.

Smirking as a gasp left his lips, he pressed a firm kiss to her lips mumbling “Happy Birthday Sweets” before he replaced her hand with his, guiding his cock into her dripping cunt. Seating himself into her, Bob placed one of her legs over his shoulder as he hitched the other over his hip, holding it in place before slowly rutting his hips into her’s.

“Bobby!” she gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into her skin.

After grinding into her hips, Bobby slowly unsheathed himself before slowly pushing back into her, keeping his pace slowly and his strokes long. Burying his head into her neck, he kissed his way just below her ear “You know what I want for my birthday Sweets?” he panted before licking the shell of her ear “I want you to come all over my cock… I… want… this pretty… Little… Cunt… to absolutely… soak me” he emphasized every word with a thrust before picking up his pace “Can you do that for me?”

Feeling her start to squeeze around him Y/N nodded her head frantically “Yes! Yes Please” she whined before she turned her head into Bob’s ear “You know what… what I want for my- Shit! My birthday” she forced the words from her mouth, knowing she had to say it before she was too blissed out to say anything “I want your cum Bobby, I wan- OH FuCK YES!” She cried as Bob moved her other leg over her shoulder before she felt his fingers circle over her clit as he planted his feet into the mattress, folding her in half as he pounded into her.

The bed rocked back and forth, headboard slamming into the wall with the momentum, Bob’s forehead pressed into the crook of Y/N’s neck “Yeah you wanna be full of me Sweets?” he mumbled

“Fuuck yes! Please” she pleaded, feeling her legs start to shake. Taking her hands in his, Bob laced their fingers together as Y/N knuckles turned white as her back arched from the bed “OH MY GO-“ as she was pushed over the edge her moans were cut off from Bob pressing his lips to hers to silence his own cries as his hips shuttered before he slammed his hips into Y/N one last time. His hips and legs tensed as they came down from their highs.

Lips still seared together before Y/N freed one of her hands from Bob’s grasp to trail it over his shoulder and down his back. “fuck Sweets” he mutter as a shiver made its way down his back before he rested his forehead against hers. “… Have a good start to the Double Birthday?” he hummed, moving to kiss the top of her nose.

“But best start to the Double Birthday, Bobby” she smiled back.

——

Ppl who might be interested: @sebsxphia @beachbabey @thesluttyarchivist @hangmanapologist @hangmanbrainrot @rhettabbotts @auroralightsthesky @fanboygarcia @mothdruid @writercole @sweetlittlegingy @weakling-grace @glodessa @sunlightmurdock @tigerlillyyy @withahappyrefrain

happy 30th birthday lewis james pullman !!

wayfaring stranger | 0.2 | rhett abbott x reader

previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

synopsis: betrayal sends Rhett veering further West, searching for answers and searching for himself. Instead, he finds you.

warnings: 18+, minors dni. Will be smut, violence and swearing. No warnings for this particular chapter other than Rhett smokes. Enemies to lovers in a very loose sense.

…

Your bedroom faces the bunkhouse. With the corner room, one of your windows faces the miles of acres to the west and the other faces down the hill towards the driveway, with a perfect view of the bunkhouse. An even better view if you pull down the loft hatch and climb up to look through the window up there.

This does mean, however, when you choose to sleep with your window open, they all wake you up at ungodly hours of the morning. It’s late April now, and the temperature is in the high fifties. Warm for April, still not that warm. You wake up with a chill, having forgotten to close the window last night before bed.

With a soft groan of complaint, you roll onto your side and pull the covers closer around you. You peek one eye open and it’s still dark. They might be all the way down the hill, but those deep voices carry just fine through the night air. The manual alarm clock beside your bed tells you that it’s just after four.

Another groan of complaint and this time you push yourself up, immediately hit with frigid air after being wrapped up warm under the duvet. You walk quickly over to the window and pull it shut, catching a quick glimpse down the hill at the cowboys as they ready themselves for their day of work.

It’s been a week since the rude cowboy with the long hair turned up and decided to test how far he could push you. You haven’t spoken to him since and your mother gave you a huge lecture for smacking his cigarette from his hand. It wasn’t anything he didn’t deserve — you could have hit his face.

He seems to be fitting in well enough, he’s at the bottom of the hill now, perched on a brown horse and leaning down to talk to Duke. Your father seems to like him, he came back up last night chatting away about how ‘that kid from Wyoming’s not half bad’ — and in Bud Hawthorne speak, that means Rhett must be pretty damn great.

You pull the curtains the rest of the way shut and return back to your bed.

When Lena had said she had sent a guy your way, you had at least expected her to have sent a nice one. Lena doesn’t date nice boys, though, so you figure that that makes sense.

She had gone to the same high school you had, but she was two years older. You hadn’t talked back then. You had been warned to stay away from girls like Lena. Too much eye make up, skirts too short. People around town had plenty to say about her. And the male company that she keeps.

Dottie had said that this would happen. She had said that there was plenty of work for you to do around the ranch and that there’s absolutely no reason that you would need to get a job in town, especially not at that dingy little diner where the bad girls work.

But, you’re like your father — your mind was made up and that was the first place that would hire you. Lena had trained you when you had first started a few months ago, the two of you had grown pretty close since then.

Dottie has noticed the change in you and she doesn’t like it one bit. Talking back, picking up extra shifts whenever you feel like it, skipping dinner on account of this new job.

She remembers what it was like being a young woman and she knows how easy it is to be led astray. The further you are from her watchful eye and the closer you are to that wicked girl, the easier that’ll be.

Your alarm rings out at a little after eight. You wake with a couple of different sounds of discontentment, slapping your hand around the bedside table until it hits the top of the clock and silences that awful sound.

Sunlight peeking through the curtains, you can hear your mother vacuuming downstairs already. You sigh softly and push yourself upright. It takes a couple of minutes for you to gain the motivation to finally leave your comfy, plush white sheets and head for the bathroom.

Your sister is already awake and singing in her room down the hallway. Scarlett is younger than you, she just turned fifteen a while ago. You pass by her room silently. There just isn’t as much in common between the two of you as there used to be.

Since your parents took the lock off of your door last month, the bathroom is the only true privacy left in the house. The mechanism clicks under your fingers and you’re alone.

The shower streams to your left, you let it warm up whilst you brush your teeth. You slip out of the house whilst your mother is still vacuuming, heading down the hill with your bag slung over your shoulder.

Your truck is too shitty to be up by the house now, the rumble of the engine wakes your mother up, so it stays parked down by the bunk house.

“Hey, Duke!” You call down to the aging cowboy, the tread on your sneakers struggling to keep up with the incline on the dirt path down to the driveway.

Busy watching a horse buck around the pen, he turns his head and smiles when he spots you, even if you did interrupt his conversation with Rhett.

“Morning, sunshine.” Duke smiles at you.

“Would you mind taking a look at my truck later? — it’s making that weird noise again.” You call over to him, swinging your keys around your index finger as you walk over to the old rust bucket that’s been keeping Rhett up at night. It’s exhaust is shot and so you can hear it coming from a mile away.

He looks you up and down in your waitressing uniform. Your eyes are on him when he finally gets to your face. His lips quirk at the edges. He raises his hand and waves his fingers at you tauntingly.

You scowl, rolling your eyes as Duke calls back a good-natured agreement, pulling yourself up into the driver’s seat.

“Hey, new guy, do you like having a right hand?” Chuck, a man rather aptly named, asks from Rhett’s left. Rhett turns his head and raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the second part of the joke. “If you do, I’d stop waving it at Mr. Hawthorne’s kid.”

Rhett chuckles and shakes his head, “I’m just messin’ with her.”

Duke and Chuck exchange knowing looks. Rhett continues on, making it a mental note that making jokes about Mr. Hawthorne’s daughter is apparently off limits.

“That was flirting. He was flirting with you.” Lena scoffs as she flips through the pages of her magazine. She chuckles off-handedly and shakes her head. This is all so simple to her.

You swallow, twirling the straw through your Diet Coke, knocking the ice cubes into the side of the glass. Watching the ice cubes bump into each other until you can actually see them getting smaller, you consider what she has just said.

Lena doesn’t seem to notice how long you’ve been quiet, chewing her gum at your side, pursing her lips and exhaling to form a blue bubblegum bubble between her lips. It pops at your side and brings you back to this reality.

“Are you sure?” You lean down, resting your forearms on the counter as you sip from the straw.

Lena chuckles again. “Yes!”

You swallow the fizzy liquid and pout your lips slightly in consideration, turning your gaze towards the polished, Hollywood couple kissing on the page of her magazine.

“So, what was I supposed to say?” Sometimes, you like to pretend that you’re more experienced around Lena than you really are. There’s only a small age difference between the two of you but in terms of experience, there might as well be years.

When you had first started working here and she had been telling you about everything — all of the boyfriends, the midnight makeouts, the steaming up the windows of old trucks, that one married man that you still struggle to look in the eye in church now — it had been daunting.

So, you had told a little white lie. “Sure, of course I’ve had sex before.”

Just a boy from church. She didn’t ask much about it, and she had seemed to believe you. Sometimes you worry that you’re getting close to being uncovered, that she’ll know you’re lying, but in times like this — you could just do with the advice.

“So, when he said ‘you’ll do it for me, won’t you?’ — you should’ve said ‘if you make me’.”

She says it so nonchalantly. You scrunch your nose slightly as you look over at your relatively new, and informed best friend. You had only met him right then… no way does she say that kind of thing to strangers.

Plus, you didn’t want him to make you throw away his trash for him — that’s ridiculous. Who would want that? It makes no sense to you. Still, you nod knowingly and hum, returning to your Diet Coke.

“Hey, you want to go out this Saturday?” Lena suggests, turning her attention towards you finally. She smacks the blue gum between her lips again.

You snort at the idea, “Like to a bar? — Fat chance, my parents are barely okay with me coming here.”

She raises her eyebrows disapprovingly at you, then scoffs, turning back to her magazine. “Y’know, most people stop letting their parents give them a curfew when they turn eighteen.”

Pressing your tongue into your cheek, you glance down at the glass in front of you. Easy for her to say, she’s been going to rodeos with guys she barely knows since she was in high school. It’s harder when your parents are the way that they are.

“Hey, sugar — any chance of me getting a refill on this, or what?”

You both look up in unison while he taps a dirty nail against his coffee cup. It’s not clear which one of you exactly the trucker in the far booth, with sweat stains on his white t-shirt and his belt unbuckled after his lunch, is talking to, but Lena answers.

“You’ve got a better chance of getting a refill if you stop calling me sugar, slimeball.” Lena answers. Your lips quirk slightly as the man’s smug little smile drops right off of his face. You love it when she does that.

It makes you feel powerful even when you’re not the one saying it. This time last year, you wouldn’t have dared speak to anyone like that, much less a man that was older than you. That was a level of disrespect that your mother never would’ve tolerated.

Speaking like Lena does is fun. Dropping curse words here and there, knocking that sleazy looking smile off of a man’s face without ever even touching him, it makes you feel big. Being Lena’s friend feels good.

It’s just hard to switch that off when you get back home, which is what at least ninety percent of your arguments with your mother have been about since you started here. “I don’t like that attitude, young lady.”, “don’t you dare talk back to me like that, girl.”

Things of that nature.

“Could I get a refill, please?” The man tries again. You smile softly, grabbing the coffee pot and walking politely over to him. You pour his cup, noticing the way his head bows in shame.

Rhett hears you before he sees you. The shitty truck that keeps knocking into stuff late at night pulls up the driveway so fast that he has to take a couple of steps back. His boots skid on the gravel as the truck screeches to a stop.

You turn the engine off and hop down from the truck. The look on your face tells him that that wasn’t an unusual arrival. His brows scrunch disapprovingly as he wonders what kind of idiot gave you your license.

He takes a second to look over your uniform, quirking an eyebrow as you unroll the skirt. It gains about three inches in length once you’re done, falling down just past your knees.

You look up, swinging the truck door shut behind you and meeting his gaze. You smooth out the skirt and smile sheepishly.

“Guessing that your Dad doesn’t stop by your work too often, does he?” Rhett teases, cigarette wobbling between his lips as he leans up against the smoking sign. He’s wearing a baseball cap today, it suits him more than the cowboy hat. You like it.

In fact, there’s nothing you don’t like about what he’s wearing. Sensible boots, faded pair of blue wranglers and a blue button up shirt. He’s handsome when you’re not mad at him.

“Sometimes he does.” You reply, hoping that if you convince him that your father already knows then he won’t snitch on you for shortening the skirt.

Rhett inhales and let’s the cigarette hang at his side, tapping some of the ash onto the floor. “Cute get up, kid.” He expects some kind of explosive reaction that’ll provide him with a little entertainment for the quiet evening.

Instead, you drop your hip and smile sweetly at him, taking your time in slowly looking him up and down, then shooting him a quick wink. “Thanks. You too.”

Rhett’s smile falters, brows scrunching.

Your heart thuds in your chest as you turn and walk away from him. He watches you the rest of the way up the hill, features creased in confusion. Irritating you is fun, flirting with you is going to get him in trouble.

“Young lady, where have you been?” It all begins before the screen door has even closed behind you. You lean your head back and sigh softly. You’re less than twenty minutes later than usual.

Helping with dinner. Sitting politely whilst your father rattles on about cattle and your mother periodically interjects about Sunday service this week. Begrudgingly helping Scarlett with her history homework a little after that.

Not only under this roof, within these four walls does it feel that your every waking moment belongs to your parents, but also under lilac clouds and powder blue skies. You kick your shoes through blades of uncut grass, reveling in a few minutes to yourself before the sun sets.

Friday night and you’re wandering aimlessly to your fences, along the treeline and back along again. Lena’s probably out right now, building some exciting story that you’ll hear about on Monday, bubbling with envy.

Rhett takes a sip of his beer as the door to the bunk house swings shut behind him. He walks over to his truck and drops the tailgate, taking a deep breath as he sets his beer down and sits down.

Leaning back on his palms, his intention is to look towards the sky and think about what comes next. Instead, his gaze lands on you. A while away still, trailing your fingers along the longest blades of grass by the treeline. You’ve changed out of your uniform and are wearing a modest, loose fitting dress.

He picks up the beer bottle and brings it to his lips as he watches you. As a lion watches a gazelle through the tall grass. It’s no wonder than Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne keep such a close eye on you.

Pretty in the way that you are. With an attitude like that, he bets that you’ve been catching the wrong kind of attention from guys like him for a while now.

The next time he sets his beer down, he clocks that you’re heading towards him. Whether or not you have noticed him yet, he isn’t sure until you get closer.

You’ve noticed him. Sitting on his truck bed in a thin green t-shirt, a pair of jeans and that black cap from earlier. As you trail the fence line, knowing that I’ll lead you in his direction, you think of one of the first stories Lena had told you.

The first time she’d had sex. With a boy from her grade in her junior year of high school, in the cab of his truck. Every detail had seemed so seamless. So easy.

You’ve never had a conversation with a man that has led further than some hand holding, let alone that leads into something like that so flawlessly.

“Am I in trouble, officer?” Rhett calls out to you first. Initially, your instinct is to roll your eyes and straighten up. Taking it in your stride, you think of what Lena would want you to say. Your mind races. It’s a mishmash of needing to not take too long to answer and having no idea what to say.

“Depends.” You decide. That doesn’t sound too bad. Your tone wasn’t off, it’s confident enough to have fooled him. His lips quirk softly as you grow closer. Gravel crunches under your soles as you continue towards him.

