So Cuteeee

Such a cute chapter 🫠

My Future in You | 1.9 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

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.

…

@thedroneranger

@chaoticweirdogeek

@alanadetigy

@itsmytimetoodream

@oldnatgwenaccount

@khaylin27

@bioodforbiood

@luckyladycreator2

@mizzzpink

@mak-32

@cherrycola27

@unordinare

@shanimallina87

@marvel-f1-and-more

@heli991113

@pauv-0414

@ghxst-heart

@momc95

@asteria33

@lilyevanswhore

@diamond-3

@galaxy-moon

@shawnsblue

@jostyriggslover96

@forgiveliv

@shawnsblue

@little-wiseone

@lovemesomevesey

my man

Whatever happens, happens

Blow by Blow | 0.2 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big.

Warnings: violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, no warnings in particular for this one

…

The apartment above Bradshaw’s is about as glamorous as it sounds. Air Conditioning in the form of a couple of cracked windows and a dated fan that now only works on one of its three speeds, the middle one. Exposed brick and beige wallpaper. The highlight is the original hardwood flooring, a deep walnut colour. It’s got a couple of chips taken out of it here and there, but it works.

You keep to yourself as much as you can in those first few days, making sure you aren’t walking too loudly, aren’t showering too late and aren’t dropping things that could disrupt the people below. That being considered, you’d have to be being pretty loud to disturb the gym.

They’re much less concerned about raised voices and loud music.

Laying on the middle of the metal framed bed, the door to your room open, looking around your new place, listening to the dull whir of that old ceiling fan in the living room.

This entire thing would have been much less bearable without your friends. As much as you’ve kept the worst parts of your relationship from all of them, not one of them is sad to hear that things are over between you and Jett — they were more than happy to help you get back on your feet.

The white sheets with pale blue flowers on them, those are Cassidy’s. The clothes, those are from Amy and Beth. The kitchenware is a mix of what was here already and Zoe’s — she always buys too many glasses and mugs, she was happy to get rid of some. The rug under the bed. The mattress topper that stops the decades old mattress under you from keeping you awake at night. They gave you what they could until you’re able to get your stuff back.

If you ever do.

You roll onto your left side, facing the built in closet at the far side of the room. It’s got slatted doors, letting you see exactly how dark it is in there. That thing gives you the creeps. It’s hard to decide which is worse — facing it, or sleeping with your back to it.

A bang outside. It’s childish, but you pull the covers up to your chin and press your weight deeper into the spongy mattress topper. A car backfiring, you’re reassured by the sound of tires squealing away.

Living alone had sounded terrifying your entire life. Growing up, you had always pictured a boyfriend, or a roommate — someone, being here in this dusty old space with you. It’s just as the wish passes through your brain that you’re instantly wishing it never had. As keys slot into the lock of the back door, you’re quick to wish that no one was here — that the person about to let themselves in would just disappear.

The door to your room is halfway open. It had seemed like a good idea before, you had been scared of not knowing who was out there. Now, you’re terrified of knowing who is.

The lock complies with a click and a heavy weight falls into the door, swinging it open. You flinch, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. Another car squeals by outside. Heavy footsteps on that walnut flooring. Stumbling. The door slams shut again, heavy handed enough to make the windows behind your bed shake.

You hold your breath, not daring to open your eyes.

More footsteps, moving from the kitchen into the living room space. The footsteps get softer sounding after two small thuds. Your brows squeeze together softly. They took their shoes off. Stumbling again. The footsteps slow for a moment, maybe to catch their balance.

Curiosity gets the best of you, you peak one eye open. His back is to you, and he’s shirtless. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the muscled back and defined dimples at the bottom of his spine are just about visible. You swallow softly, shrinking back again, pulling the covers up higher.

It’s not Jett — but now you’re faced with a similar problem to the one with the closet. It’s not him, but perhaps it’s worse that it’s a stranger.

Your eyes widen at the sound of a belt jingling. He’s still not facing you, but he is taking his clothes off. You press your elbow into the bed, pushing yourself up, holding your breath as you slide the covers back. His zipper tears open loudly. You wince, cautiously shifting your weight closer to the edge of the bed and then up. Those ancient floorboards betray you, creaking under your weight.

He’s already turning anyway, heading for the bedroom as he kicks his jeans down his legs. There’s a lamp on the floor beside your bed — it should be on an end table but you don’t have one of those yet. You reach behind you, crouched at the side of the bed. Fingers splayed out, searching for your life line. He struggles, stumbling again as the jeans catch around his ankles.

Cool metal against your fingertips, you sigh in relief as you grab hold of the lamp. He steps forwards, almost slipping, still trapped in his own jeans, slamming his palm into the lightswitch beside the bedroom door. He’s standing right in the doorway now, facing you. It’s too dark to see his face for just a split second, but that’s about a second too long.

The lamp is already ripped from the wall and midair as he’s illuminated by the overhead light in the living room. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut in complaint at the sudden brightness, lifting his hands to shield his eyes. Your jaw drops as you suck in a sharp gasp — that’s about the only warning he gets.

It’s a plain white lamp shade on a golden coloured metal stand, about sixty centimetres from top to bottom. Well, it was. It slams into the muscle of his shoulder and clatters noisily to the ground. Just another chip in the hardwood flooring.

“Fuck!”

Still caught by the ankles in his jeans, and completely blindsided by the projectile you just launched at his head, Bradley hits the floor and lands flat on his back. Luckily, he’s too drunk to really feel that.

He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting just as quickly as he fell. Moving maybe a little slower than usual, he blinks a couple of times and squints at you. You stare at him, heart racing, chest heaving.

Rooster groans again and slumps back down onto the floor, draping an arm over his eyes. “Fuck, I forgot you were here.” He mumbles, slurring every other word, his voice muffled by his heavy arm over his face.

You swallow.

He’s on his back in the doorway to your bedroom, wearing socks, boxers and — you’re not sure if you can count the jeans, they’re technically still on, but not covering much. He’s not moving. For a second, you’re worried you might have concussed him, maybe the wire had hit him in the head.

You tiptoe closer until you’re standing at his feet.

He’s wearing white Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Natasha mentioned that this place was struggling financially, you wonder if you should mention that he probably has a future in underwear modeling.

Thick thighs, leg hair that can’t quite decide whether it’s blonde or brown and a toned chest. You stare at him for a second. The arm that isn’t over his eyes is stretched out above his head, muscles on full display under the dim light.

Reminding yourself of who this is and where you are, you nudge his foot softly with yours. He groans in complaint.

“What?”

