The Double Birthday

zhong chenle x fem!reader (idol AU)

IMAGINE: you get to do a volleyball date after many many basketball dates

• "you're really bad at volley, honey" "it's my first time, of course i'm bad!"

• he loves to lend you his basketball clothes.

• you're better at sports than him but he would never admit that and you have no problem in feeding his delusions.

• even if he's not giving you attentions, his hand always searches for yours out of habit.

• he loves your mind: not many people manage to impress him but you do it every day.

• "how can you be so smart but so short?"

• you would try to get on him after every private basketball session, in the deserted locker rooms, but he refuses.

• he eventually gave in when you started to 'innocently' undress completely in front of him, still sweaty.

• "you know i don't like shower sex" "cool. i'll do it alone then" "bullshit"

• he hates the concept of you touching yourself, so when he's on tour he pretends to video-call or at least that you record yourself.

• but now everytime he receives a notification from you while he's at work he can't focus until he's alone and allowed to open whatever you sent him.

• "ffs (y/n), not now"

Okay I swear this is last clip I am posting!

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

being very normal about my fellow finn don’t worry about it

Jere with This Kind of Look on Him Compilation

(also known as: "I love his bowl cut, as well, but I go even more crazy when his hair is messy—or slicked back—like that and I decided to make it everyone's problem." )

Part #1 | Part #2/?

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.

Blow by Blow | 0.2 | 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: 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?”

…

Jere’s girlfriend watching him almost drown in a hotel pool:

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.

…

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