“On what?” Rhett quips in response, leaning back on one of his palms. Your eyes trail the pronounced veins in his forearms, intricate lines on tanned skin. Finally, you meet his gaze again.

Another brief panic. Lena. One of Lena’s answers. Something. You look at his face for the answer, nothing. Your eyes land on the beer bottle at his side.

“Whether or not you’re willing to share.”

Rhett follows that impish look on your face down to the glass bottle at his side. His lips quirk softly, gesturing his head for you to sit beside him. One drink never hurt anyone.

Your feet carry you forwards, turning and sitting down on the truck bed at his side. He passes the glass bottle into your hand.

Swiping a thumb through the condensation on the side, you toy with it first. Rhett watches your thumb trail the glass bottle, then lifts his gaze to look at you. Seven days and you’re the only woman he has seen, he’s starting to wonder how bad your father’s temper could possibly be — and more importantly, how good you are at keeping secrets.

Whether or not you’re interested in him isn’t drawn into question, not with the way you trail around him like a fly on a hot day. He’s already made up his mind on how you feel about him.

You lift the bottle and take a big sip. The liquid sits on your tongue, all bubbles and bitter fizz. Rhett raises his eyebrows expectantly. He waits a few seconds, then frowns.

“You going to swallow that?”

Embarrassed and not at all impressed by the cheap beer, you swallow it anyway and hand the bottle back to him again. Rhett laughs at your side as he takes a drink for himself.

Your cheeks and ears burn all at once, even as the temperature drops along with the sun, both of them disappearing hand in hand beyond the horizon. Your burning discomfort is more than enough to keep you warm, luckily.

He trails his thumb along the bottle as you had, watching as his larger digit slides through the path yours had taken, covering over any trace of your touch on the bottle.

He looks down at your hands in your lap, unmistakably smaller than his own, then back out towards the field. He won’t make the first move — that’s sensible enough. If you come onto him, then so be it, if not, he’ll leave you alone.

“I’ll bet you’re used to the good stuff. German beer, something like that? — Actually, I’ll bet you go for your dad’s liquor cabinet.” Rhett muses, expecting an answer but still halfway talking to himself. His voice is rumbling and deep, always quiet.

You drank a sip of vodka once when you were fifteen, then you prayed for forgiveness. More recently, you slipped a bottle of gin from the liquor cabinet. It’s under your bed and you drink from it when you feel like it, but it’s not good.

“Better than whatever that crap is.” You answer calmly. Rhett glances across at you as you lean back on your palms. You’re bolder than he thought you’d be, and he has no idea that it’s an act for the most part.

He smiles as he glances down and reads the bottle. He’s not a brand loyalist, and the beer really is too shitty for him to defend it to you.

He sets it down between the two of you and digs a hand into his front pocket, “You smoke?”

You swallow softly, the taste of that shitty cheap fizz on your tongue. Lena would say yes. “When I feel like it.”

He pulls his cigarettes from his pocket and pulls one from the pack, offering it to you first. Looking at the thin Marlboro extended towards you between his calloused fingers, something in your brain short circuits.

You’re a smart girl, you’re college educated, you know how people look when they accept a cigarette, you’ve seen it before. And yet, some backwards, incorrectly functioning part of your brain leaves your hands static in your lap.

Rhett watches as you part your lips just slightly. His brows scrunch just briefly, it’s a fraction of a second type movement but you catch it happen. He flips the cigarette between his fingers and leans in to set the butt of it between your lips.

Your eyes are on him. He stares back at you as your lips close around the end of the cigarette. Breeze sweeps your hair back slightly away from your forehead and reminds him to move.

He pulls his lighter from his pocket and clicks down the spark wheel, igniting the small flame, cupping his free hand around it to shield it from the wind.

You hold it between your lips, letting him light then end and taking a small puff. His lips quirk instantly. You realise that you must’ve done it wrong.

All that you did was pull a bit of smoke into your mouth and then breathe it back out. That’s right. He can see your mind working, trying to figure out where you went wrong.

“Try again.” Rhett nods. You steady the cigarette between your index and middle finger and take another drag. “That’s it. Breathe in, hold it.”

Your brows furrow as you hold the smoke in your lungs. He smirks, then nods. “Now exhale.”

It seems like it’s going to go well, you’re about halfway through the exhale when it catches in your throat and you splutter, leaning forwards and coughing.

Rhett nudges at your hand with the bottle, prepared already as he swaps it for the cigarette.

“You’re a real pro, kid,” He comments as he sets the cigarette between his lips, you sip tenderly at the beer beside him and rub at your throat. “I’ll bet you could teach me a thing or two. Y’know, since you smoke all the time.”

There it is, that’s what he was looking for. He’s under your skin. You turn your head and glare at him as you set the beer down again.

He turns his head to look at you. Quiet, just watching you struggle to come up with something witty to say now that he has caught you in the lie. You’re pretty sure that Lena’s never been caught in a lie, it’s not in her nature.

He nudges his knee softly into yours, the worn out denim of his jeans skimming over your bare skin. You still your hands as they go to pull your dress down further. You let it stay where it is, letting him brush his leg into the side of yours. It’s a friendly gesture, letting you know that he’s not making fun of you.

Your fingertips brush his arm as you go for the beer bottle once more. Maybe you’re sitting too close, but he doesn’t pull away. You bring the bottle to your lips and take another sip. It’s starting to not be so bad. Plus, it’s getting that bad cigarette taste out of your mouth.

There’s a period of quiet, sitting knee to knee, elbow to elbow with this man that you know next to nothing about. His name’s Rhett, he’s from Wyoming. That’s about all you know about him, and it makes your heart jump.

Sitting here with him, this is what Lena was talking about, this is how it’s meant to feel. All of those times you were nudged towards supposedly charming sons in church, it hadn’t ever felt right. Your heart racing in your chest and the warmth from his skin burning it’s mark into yours, that’s got to be right.

You flinch at the sound of your mother's voice. She’s calling you from the porch again, you had left your phone on the kitchen table.

“Mommy’s calling.” Rhett quips, taking the beer bottle from your hand and taking a small sip as he flicks ash onto the ground. You shoot a narrow-eyed look back at him. He smirks.

“You’re smoking too close to the building again.” Your voice drips with triumph, thinking you’ve shut him up, pushing yourself down from the truck and standing up right.

“You’d better hurry on up that hill, or she might just ground you.” Rhett taunts in response. Your lips press together. He hums in amusement as you turn on your heel and walk away from him, kicking gravel in your path until you reach the dirt.

That’s not flirting. Belittling is not flirting. You scowl, not bothering to look back at the stupid cowboy sitting on his stupid truck. Asshole. The word remains on the inside of your mouth as you brush past your mother and walk back inside. You’re getting better at turning it off around her now.

…

@xoxabs88xox @whisperofsong @perpetuelledaydreaming @laluneveillesureux @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger

wayfaring stranger | prologue | rhett abbott x reader

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synopsis: betrayal sends Rhett veering further West, searching for answers and searching for himself. Instead, he finds you.

warnings: 18+, minors dni. Will be smut, violence and swearing

…

Rhett’s been saying that he’s going to get out of here for about as long as he can remember. Even before he was angry enough to say it out loud, the promise had been scrawled with adolescent lettering, held within the pages of a leather bound journal that had been a gift from his grandfather.

There were days that Rhett really meant it. Some days he meant it more than others. Some days, it was more of an affirmation than a plan. Leaving the courthouse on that day in April, looking his childhood sweetheart in the eye and telling her that he wasn’t coming back — that seemed more binding than any of the words he had told her before.

The sign looked bigger in his dreams. The Welcome to Wyoming, Forever West, planted in the dirt on the border of Montana — when Rhett had dreamed about covering it in dirt as it grew smaller in his rear view mirror, it had looked bigger. It had meant more.

His blue eyes watch the sign grow smaller. The road behind him isn’t empty like it always is in his dreams. There’s a minivan behind him, the tired brunette behind the wheel is bickering with a child in the backseat. Behind her, a truck that doesn’t look all that different from Rhett’s. He wonders if their journey is the same as his. He’s certain it’s not.

It’s a Wednesday when Rhett leaves. He doesn’t say a damn word to anyone other than Maria, they’ll just try to ask him to stay. The road behind him isn’t empty, and neither is the road ahead of him. It’s different than in his dreams, but not in a bad way.

Truthfully, it’s like a pinch to remind him that he’s actually awake. That he did it.

Radio off, everything he owns on the bench beside him.

In his dreams, Rhett makes it further. Drives until he hits the horizon and then some. On that Wednesday, he drives until he can barely keep his eyes open and he’s got a cramp in his calf from the stiff clutch pedal in his old truck. He doesn’t quite hit the horizon, but the glowing neon of a faded motel sign seems far enough there and then.

He has some money with him. It’ll get him where he needs to go, wherever that is. Winnings from bull riding and wages from helping out on neighboring ranches. What his father had paid him usually hadn’t ever stretched far enough to make it into the savings.

Rhett pays for a room for the night, though this is the kind of establishment that’s used to more of an hourly rate. He drops his bags onto the spare bed and sits down on the one that’ll be his for the night.

He’s a couple hundred miles in, near Richfield according to the last sign before he took his exit. Idaho. He’s been here a few times before. Riding competitions, auctions and stuff. It’s never made too much of an impression before and it doesn’t on that Wednesday night.

There’s nothing on TV, Rhett hadn’t thought to bring a book when he was packing in the middle of the night. After about an hour, Rhett can’t stand the sound of his own thoughts any longer. He grabs his coat and heads out, walking along the roadside for a bit until he’s at a bar off the side of the road.

Just another lonely stranger, sitting at a barstool. He considers tequila. After the couple of weeks he has had, he could do with something strong. But, he isn’t far enough — he still feels that pull, telling him to go home and won’t risk being too hungover to drive far enough to shake that feeling tomorrow.

In lieu of tequila, Rhett finds it’s warmth elsewhere. After a couple of beers, Rhett settles out his tab. Pleased with his manners and intrigued by how he teeters on the edge of kicked puppy and mysterious outlaw, the pretty girl behind the bar tells him her shift’s almost over.

Always a gentleman, Rhett makes sure she has someone to walk her to her car once she’s ready to go. It’s not his fault that they wind up walking a little bit past her car. It’s her hand that dips into his front pocket and retrieves his motel room key — her lips that drag along his throat, her hand that curls into his hair.

She kisses him goodbye the next morning. He isn’t sure how he feels about it, but her name plays on his mind through the morning and into the afternoon. Carrying with him through Idaho and into Oregon.

It’s a couple of days of that. Driving around, learning new names between thin motel sheets, forgetting them by sundown the next day.

Rhett’s mother always had it in her head that he was a womaniser. He isn’t sure where she got it from, considering that he didn’t have his first kiss until he already had his driver’s license.

The hard part is, Rhett hadn’t ever really known enough about himself to disagree with her. She raised him, saw the intricacies of his growing mind — if that’s what she said he was, then it must’ve been true. So, Rhett let it grow to be true.

He isn’t necessarily proud of it. But, he is somewhat proud of the manner in which he does it. He’s never resorted to a sleazy pick-up line or a bold-faced lie to get a woman into his bed. He’s quiet enough to be mysterious without being mysterious enough to be unapproachable. Handsome enough but not too put together.

It’s been four days since Rhett left Wyoming when he realises that yesterday, he had turned back around. He’s on the cusp of Montana, headed back the way he came.

He had stopped feeling the pull a day or so ago, because he had already turned back towards it. He’s pulled off to the side of Route 212 in the parking lot of a diner, his head in his hands.

This had been predicted. It had been Cecelia’s go to answer every time Rhett had threaten to leave. Go on then, I’ll be here when you get back. She hadn’t meant it with spite, but those words had always struck Rhett like venom. When you get back, because she was so confident that he would.

He hadn’t ever let her explain whether she thought that he’d be back because he belonged there or because she thought he just couldn’t make it on his own.

Either way, she’s wrong.

Rhett just needs a destination — an end goal. After five days of driving through the West, he feels scattered, and it’s just going to get worse. It was kind of stupid, to pack up and leave without anywhere to go.

That’s all he has to do — figure out where he’s going.

He grabs his baseball cap from beside him on the truck bench and secures it over his messy hair, leaving the truck in its space as he heads into the almost empty diner.

He takes a seat up by the counter and orders a coffee from the polite, young waitress standing behind the counter. He probably should eat too, he just can’t stand the thought of more diner food. It takes him a while, but he orders a sandwich finally. It’s the only thing on the menu that contains a vegetable and his body’s going to give out if it doesn’t get one of those soon.

With no one here now to tell him not to play with his food, Rhett sits distracted. Under fluorescent light, calm country playing over a radio in the kitchen, he takes his time to look around him as he picks at his sandwich.

There’s a pinboard that sits behind the counter. It’s partially blocked by the pale blue uniform shirt of the waitress as she texts on her phone, but Rhett can still see most of it.

Missing people, things for sale, help wanted signs — there’s a mixture of stuff on there. There’s a piece of yellow card that stands out. Ranch Hands Wanted. The Blue Mountain Ranch, MT.

It’s a stupider idea than driving aimlessly around the country, falling right back into what he’s running away from. Still, his mouth makes the decision before his head is on board.

“‘Scuse me,” Rhett’s voice gruff from not speaking much, he quietly clears his throat and brings his coffee cup closer to him. The waitress turns towards him and raises her eyebrows, a polite smile on her lips. “Could I see that notice, please?”

A quick glance behind her to see which one he’s talking about, and then she’s looking at him dubiously. Her smile grows with intrigue. Rhett swallows, watching as the unpins the yellow paper from the board and sets it down on the counter in front of him.

He turns his gaze down and starts to read through the desired skills. All stuff that he’s been doing since he was a kid. Herding cattle, fixing fences. Nothing new except the scenery.

“Thinking of joining the Mountain?” She asks. Rhett looks up at her over the brim of his baseball cap. She’s resting both hands on the counter and leaning forwards slightly, interested.

“Does that sound like a bad idea?” He asks in response, setting the paper down on the countertop beside his coffee. He leans back in his seat and parts his knees. She looks him up and down, pink lips quirking slightly at the edges.

Handsome guy like him, hands that are clearly used to some dirty work — Lena’s got a very good friend on that ranch that could do with a pick me up.

She gives her head a soft shake, “Actually, I think you’d fit right in.”

Rhett hums. He bites the inside of his cheek as he looks down at the printed information. Somewhere to lay low until he’s got a destination in mind doesn’t sound too bad. As long as he’s not back there, it doesn’t matter.

Blow by Blow | 0.6 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

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Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big. Boxing au.

Warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, oral (m receiving)

“He’s in a good mood this morning.” You comment. Bradley’s grinning, light on his feet as he dances around the ring. He lets Jake draw closer to him and steps quickly out of the way, taunting him in his every move. Your lips quirk up slightly.

He’s not even trying. If he wanted to, he could’ve caught Jake in the ribs just there. Instead, he quick-steps back and sways his body to the music in the background. Steve Winwood’s Higher Love is blasting over the speakers, filling the gym with upbeat lyrics. Bradley dances, unfazed as Jake puts his guard back up and steps towards him — he sidesteps, slams his glove into Jake’s ribs and continues to sway, mouthing the words.

Jake rolls his eyes and steps into Rooster’s space just as quickly.

“Uhg… help.” Mickey grunts under you.

Your eyes widen, looking down quickly and remembering yourself all of a sudden. A soft gasp slips your lips as you catch the bar seconds before it hits his chest. Your combined strength is enough to lift the bar and set it back on the rack, saving him from being crushed.