“Are you… going to stay there?” You ask cautiously, trying to ignore how dry your mouth suddenly feels. He brings his arm down from above his head and adjusts his boxers, making your eyes widen. You pick a spot on the ceiling and focus your gaze right there. There’s a cobweb in the corner.

“You tried to kill me,” He mumbles into the crook of his arm. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more, then sighs tiredly and settles into his spot. You can see him getting comfy.

“Rooster, um —“ You aren’t sure how to say this. It doesn’t feel right to kick him out, you’ve only been here for a couple of days and it is technically his. But then, you’re not going to be able to sleep with him settled into a pile of smashed glass and wires on your floor. “Could you… um, maybe…”

“Can I take the couch?” He asks tiredly, without lifting his arm up. Clearly, he was already aware of the fact that you were about to kick him out. You appreciate him asking, but saying no clearly isn’t much of an option in the condition he’s in.

At least if he does stay, you’ll be able to just close the door to the bedroom, and if a real intruder comes, they’ll see Rooster first.

“Okay.” You croak out, taking a step back from him as he starts to move. He kicks his jeans the rest of the way off of his ankles, grabbing onto the door frame for leverage as he pulls himself unsteadily to his feet.

He stumbles forwards and catches your shoulders, trying to find purchase. You wobble under the sudden pressure of his weight, unprepared for it. He stops and looks down at you, brows scrunching together. He smells like spiced oak and vodka, you pull back slightly.

“Is that my shirt?” His hands move from your shoulders, catching hold of the fabric in it’s centre. He lifts his gaze to look you in the eye. You’re almost knocked off balance by him again, and this time he’s barely touching you.

His hair is messed from an evening of running his fingers through it, and letting the cute bartender who had been giving him free drinks all night run her fingers through it. Up close, his eyes are soft and brown and his lips are blush pink and pursed and — fuck, right in front of you.

You remind yourself that he’s waiting for an answer, glancing down with wide eyes at the white philadelphia eagles shirt that you’re wearing. You give a small shrug of your shoulders.

“Um… I’m not sure, Phoenix told me to help myself to the stuff in the closet.” You answer quietly. Bradley nods, so, it’s his. He drops his hands back to his sides and nods.

He moves to take a step back and then stops. “Can I have a blanket?”

Oh, so he’s going to pretend that that didn’t just happen. That’s fine, you can do that to. You step back, turning around and heading for the closet. He leans against the doorframe, watching as you search for something for him.

You turn around and pass him the blanket, then press one knee onto the bed and grab one of the pillows. He seems taller this time when you turn around, arms folded over his bare chest. Now that the light is better, you wonder if he regrets wearing white boxers.

They don’t do much to hide his modesty, considering he’s standing in front of a stranger. He doesn’t seem phased.

“Here you go.” You breathe, passing the blanket and pillow into his arms.

“Thanks,” He stands before you, holding the blanket and pillow, not moving. His gaze falls down to his shirt once again. He was wondering where that went.

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, wondering if the white of his shirt is as sheer on you as the white of his boxers are on him. He steps back, barely avoiding the glass on the floor as he turns away from you.

“G’night.” He holds his hand up and waves you off without looking back, dropping the pillow onto the couch and then following behind it. He settles onto his back and drapes the blanket over his legs, tucking an arm behind his head. Your fingers curl around the door handle, standing in the doorway.

He raises his brows expectantly, figuring that there must be some reason you’re standing there and staring at him. There is a reason, you’re staring at the tattoo on the inside of his bicep. You swallow and step back, starting to shut the door.

“Goodnight.”

“She threw a lamp at you?” Javy whoops, throwing his head back, holding his stomach. He’s got an infectious laugh, a goofy little giggle that doesn’t quite match the way he looks. Jake chuckles at his side.

Bradley checks for a bruise in the mirrored wall by the weights section, struggling to keep the smile off of his face — it’s not that he finds the situation funny, it’s just that Coyote’s laugh gets him every time.

“Nailed me — she’s got good aim.” Bradley breathes out, shaking his head. His memories of last night are fuzzy, but he remembers hitting the floor last night and then you standing over him.

He remembers waking up on your couch this morning in his underwear. Even if he didn’t remember that, his stiff neck is evidence enough that he spent the night on a couch that’s a foot shorter than he is.

“Shh, shh - she’s coming.” Rueben hushes them, leaning forwards on the ropes. All four of them turn quickly, catching sight of you as you round the corner into the gym. You’re wearing a short skirt and a tank top — middle of summer, no air conditioning upstairs, limited resources, there are a million excuses for what you’re wearing.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jake turns on the charm as he rests back against the base of the ring. Javy and Jake are standing on the ground, leaning back, Bradley and Rueben are in the ring, leaning forwards. All of them watch as you walk closer. “Heard about your run-in with Rooster last night.”

They’re looking for a witty remark to embarrass Rooster, or perhaps an even funnier event that he may have forgotten given how drunk he was.

Instead, they’re met with a slowed pace, widened eyes and a soft, “Oh.”

A non-starter, a morning full of jokes dragging to a dull stop. You can tell that you’re slowing down the moment, but you’re really not sure what they would like you to say. Laughed at or laughed with. It’s a blurred line and you haven’t had much practice with the latter recently.

“Hey.”

Heads turn once again as Maverick steps out of his office at the back of the gym and holds up his palm in greeting. The guys look back towards you.

“Sorry, excuse me.” You say gently, stepping around them and walking cautiously towards their boss. If that’s what Mav is, he seems to be, with the way they get all serious when he’s around.

“Morning, kid — you ready to talk?” Pete greets you, stepping out of his way and motioning for you to go ahead of him into the office. You smile softly as you pull your laptop from your bag and step into the office.

“Sure, Mr. Mitchell — I got started with a website, it’s kind of bare but I wanted your opinion on the basics before I fleshed it out.”

His office is messy and poorly lit. The overhead lighting is harsh, it’s a single bulb in the centre of the ceiling with no lampshade. It might not be winning any awards for interior decoration, but there are plenty of other awards that adorn the room. Trophies, medals, belts. Framed photos.

There’s one on his desk of him with his arm around a young boy. It takes you a second to recognise the man who was laying almost naked on your floor last night, looking back at you as a fourteen year old. He’s much smaller then, shorter than Maverick and skinny. They’re standing in the ring and grinning together, holding a trophy that’s now on a shelf behind the desk.

They look happy.

“Alright, show me what you’ve got.” Maverick smiles, sitting down on the creaky desk chair and motions for you to sit opposite him. The leather chair opposite is old, the leather is cracking and it squeaks softly as you sit down. He moves his chair around the desk so that he’ll be able to see the screen.

