Title: Toyin’ With Them Older Guys

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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POV: Your camera roll but you’re dating Pedro Pascal (part 2)

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.”

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

It had to be done...

Whatever happens, happens

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/?

Joker Out as text posts - Part 5 (Jure edition)

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

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.

…