“Shit, sorry.”

Mickey sits up quickly, brows furrowed, dark curls sticking to his forehead, mock-betrayal on his face. Your cheeks burn as you shoot a quick glance back to Rooster and find him looking right at you. Shit, he absolutely caught that exchange.

“Who, Rooster?” Mickey pants, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm. You turn your gaze away and give a small nod. “Yeah, he got a fight confirmed this morning. It’s his first gig in like eight months — that’s why he’s showing off.”

Mickey rolls his shoulders back and grabs his water bottle from the ground.

“Why hasn’t he fought in eight months?” You ask, leaning forwards to rest your hands against the bar, tilting your head as you watch Rooster and Jake sparring. Nat always takes it easy on you, which you should probably appreciate, but it’s interesting seeing Jake and Rooster fight — because neither one of them is taking it easy on the other.

Mickey gulps down around half of his bottle’s worth of water and then settles down with a sigh, his skin glistening and sticky under the gloomy white overhead lighting. He pushes himself up from the bench and glances across at Rooster, then grimaces.

“Mm… I probably shouldn’t say. Ask him, he might tell you.” He shrugs his shoulders and then lifts his arms out, flexing his biceps. “So, do you see a difference?”

You smile at him and nod, patting his side as you step past him. “I see that your fly is down.”

He looks down quickly, smile faltering — then realizes that he’s wearing gym shorts, there isn’t a fly for it to even be down. He groans and turns to tell you off. You’re already wandering away, walking over to the ring and resting your hands against the ropes.

“Ugh, fuck.” Bradley grunts as Jake catches him in the stomach.

“Keep dancing, bird boy.” Jake taunts, stepping back to put some space between them again. Now doubled-over, Bradley is at your eye level. His eyes glint mischievously as he catches sight of you, smiling at him from the ringside.

“What’s up, Bambi? — Wanna jump in?” Bradley offers, lips quirking up into a confident smirk as he stands upright again, running his fingers over the affected area of his toned stomach. He begins towards you, Jake turns in interest to watch the conversation.

You smile softly up at him. “I wanted to ask if you were free later.

Jake’s brows raise slightly, he glances across at Bradley and then back at you. Bradley wets his lips with his tongue and takes a step closer, leaning onto the ropes.

“Like a date?”

Jake almost scoffs at the certainty in Rooster’s voice. He knows that he’s cockiness embodied himself, but he still finds himself amused at how sure Rooster is.

You smile softly, then shake your head. “Like the interview that you owe me — you’re the only one I’m waiting for.”

He almost sighs. Instead, he glances quickly back at Jake and shrugs his shoulders, then checks the clock on the wall. “Uh — if you let me finish up down here, I can stop by upstairs when I’m done?”

Jake does scoff this time. He has said some pretty forward stuff to girls in his time, but watching Bradley invite himself up to your apartment is just embarrassing.

“Well, are you busy right now?” You ask, looking up at him through your lashes as he stands on the canvas. His brows furrow.

“Kinda.” He answers back, adjusting the gloves on his wrists. You frown at him.

“Mav said that you have to do the interview before tomorrow, he wants the website to—“

“Mav isn’t my boss.” Bradley reminds you. It’s swift, calm and it shuts you down in four syllables. You close your mouth, still looking up at him. “I said I’ll stop by later.”

Swallowing softly, you nod your head. A few sheepish steps back away from the ring, you’re still nodding at him dumbly. Perhaps you should apologise. You don’t. “Okay. Thanks.”

Jake watches you turn and walk away, shaking his head softly.

“What?” Rooster frowns.

“I just don’t get how you can look at that sweet face and be such an ass,” Jake answers amusedly, giving a small shrug of his shoulders. He takes a step back and brings up his guard as they get ready to go again. “It’s like being mean to—“

“I said I’d do her interview!” Bradley defends himself, taking stance and shrugging his shoulders. They should really be focusing more than this with the fight coming up, but he really doesn’t see what he did wrong.

Bradley takes his time finishing up his training. Fashionably late or whatever. He knocks on your apartment door and waits, clearly learning from his past experiences with Tank.

You answer the door in another cute patterned sundress, having ditched the workout gear after your shower.

“Bob asked if Tank could come downstairs to play.” Rooster explains, trying to finger through the mess of his curls. Headgear always fucks up his hair.

“Oh. Sure — let me just-“

“He’s at the bottom of the stairs waiting. She said it’s okay!” Rooster relays back.

You smile and lean past Bradley to look at your friend. He grins and waves as Tank brushes past Bradley with a small growl, and then pads happily down the stairs towards him.

Rooster settles down onto the couch, you sit directly in front of him, resting on the coffee table. The interview begins.

“How would you describe yourself in three words?” You ask.

He takes a while to consider it. You stretch your legs out in front of the coffee table and look up at the dust on the ceiling fan — you should clean that. Even after eleven full rotations of the ceiling fan, he still hasn’t presented you with the slightest hint of answer.

“Is there a right answer to this?” He asks back, his eyes on you. One of his arms is draped along the back of the couch, the other resting against his thigh. He nudges his foot into yours and pretends that it’s an accident.

“I guess not.” You shrug. His lips quirk as he raises his brows at you.

“You guess not?”

“Well, there are good answers and bad answers, don’t you think?” You reply, not really feeding into his game as much as he would like you to. Parting his knees further, his body mass stretches over more of your couch unapologetically.

“So, what are the good answers?” Rooster challenges you.

“I can’t tell you that until you’ve answered, otherwise it won’t be genuine.” Professional, polite, holding back from just calling him an ass and making him answer — you probably have a future in journalism.

“What’s this for, again?” He taunts. You both know that he knows exactly what this is for. He’s just being pedantic.

“A meet the staff page. I want people to know your faces, know who they’re coming in to see. It’ll make this place seem less… scary.”

“This place is scary?” He’s outright avoiding the question at this point. You sigh, giving a small shrug of your shoulders.

“It can be.”

He nods his head. He doesn’t understand what you mean — he was raised in this place and the only thing scary about it is that he’ll probably be here for the rest of his life too.

“So… three words?” You remind him gently.

Rooster sits at a crossroads in your living room. He has two options before him, to sit in the afternoon sun and annoy you further, or to just give in and answer your silly little questions.

“Organised, loyal… handsome.” He decides finally, smiling across at you. The second time, perhaps another accident, he nudges his foot into yours.

“Jake said the same thing.” You answer immediately, giving a soft chuckle as you turn your attention towards your notepad.

This goes on for a while. The back and forth. The excessive way he spreads his limbs out over the couch just to remind you that he’s a big guy. The bullshit answers.

You check the time on your phone, then squint at him seriously. An hour has passed and you’ve gotten him to answer only four out of your ten questions.

“Why haven’t you fought in eight months?”

His eyebrows raise calmly, biceps flexing as he crosses them over his chest. He stares back at you. “Is this part of the interview?”

You shrug your shoulders, “Yeah.”

“Who said I haven’t fought in eight months?” He asks you, sitting forward in the seat and leaning closer to you.

“Couple of people, actually,” You lie to him, which isn’t untrue, they would have let it slip eventually. It doesn’t seem to be a secret. “What’s up with that?”

His eyes are russet under the afternoon sun streaming in through the window to his right, bright and shining. Somehow colder under this warm light than they had been the other night by the arena.

His eyes trail, slowly looking down and then back up over your form. He sits closer again, leaning his broad form forwards and resting his hands against his knees.

You know instantly that you’ve probably overstepped, but he was being an asshole too.

“I got suspended from competing for six months.” Sitting so close that every breath you take is the cedarwood, cypress and nutmeg of his cologne, you’ve got a front row seat to how he feels about that.

He doesn’t give much away, but you can tell that he accepts the judgment. He knows that he did something wrong — that’s good, right? — that he knows he screwed up and maybe feels bad about it.

“Then after that, no one would fight me for two months because of what happened before.” He doesn’t have to reach far to be touching you, his arm barely stretches before his hand is tucked around your knee, stroking at the curve of the joint with his thumb.

You keep your eyes on him, studying his features, looking for a crack in that exterior for just a moment.

“What did you do to get suspended?” You shift closer with him, his fingertips smoothing against your skin, staying below the thigh, near the knee.

His lips quirk softly. It’s clear that he’s not going to answer you from the get go.

“You ask a lot of questions.” He comments.

“This is an interview.” You quip. His eyes roll as he throws himself back against the couch, chuckling dryly — bested again. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling softly.

You probably wouldn’t be if he told you what he had done. With the way you’re looking at him, he debates not keeping it from you. His thumb strokes softly over your bare skin, eyes on yours.

He thinks he’s got you right where he wants you, you can see it in that mischievous look In his eye. You reach out and rest your hand against his knee.

This time, instead of looking at each other, you both watch your fingers move along his skin. At first, tracing small patterns on his knee, similar to what he’s doing to you. Innocent enough.

His eyes dart up to your face, then back down, as your fingertips smooth along his skin, brushing well past his knee and dangerously close to the hem of his shorts. His brows scrunch softly.

Kissing him down by the marina two days ago, that was one thing — he doesn’t think that you’re bold enough to do this. So, he calls your bluff. He parts his knees further and sits back comfortably against the couch.

Rooster is an attractive guy and he knows it. More attractive than Jett was, undeniably. Tanned skin, broad shoulders — but a soft smirk on his face that just makes you want to prove him wrong.

“Everyone else knows why you were suspended?” You ask, raising your brows at him as your nails skim along the inside of his thigh. Rooster watches your fingers move, feeling the delicate touch on his warm skin.

“Sure, but I didn’t tell them.” He answers calmly. It would be easy enough to tell you the full truth right now, it’s just a couple of words. I beat the shit out of a guy who wouldn’t shut his mouth. But, your ex-boyfriend was a violent prick and Bradley doesn’t want you to look at him like that.

The others were all at the fight that night, Rooster doesn’t really have a choice about them knowing or not knowing. You’re different.

You tilt your head just slightly. He looks at you again. You pout your lips in consideration, watching your fingers breach under the grey confines of the left leg of his shorts. Bradley glances down and then back up.

“Is this the first time you’ve been suspended?” The question seems to come out of nowhere, and Bradley almost winces when you ask it because he knows that his chances are getting lower and lower. He sighs softly and shakes his head.

“No, not the first time.” He replies calmly.

You lift your gaze to look at him through your lashes, fingers stilling against his skin. “Then, I think I should probably know what you did. Right?”

“Broke the rules,” He shrugs his shoulders softly, hoping that you’ll accept that answer but knowing that you won’t. Your lips purse, hinting at a slight frown. “It’s a long story, but my last fight kind of turned into a real fight instead of a boxing match, it was a mess. That’s all.”

“Did you hurt him?” You ask.

Rooster’s hand skims from your knee to the edge of the coffee table that you’re sitting on, fingers curling around the underside of it. “Yeah.”

“Badly?”

He shrugs his shoulders once more, “He recovered, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Why?” You press.

“If you ask Nat, she’ll tell you it’s because I was dropped on my head too much as a baby.” Bradley tries to spin this back, make it light hearted again. The meekness in your voice worries him.

Your face doesn’t soften. “I’m asking you.”

“He said some stuff that I didn’t like and I got angry.” Bradley says quietly. You sit back, straightening your spine and crossing your ankles. It’s not quite a recoil, it’s something much more low-key than that, but it has the same effect.

Bradley’s brows knit together as he opens his mouth to defend himself.

“Okay — it’s deeper than him just saying something I didn’t like, I want you to know that,” Bradley rushes out, he can tell that the suddenness of it surprises you. There it is, the gap in that hard exterior. He wants you to like him.

He rubs a hand over his jaw, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “There’s kind of a history with this place, y’know, some stuff that went down between my dad and Mav and some of the guys in the circuit. People giving me a hard time for stuff that happened before I was born. It’s — just, complicated.”

“Did it make you feel better after you hurt him?” You ask softly, fingertips coming to life on his skin. He glances down as you trail your fingers back along the curve of his knee.

It takes him a moment to consider what you have asked. At a base level, yes, it felt good to make that asshole finally stop running his mouth. He definitely didn’t like the consequences that came after, but that’s not what you’re asking him. Did he feel better after he beat that guy up? — No.

He remembers the bruising around his knuckles. He sees it every day in the way that Mav looks at him know — Mav has barely spoken to him since it happened.

“No. Didn’t solve anything, really.” Bradley mumbles.

Just like with the first question you had asked him, there were good and bad answers to this question. The answer he gave is satisfying enough.

He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forwards, head hung slightly to watch your fingers on his thigh. You sit forwards slowly, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to his warm cheek.

He looks up, you’ve surprised him again. He was sure you were going to ask him to leave.

You kiss his lips. He rushes, reaching for your skin, ready to pull you against him. Instead, you stay where you are, both perched on the edges of your seat, leaning forwards to kiss. Fingers smoothing softly over the scar on his cheek, you hum gently against his lips, contented.

Impatient, fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. He’s pulling you forwards, urging you closer until you’re on the couch, straddling his hips. Knees on either side of his clothed torso, you match his energy, curling your fists into his shirt and pulling him into you. Deepening the kiss, his hands in your hair, your tongue running rampant against his own.

The taste of mint passes between the two of you. His is spearmint, yours is peppermint. It’s a quick and shocking revelation that you had both been planning for this kiss to happen.

His fingers curl around your hips, tugging you forwards, grinding himself up against your core. The second that the bulge in his shorts touched you, you stiffen. It’s hard to miss.

“You alright?” Rooster murmurs, pulling back brows scrunching in slight concern. You look over his features, then nod hurriedly. His brows scrunch tighter together as you push yourself up and away from his lap.

There’s a calm silence as you settle between his legs, pressing your plush lips to the inside of his knee. His tongue darts out to wet his lips with his tongue as he settles back against the couch. You just keep on surprising him.

Surprise after surprise as you tease your mouth along the inside of his thighs until he’s rock hard and straining against the inside of his gym shorts. Even after that, when his shorts are down by his ankles and his eyes are closed in anticipation, you don’t give him what he wants.

Instead, your nails rake softly along his sensitive skin, followed by your lips. Open-mouthed, gentle kisses onto the most tender parts of his skin.

When you finally work up the confidence to curl your fingers into the sides of his boxers and pull them down, your breathing shudders. So relieved that his sigh almost becomes a whine, he readily lifts his hips for you to guide his boxers down. Both his boxers and his shorts pool around his ankles as he tugs his shirt up and over his head.

He’s so hard it seems painful, the head of his dick flushed the same way that his cheeks do when he gets embarrassed.

You’ve talked a lot with your girl friends, and you had known that Jett was around average — nothing special, but Bradley is. Before now, you’ve never seen a dick that looks heavy in the same way his does.

Admittedly, you’ve thought about this a couple of times since you had come across Bradley on the floor of your apartment in those damn near sheer white boxers of his.

Sitting nestled between strong legs, warm, tanned skin. He rests his arm along the back of the couch, letting you look as much as you’d like. It’s been a long time since he was insecure about his body.

You sit forwards and look up at him. Rooster considers for a moment whether he should stop you or not. The second your fingers curl around the base of his cock, his mind is made up.

Your warm tongue tracing his dick up and down, eyes on him for reassurance as his thumb strokes in time against your cheek. Your lips wrap expertly around the tip, sucking on it like a lollipop, the tip of your tongue tracing over the slit.

His breathing quietens, brows furrowing as he watches you. It’s good, it feels good — he’s had better, but he probably shouldn’t have been expecting too much from a meek little mouse like you anyway.