It smells like dust and sweat in here.

Still, you show him the basics of the website, quietly amused at how impressed he is with even the most basic work.

“So, do you have a job at the moment?” Pete asks, leaning back in his chair. You give a small shake of your head. Some savings, but that’s all. He nods understandingly. “Would you like one?”

You raise your brows at him, fighting the yes that rises in your throat — you pause, knowing that you should ask more first.

“What kind of job?”

“Consider it like a social media coordinator. Put this place on the map like those gyms I see up town. What do you say — you think you could do something like that?”

Bradley grunts softly as Rueben catches him square in the ribs, the leather glove striking into his skin.

“Don’t hit him in the stomach — I don’t want to be cleaning up vodka puke today.” Jake calls from the side of the ring.

It’s not that Bradley’s off his game, or that Rueben is a full-time professional whereas the rest of them are semi-pro. It’s just that Bradley had been staring through the blinds into Mav’s office, and he just saw you shake his Uncle’s hand.

He looks over there again as he recovers, breathing out as you step out of the office, smiling.

Things between Rooster and his Uncle Mav have been rocky for a long time — Rooster periodically makes it worse, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not.

He catches sight of Rueben’s glove in his peripheral and ducks back. Payback Fitch is at the top of his game recently, and so far the most successful out of all of them — and yet, he still continues to train here. Bradley turns and swings, blocked.

You walk slowly towards the ring, holding your laptop against your chest, looking up at the two of them sparring. Swinging, dodging. You wince as Bradley’s glove makes contact with Rueben’s eye socket.

They go on for a while. You’ve never been one for violence, and up close, it usually just makes you cringe. But you like the way that they work together, in tune and paying attention. Maybe the fact that they’re sweaty, muscles glinting under the overhead lights, maybe that’s not so bad.

Jake raises his eyebrows at you from the other side of the ring, lips quirking softly.

“Enjoying the show, kid?”

You swallow, then look back up at Bradley as he and Rueben stop for a break. Rueben heads to the other side of the ring for water, Bradley walks to your side and grabs his towel. Standing over you, he looks down.

You turn your head and look at Jake.

“Could I try?”

…

title: toyin’ with them older guys

pairing: bartender!joel miller/female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

chapters: 1/1

read on ao3 | masterlist

summary:

Joel Miller is the grumpy bartender and owner of your favorite bar near campus, where you attend trivia every Tuesday night. Thinking there’s no way Joel could return your feelings, your friend suggests trying out Tinder.

But when you bring them to the bar for a date, they keep leaving mid date with no explanation.

Maybe there’s something Joel isn’t telling you after all.

author’s note: thank you to everyone who hyped me up to post this when i wasn’t sure how i felt about it. your comments mean the world 💕

content warnings/additional tags: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), alternate universe - no cordyceps outbreak, no use of y/n, unspecified age gap, alcohol references/consumption, possessive behavior, jealousy, mild violence (in the form of Joel kicking someone out of his bar), brief reference to Sarah’s mom and divorce, tinder dates, bribery, dirty talk, begging, pet names, praise kink, unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), spanking. let me know if i’ve missed anything!

There’s a bar near the university that you love to go to for multiple reasons.

For one, they have great drinks. For two, their loaded tater tots are the best drunk food you’ve ever had the pleasure of consuming.

But the number one reason, above all else, is the grumpy bartender and owner, Joel Miller.

The first time you saw him, he was challenging a kid with a fake ID, his arms crossed over his broad chest, emphasizing the strain of his flannel over his biceps. When the kid tried to take a swing at him, he grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back before marching him out of the bar and kicking him to the curb.

Your friend had to remind you to breathe.

He hosts a trivia night at the bar on Tuesday nights, the perfect excuse to see the man weekly. You sit at the bar each time, scribbling your answers on the notepad as you sip on a vodka cranberry and sneak glances at the older man while he works.

One night, you were struggling to answer a question about where the Lord of the Rings trilogy was filmed when Joel leaned across the bar, bringing his lips close to your ear to say, “New Zealand.”

You’d gotten the point, thanks to him. And from that day forward, he’d linger near your corner of the bar, watching to see if you needed help with an answer. Eventually, you started showing up earlier and earlier for trivia night, just for the chance to talk to him.

You told him about your PhD program and the research you were conducting. You wanted to be a psychologist, but for now you’re just a perpetual student. You miss winter weather in Colorado, but appreciate not having to store a giant jacket anywhere in your small apartment. Your favorite season is fall, and your favorite holiday is Halloween.

He tells you about buying the bar a few years ago, after his divorce from Sarah’s mom and ensuing custody battle had been finalized, an investment he made with his brother Tommy. They’d fixed it up themselves and made it a popular local spot. His favorite movie is Indiana Jones and he prefers whiskey over any other drink.

It’s no surprise that along the way you’d fallen in love with the man.

Too bad he’d never feel the same.

————

Joel remembers the first night he saw you. Your rosy cheeks and tipsy smile as you leaned forward to say, “Vodka cranberry, please. With lime .”

“Lime, huh?” He remembers saying. You nodded your head vigorously.

“The lime is the best part,” you insisted. He chuckled.

“Not the vodka?”

“Gross, no.”

He tossed in three lime slices and you shimmied your shoulders with glee.

You come into the bar, alone, for trivia night on Tuesdays now. You’re a fountain of random facts, but every once in a while he’ll feed you an answer to help you out because he likes the smile that you give him in return.

He has no right to be looking at you the way that he finds himself doing every week. Eyes wandering to the way your jeans hug your ass or drifting to your cleavage when you rest your elbows against the bar.

But between the conversations and the trivia and the sweet smiles, he’d gone and fallen in love.

Which is why when you come to trivia night with a man who wraps an arm around your waist, Joel loses his goddamn mind and does the stupidest thing ever.

You get up to go to the bathroom and Joel leans across the bar to address the guy, keeping his eyes on the bathroom.

“I’ll give you $100 if you leave right now,” Joel says.

“What?”

“Hundred bucks if you walk out that door and don’t talk to that girl again,” he says again. He digs his wallet from his pants and pulls a bill out, setting it on the bar top.

Without further question, the man grabs the money and stuffs it in his pocket as he heads out the door. Joel feels a flash of guilt when you return from the bathroom and look around for your missing date.

“Said he had an emergency,” Joel lies. He’s surprised when you look relieved.

“He was kind of boring, anyways,” you shrug, dragging your notepad and pen closer to you. “He probably would have just dragged us down.”

Us, Joel thinks.

He could get used to that.