Rooster hums softly in approval when you lick a stripe up the underside of his shaft. Testing the waters, you skim your hand along his thigh. His head rests back against the couch as your main focus shifts to his balls.

Your tongue lingers on the head, darting over his slit to collect the precum that had seeped out. It makes him dizzy, the needy way you lick at his cock, the experienced way that you touch him.

Everything after becomes less about what you should be doing, and more about his response to it. He pants hard when you pull back and pepper kisses along his shaft. He groans loudly when your nose brushes his pelvis and you’re looking up at uk with those doe-eyes, all brimming with tears. He jolts when your nose presses into his thigh as you tease open-mouthed kisses along his balls.

It’s good. So fucking good. He’s lost track of what he’s saying in his head and what he’s saying out loud, unsure of if he should slide a hand into your hair. He doesn’t need to, somehow you’re right where he needs you, right when he needs it.

Rooster shudders, fingers curling into the couch cushion as he involuntarily bucks his hips, feeling your throat squeeze around him. “Shit, fuck —- I’m gonna cum, I’m — I’m—“

You look up at him, drool-soaked lips quirking at the corners. He’s pretty when he’s right on the edge like this. Knuckles whitening, muscles shaking under the intensity. Head thrown back, lips parted, deep groans spilling from his lips.

His body jolts, fists curling hard into the sheets. Every aching muscle in his body contracts, tightening and trembling as his orgasm tears through his nerves. He comes with a strained groan. His dick twitches against your tongue before releasing his load down your throat, leaving you with little choice but to swallow. Luckily for him, that was the plan anyway.

You guide him through his high, not stopping until he’s a trembling wreck under your fingertips. Rooster grunts, mouth hanging open, brows furrowed tightly as the aftershocks of his orgasm tear through his nerves.

Finally, you sit back on your knees and wipe the spit from your chin with the back of your hand.

He swallows, taking in a shaking breath and pushing the base of his palm into his eye socket, trying to make those white splotches in his vision go away. You wipe the smudged mascara from under your eyes.

His legs are still shaking as he pulls his shorts and boxers back up in one move, draping an arm over his eyes. “Fuck, where did you learn how to do that?” — it’s a stupid question, but he just can’t imagine that this kind of expertise came from your ex.

“I read about it.” You answer softly, smoothing your fingers tenderly along the hair on his thighs. His brows furrow as he feels you move to sit down beside him.

He turns his head. Every line on his face deepens as he scrunches his features up, lost. “You… read about it? — Like in a book?”

“Something like that,” You answer him, trailing your fingers over the ridges in his bicep. Your gaze flickers up to meet his. “Was it okay?”

Rooster’s brows lift. He chuckles breathlessly and pulls the covers up over his waist, then brings his hand up to rub at his eye. “Okay? — It was — that… Wow.”

You smile softly at him. “Can I ask you for a favour?”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I’m going to take care of you. Just, let my hands stop shaking.” Rooster breathes out, still recovering as he squeezes your knee. You press your knees together and shift back.

“Oh, no, not that. I’d prefer it if we left it at that today.”

He turns his head and frowns — Bradley has never not reciprocated in his life, and he doesn’t intend to start now. “But…”

“You can make it up to me another time, just not today… if that’s okay.” There she is again. That meek little mouse. As if you didn’t just give him the most earth-shattering blowjob. He shakes his head and sits up.

“So what’s the favour?” He asks calmly.

“I want to do a fight like you guys do. Like a real one.”

….

Blow by Blow | 0.5 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big. Boxing au.

Warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, no warnings in particular for this one

…

“Okay, um — no, no,” Natasha winces, shaking her head at you. She grabs your knee and pushes it back down. “No legs — no kicking.”

Jake snorts at the other side of the gym, leaning his head back, then remembering he’s supposed to be spotting Javy, who’s failing out of a bench press. “Oh shit.”

He catches the bar and helps his friend lift it back onto the rack.

“But… I saw on TV—“

“Different sport, kid.” Payback chuckles from the side of the ring, leaning against the ropes. Your lips part slightly, confused. Bradley leans against the doorframe to the office, arms folded over his chest.

You nod slowly as Natasha guides you back into the correct stance. You squint at the heavy bag, readying yourself to go again.

In the month since you’ve moved in, you’ve gotten better at this — but there’s still a lot you don’t know. Still, Natasha has enjoyed seeing you come out of your shell.

Interviewing each of the staff members for the website really helped. Sitting down with each of them for a couple of hours and doing a video interview with them to post on the About section of the website, just a friendly Q&A to make people feel more comfortable coming in and meeting the team.

If it helped you warm up to the idea of training here, then it would help others too.

Bradley is the only one that you haven’t managed to pin down for an interview yet, but he has been busy — he has the most clients around here because he’s been around the longest

Maverick has been loving your ideas so far. He thinks you’re a tech genius for some basic website design and creative ideas.

This entire month has been like a dream that you’re just waiting to wake up from. Even that evening, after hours spent at a local bar — you’re on cloud nine.

Maybe a couple too many drinks, maybe it’s just because you’re so happy, but you’ve been laughing all night.

“You sure you don’t want me to drop you off at home? — It’s on my way.” Payback offers, dangling his keys from his index finger. He’s got a fight coming up and he has cut out all alcohol, but he just has a tiny little sports car that won’t fit everyone. Bradley lives closest.

“Well, yeah — I’m not going to let her walk home on her own,” Bradley answers as he shoots a quick look over to you, grinning with Bob and Mickey as the three of you make plans for the weekend coming. “Besides, it’s not that far out of my way.”

Jake nods his head and pats Bradley’s shoulder, taking Bradley’s spot in that tiny little sports car, “Alright, we’ll see you tomorrow then. Don’t forget you agreed to take care of my eight a.m. session.”

Bradley calls out an agreement and waves the two of them off as he walks over to you.

“You ready?” He asks gently.

“Oh — yeah. Okay, bye guys, I’ll see you both tomorrow.” You stick your arms out and they hug a side of you each, then call out their goodnights to the each of you.

“What did you guys end up deciding to do this weekend?” Bradley asks, reaching past you and curling his fingers around the empty glass in your hand. He takes it and sets it onto the table beside you, then catches hold of your hand and turns you towards the door.

You comply wordlessly, letting him steer you towards the exit. He drops your hand and lets you walk ahead of him.

“Bob knows this hiking trail that has some really great views, and I’ve never been on a real hike, so we’re all going to take Tank with us.”

He hums behind you to show that he’s listening, stepping outside into the night right behind you. “Sounds like fun.”

“Do you want to come?” You offer, turning your head to look at him, your features soft and expectant. Not quite hopeful. Rooster shakes his head.

“Can’t, I’m working this weekend.” Bradley answers. It’s not a lie, he should be working this weekend, but he’s also kind of the boss and hasn’t ever taken notice of the hours that he’s supposed to be working.

You inhale softly, not bothering to argue with him about it. You kind of don’t want him there, anyway. Being all brooding and weird — it would be more fun without him there. That feels mean. It’s not that you don’t like Bradley, it’s just that he’s kind of a dick sometimes.

“You alright? — you’ve gone all quiet, all of a sudden.” Bradley nudges his hand into the back of your bicep as you walk ahead of him. You turn and look over your shoulder once more.

Maybe it’s all the fresh air, but you feel a thousand times more buzzed out here than you had in there.

“Could we walk back along the marina?” You slow down so that you’re at his side. Bradley nods his head, it’ll only add an extra ten minutes to the walk, and sometimes it’s nice down there at night time.

You walk ahead as he pushes his hands into his pockets and watches you. Bradley trained with Jett for a couple of years, he had known from the first session that Jett was an asshole — he just hadn’t realised that it went further than that. Maybe he could have done something earlier.

Your skin cools quickly with the ocean air, goosebumps rising on your skin from the sudden change in temperature.

Finally, you round the path and grow close enough to see the boats, the lights of the city and right out over the bay. You slow down to take notice of it.

“So, do you live near here?” You ask Bradley without looking back to him, gaze turned out over the water. Bradley watches you walk in front of him, his eyes on your legs as you narrowly miss each crack in the pavement. Inches from stumbling, somehow staying on your feet.

“Near Little Italy.” He answers you.

You scrunch your brows and turn quickly towards him, walking backwards without slowing. His features tighten, eyes on your heels — there’s a rock on the path, your shoe lands centimetres from it and you escape breaking your ankle.

“This is out of your way, then.” You realise.

Bradley lifts his gaze, looking at you with the faintest hint of amusement on his face. He nods slowly. “Yeah. But it’s alright.”

“I didn’t say thank you.” You remind him, lips quirking up into a playful smile. His mouth toys at a smirk. He likes it when you forget yourself around him, leave all of that worrying and quietness behind. He can see why the others like you so much when you’re like this.

He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and nods again. He smirks back at you, “That’s alright too.”

You laugh and roll your eyes at him. “If I keep training with Nat, pretty soon you’ll be asking me to walk you home.”

He chuckles lowly. “Is that right?”

You nod your head and slow down, letting him catch up to you. He slows, standing in front of you, brows scrunching. He opens his mouth to question your motives, then stops as you turn your head and look out over the water.

Salty sea air, fuzzy bright lights around the harbour, warm skin as you lean forwards into him. It’s a half-intentional move, you want to be closer but you’re also just tipsy and not that steady on your feet.

Bradley’s hands find your waist, unfazed as you tip your chin to look at him. Maybe it’s the liquid courage, but you aren’t in the slightest bit bashful about staring at him.

He lets you, glancing down at the patterned florals on your dress as his fingers lay still over the material. As his eyes meet yours again, they’re especially dark in this light, almost black. Nothing like the golden hue from this evening’s sunset.

He inhales slowly. Pomegranate, vanilla violet, mahogany wood and amber. His fingers smooth softly over your waist, eyes not faltering from yours.

You press closer into him, palm splayed out open on his chest, warm muscle under your fingertips. He stares at you, for a second questioning whether or not you’re about to do what he thinks you’re going to do. He leans into your touch, letting your lips press softly into his.

His breath stops in his airways. You mouth on his, just for a moment. As you go to pull back, his lips chase yours. You hum softly into him, meeting him with another gentle kiss. His bottom lip slotted between yours as his fingers curl into the fabric of your dress.

Pulling back slowly, you look up at him through your lashes and take one step back. Bradley loosens his hold on you, then drops his arms back to his sides.

You turn away from him and continue ahead.

“What was that for?” Bradley’s brows scrunch. You take a deep breath and sigh contentedly as you continue along the path, walking ahead of him once again.

“I just thought it would be a good spot for a first kiss.”

Your cheeks are warm, your hands cold as you trail along the path at the side of the marina. Bradley walks just a pace behind you, his hands pushed deep into the front pockets of his jeans.

Just when he thinks he’s got you figured out, you’re off ahead of him again. He shakes his head softly. A good spot for a first kiss.

He squints at the back of your head — that implies that there will be more kisses to come, is he meant to kiss you again?

Your heels clack across the parking lot, around the side of the building. As you near the base of the metal steps up to your apartment, you turn back around to say goodnight.

His hands press into your hips, curling into the fabric of your dress as he walks you back — your breath hitches in your throat — a soft sound is knocked from you as your back hits into the red brick of Bradshaw’s exterior.

Rooster takes a second, looking you over, searching your features for a sign of doubt before he leans forwards and presses his weight into you. You swallow softly.

He lifts one hand, curling it around your jaw, turning your chin upwards and pressing his lips against yours. It’s soft at first, tender like yours had been. Then, he presses himself harder into you, sliding his hand around to the back of your neck, pulling you harder into him.

A surprised hum slips out against Bradley’s mouth, but as he urges his tongue past your lips, the sound is followed by a delightfully contented moan.

Your hands slide up his chest, coming to rest against his ribs, almost like you’re going to push him off. You’ve got no intentions of stopping this just yet. Bradley pushes himself forwards, needing to be closer.

Bradley uses his height against you, crowding you against the wall, pressing the entire length of his body into yours and slotting his thick, denim-clad thigh between your legs. Your dress bunches up out of his way, not hindering his access in the slightest.

He squeezes your hip and slides his arm around your back, grinding himself forwards into you. You’re supposed to be shy, always so quiet. Now, you rock yourself onto his thigh, fingers curling into his t-shirt.

Lifting your leg to graze it against his thigh, your heel knocks gently into the bottom step. He presses you harder into the wall, caressing his tongue into yours. The ding of your heel against the metal step is soft enough to have not disturbed you. The loud bark that comes from upstairs following that gentle ding, though — that makes you flinch.

You pull apart, lips parted. Staring up at him, breathing heavily. Your skin burns as you realise who you’re with and what just happened — and where you are.

“Um… I should,” You breathe out, blinking at him, “I should go and let him out.”

Bradley nods his head. It’s a couple of seconds before his brain catches up and he finally lets you go, stepping back and freeing you from being trapped against the wall.

“Okay.” He nods, wetting his lips with his tongue. He thinks back to the conversation he had with Natasha. Whatever happened between you and Jett. It was probably a bad idea to—

“Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, lips quirking up at the sides. He exhales softly, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Sure.”

You aren’t even sure why you asked him, it seems like a bad idea before you’ve even said it — it seems like an even worse idea when he’s headed up the steps behind you.

“You have to stay here and let Tank sniff you or he’s going to freak out.”

Rooster nods his head. It can’t be that bad, he has learnt his lesson from last time. He waits outside whilst you go in and calm Tank down, clipping him into his leash to let him out.

Once Tank has sniffed him, you allow Rooster to wait inside while you get Tank settled. He’s waiting by the counter with his arms folded over his chest by the time you’re done. It doesn’t feel the same.

Maybe the moment has passed. You swallow softly, shifting uncomfortably as Tank settles down into his spot on the couch. Glancing across, you open your mouth to comment on how Tank is finally warming up to him. Tank growls lowly, a warning for Bradley to stay where he is.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek and hums, “Maybe I should go.”

“But…” You start out softly.

He steps towards you and Tank growls again. You swallow softly and shoot a look to your dog. Bradley takes one more step towards you, and Tank is silent. The second that Bradley reaches out for you, he growls again.

This has got to be some kind of divine intervention from Natasha. He shouldn’t be here, doing this.

“Alright, Bambi — I’m going to head home. I’ll see you in the morning.” He breathes out, shaking his head softly. You open your mouth to protest. He pats your shoulder platonically and heads for the door. You close it again quickly.

You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough. This really hot guy, who you have to see every day, who just rejected you. You close your eyes for a second and sigh. You let him leave without a word.

…

Blow by Blow | 0.4 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big.

Warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, no warnings in particular for this one

…

Bradley’s car pulls into the parking lot at seven, prompt — on time for once. The radio is playing loud, some seventies tune that he hums along to with little regard for the neighbors. Head tilted back, humming softly to your own music, the water pours over your face.

You scrub shampoo through your roots, swaying softly to your music. It’s a relatively calm track, you’re hoping for a relatively calm day. The plan is to take Tank for a walk through the park down by the marina, then come back and work on the website a bit — Nat’s going to train with you in the afternoon, then you’ve got the evening to yourself.

It’s a nice change, having this much freedom over your day. No asshole telling you what to wear, telling you that walking the dog takes too long, dragging you along to whatever he wants to do.

Bradley’s brows furrow. He pops open the glove box and riffles through it before patting down his jean pockets again. No keys. “Fuck.”

It’s the first time that he’s been on time in a week. If he has to call Jake to borrow some keys then he’s just going to get another lecture. He knows exactly where his keys for the gym are, somewhere on the floor of your apartment.

Sliding out of the driver’s side of his Ford Bronco, he slams the door with little regard for the neighbors again — he half does it just to let you know that he’s coming. Then, he jogs up the metal stairs that lead to the door to your apartment and knocks loudly on the glass panel in the door.

Immediately, he’s met with a big bark. Loud, deep and right by the door from the sounds of things. Yeah… Natasha had mentioned a dog. Bradley knocks the glass loudly again, unfazed by the barking.

He lifts his hand, ready to hit the glass hard when he hears you unlocking the door. The blue wood pulls back and opens just slightly. He has a split second where he can glance you up and down, get a good look at you, still wet and wrapped in a towel. Once his gaze lifts, he’s met with an unimpressed scowl.

Next, Tank lurches forwards, barking wildly as he aims himself at the stranger just outside the door. You put your knee against the doorframe and block Tank with your body.

“I need my keys, I dropped them here the other night.” Bradley ignores the dog and looks back to you without greeting you. He’s in kind of a hurry, Jake’s going to be here any minute and Bradley could do without being ridiculed today.

“Say please.”

It slips your mouth before you’ve even had time to think about it. It’s just the demanding tone and the way he looks at you. This is what would get you in trouble with Jett. You both seem equally surprised at what you just said. You swallow softly and step back.

“Sorry, I just — I’ll get them—“

“Can I have my keys, please?” Bradley asks softly. You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose, holding the towel against your body.

“Yeah, stay there.” You say quietly. You turn your back on him and nudge Tank back with you, catching hold of his collar and gently guiding him back towards the living room. Bradley’s keys are on the counter, approximately three steps from the back door — you had found them while cleaning last night and had been planning on returning them.

One step from the door, two, and then you let go of Tank’s collar. He seems calm enough now, you know him well enough to know that he’ll stay that way as long as Bradley stays outside.

Bradley slips his phone from the pocket of his gym shorts and checks the time. Jake’s going to be here any second. He steps inside, his strides are longer than yours and he’s close enough to you in one step. Too close, as Tank decides.

The dog growls sharply, then leaps up at him again, barking and snarling. The same puppy that had been curled up on the couch with you, wrapped in a cozy blanket and snoring, an hour ago.

You gasp, spinning around and catching the towel to keep it from falling. Bradley’s closer than you’re expecting, he can see the panic in your eyes when you turn. You catch hold of Tank’s collar and pull him back.

“I’m sorry, I was just going to—“

“I told you to wait outside.” You frown at him, brows furrowed, heart pounding in your chest. Maybe a braver person would yell at him now. You’d like to. Bradley glances down at your dog, still growling lowly, now standing between you and him with his heckles up.

This isn’t the first time that this dog has stood between you and a guy who has gotten too close.

Bradley takes a couple of steps back, bumping into the doorframe as he raises his palms in defense. You might forgive him, but Tank’s not so quick to recover. He continues to growl, deep and rumbling, warning the trainer to stay outside.

You swallow softly, fingers curling around his keys without looking back. You take them from the counter and toss them towards him. Bradley catches them in one hand.

“Thank you. Thanks. I’ll — I’ll see you later.” He nods, already half turning away, waving you off and heading down the steps. You step quickly forwards and close the door behind him, clicking the lock shut.

You crouch down and run your fingers over Tank’s fur, humming quietly. “So, you think he’s kind of an asshole too, huh?”

Bradley can’t fault your home security system. With your aim and nearby projectiles, and your new guard dog, he’s certain that if anyone tries to break in up there then they’ll be sorry about it.

He hears Jake’s truck pull up outside just as he’s finished opening up for the morning, the exhaust is fucked and it’s louder than it should be. Bradley walks back to the front desk and pulls his phone out, acting like he has been here and done with his work for a while.

“Wow, you’re here.” Jake quips, raising his eyebrows in amused surprise as he lets the door ring closed behind him. He’s wearing a black cap and matching gym wear today. With his experience and skills, he should probably be at a more upmarket place, but Jake’s got a soft spot for Bradshaw’s.

Sometimes, Bradley wishes he had the same choice.

“You look like you just saw a ghost, you alright?” Jake continues as he steps around the counter and slides the clipboard towards himself, flipping through the pages to find his schedule for the day.

“Yeah, that kid’s dog just lunged for me — don’t think either of them like me.” Bradley scoffs, shaking his head as he leans over Jake’s shoulder. Lots of empty spaces on the schedule, Mav isn’t going to be happy.

“Who, Tank?” Jake looks up, brows furrowing. Bradley nods his head. Jake scoffs, “Wow, you must’ve really pissed him off, he napped in Bob’s lap for like an hour last night. Curled up like a baby.”

As Jake finishes talking, you walk past the front of the gym. Tank’s wearing a harness and walking ahead of you on his leash, tail wagging contentedly. You’re wearing a pretty dress, it’s red, stops mid-way up your thigh and has little flowers on it.

Jake smiles as you turn your head towards the two of them. He lifts his hand and waves his fingers at you through the glass. Bradley stares as you wave chirpily back at the two of them.

It’s a sunny day, and you feel sunnier than you’ve felt in months. You pull your sweater from your bag and lay it out on the grass, then settle down. Tank readily settles with you, laying his head against your legs and wagging his tail.

Tank was an apology. For one of the first times things had gotten bad between you and Jett — an explosive argument that left behind an entire day’s worth of tears. You’d gone to sleep that night swearing that you were going to leave him. The next morning, you had woken up with a tan coloured cuddle bug who needed you to stay.

Before this, you haven’t spent much time on this side of San Diego — you had heard that this wasn’t the best area to hang out in. Maybe that’s why Jett liked to, maybe it made him feel tough. It isn’t like you had thought it would be. Down by the boats, sitting in the grass, it’s nice. There’s a view out over the bay and Tank likes to watch the birds in the trees above you.

“Heads up.” Bob nudges his elbow into Jake’s. Jake lifts his gaze and frowns. They’re standing by the front desk and trying to find stuff to keep them busy so that Mav doesn’t realise how dead it is today. They stare out of the front window together as the car door slams.

“Oh, what the fuck is that assho—“

Jake shoots a look at Natasha. She closes her mouth and breathes out hard, curling her knuckles around the counter as Jett walks towards the door. With guys like Jett, Jake knows what he’s looking for. It’s a fight, nothing more. A couple more of those, one more lawsuit and this place is getting shut down for good.

With everything that Maverick has lost already, Jake’s not going to let that happen.

The bell above the door rings. He’s barely got one foot inside, nostrils flared, dark circles under his eyes. There’s a grey sheen to his skin — maybe drinking too much, maybe something heavier. Jake’s not too sure.

“Where is she?”

Natasha opens her mouth. Bob elbows her softly.

“Where’s who?” Jake shrugs his shoulders calmly.

Jett seethes, surging forwards. Jake takes one step back and squares his shoulders.

“My girl.” Jett spits.

“Why would she be here?” Bob asks gently, leaning forwards on his palms. He adjusts his glasses.

“Cut the shit, I know she’s here! — My neighbour saw her with you.”

Phoenix glances across at Jake. Jake folds his arms over his chest. He’s two weight classes above Jett, and confident in the knowledge that Jett knows he won’t win this fight.

“Here to apologize?” Jake taunts.

“Here to talk her dumb ass down from whatever high horse she’s on. You don’t know her, man, she always freaks out like this.”

Bradley rounds the corner, leaning his head back, breathing hard. That session really took it out of him. He rolls his neck and opens his mouth, then closes it. He stops in his tracks.

He takes a moment to stare at Jett, and then take in what he had just said. Now it all makes sense.

“You want to talk to her?” Phoenix challenges, pushing herself up from her chair and rounding the desk. Behind her, is the internal door, behind that are the stairs to your apartment. “Try it.”

“Don’t think that just because you’re a girl, I won’t—“

That’s enough. They have heard enough. Bob moves to step between him and Phoenix, Jake steps towards Jett. Bradley throws his towel onto the ground and surpasses Jake.

He steps forwards and curls a fist into Jett’s t-shirt.

“Rooster, don’t.”

Rooster knows that there are only a couple more times that the police can get called to this place, and he knows that their insurance isn’t going to cover him starting another fight. Luckily, Jett’s smaller than he is.

His feet lift briefly off of the ground and stumble the rest of the way, scrambling for purchase, his arms swinging out to the sides. Rooster walks him backwards. The bell above the door rings loudly as the door swings open and then closed.

Jett’s shoes scrape along the concrete, not stopping long enough for him to get steady footing. His arms shove at Bradley, but it’s little use. Bradley worked as security for a while, there are a lot of bars downtown and he needed some time away from the gym. He’s used to throwing scrawny losers out onto the curb.

They walk back until Jett’s clear of the property boundary.

He tosses Jett backwards. Jett grunts as his back slams into the hood of his beat up, old car. He slinks down onto the floor. Bradley can tell that he’s going to try to get up before he does.

He leans down in front of your ex-boyfriend, eyes dark and serious, his broad frame blocking out the mid-day sun from behind him.

“You know me, right, Jett?” Bradley asks gently. He’s asking more than if Jett knows his name, which Jett does — he knows about Bradley’s career, and he knows why it’ll never extend past Bradshaw’s. Taking note of the clear recognition in Jett’s blue eyes, he nods his head. “That’s right. So you know that I have a hard time knowing when to stop. Right?”

Jett swallows softly.

Bradley nods his head again. “You come by here again, I’m not gonna stop.”

Tank walks ahead of you happily, his nose pointed up as he takes in his new surroundings. He seems to like it down here, all of the fresh smells, all of the birds. You’re four chapters into a book you’ve been meaning to start for months.

The bell above the door rings, Tank wanders in first and walks right on up to Bob. Your lips quirk slightly as he looks up expectantly at his new friend. You lift your gaze. The four of them are looking at you.

Smiling sweetly, you tilt your head a fraction to the side. “Everything okay?”

“Always is when you’re around, sunshine.” Jake shoots you a quick wink. Your cheeks are warm, and not because you just spent a couple of hours out in the sun. Bob and Natasha relax as you giggle sheepishly.

Bradley’s looking at you differently now. Maybe because Tank scared him this morning. You can’t quite place the look that he has on his face.

“Are Mickey and Javy here? — I had an idea for the website and I need to talk to all of you for it.” You continue on, well aware of those big brown eyes boring into your side as you pull your notebook from your bag and lean forwards onto the counter.

Phoenix shoots Bradley a look. He stares back at her. Everyone knew except him. She told everyone other than him about what had gone down between you and Jett. He didn’t realise that things had gotten that bad. Folding his arms over his chest, he wonders what else she has kept from him over the past few weeks.

…

Blow by Blow | 0.3 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

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Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big.

Warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, no warnings in particular for this one

…

“Why aren’t we doing what you and Payback were doing?” You question as Bradley straps the pads to his hands. He scrunches his brows and looks down at the guys, then back to you incredulously.

“Because I’m not going to hit a girl.” He scoffs back. You suppose that would be unfair, but not because you’re a girl. Because he has been doing this for as long as he can walk, and you’re about as graceful on your feet as a deer on ice.

“So what’s this?” You tap your hands together, wearing gloves that fit this time. There aren’t really any women’s gloves for you to borrow — girls don’t really come here, let alone train here. Nat let you borrow hers. She’s watching with interest at the side of the ring whilst Mickey covers her 11am session.

“Call it target practice, not that you need it apparently.” Bradley jokes, tilting his head from side to his, neck still stiff from that shitty couch upstairs. He’s just messing around, the lamp didn’t even leave a bruise — hitting the floor, now that’s left a mark around his elbows but he’s fine. He’s been through worse.

Rooster hadn’t planned on getting to drunk to drive home last night — spending the day with a sore neck after having to walk back here to spend the night, and also being assaulted with a lamp — those seem like fair punishments for his lapse in judgment.

Your ears heat up slightly. You swallow and offer him a sheepish smile.. “Sorry again, about that.”

He looks you up and down and then smiles, rolling his broad shoulders back. It’s been a while since someone looked at you like he does. “Sorry for breaking in and almost flashing you.”

It’s in your head. You’re getting in your own head about this. It’s just because you saw him and his stupid tanned muscles last night. He’s not flirting with you.

“Almost…?” You aren’t quite sure you heard him right, you take a step closer. He smiles at you and knocks the pads together in his hands, flirting.

“Yeah, I usually sleep naked — you stopped me right in time,” He chuckles, then sniffs. “Alright. You ready?”

You stare at him. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. You glance across at Phoenix, who is close enough to have heard what he just said to her. She’s practically wincing.

Swallowing softly, you turn your attention back towards him and nod.

The terminology he uses isn’t exactly beginner friendly, but you understand what he’s asking you to do. Different combos, different variations of swinging towards the pads on his hands — hardly rocket science.

Jab. Jab. Hook. Bradley sighs and shakes his head, “Hit like you mean it, Bambi — this is just sad.” He taunts. You frown, shooting another glance towards Phoenix. “Now!”

You flinch at his raised voice, blinking hard as you turn your head back to face him. Phoenix pinches the bridge of her nose. She probably should have filled him in. Taking a deep breath, you do as he asks. His brows furrow as you complete the combination.

He looks over at Phoenix at the edge of the ring and notices her shaking her head at him. He pauses.

“Have you ever even hit anyone before?” Rooster asks, making no effort to hide his distaste for your current technique. There’s a judgment to his tone that you weren’t expecting. You shift your weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.

He’s hot and cold, and confusing.

No one ever took it easy on him during his training, and that’s what made him good at what he does. It wasn’t until someone took pity on him that it all got screwed up. Going easy on clients doesn’t work.

“No…?”

“Alright, um… maybe we take a couple of steps back,” He lifts his hand and bites the Velcro on the back of the pad, shaking it off of his right. hand and then pulling it off of the other. They clatter to the floor messily. Your skin burns, embarrassed. You’re in the centre of the gym, quite literally on a platform. Rooster curls his fingers towards Phoenix, “Nat, wanna give us a hand?”

“Someone ought to.” She scoffs as she pulls herself up and steps under the ropes. She smiles and nudges her elbow into yours. Bradley rolls his eyes playfully at her.

The practice that you do next is much more tame. Natasha holds your hips, making sure that you stay in ‘stance’. Her arm guides past yours, her fist moving from vertical to horizontal — arm rotating as she extends it. Slow movements with her chest to your back.

You breathe out softly and copy.

“No, not —“ Bradley sighs and catches your wrist, stepping closer. He extends your arm slowly and turns it like hers, then nods. He looks up, meeting your gaze. “Like that. Okay?”

You nod softly.

Footwork is important in boxing, you know that much. It’s as important to be fast as it is to be strong. And yet, Bradley’s got you standing completely stationary, extending your arm and rotating it.

It’s important, making sure that your jab looks good before he moves on to anything else — walking before running, and that kind of thing. You’re already sticking out like a sore thumb, doing this with them just makes you burn with embarrassment.

Still, you won’t admit that here.

After maybe thirty minutes, Bradley reintroduces the pads. He stands in front of you, Phoenix holds your hips.

“Go ‘head, Bambi — impress me.” He murmurs, holding the pad up in front of you. Slow at first, you do exactly what he showed you. His lips quirk at the edges. He nods. “Mhm. Harder.”

Natasha looks past you, staring at him, unimpressed. She knows her best friend well — and he’s an idiot for flirting with you right now. It’s not his fault, he’s just messing around. He likes to tease girls, it’s part of the fun.

Besides, as far as he’s concerned, you broke up with your asshole boyfriend and are probably looking for a rebound. Looking at your short skirt and the tank top that you had strolled in here in, Rooster would be more than happy to be your rebound.