________

Your friend, Marie, had convinced you to try out Tinder. She was absolutely certain you were missing out on the love of your life by not swiping mindlessly through profiles that held no interest to you.

You weren’t about to confess your unrequited love for the local bartender to get her off your case, so that’s how you ended up on a date with Michael. He was a law student and liked kayaking and hiking.

You liked neither of those things, but he had curly brown hair and you had a type, so why not give it a shot?

You didn’t have it in you to be too upset when you returned from the bathroom only to find out from Joel that Michael had left. Joel slid you another vodka cranberry with lime and your night went as it always did.

When Marie asked you the next morning how the date went and you told her he bailed, she insisted on picking your next one. She chose Scott, a financial analyst at a local bank.

You’re starting to think Marie doesn’t know you very well.

Regardless, you show up at the bar for another trivia night date. Scott is tall and lean, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and he wore a suit to a bar. When you comment on it, he pulls a face and says he came straight from work.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to not have real jobs,” he says. You blink at him, surprised by the hostility.

That hostility continues when Joel approaches the two of you at the bar, lips turned down in a scowl, and Scott decides to order for you.

“She’ll take a vodka water with lemon and I’ll have Bulleit, neat.”

Joel raises his eyebrows at Scott, his eyes flicking to you briefly, before he sets a plastic cup on the bar top. He holds Michael’s gaze as he pours a shot of vodka into your cup, before using the soda gun to dispense cranberry juice. You have to bite back your smile.

“Vodka cranberry with lime,” he says, sliding you your drink. “And your whiskey will be right out.”

“That’s not what I ordered,” Scott replies.

“Yeah, but it’s what she would’ve.”

Scott sputters, face going an alarming shade of red with his indignation.

“I’ll be right back,” you mutter, taking your drink with you as you head to the bathroom.

________

“I’m not paying for that drink,” the blonde asshole says, knocking his knuckles against the bar for emphasis. Joel huffs a laugh.

“I don’t give a shit, kid. I want you out of my bar,” he says, planting both hands on the wood.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get the fuck out of my bar.”

“I’m on a date!”

“Not anymore.” Joel rounds the bar and gets up in the little weasel’s face. “Get. Out.”

The boy’s eyes go wide, like he realizes that maybe Joel isn’t playing around. He scrambles from his barstool, standing to his full height like he’s about to challenge Joel.

“You can’t kick me out, old man,” the blonde snaps.

Joel’s had enough. He fists a hand in the starched white shirt collar, driving him back towards the exit. The other patrons move out of the way, some whistling and cheering Joel on. He shoves the man out the door and looks at the doorman.

“He doesn’t come back inside,” he says. “And you? Don’t ever fuckin’ talk to her again.”

Joel returns to the bar as you’re walking up. For a moment, he worries that you may have seen him acting like a caveman getting rid of his competition, but you look around in confusion.

“Where’s Scott?” You ask.

“He forgot about somethin’ at work,” Joel says. Your brow furrows.

“Kinda weird that’s happened to me twice now,” you comment.

Joel just shrugs.

________

You don’t tell Joel about how you saw him throw Scott out of his bar that night.

You’d just left the bathroom when you saw Joel stomp out from behind the bar, his eyes dark and fixed on your date. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but based on the affronted way Scott was responding, it wasn’t anything good.

You crept closer to the scene, but stayed amongst the crowd. Joel marched Scott backwards with a fist tangled in his collar, shoving him out the door.

“And you? Don’t you ever fuckin’ talk to her again.”

Your mouth went dry at his words and your mind reeled at the implications. Was he doing this from a place of friendship? Or…could he maybe feel the same way you do?

Only one way to find out.

You call up Travis, a good friend from undergrad who still lived in town.

“Trav, I need your help,” you say when he answers the phone.

“Burying a body type of help or financial type of help?” He replies easily.

“Actually, more experimental.”

“I don’t swing that way.”

“No, listen to me, I have a hypothesis,” you insist, explaining the situation to him. How you’ve been on two dates at Joel’s bar but each time, the men have left without another word. And how after what you witnessed, you’re inclined to believe that it’s not a coincidence.

You ask Travis to come with you to the next trivia night. All he needs to do is pretend to be there on a date with you. A bit of hand holding, maybe an arm around the waist. Nothing more.

“But what if he tries to threaten my life?” Travis asks.

“Well…I mean…every experiment has risks,” you reply flippantly. He sputters indignantly down the line. “I’ll buy you your drinks and get you tater tots.”

He’s silent for a moment before responding, “Fine. Extra jalapeños and I’m not getting well liquor.”

“Thank you!”

________

You come into his bar with another man. His arm is draped over your shoulders as you approach the bar and Joel has to set the glass he’s drying down before it shatters in his hands.

“Joel! This is Travis,” you say, gesturing to your date. He forces a smile, reaching a hand across the bar to shake his hand.

“What can I get started for you?” Joel asks. The man, Travis, orders an old-fashioned with top shelf whiskey, while you request your regular.

“I’ll be right back,” you say as Joel is pouring the drinks. You weave through the crowd towards the bathrooms and Joel leans in to address Travis.

“I’ll pay you $100 to leave this date,” Joel says.

Travis smirks. “Make it $200.”

“Are you serious?”

“That depends, are you?”

Joel’s eyes flick towards the back of the bar and he reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out four fifties, dropping them on the bar.

Travis pockets the money before adding, “You know, there’s cheaper ways to get the girl.”

“Get out,” Joel grunts. The younger man laughs his way to the door, and you appear at the bar a moment later.

“Where’d Travis go?” You ask.

“Oh, he—“

“Can I get an order of the loaded tots?” Travis asks, cutting Joel off from making up an excuse for his absence and sitting back down on the stool beside you with a shit eating grin. “She owes me.”

“Owes you?” Joel asks through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, she lost a bet. I told her I could get the number of that guy over there in less than three minutes and she doubted my charm.”

“Travis and I went to undergrad together,” you explain. “We just wanted to hang out and catch up.”

Shit.

________

Travis decides to leave after two plates of loaded tots and one too many drinks. You help him call an Uber, but you stay behind as the bar starts to clear out.

It’s just Joel behind the bar, wiping down the wood and setting bottles back to their rightful spots as you sip from a cup of water. The kitchen has closed down and the music has been shut off, leaving the two of you in loaded silence.

“So…,” you say, twirling your straw in your near empty cup. “You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

Joel’s shoulders go tense before he releases a deep sigh, turning to face you. The bar separates you, and it feels like miles of distance when all you want to do is get your hands on him now that your hypothesis has been proven.