His tongue slips forwards and wets his lips as he glances you up and down. He’s well aware that there are people watching — the guys that train here aren’t used to there being a pretty girl in the ring. They stopped looking at Nat after she launched a dumbbell at a guy, maybe it was a bit much, but it had worked.

You continue, hitting into the pads. Natasha can feel you relaxing into it.

“Harder.” Bradley insists, the impact of your punches barely rocking the pads in his hands. You do as he says, and he lets you go on for a while, but you’re holding back.

It’s boring.

“Alright. I’m gonna take a break before Lou shows up.” Bradley decides finally, taking the pads off of his hands and stepping closer to you. You lift your chin, eyes on him as he invades your space to set the pads down on your forearms. “Not bad, Bambi.”

You’re left awkwardly holding them, still wearing Nat’s gloves as he steps under the ropes and drops down from the ring. Natasha takes a split second to watch him walk away, then shakes her head. Asshole.

“Ignore him,” She mumbles, shaking her head as she takes the pads from you and tugs at the velcro on your gloves. “He’s a dick to everyone that he trains. Method in the madness or whatever.”

You almost scoff. If that’s him being an asshole, you can handle that. Compared to what you just walked away from, this is a playground fight. You can handle your own here. Especially with her to back you up. You smile softly at you new friend.

“Maybe next time, I could practice with just you?” You suggest gently. Natasha nods, smiling back at you.

Bradley whistles as he tucks himself back into his shorts, stepping away from the urinal and walking over to the sink. He wets his hands, then soap, then washes. The soap in here is cheap and never lathers right, but that’s Mav’s department. Bradley couldn’t care less about this kind of crap.

He looks at himself in the mirror above the sink, wiping his hands on his shorts and running his fingers through his hair. His eyes skim along the long, jagged split in the mirror. Somebody should probably get that fixed.

“Now you listen to me, dickhead,” Natasha starts, unfazed as the door slams into the wall. Bradley flinches, eyes going wide.

“Nat, this is the men’s room!” He protests, turning around to face her, eyes going wide. She continues towards him as the door swings shut again, pointing her finger into his chest. Bradley stares down at her, confused.

“Don’t fuck around with her like that. It’s not what she needs right now.” She wants him seriously, looking up at him, eyes narrowed. She might be half his size, but she has shown him more than once that she’s not to be messed with.

Still, that doesn’t mean he won’t argue back.

“Are we talking about me flirting with her?” Bradley asks. He folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the counter. Natasha shoves at his chest.

“Can you just be normal around a girl for once in your life, please?” She huffs.

“Everyone needs sex, Nix. It’s natural.” He shrugs calmly.

“Not her — not from you,” Phoenix insists. Bradley stares at her, trying to read her face. All he knows is that Phoenix ran into you after you had dumped Jett. From what Bradley knows about Jett, he wasn’t surprised that you didn’t want to see him again to grab your stuff. He’s starting to think that there might be more to it than that. “Just don’t mess with her head right now. I think this place could be good for her, and you’re going to ruin it. So — don’t. Okay?”

“Fine, but if she comes onto me, then—“

“She won’t.” Phoenix answers, shaking her head as she turns away from him. Bradley scoffs as she pulls open the door and leaves him in peace finally.

After over a decade of friendship, Natasha has never cock-blocked him before. Sure, she has done her best to dissuade him from making some poor decisions, but nothing like this. He turns towards the mirror and frowns slightly.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that whatever went down between you and your ex-boyfriend was bad, but Bradley’s curiosity claws at him. He thinks about it.

Sad eyes, shaking hands. What came before.

Phoenix thinks that time heals. Maybe that’s what she’s trying to give you — time. Bradley disagrees. He has had plenty of time and he’s still just as angry as he was back then. Getting better doesn’t work like that, not for him.

“Shit…” You mutter softly, staring at the text. Your heart sinks.

Jake raises his eyebrows as he wipes at the back of his neck with a towel. He takes a long drink from his water bottle and lets out a heavy breath, “Everything okay, kid?”

You look up from your phone. Clearly it’s not, Jake can see that much on your face.

“Y-Yeah… yeah,” A soft shake of your head, you sigh and close your eyes. Do not cry, do not cry — don’t fucking cry. “My friend just let me down is all.”

“Anything we could help with?” Coyote asks without hesitation. Jake looks at him and scrunches his brows. This is how they always get roped into the stupidest shit. Javy smiles sincerely at you.

These guys have already done too much. You shake your head again, “No, I was just supposed to get some things from my old place today. My dog and stuff. My ex is going to be at an appointment and it’s like the one time that he’ll be out… it’s — it’s just annoying.”

“I love dogs.” Javy declares. Jake drapes the towel over his shoulder and shrugs. He knows about what happened.

“I’ve got a couple of hours free.” Jake agrees.

They’re standing side by side, both sweaty and clearly exhausted. Without looking at each other for reassurance, they offer you the same soft, sincere smiles. You stare at them.

Jake dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out his keys, “My car or yours, kid?”

Your old apartment is about a twenty minute drive, a ground floor apartment with a small space at the back of it. Jake’s brows furrow slightly as he slides out of the driver’s side of his car, “Jesus Christ — is that your dog?”

Barely listening, you fish your keys from the front pocket of your denim skirt and head for the front door. Jett’s car isn’t here and you don’t know how long you’ll have. Jake and Javy share concerned glances as you rush towards the loud, deep barking coming from the apartment. Jake winces as the door springs open, preparing himself to witness a viscous attack.

Instead, a chunky tan and white pit bull launches himself into you, wiggling and wagging his tail.

“Oh, baby — Mommy missed you so much!” You coo over the fifty pound dog as he knocks you onto your butt and immediately throws himself into your lap, licking your face. Jake stares in disbelief. That cannot be the same creature that had been barking so incessantly a second ago. Not the excited blur of dog that’s all over you being called baby.

Javy laughs and heads forwards to join in. You breathe in softly and hold your hand up. He stops in his tracks.

“Hold on, he — um, he’s kind of shy about meeting new people,” You explain gently as you push yourself up onto your knees and wrap your arms around the dog to keep him against you. “If you both just come and sit, like right here, and let him sniff you, it should be okay.”

Javy obliges immediately, sitting cross-crossed a couple feet away from you, in the parking lot of the condominiums. Jake approaches slowly, uncertain as he sits beside his best friend. You smile and kiss the dog’s shoulder, slowly loosening your hold on him and letting him wander forwards.

He stalks towards the two of them, slow and cautious. Jake holds his breath. He’s never been great with dogs. Javy lifts his hand, calm and still as the dog sniffs him first.

“This is Tank.” You announce, smiling softly. Javy seems to have passed the friendship test, Tank moves on to Jake. He takes longer to decide when it comes to the tense blonde. After a few seconds of sniffing, Tank’s tail begins to wag. He presses himself into Jake’s lap, snuggling into his chest as he sticks his big head out towards Coyote.

A couple of minutes under the San-Diego sun, the four of you getting to know each other.

Jake helps you grab what you can, only the stuff that matters, while Coyote stands watch. Tank appoints himself the unofficial foreman, making sure that everyone is doing their jobs, following you from point A to B as you load Jake’s truck with as much as you can carry.

“Thanks, for helping me out with this stuff,” You say softly as Jake closes up the back of the truck bed. He turns and offers you a small, cool smile. Javy beams at his side. “I really appreciate everything you guys have done for me.”

Javy steps forwards and wraps his thick arms around you, forgetting his strength for a moment as he squeezes you tight. “We look out for each other at Bradshaw’s. Happy to help. Right, Jake?”

Jake can’t help but laugh at the concerned, half-crushed and worried look on your face. He nods and pats your shoulder as he heads for the driver’s seat. “Yes, we do. Now let’s get this guy home before he pisses on my seats.”

…

Such a cute chapter 🫠

My Future in You | 1.9 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

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Synopsis: Bradley’s twenty-two years old and not where he’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be out of the academy by now. Instead, he’s retaking his senior year of college and praying to god that he gets into flight school. Mav’s gone, his mom’s gone. He’s mad at the world. Then, a hook up at a Halloween party changes his future even more than he could have imagined.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, references to abortion in a few chapters, angst, will be fluff eventually, will be smut so 18+, enemies to lovers kinda thing, kind of a filler )):

…

Back and forth, back again. White socks padding along the floor, his eyes following you like he’s in the crowd at a tennis match. Bradley watches in silence. He’s sitting back against the wall behind his bed, since he doesn’t have a headboard, arms folded over his chest.

Asking about the future has clearly triggered some kind of meltdown, and at this point, he knows better than to intervene. Instead, he grabs the baseball on his bedside table and tosses it upwards, catching it again.

Each time it lands in his palm, you turn. Pacing from one side of his room to the other, ranting about the logistics of his question. It’s been around fifteen minutes now, Bradley’s sitting in his boxers and a t-shirt, paying less and less attention.

You’ve moved on to the second phase of your rant now. Phase one was about you and him — barely knowing each other, not even liking one another. That kind of thing. He had tried disagreeing, but you’re better at rationalizing than he is.

This is more about the financial side of things.

“I have money.” Bradley shrugs his shoulders calmly, the ball bounces off of the ceiling and ricochets — he leans off of the bed and catches it. Without looking back at you, he continues to toss it up and catch it again. You stare at him.

The boy sitting on the cheap mattress, tossing up a baseball he had taken from this year’s freshman orientation. The father of your child.

You scoff incredulously. Beige walls, plain navy sheets and football banners on the walls. Like this is the kind of home you’d like to raise your child in. “Real money. Babies aren’t cheap, and I’ll be working — do you know how much daycare costs?”

“I have real money.”

You inhale sharply. Everything’s hitting you all at once. You had been putting off this conversation for a reason and now you’re freaking out. You’ve got less than twenty weeks to get your shit together. Stopping by the door, you prop your weight up against it and breathe out hard.

“Real real money, Bradley — I barely even have a credit score, there’s no way we’re getting approved for an apartment.”

“My credit score is good and I’ve got money from the house.” He shrugs again, spinning the ball around in his hand and tossing it up. Too hard, once again. It bounces from the ceiling and ricochets. You catch the ball.

He looks up at you, finding you staring at him now. He raises his eyebrows.

“House?”

“Yeah, my parents’ house.” Bradley replies, settling down and tucking his arm behind his head now that you’re squeezing his only source of entertainment so hard that he’s somewhat concerned you might crush it. He was certain he had mentioned this to you before. “I inherited it after my Mom died.”

The house, the two life insurance policies. There had to be some kind of upside to losing both of his parents before he had turned twenty. You stand by his door, dumbfounded.

“I’m sorry… so, you own a house?” You squeak out.

He shrugs his shoulders again, glancing down at the baseball in your hands and sighing. “Yeah, it’s by the base in Norfolk. My dad was stationed there for a bit in the eighties. I was going to sell it, but my cousin’s staying there. He pays me rent.”

You take a small step towards him. He runs his fingers through his curls, tilting his head, smiling softly. Those stupid, big brown eyes stare into yours. He lifts his hand and reaches out for you.

“I’ve got this,” He nods, curling his fingers for you to come closer. You swallow softly as you step towards him. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, parting his thighs. You step between his legs. Bradley rests his hands on your hips.

He leans forwards, pressing his lips gently to your stomach over your sweater. “We’ve got this. You’ve been saying it since the beginning.”

You soften slightly, pushing your fingers through his auburn curls. He looks up at you, lips quirked up into a smile. Suddenly, his brows furrow.

“Wait, so — when I offered you money in December… what did you think I meant?” He frowns slightly, stroking his hands along your sides. Thinking back to it, you shrug.

“A couple hundred, I don’t know. You were being a dick.”

He chuckles and pulls you forwards so that you’re perched on his knee. His perpetually warm skin pressing flush against yours. He wraps his arms around you and nods his head. “I’m sorry.”

Bradley has successfully bypassed your first two protests to moving in together, leaving you to sit and think about your options now. Graduation is two months away, the baby’ll be here a few months after that.

You look at Bradley, trailing your fingers through his curls tenderly as you think about your future with him.

Sitting, rolling, crawling. Experiencing all of that with your son, taking him to the park and to the pool — all while Bradley’s a couple of hundred miles away, on his own.

Could you do this without Bradley? — Probably. It’s just that you’re starting to question whether you want to anymore. This morning, you had a boyfriend — not Bradley. Now you’re sitting here discussing moving in with him.

“But my job is going to be here.” You say quietly, frowning at him.

He nods his head. “I thought about that. There are offices near Pensacola, it’ll just be a case of calling them up and asking to switch. Which, your dad’ll be able to organise for you.”

“Did you forget that he kind of disowned me?”

Bradley shakes his head, “No, I remembered, but he spoke about how proud he was of you for getting that grad scheme at a couple of events, it’s on google. People would probably ask questions if you suddenly dropped out of it, right? — It’ll be easier for you to work if we’re together, so it’s in his best interests to make a phone call.”

Once again, he renders you silent. This is not the same idiot you’ve been putting up with for the past few months. He skims his hand along your thigh and shrugs his shoulders.

“So, yes?”

Your lips quirk softly at the edges, that thundering beat in your chest finally slowing. He grins, leaning forwards and pressing his lips to yours. He knows that his parents would be proud of him, using his money for this.

It beats blowing it on alcohol and new cars. He’s happy with his bronco and cheap beer. He knows he’d be even happier getting to see his son grow every day.

“Where’s all this coming from?” You murmur softly, pulling back and trailing your fingertips back down his arm.

Jake makes it home a little after 9am the next morning, his head pounding as he tries to close the door as quietly as possible. He stumbles forwards into the kitchen, needing water urgently before he blacks out. Eyes closed, he turns on the sink and sticks his head under the stream of water, mouth wide open.

A soft giggle to his left draws his attention. He lifts his head and squints. You’re sitting on Bradley’s lap at the table, both of you looking over the top of a laptop at Jake. He stares at the two of you, blank-faced.

“Morning, sunshine.” Bradley teases playfully. You laugh softly and nudge your elbow into his ribs. He kisses your jaw tenderly, wrapping his arms around your middle.

If Jake didn’t feel sick before, staring at the two of you is certainly getting him there.

“What are you two so chirpy about?” He mumbles tiredly.

You open your mouth to answer. You’ve been awake half of the night, figuring out how to delicately break this to Jake. He’s not going to take it well, and you know you need to approach this with some sensitivity.

“We’re moving in together.” Bradley answers, smiling.

You close your mouth quickly as Jake’s gaze turns towards you. The look on your face tells him that it’s true, and that’s as much as he cares to hear. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

There’s something about knowing that there’s nothing he can do to intervene that really just makes his hangover that little bit worse. Knowing that his little sister is planning to move to the other side of the country, with a baby and that idiot — and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He turns away from you both, shaking his head as he leaves the kitchen without a word. Bradley scoffs, shaking his head and turning his attention back to the apartment listings.

It’s three days before Jake speaks to either of you again. The only thing that gets him to cave is hearing you crying in Bradley’s room. He’s halfway up the stairs, stopping in his tracks. The walls here are paper thin, he can hear the bass in Bradley’s voice as he murmurs to you, trying to get you to calm down.

He finds himself equal parts angry and confused with you. Jake understands that you’re scared of doing this alone, but he’ll never understand how you can give Bradley so many chances. He has hurt you time and time again, and Jake can’t stand the thought of him not being there to protect you.

You flinch as the door to Bradley’s room swings open. Jake second-guesses it as the door’s halfway opening, relieved to find that you’re both fully dressed once it’s fully open. He folds his arms over his chest. Bradley sits up, unwrapping his arms from around you.

You whimper softly, trying to stop the stream of tears as you push yourself to the edge of the bed.

“Pensacola.” It’s all that Jake manages to say. Bradley’s brows furrow in confusion, he nods slowly at your brother. Jake exhales. “Fine. I’ll come too.”

“Excuse me?” Bradley scoffs. It’s not exactly what he had in mind — you, him, your son… and Jake.

“Flight school, can’t be that hard if they’ll let you in.” Jake replies. You sit up and wipe at your cheeks, sniffling softly. Bradley turns his head towards you, then back towards Jake. You push yourself up and throw yourself at his chest, wrapping your arms around your big brother. Bradley’s lips quirk amusedly.

It might not have been what he had planned, but then again — none of this is. Leaving his future in the hands of Seresin’s hasn’t worked out badly for him before, and he knows that you’ll like having Jake nearby. But Jake’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’ll be a better pilot.

…

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Blow by Blow | 0.2 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big.

Warnings: violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, no warnings in particular for this one

…

The apartment above Bradshaw’s is about as glamorous as it sounds. Air Conditioning in the form of a couple of cracked windows and a dated fan that now only works on one of its three speeds, the middle one. Exposed brick and beige wallpaper. The highlight is the original hardwood flooring, a deep walnut colour. It’s got a couple of chips taken out of it here and there, but it works.

You keep to yourself as much as you can in those first few days, making sure you aren’t walking too loudly, aren’t showering too late and aren’t dropping things that could disrupt the people below. That being considered, you’d have to be being pretty loud to disturb the gym.

They’re much less concerned about raised voices and loud music.

Laying on the middle of the metal framed bed, the door to your room open, looking around your new place, listening to the dull whir of that old ceiling fan in the living room.

This entire thing would have been much less bearable without your friends. As much as you’ve kept the worst parts of your relationship from all of them, not one of them is sad to hear that things are over between you and Jett — they were more than happy to help you get back on your feet.

The white sheets with pale blue flowers on them, those are Cassidy’s. The clothes, those are from Amy and Beth. The kitchenware is a mix of what was here already and Zoe’s — she always buys too many glasses and mugs, she was happy to get rid of some. The rug under the bed. The mattress topper that stops the decades old mattress under you from keeping you awake at night. They gave you what they could until you’re able to get your stuff back.

If you ever do.

You roll onto your left side, facing the built in closet at the far side of the room. It’s got slatted doors, letting you see exactly how dark it is in there. That thing gives you the creeps. It’s hard to decide which is worse — facing it, or sleeping with your back to it.

A bang outside. It’s childish, but you pull the covers up to your chin and press your weight deeper into the spongy mattress topper. A car backfiring, you’re reassured by the sound of tires squealing away.

Living alone had sounded terrifying your entire life. Growing up, you had always pictured a boyfriend, or a roommate — someone, being here in this dusty old space with you. It’s just as the wish passes through your brain that you’re instantly wishing it never had. As keys slot into the lock of the back door, you’re quick to wish that no one was here — that the person about to let themselves in would just disappear.

The door to your room is halfway open. It had seemed like a good idea before, you had been scared of not knowing who was out there. Now, you’re terrified of knowing who is.

The lock complies with a click and a heavy weight falls into the door, swinging it open. You flinch, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. Another car squeals by outside. Heavy footsteps on that walnut flooring. Stumbling. The door slams shut again, heavy handed enough to make the windows behind your bed shake.

You hold your breath, not daring to open your eyes.

More footsteps, moving from the kitchen into the living room space. The footsteps get softer sounding after two small thuds. Your brows squeeze together softly. They took their shoes off. Stumbling again. The footsteps slow for a moment, maybe to catch their balance.

Curiosity gets the best of you, you peak one eye open. His back is to you, and he’s shirtless. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the muscled back and defined dimples at the bottom of his spine are just about visible. You swallow softly, shrinking back again, pulling the covers up higher.

It’s not Jett — but now you’re faced with a similar problem to the one with the closet. It’s not him, but perhaps it’s worse that it’s a stranger.

Your eyes widen at the sound of a belt jingling. He’s still not facing you, but he is taking his clothes off. You press your elbow into the bed, pushing yourself up, holding your breath as you slide the covers back. His zipper tears open loudly. You wince, cautiously shifting your weight closer to the edge of the bed and then up. Those ancient floorboards betray you, creaking under your weight.

He’s already turning anyway, heading for the bedroom as he kicks his jeans down his legs. There’s a lamp on the floor beside your bed — it should be on an end table but you don’t have one of those yet. You reach behind you, crouched at the side of the bed. Fingers splayed out, searching for your life line. He struggles, stumbling again as the jeans catch around his ankles.

Cool metal against your fingertips, you sigh in relief as you grab hold of the lamp. He steps forwards, almost slipping, still trapped in his own jeans, slamming his palm into the lightswitch beside the bedroom door. He’s standing right in the doorway now, facing you. It’s too dark to see his face for just a split second, but that’s about a second too long.

The lamp is already ripped from the wall and midair as he’s illuminated by the overhead light in the living room. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut in complaint at the sudden brightness, lifting his hands to shield his eyes. Your jaw drops as you suck in a sharp gasp — that’s about the only warning he gets.

It’s a plain white lamp shade on a golden coloured metal stand, about sixty centimetres from top to bottom. Well, it was. It slams into the muscle of his shoulder and clatters noisily to the ground. Just another chip in the hardwood flooring.

“Fuck!”

Still caught by the ankles in his jeans, and completely blindsided by the projectile you just launched at his head, Bradley hits the floor and lands flat on his back. Luckily, he’s too drunk to really feel that.

He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting just as quickly as he fell. Moving maybe a little slower than usual, he blinks a couple of times and squints at you. You stare at him, heart racing, chest heaving.

Rooster groans again and slumps back down onto the floor, draping an arm over his eyes. “Fuck, I forgot you were here.” He mumbles, slurring every other word, his voice muffled by his heavy arm over his face.

You swallow.

He’s on his back in the doorway to your bedroom, wearing socks, boxers and — you’re not sure if you can count the jeans, they’re technically still on, but not covering much. He’s not moving. For a second, you’re worried you might have concussed him, maybe the wire had hit him in the head.

You tiptoe closer until you’re standing at his feet.

He’s wearing white Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Natasha mentioned that this place was struggling financially, you wonder if you should mention that he probably has a future in underwear modeling.

Thick thighs, leg hair that can’t quite decide whether it’s blonde or brown and a toned chest. You stare at him for a second. The arm that isn’t over his eyes is stretched out above his head, muscles on full display under the dim light.

Reminding yourself of who this is and where you are, you nudge his foot softly with yours. He groans in complaint.

“What?”

“Are you… going to stay there?” You ask cautiously, trying to ignore how dry your mouth suddenly feels. He brings his arm down from above his head and adjusts his boxers, making your eyes widen. You pick a spot on the ceiling and focus your gaze right there. There’s a cobweb in the corner.

“You tried to kill me,” He mumbles into the crook of his arm. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more, then sighs tiredly and settles into his spot. You can see him getting comfy.

“Rooster, um —“ You aren’t sure how to say this. It doesn’t feel right to kick him out, you’ve only been here for a couple of days and it is technically his. But then, you’re not going to be able to sleep with him settled into a pile of smashed glass and wires on your floor. “Could you… um, maybe…”

“Can I take the couch?” He asks tiredly, without lifting his arm up. Clearly, he was already aware of the fact that you were about to kick him out. You appreciate him asking, but saying no clearly isn’t much of an option in the condition he’s in.

At least if he does stay, you’ll be able to just close the door to the bedroom, and if a real intruder comes, they’ll see Rooster first.

“Okay.” You croak out, taking a step back from him as he starts to move. He kicks his jeans the rest of the way off of his ankles, grabbing onto the door frame for leverage as he pulls himself unsteadily to his feet.

He stumbles forwards and catches your shoulders, trying to find purchase. You wobble under the sudden pressure of his weight, unprepared for it. He stops and looks down at you, brows scrunching together. He smells like spiced oak and vodka, you pull back slightly.

“Is that my shirt?” His hands move from your shoulders, catching hold of the fabric in it’s centre. He lifts his gaze to look you in the eye. You’re almost knocked off balance by him again, and this time he’s barely touching you.

His hair is messed from an evening of running his fingers through it, and letting the cute bartender who had been giving him free drinks all night run her fingers through it. Up close, his eyes are soft and brown and his lips are blush pink and pursed and — fuck, right in front of you.

You remind yourself that he’s waiting for an answer, glancing down with wide eyes at the white philadelphia eagles shirt that you’re wearing. You give a small shrug of your shoulders.

“Um… I’m not sure, Phoenix told me to help myself to the stuff in the closet.” You answer quietly. Bradley nods, so, it’s his. He drops his hands back to his sides and nods.

He moves to take a step back and then stops. “Can I have a blanket?”

Oh, so he’s going to pretend that that didn’t just happen. That’s fine, you can do that to. You step back, turning around and heading for the closet. He leans against the doorframe, watching as you search for something for him.

You turn around and pass him the blanket, then press one knee onto the bed and grab one of the pillows. He seems taller this time when you turn around, arms folded over his bare chest. Now that the light is better, you wonder if he regrets wearing white boxers.

They don’t do much to hide his modesty, considering he’s standing in front of a stranger. He doesn’t seem phased.

“Here you go.” You breathe, passing the blanket and pillow into his arms.

“Thanks,” He stands before you, holding the blanket and pillow, not moving. His gaze falls down to his shirt once again. He was wondering where that went.

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, wondering if the white of his shirt is as sheer on you as the white of his boxers are on him. He steps back, barely avoiding the glass on the floor as he turns away from you.

“G’night.” He holds his hand up and waves you off without looking back, dropping the pillow onto the couch and then following behind it. He settles onto his back and drapes the blanket over his legs, tucking an arm behind his head. Your fingers curl around the door handle, standing in the doorway.

He raises his brows expectantly, figuring that there must be some reason you’re standing there and staring at him. There is a reason, you’re staring at the tattoo on the inside of his bicep. You swallow and step back, starting to shut the door.

“Goodnight.”

“She threw a lamp at you?” Javy whoops, throwing his head back, holding his stomach. He’s got an infectious laugh, a goofy little giggle that doesn’t quite match the way he looks. Jake chuckles at his side.

Bradley checks for a bruise in the mirrored wall by the weights section, struggling to keep the smile off of his face — it’s not that he finds the situation funny, it’s just that Coyote’s laugh gets him every time.

“Nailed me — she’s got good aim.” Bradley breathes out, shaking his head. His memories of last night are fuzzy, but he remembers hitting the floor last night and then you standing over him.

He remembers waking up on your couch this morning in his underwear. Even if he didn’t remember that, his stiff neck is evidence enough that he spent the night on a couch that’s a foot shorter than he is.

“Shh, shh - she’s coming.” Rueben hushes them, leaning forwards on the ropes. All four of them turn quickly, catching sight of you as you round the corner into the gym. You’re wearing a short skirt and a tank top — middle of summer, no air conditioning upstairs, limited resources, there are a million excuses for what you’re wearing.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jake turns on the charm as he rests back against the base of the ring. Javy and Jake are standing on the ground, leaning back, Bradley and Rueben are in the ring, leaning forwards. All of them watch as you walk closer. “Heard about your run-in with Rooster last night.”

They’re looking for a witty remark to embarrass Rooster, or perhaps an even funnier event that he may have forgotten given how drunk he was.

Instead, they’re met with a slowed pace, widened eyes and a soft, “Oh.”

A non-starter, a morning full of jokes dragging to a dull stop. You can tell that you’re slowing down the moment, but you’re really not sure what they would like you to say. Laughed at or laughed with. It’s a blurred line and you haven’t had much practice with the latter recently.

“Hey.”

Heads turn once again as Maverick steps out of his office at the back of the gym and holds up his palm in greeting. The guys look back towards you.

“Sorry, excuse me.” You say gently, stepping around them and walking cautiously towards their boss. If that’s what Mav is, he seems to be, with the way they get all serious when he’s around.

“Morning, kid — you ready to talk?” Pete greets you, stepping out of his way and motioning for you to go ahead of him into the office. You smile softly as you pull your laptop from your bag and step into the office.

“Sure, Mr. Mitchell — I got started with a website, it’s kind of bare but I wanted your opinion on the basics before I fleshed it out.”

His office is messy and poorly lit. The overhead lighting is harsh, it’s a single bulb in the centre of the ceiling with no lampshade. It might not be winning any awards for interior decoration, but there are plenty of other awards that adorn the room. Trophies, medals, belts. Framed photos.

There’s one on his desk of him with his arm around a young boy. It takes you a second to recognise the man who was laying almost naked on your floor last night, looking back at you as a fourteen year old. He’s much smaller then, shorter than Maverick and skinny. They’re standing in the ring and grinning together, holding a trophy that’s now on a shelf behind the desk.

They look happy.

“Alright, show me what you’ve got.” Maverick smiles, sitting down on the creaky desk chair and motions for you to sit opposite him. The leather chair opposite is old, the leather is cracking and it squeaks softly as you sit down. He moves his chair around the desk so that he’ll be able to see the screen.

It smells like dust and sweat in here.

Still, you show him the basics of the website, quietly amused at how impressed he is with even the most basic work.

“So, do you have a job at the moment?” Pete asks, leaning back in his chair. You give a small shake of your head. Some savings, but that’s all. He nods understandingly. “Would you like one?”

You raise your brows at him, fighting the yes that rises in your throat — you pause, knowing that you should ask more first.

“What kind of job?”

“Consider it like a social media coordinator. Put this place on the map like those gyms I see up town. What do you say — you think you could do something like that?”

Bradley grunts softly as Rueben catches him square in the ribs, the leather glove striking into his skin.

“Don’t hit him in the stomach — I don’t want to be cleaning up vodka puke today.” Jake calls from the side of the ring.

It’s not that Bradley’s off his game, or that Rueben is a full-time professional whereas the rest of them are semi-pro. It’s just that Bradley had been staring through the blinds into Mav’s office, and he just saw you shake his Uncle’s hand.

He looks over there again as he recovers, breathing out as you step out of the office, smiling.

Things between Rooster and his Uncle Mav have been rocky for a long time — Rooster periodically makes it worse, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not.

He catches sight of Rueben’s glove in his peripheral and ducks back. Payback Fitch is at the top of his game recently, and so far the most successful out of all of them — and yet, he still continues to train here. Bradley turns and swings, blocked.

You walk slowly towards the ring, holding your laptop against your chest, looking up at the two of them sparring. Swinging, dodging. You wince as Bradley’s glove makes contact with Rueben’s eye socket.

They go on for a while. You’ve never been one for violence, and up close, it usually just makes you cringe. But you like the way that they work together, in tune and paying attention. Maybe the fact that they’re sweaty, muscles glinting under the overhead lights, maybe that’s not so bad.

Jake raises his eyebrows at you from the other side of the ring, lips quirking softly.

“Enjoying the show, kid?”

You swallow, then look back up at Bradley as he and Rueben stop for a break. Rueben heads to the other side of the ring for water, Bradley walks to your side and grabs his towel. Standing over you, he looks down.

You turn your head and look at Jake.

“Could I try?”

…

This is so cute 🫠

in which jake is your roommate and ruins all your dates. accidentally. accidentally, right?🌻 18+ only!