Joel Miller likes you. And he’s been sabotaging your dates because of it. Perhaps you should be more upset, but all you can feel is an effervescent giddiness bubbling in your veins.

While he struggles to find the words, you decide to take matters into your own hands. You reach across the bar, hooking your fingers into the collar of his t-shirt and tugging him forward. You lean over to meet him halfway, pressing your lips to his.

You pull back and look into his eyes. The coffee colored brown of his irises seems darker, his eyes half lidded as he looks at you.

“You wanna get out of here?” He asks.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

________

Joel’s got one hand on the wheel of the truck and the other resting on your thigh. He has to keep a hand on you because he’s worried that if he doesn’t anchor himself, he’ll wake up from this dream.

You kissed him. You reached across the bar and dragged his lips to yours in a way he’d only dreamed of doing a thousand times since you’d sauntered into his life.

He can’t help the small smile that tilts his lips up at the thought.

“What’s got you smiling over there?” You ask, your voice teasing. He glances at you.

“You do, darlin’,” he says. He relishes in the pink that blooms across your cheeks at the pet name.

Joel drives to his house, parking the truck in the driveway of his little bungalow. His bachelor pad, as Tommy calls it.

Maybe not for much longer.

He circles the truck to open the door for you, helping you down from the cab. He keeps his hand on your low back as he leads you up the porch steps and through the door.

You toe off your shoes in the entryway, letting them join the pair of sneakers Joel left by the door. You’re wearing a pair of socks with tiny cats printed on them, the sight so endearing to him he can’t hold back his laugh.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothin’, just…like the look of you here. In my house,” he says.

“Yeah?” You take a step closer to him, toe to toe as you look up at him through your lashes.

“Yeah,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around your waist, tugging your body against his. The heat of you even through the layers of your clothes sends a shiver down his spine.

You press your hands to his chest, sliding them up and over his shoulders before linking them behind his neck.

“You gonna give me a real kiss?” You whisper back. Your lips are so tantalizingly close that they ghost across his as you speak.

He closes the distance, lips dancing with yours as he kisses you senseless. The feel of you against him, moving with him, sends sparks skittering across his skin. He’s unable to hold still, hands roaming from your back to your waist to your hips as your mouths part and your tongues tangle with increased desperation.

Joel slides his hands to the backs of your thighs, crouching slightly to lift you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. Your core slides against his growing hardness and he groans at the sensation as you let out the neediest whimper.

He wants to hear more.

He walks you both through the empty house until he reaches his bedroom, tossing you on top of sheets still rumpled from last night’s sleep. You scramble to sit up on your knees, moving to the edge of the bed and curling your fingers into the waist of his jeans.

“Can I suck your cock, Joel?” You ask, voice all breathy as you stare up at him with your big doe eyes. “Please?”

Joel’s mouth has gone bone dry. “Yeah? You want my cock in that pretty mouth of yours, sweetheart?”

You nod your head, fingers working on the buckle of his belt. His hands work in tandem with yours to get his fly open, shoving the denim down his thighs until he can step out of them. His cock tents his boxers, a wet spot already apparent on the fabric and he watches as you reach a hand out to stroke him, a groan escaping him at the feel of your warm palm against him.

“Take your clothes off and get on your knees,” Joel commands. He lifts his own shirt over his head as you unbutton and remove your pants, shimmying the tight fabric down your legs. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed as he watches you lift your shirt up and off.

His eyes rove your body hungrily. Your perfect tits and gorgeous curves, the way you flush beneath his gaze.

“Come here, baby,” he says, crooking a finger. You come to stand between his legs and he reaches around your back, unhooking your bra with deft fingers.

“You’re rather skilled at that, Mr. Miller,” you tease.

“I’m old, not dead.” He slips the straps from your shoulders, tugging the last barrier between him and your tits away. “God, baby, these all for me?”

“Mhm,” you him as he wraps his hand around the weight of one breast, thumb teasing your pert nipple.

“Tell me somethin’,” Joel asks, “why’d you bring all those boys around when you knew you needed a man?”

You lick your lips. “Didn’t know if the only man I wanted would want me back.”

Your voice is small and vulnerable as you say it, and that just won’t do. “Don’t just want you, baby. Need you.”

Your face lights up in the brightest grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, baby. Need you so fuckin’ bad,” he tells you, digging his fingers into your hips. “S’why I had to play dirty.”

Your smile turns downright salacious. You drop to your knees, running your hands up his thighs. “Show me how much you need me, Joel.”

________

Joel shoves his boxers down, exposing his cock to your hungry gaze. It’s gorgeously thick, the head a dark red from his arousal, a pearl of precum sitting in the slit. You lean forward and dart your tongue out to gather it.

“Don’t tease, sweetheart,” Joel says through gritted teeth. You keep your eyes fixed to his as you take him in hand, swirling your tongue over the sensitive head before taking him further into your mouth.

His hand is instantly in your hair. Not pressing, but his fingers tangle in the strands and tug deliciously against your scalp. He moans as you take him as far back into your throat as you can manage.

“Fuck, your mouth is better than I ever dreamed,” he says, voice rough.

“You’ve thought about this?” You ask when you draw back for breath, hand pumping his length in place of your mouth.

“‘Course, baby. These pretty lips wrapped around me, beggin’ for me to make them all swollen and used,” he says, standing and bringing a thumb to your lips and swiping it across their spit slick surface. “Open up.”

He uses his thumb to press against your bottom lip, opening your mouth as he takes his cock in hand and feeds it slowly between your lips. The smooth, hot length of him dragging across your tongue makes you moan.

“You like that, baby?” He growls, pumping his hips in shallow thrusts. “Like me usin’ your mouth how I want?”

You try to nod, your movement restricted by the grip of his hand that’s returned to your hair. There’s spit trailing down your chin and tears gathering in the corners of your eyes from the effort of keeping your mouth open for his thick length. You know you must look like a mess but with Joel staring down at you with his lust drunk expression, you feel on top of the world.

“I gotta fuck you, baby, will you let me, huh? Let me feel that pretty little cunt strangle my cock?”

You hum around his length and he withdraws, tugging you up by your hair and pulling you into the dirtiest kiss, all tongue and teeth and blatant desire as he turns your bodies, shoving you down onto the bed.

Joel slips an arm beneath your low back, using it to pull you up the bed as he crawls on to join you. He positions himself between your legs, tearing the soaked fabric of your panties down in a frenzy.

He slides his fingers through your wetness before bringing them to his lips, sucking them into his mouth with a groan.

“Christ, I’m gonna feast on you for hours, baby, but I wanna fuck you so bad,” he says.