Jake Seresin isn’t an ideal roommate. He sings in the shower at 5 a.m., he can’t load a dishwasher to save his life—seriously, who puts mugs on the bottom—and he has a habit of walking around shirtless that is beginning to interfere with your love life.

Of course, he’s got a lot of good qualities. He’s a surprisingly good cook, with a recipe for chicken and dumplings you’re pretty sure is the best thing you’ve ever eaten. He’s also got that Navy-mandated tidiness, so the apartment you share is always vacuumed and dusted. And he has a habit of walking around shirtless, which, as appealing as it is for your eyes, is…

Yepp. Starting to mess with your love life.

Because guys see Jake making a smoothie in the kitchen or getting back from a run or literally doing anything and decide they have to have some stupid pissing contest with your roommate, who remains, you think, entirely oblivious to how threatened he makes the men you bring home. Because why would he see them as a threat, right? He’s so far out of your league that your dates have nothing to worry about. Jake Seresin could pull any girl he ever wanted so why would he want you?

You’re almost grateful he’s deployed—despite your usual worry for his safety—when you bring a new guy home from the bar. No Jake means no weird energy and maybe a chance to actually let a relationship get off its feet.

Until he comes out of the bathroom and you’re smiling at your phone because Jake sent you a text, a photo of the two of you at the beach from last year. One of those iPhone memories that apparently made him think of you.

This came up on my phone yesterday. Miss you, sweetheart. Don’t burn the place down. Oh and I’m safe in case you couldn’t tell.

Your date isn’t thrilled to see the photo, even though he asks to. Tells you it looks like you’re a couple—as if—and that Jake seems really comfortable touching you—he’s just a touchy person.

The night ends with some mediocre sex and, despite his words to the otherwise, your date never calls you back.

You try not to blame Jake, but it’s hard not to see him as the root of all your woes in love. And if you’re not mad at him, you’ll have to analyze why he’s accidentally ruining every date you’re on and maybe you’ll have to admit that it’s because none of these guys actually measure up to Jake.

You’d have to have the startling realization that you are hopelessly in love with your roommate.

So when Jake comes back a few weeks later maybe you’re cold. Maybe you’re quiet. Maybe you’re keeping to yourself and maybe you tell him to fuck off when he keeps asking what he did wrong.

You move to storm out of the apartment and it’s all very dramatic, but Jake stops you with a hand grasped firmly around your wrist. It’s not rough, but determined, and he pulls you gently closer to him, his green eyes burning with confusion under furrowed brows.

“What was that?” His skin is sun-kissed and he can’t tell you where he was deployed but you know it was somewhere warm from the way the few freckles that dot his nose are more prominent than usual.

“Fuck. Off.”

Jake blinks, undeterred. And then he stares at you, gaze so focused you feel like you’re a target in one of his stupid training exercises. You want to shy away, but when his other hand comes up to wipe away the tears you hadn’t realized we’re gathering in your eyes it all comes out. All your weird and messy feelings that will certainly ruin everything and make it so you need to find another place to live.

But when you’re done talking, Jake just frowns. He pulls you impossibly closer and rests his chin atop your head. “I’m sorry, sweets,” he mutters, “But I’m glad I scared those guys off.” He doesn’t add that he was totally doing it on purpose as often as he could—things are still too fragile for that. One day he’ll tell you. And on that day, he’ll receive a face full of chocolate cake as punishment.

But for today, he just lets you sniffle in his arms, holds you close as you put a wet spot down the front of his t-shirt. “They’re not good enough for you,” he continues, “I just helped them realize that sooner rather than later.”

“Jake,” you complain, “You can’t keep doing that. I need…I want to find someone.”

His frown deepens and he places his hands on your waist, tapping your hips lightly to warn you that he’s going to pick you up. Carrying you into your bedroom, he sighs. “Fine. I’ll stop, if you give this guy I know a shot.”

“I’m listening.”

“He’s Navy,” Jake continues, “And he’s got a killer body.”

“Definitely listening,” you laugh, but try to ignore the pang of hurt that is Jake setting you up with one of his friends.

Jake rolls his eyes and takes a spot beside you on your bed. “He’s a great pilot, some say the best. And he’s a gentleman, Texas-raised so he knows his way around a kitchen.”

Oh. Oh.

“Jake…”

He holds up a hand, not willing to be interrupted. “And he’s shit at loading the dishwasher, sweets, but I know he’d be willing to learn.”

Blow by Blow | 0.1 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Prologue | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big.

Warnings: references to domestic violence in this chapter — no graphic scenes, but mention of injury.

…

The sound of the plate hitting the wall behind your head still echoes in your ears. Buying tempered glass plates had sounded like a good idea nine months ago. Under a dollar per plate. A short term solution to furnish your first place. They had worked just fine, nothing special. But, it turns out that tempered glass shatters just like you’d expect it to.

There’s a slight limp to the way you’re walking. You don’t feel the pain, but your body still can’t function at full capacity. You know that can’t be good.

Blood spills out onto your skin as quickly as the warm, summer rain can wash it away. The cuts are small, you won’t need medical attention for them. Except for maybe the one on your foot. Walking barefoot in downtown San Diego can’t be doing you any favours there.

You breathe out, a choked whimper as you step barefoot onto a metal bottle cap. Your foot is sore and bloodied, but most importantly — bare. You hadn’t bothered to grab shoes.

Things with Jett had always been fiery. He was so passionate. You were stupid for thinking that that was a good thing.

“Hey!”

Stumbling back a few steps from the edge of the curb, your eyes go wide as you back away from the approaching car. You glance down quickly at your feet, then back up. There’s probably enough adrenaline in your system for you to start running, you’re just not sure how far.

It’s not his car. The realisation is sudden and uplifting, you stop moving and squint as it pulls up to the curb, blinded by its white headlights. The window rolls down and you’re met by a faintly familiar face.

She has dark hair and she’s frowning at you, clearly concerned. Your mind races, trying to determine if she’s safe or not. Jett will come looking and you can’t risk one of his friends —

You take another step back as you realise where you know her from. Bradshaw’s. She works there. Your mouth goes dry as you ready yourself to run again. She reaches for the radio and turns it all the way down, silencing the upbeat pop rock coming from her stereo. Her face scrunches further.

“Are you okay? — Can I call someone for you?”

Natasha stares ahead of her, her heart sinking. You’re wearing pyjama shorts and a t-shirt, both soaked through, your hair sticking to your skin. There’s an edginess to the way you’re looking at her, you’re flighty — terrified. All explained by the blood on your arms, small scratches and bloodied footprints behind you.

You slowly shake your head. Standing on the edge of a busy road, all that you can hear is your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Jett. She’s going to call Jett.

You take a few steps. Her eyes widen. Downtown isn’t the most walkable — or safe — area, and you’re about to take off.

“Hey, hey — it’s okay. I won’t call anyone. I promise.” She calls out. You see her mouth move, but it’s useless trying to understand what she says. You feel nauseous and tired and wide awake all at the same time. A few more stumbling steps back.

She grabs her door handle and slips out of the car, rounding the hood with her palms open and outstretched in front of her, moving slowly. You’re a deer in headlights, heart racing as she slowly approaches you.

The last thing she wants is to lose you down here. This can be a bad spot at night, especially in your condition.

“You’re drenched,” Natasha says softly, brows knitting together in concern. You blink, staring ahead at her. She offers her hand out slowly towards you. “Why don’t you get in the car, okay? — We can figure this out.”

You jolt the second her fingers graze your skin. She doesn’t pull back, not wanting to spook you. Instead, she brushes her thumb gently across the back of your hand and slides her palm loosely into yours.

“Please?”

Next, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of Natasha’s classic mustang, shivering. Out of the cold, it all hits you all at once. The pain in your foot, in your head, in your chest. Natasha exhales softly as you begin to sob. She has a good idea of what must have happened without needing to ask.

Turning the heat up, she turns her head towards you, her features soft.

“Do you need somewhere to stay tonight?”

Natasha is one of three girls, and she has been mocked her entire life for being the least caring, the least maternal of all of them. Her sisters already have kids and husbands who they adore taking care of. Natasha’s a semi-pro female boxer — they’ve never understood her.

But, considering that you know none of that, you’re impressed at how she cares for you. A stranger. She barely even knows your name — only from hearing Jett scream it. You don’t know hers until you’re sitting on the floor in her living room as she digs through her first aid kit for you.

You wake up early the next morning, curled up into a throw pillow on her couch, wearing some clothes that she fished out of the very back of her closet. Your clothes should be dry by now after she had washed them last night.

You lie there for a while, facing her television, thinking of what comes next.

This makes you homeless, you suppose. You’re miles away from family, and you know that Jett will be periodically stopping at your friends’ homes looking for you.

Pushing yourself so that you’re sitting, you exhale softly.

Sitting in her room with a stranger on her couch and the overwhelming need to do something, Phoenix has laid awake most of the night thinking of what to do. By morning, she has decided.

“Hey, Rooster — I need a favour.”

You wipe your cheeks quickly, sniffling at the sound of her feet padding along the hallway towards her living room. Her apartment is small, but you really like it. It’s more feminine than you would have expected for her.

A plush white couch, with a red wine stain hidden under a throw pillow. Courtesy of Javy, who you’ll meet soon enough. Pictures of her, and her friends and family all around. A knitted cat plushy on the corner of the couch. A gift from Bob’s mom.

A white and green theme, with splashes of other colour, passes through the apartment. It’s tidy and meticulously organised. She seems to be kind of a perfectionist. She rounds the corner and slows, reminding herself not to spook you, even though she’s excited by her genius idea.

“Morning, how are you feeling?” She asks softly, stopping in the archway. You offer her a sheepish smile and blink hard, trying to make the tears stop.

“Um, embarrassed.” You breathe out, voice still trembling. Normally you aren’t the kind of person who would be out in the street at two in the morning, barefoot and wild.

Every other emotion remains under the surface. Aching, heartbroken, wounded in more ways than one. Embarrassed is all that you say.

Natasha nods understandingly, pushing her fingers through her hair as she moves to sit on the arm of the couch, crossing her legs under her. “I know you don’t, like, really know me — but, um… I’m not going to be able to sleep if I let you go back to Jett’s place.”

Not after seeing what she saw last night.

“So, I, uh… I talked to Rooster, at the gym, and there’s an apartment above it that… you could stay in for a while. If you wanted.”

Still cut and bruised from last night, your body finally hurts. You’re left with the reality of what happened, and the only option in sight is to lean on a stranger. This isn’t how you pictured things.

You raise your eyebrows, “That’s so kind, but… I can’t. If Jett saw me, or-“

“He’s not welcome in that place. The guys all know it. He won’t be able to come within twenty feet of it without someone sending him packing.”

You don’t have many options. Still, this one sounds risky. She watches as your features scrunch up with uncertainty. Natasha smiles softly and rests her hand against your knee.

“How about you come see it with me? — Just take a look.” She suggests. Staring into her warm brown eyes, you already know that this kind of kindness is a debt you can never repay, and that she is a friend you would be lucky to have.

Again, you’re blinking back tears as you slowly nod your head at her. This time, not because of Jett.

Bradley whistles as he strolls through the door to the gym, an hour late for his shift but not hungover this time. Phoenix is sitting on the counter top by the front desk, talking away with Mickey.

“Children.” Bradley greets calmly, swinging his gym bag off of his shoulder and dropping it behind the desk. He leans his forearms on the counter, in no rush to start working.

“D-Bag.” Fanboy greets playfully, making Natasha laugh.

“Your Mommy still not letting you say real swear words yet, Mick?” Rooster teases, raising his eyebrows. Phoenix laughs again. As much as she could train in places with better reputations, she would miss her boys too much if she left this place.

But she’ll never admit that, their egos are big enough already.

Mickey grins, then flips off Rooster. Rooster winks at him, then turns his attention to Natasha.

“And you — what did I tell you about bringing home strays?” He jokes, referring to the damaged girl sitting alone upstairs in a dusty apartment. Phoenix softens immediately and shakes her head.

“Seriously, you should’ve seen her last night…” She says quietly, shaking her head. Rooster’s brows furrow slightly. “I couldn’t leave her.”

Bradley nods his head. “She’s moving in, then?”

“I’m not sure, she—“ Natasha stops speaking as the door behind the desk opens. Her and Mickey turn quickly. Bradley’s already facing you. You’re wearing clothes that might have been Natasha’s ex-boyfriends, cheeks blotchy from crying, legs covered in scrapes and shoes that are a size too big. You swallow softly.

“Hi…” You whisper. Mickey’s the first to offer you a shy smile. The other two nod in acknowledgement. “Um, Nat, I don’t know if—“

“Take it. Please.” Natasha rushes out. She gets really cranky when she can’t sleep, she’s got a fight coming up and she just really can’t take her nerves being shot like this right now.

You look towards Rooster, unsure. He simply shrugs, not really knowing what you’d like him to say. He’s already in trouble for losing Jett as a client, Mav is going to freak out about them banning him permanently.

“I’ll pay rent.” You decide.

Rooster shrugs his broad shoulders again, “Don’t have to — no one’s been up there since the eighties. It’s a dump.” Mickey turns his head and frowns at his boss. Rooster would make an awful realtor.

“No, I-I’ll pay. And I can help out here, I just — I need to thank you for being so kind to me.” You look at Natasha, sincere. It’s almost a sweet moment. Until Bradley laughs. Every head turns to look at him. Phoenix scowls at him disapprovingly.

He pats the counter and shakes his head, still laughing. “Sorry. Just the thought of you tryin’ to train someone. Don’t worry about that, we’ll take care of things down here.” He doesn’t mean to sound like a douchebag, and somehow he still manages. Mickey wants to kick him.

You swallow, embarrassment burning through you as you nod slowly.

“I’ll get you the keys.” Phoenix decides finally, drawing the attention away from how clueless Bradley has become over the past year. “Come on.”

She didn’t give him the full details, so he doesn’t know what you’ve been through. Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t have just laughed in your face and fatally wounded your already crushed confidence. Even then, he might have — Nat isn’t sure.

Rooster hasn’t been in a good place for a while now. For a while, he seemed to be getting better. It fluctuates — this week, he’s an asshole again.

Your new apartment has two entrances. One, the door behind the front desk. This leads you directly into the gym. Your second, is the back door by the kitchen, a set of steel steps that lead down to the back of the building. Behind that is a locked gate that leads out towards the marina. You now have keys for both of those, but not the gym. That seems fair.

It’s mostly exposed brick up there, like the rest of the gym. A few wallpapered walls. Outdated, but you’re not in the space to be picky. Furnished, but also cluttered with the staff’s belongings.

You sit alone on the floor of the place for a while.

The door opens behind you, making you flinch and hurry to your feet. A short, older man with brown hair stands in the doorway with a frown on his face. Maverick. Natasha told you about him.

“Hello.” He says softly, uncertainty in his tone. You echo back a quiet greeting. “You live here now?”

Apparently it’s that simple. You give a small nod.

“Look, you don’t have to pay rent but—“

“I want to.” You interrupt. “Please. I can’t stay here for free.”

Maverick folds his arms over his chest. “Nat said that you’re good with computers.” You squint slightly. You’ve had an office job before, if that means you’re good with computers. Still, you nod.

“Call it a hundred a week if you’ll help me put this place on the line.”

“Online?” You ask gently. Maverick shrugs. It’s all the same to him. Still, four hundred a month — he’s insane. You nod quickly. “Of course. Sure.”

He smiles.

“Nice to meet you. Sorry for busting in, do you mind if I grab my jacket?”

You step quickly out of his way and let him in. So, this is happening.

…