“Then fuck me, Joel, please,” you beg, lifting your hips so that his cock slips through your center. “Come on, wanna feel you.”

He lines himself up, pressing into you with a delicious stretch, the slight sting of it making you whine. He shushes you, not stopping until his hips press against the back of your thighs.

“Good fuckin’ girl, takin’ my cock like you were made for it,” he says, leaning forward to kiss you, the shift in angle making him go impossibly deeper. “Tell me when I can move, sweetheart.”

You shift your hips restlessly beneath him. “Please move, Joel, wanna feel it.”

Joel pulls back before slamming forward, the force of it making you slide up the bed as all the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His grin is sharp as he does it again and again to the tune of your desperate cries.

“Joel!” You cry, clawing at his back with each thrust. “Fuck, yes, yes!”

He withdraws abruptly, the loss of him as you clench around nothing making you whine pathetically. With a bruising grip on your hips, he twists your body until you’re on your belly, ass in the air and chest pressed to the mattress.

Joel slides back inside your tight heat, a palm slapping across one cheek then the other as he resumes his powerful thrusts.

“Fuck, darlin’, you’re so goddamn tight,” he growls. A hand presses to the back of your neck for leverage, changing the angle yet again. “Can you cum for me? Can you soak my fuckin’ cock, baby, I bet you can.”

You nod, the movement restricted, but you can’t form words. All you know is the feeling of Joel pounding into your body like he owns it.

The hand on your hips moves to the front of your body, fingers finding and pinching your clit. You sob against the mattress, the sheets wet beneath you from tears and drool.

“Come on, baby, fuckin’ cum for me,” he growls. “Won’t fill ya up until you do.”

That’s the visual that does it. The thought of Joel finishing with you, inside of you, dripping out of you too much for your lust addled brain. With a shout, the thin remnant of your control snaps and you pulse around him.

“Fuck yes, that’s it, sweetheart, good fuckin’ girl,” he praises, his hand leaving your neck as he sits up, his tempo fast and sloppy as he chases his release through yours. “You want me to cum in this tight little cunt, honey.”

“Yes, please,” you manage to slur, muffled by the sheets. With three more harsh thrusts, he does as promised, spilling inside of you with a shout.

He slows before withdrawing, your body collapsing against the mattress without him there to hold you up. He chuckles as he flops beside you, dragging you into the cradle of his body.

“You done playin’ games with those boys?” He asks, smiling smugly against your neck.

“Yeah, think I might be into older guys,” you tease. He pinches your hip, making you laugh.

“See if I ever help you during trivia again.”

________

Joel’s standing in front of you, arms crossed with a scowl on his face as you stare up at him with pleading eyes.

“Come on, baby, help me out,” you ask sweetly, batting your eyelashes.

“Last call for an answer to our final question! What is the only song credited to all five original members of the band Fleetwood Mac?”

Joel sighs, biting back his smile. “The Chain,” he tells you. You scribble the answer, running your paper up to the emcee. When you return to the bar, you lean across the polished surface and tug him towards you, planting a kiss to his lips.

He drags you back for another kiss. And another.

“Anytime, darlin’.”

Joel Miller tag list: @huffle-punk punk @johnwatsn @hopelessromantic727 @whereasport @pedr0swh0r3 @yellingloudly @dragon-of-winterfell @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @mydailyhyperfixations @liati2000 @ghostofjoharvelle @cutesyscreenname @morgaussy @letsgroovetonighttt @endlessthxxghts @fake-bleach @brilliantopposite187 @mattmurdock1021 @str84pedro @justsomeoneovertherainbow

Join the tag list here!

wayfaring stranger | prologue | rhett abbott x reader

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

…

Rhett’s been saying that he’s going to get out of here for about as long as he can remember. Even before he was angry enough to say it out loud, the promise had been scrawled with adolescent lettering, held within the pages of a leather bound journal that had been a gift from his grandfather.

There were days that Rhett really meant it. Some days he meant it more than others. Some days, it was more of an affirmation than a plan. Leaving the courthouse on that day in April, looking his childhood sweetheart in the eye and telling her that he wasn’t coming back — that seemed more binding than any of the words he had told her before.

The sign looked bigger in his dreams. The Welcome to Wyoming, Forever West, planted in the dirt on the border of Montana — when Rhett had dreamed about covering it in dirt as it grew smaller in his rear view mirror, it had looked bigger. It had meant more.

His blue eyes watch the sign grow smaller. The road behind him isn’t empty like it always is in his dreams. There’s a minivan behind him, the tired brunette behind the wheel is bickering with a child in the backseat. Behind her, a truck that doesn’t look all that different from Rhett’s. He wonders if their journey is the same as his. He’s certain it’s not.

It’s a Wednesday when Rhett leaves. He doesn’t say a damn word to anyone other than Maria, they’ll just try to ask him to stay. The road behind him isn’t empty, and neither is the road ahead of him. It’s different than in his dreams, but not in a bad way.

Truthfully, it’s like a pinch to remind him that he’s actually awake. That he did it.

Radio off, everything he owns on the bench beside him.

In his dreams, Rhett makes it further. Drives until he hits the horizon and then some. On that Wednesday, he drives until he can barely keep his eyes open and he’s got a cramp in his calf from the stiff clutch pedal in his old truck. He doesn’t quite hit the horizon, but the glowing neon of a faded motel sign seems far enough there and then.

He has some money with him. It’ll get him where he needs to go, wherever that is. Winnings from bull riding and wages from helping out on neighboring ranches. What his father had paid him usually hadn’t ever stretched far enough to make it into the savings.

Rhett pays for a room for the night, though this is the kind of establishment that’s used to more of an hourly rate. He drops his bags onto the spare bed and sits down on the one that’ll be his for the night.

He’s a couple hundred miles in, near Richfield according to the last sign before he took his exit. Idaho. He’s been here a few times before. Riding competitions, auctions and stuff. It’s never made too much of an impression before and it doesn’t on that Wednesday night.

There’s nothing on TV, Rhett hadn’t thought to bring a book when he was packing in the middle of the night. After about an hour, Rhett can’t stand the sound of his own thoughts any longer. He grabs his coat and heads out, walking along the roadside for a bit until he’s at a bar off the side of the road.

Just another lonely stranger, sitting at a barstool. He considers tequila. After the couple of weeks he has had, he could do with something strong. But, he isn’t far enough — he still feels that pull, telling him to go home and won’t risk being too hungover to drive far enough to shake that feeling tomorrow.

In lieu of tequila, Rhett finds it’s warmth elsewhere. After a couple of beers, Rhett settles out his tab. Pleased with his manners and intrigued by how he teeters on the edge of kicked puppy and mysterious outlaw, the pretty girl behind the bar tells him her shift’s almost over.

Always a gentleman, Rhett makes sure she has someone to walk her to her car once she’s ready to go. It’s not his fault that they wind up walking a little bit past her car. It’s her hand that dips into his front pocket and retrieves his motel room key — her lips that drag along his throat, her hand that curls into his hair.

She kisses him goodbye the next morning. He isn’t sure how he feels about it, but her name plays on his mind through the morning and into the afternoon. Carrying with him through Idaho and into Oregon.

It’s a couple of days of that. Driving around, learning new names between thin motel sheets, forgetting them by sundown the next day.

Rhett’s mother always had it in her head that he was a womaniser. He isn’t sure where she got it from, considering that he didn’t have his first kiss until he already had his driver’s license.

The hard part is, Rhett hadn’t ever really known enough about himself to disagree with her. She raised him, saw the intricacies of his growing mind — if that’s what she said he was, then it must’ve been true. So, Rhett let it grow to be true.

He isn’t necessarily proud of it. But, he is somewhat proud of the manner in which he does it. He’s never resorted to a sleazy pick-up line or a bold-faced lie to get a woman into his bed. He’s quiet enough to be mysterious without being mysterious enough to be unapproachable. Handsome enough but not too put together.

It’s been four days since Rhett left Wyoming when he realises that yesterday, he had turned back around. He’s on the cusp of Montana, headed back the way he came.

He had stopped feeling the pull a day or so ago, because he had already turned back towards it. He’s pulled off to the side of Route 212 in the parking lot of a diner, his head in his hands.

This had been predicted. It had been Cecelia’s go to answer every time Rhett had threaten to leave. Go on then, I’ll be here when you get back. She hadn’t meant it with spite, but those words had always struck Rhett like venom. When you get back, because she was so confident that he would.

He hadn’t ever let her explain whether she thought that he’d be back because he belonged there or because she thought he just couldn’t make it on his own.

Either way, she’s wrong.

Rhett just needs a destination — an end goal. After five days of driving through the West, he feels scattered, and it’s just going to get worse. It was kind of stupid, to pack up and leave without anywhere to go.

That’s all he has to do — figure out where he’s going.

He grabs his baseball cap from beside him on the truck bench and secures it over his messy hair, leaving the truck in its space as he heads into the almost empty diner.

He takes a seat up by the counter and orders a coffee from the polite, young waitress standing behind the counter. He probably should eat too, he just can’t stand the thought of more diner food. It takes him a while, but he orders a sandwich finally. It’s the only thing on the menu that contains a vegetable and his body’s going to give out if it doesn’t get one of those soon.

With no one here now to tell him not to play with his food, Rhett sits distracted. Under fluorescent light, calm country playing over a radio in the kitchen, he takes his time to look around him as he picks at his sandwich.

There’s a pinboard that sits behind the counter. It’s partially blocked by the pale blue uniform shirt of the waitress as she texts on her phone, but Rhett can still see most of it.

Missing people, things for sale, help wanted signs — there’s a mixture of stuff on there. There’s a piece of yellow card that stands out. Ranch Hands Wanted. The Blue Mountain Ranch, MT.

It’s a stupider idea than driving aimlessly around the country, falling right back into what he’s running away from. Still, his mouth makes the decision before his head is on board.

“‘Scuse me,” Rhett’s voice gruff from not speaking much, he quietly clears his throat and brings his coffee cup closer to him. The waitress turns towards him and raises her eyebrows, a polite smile on her lips. “Could I see that notice, please?”

A quick glance behind her to see which one he’s talking about, and then she’s looking at him dubiously. Her smile grows with intrigue. Rhett swallows, watching as the unpins the yellow paper from the board and sets it down on the counter in front of him.

He turns his gaze down and starts to read through the desired skills. All stuff that he’s been doing since he was a kid. Herding cattle, fixing fences. Nothing new except the scenery.

“Thinking of joining the Mountain?” She asks. Rhett looks up at her over the brim of his baseball cap. She’s resting both hands on the counter and leaning forwards slightly, interested.

“Does that sound like a bad idea?” He asks in response, setting the paper down on the countertop beside his coffee. He leans back in his seat and parts his knees. She looks him up and down, pink lips quirking slightly at the edges.

Handsome guy like him, hands that are clearly used to some dirty work — Lena’s got a very good friend on that ranch that could do with a pick me up.

She gives her head a soft shake, “Actually, I think you’d fit right in.”

Rhett hums. He bites the inside of his cheek as he looks down at the printed information. Somewhere to lay low until he’s got a destination in mind doesn’t sound too bad. As long as he’s not back there, it doesn’t matter.

Blow by Blow | 0.6 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big. Boxing au.

Warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, oral (m receiving)

“He’s in a good mood this morning.” You comment. Bradley’s grinning, light on his feet as he dances around the ring. He lets Jake draw closer to him and steps quickly out of the way, taunting him in his every move. Your lips quirk up slightly.

He’s not even trying. If he wanted to, he could’ve caught Jake in the ribs just there. Instead, he quick-steps back and sways his body to the music in the background. Steve Winwood’s Higher Love is blasting over the speakers, filling the gym with upbeat lyrics. Bradley dances, unfazed as Jake puts his guard back up and steps towards him — he sidesteps, slams his glove into Jake’s ribs and continues to sway, mouthing the words.

Jake rolls his eyes and steps into Rooster’s space just as quickly.

“Uhg… help.” Mickey grunts under you.

Your eyes widen, looking down quickly and remembering yourself all of a sudden. A soft gasp slips your lips as you catch the bar seconds before it hits his chest. Your combined strength is enough to lift the bar and set it back on the rack, saving him from being crushed.

“Shit, sorry.”

Mickey sits up quickly, brows furrowed, dark curls sticking to his forehead, mock-betrayal on his face. Your cheeks burn as you shoot a quick glance back to Rooster and find him looking right at you. Shit, he absolutely caught that exchange.

“Who, Rooster?” Mickey pants, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm. You turn your gaze away and give a small nod. “Yeah, he got a fight confirmed this morning. It’s his first gig in like eight months — that’s why he’s showing off.”

Mickey rolls his shoulders back and grabs his water bottle from the ground.

“Why hasn’t he fought in eight months?” You ask, leaning forwards to rest your hands against the bar, tilting your head as you watch Rooster and Jake sparring. Nat always takes it easy on you, which you should probably appreciate, but it’s interesting seeing Jake and Rooster fight — because neither one of them is taking it easy on the other.

Mickey gulps down around half of his bottle’s worth of water and then settles down with a sigh, his skin glistening and sticky under the gloomy white overhead lighting. He pushes himself up from the bench and glances across at Rooster, then grimaces.

“Mm… I probably shouldn’t say. Ask him, he might tell you.” He shrugs his shoulders and then lifts his arms out, flexing his biceps. “So, do you see a difference?”

You smile at him and nod, patting his side as you step past him. “I see that your fly is down.”

He looks down quickly, smile faltering — then realizes that he’s wearing gym shorts, there isn’t a fly for it to even be down. He groans and turns to tell you off. You’re already wandering away, walking over to the ring and resting your hands against the ropes.

“Ugh, fuck.” Bradley grunts as Jake catches him in the stomach.

“Keep dancing, bird boy.” Jake taunts, stepping back to put some space between them again. Now doubled-over, Bradley is at your eye level. His eyes glint mischievously as he catches sight of you, smiling at him from the ringside.

“What’s up, Bambi? — Wanna jump in?” Bradley offers, lips quirking up into a confident smirk as he stands upright again, running his fingers over the affected area of his toned stomach. He begins towards you, Jake turns in interest to watch the conversation.

You smile softly up at him. “I wanted to ask if you were free later.

Jake’s brows raise slightly, he glances across at Bradley and then back at you. Bradley wets his lips with his tongue and takes a step closer, leaning onto the ropes.

“Like a date?”

Jake almost scoffs at the certainty in Rooster’s voice. He knows that he’s cockiness embodied himself, but he still finds himself amused at how sure Rooster is.

You smile softly, then shake your head. “Like the interview that you owe me — you’re the only one I’m waiting for.”

He almost sighs. Instead, he glances quickly back at Jake and shrugs his shoulders, then checks the clock on the wall. “Uh — if you let me finish up down here, I can stop by upstairs when I’m done?”

Jake does scoff this time. He has said some pretty forward stuff to girls in his time, but watching Bradley invite himself up to your apartment is just embarrassing.

“Well, are you busy right now?” You ask, looking up at him through your lashes as he stands on the canvas. His brows furrow.

“Kinda.” He answers back, adjusting the gloves on his wrists. You frown at him.

“Mav said that you have to do the interview before tomorrow, he wants the website to—“

“Mav isn’t my boss.” Bradley reminds you. It’s swift, calm and it shuts you down in four syllables. You close your mouth, still looking up at him. “I said I’ll stop by later.”

Swallowing softly, you nod your head. A few sheepish steps back away from the ring, you’re still nodding at him dumbly. Perhaps you should apologise. You don’t. “Okay. Thanks.”

Jake watches you turn and walk away, shaking his head softly.

“What?” Rooster frowns.

“I just don’t get how you can look at that sweet face and be such an ass,” Jake answers amusedly, giving a small shrug of his shoulders. He takes a step back and brings up his guard as they get ready to go again. “It’s like being mean to—“

“I said I’d do her interview!” Bradley defends himself, taking stance and shrugging his shoulders. They should really be focusing more than this with the fight coming up, but he really doesn’t see what he did wrong.

Bradley takes his time finishing up his training. Fashionably late or whatever. He knocks on your apartment door and waits, clearly learning from his past experiences with Tank.

You answer the door in another cute patterned sundress, having ditched the workout gear after your shower.

“Bob asked if Tank could come downstairs to play.” Rooster explains, trying to finger through the mess of his curls. Headgear always fucks up his hair.

“Oh. Sure — let me just-“

“He’s at the bottom of the stairs waiting. She said it’s okay!” Rooster relays back.

You smile and lean past Bradley to look at your friend. He grins and waves as Tank brushes past Bradley with a small growl, and then pads happily down the stairs towards him.

Rooster settles down onto the couch, you sit directly in front of him, resting on the coffee table. The interview begins.

“How would you describe yourself in three words?” You ask.

He takes a while to consider it. You stretch your legs out in front of the coffee table and look up at the dust on the ceiling fan — you should clean that. Even after eleven full rotations of the ceiling fan, he still hasn’t presented you with the slightest hint of answer.

“Is there a right answer to this?” He asks back, his eyes on you. One of his arms is draped along the back of the couch, the other resting against his thigh. He nudges his foot into yours and pretends that it’s an accident.

“I guess not.” You shrug. His lips quirk as he raises his brows at you.

“You guess not?”

“Well, there are good answers and bad answers, don’t you think?” You reply, not really feeding into his game as much as he would like you to. Parting his knees further, his body mass stretches over more of your couch unapologetically.

“So, what are the good answers?” Rooster challenges you.

“I can’t tell you that until you’ve answered, otherwise it won’t be genuine.” Professional, polite, holding back from just calling him an ass and making him answer — you probably have a future in journalism.

“What’s this for, again?” He taunts. You both know that he knows exactly what this is for. He’s just being pedantic.

“A meet the staff page. I want people to know your faces, know who they’re coming in to see. It’ll make this place seem less… scary.”

“This place is scary?” He’s outright avoiding the question at this point. You sigh, giving a small shrug of your shoulders.

“It can be.”

He nods his head. He doesn’t understand what you mean — he was raised in this place and the only thing scary about it is that he’ll probably be here for the rest of his life too.

“So… three words?” You remind him gently.

Rooster sits at a crossroads in your living room. He has two options before him, to sit in the afternoon sun and annoy you further, or to just give in and answer your silly little questions.

“Organised, loyal… handsome.” He decides finally, smiling across at you. The second time, perhaps another accident, he nudges his foot into yours.

“Jake said the same thing.” You answer immediately, giving a soft chuckle as you turn your attention towards your notepad.

This goes on for a while. The back and forth. The excessive way he spreads his limbs out over the couch just to remind you that he’s a big guy. The bullshit answers.

You check the time on your phone, then squint at him seriously. An hour has passed and you’ve gotten him to answer only four out of your ten questions.

“Why haven’t you fought in eight months?”

His eyebrows raise calmly, biceps flexing as he crosses them over his chest. He stares back at you. “Is this part of the interview?”

You shrug your shoulders, “Yeah.”

“Who said I haven’t fought in eight months?” He asks you, sitting forward in the seat and leaning closer to you.

“Couple of people, actually,” You lie to him, which isn’t untrue, they would have let it slip eventually. It doesn’t seem to be a secret. “What’s up with that?”

His eyes are russet under the afternoon sun streaming in through the window to his right, bright and shining. Somehow colder under this warm light than they had been the other night by the arena.

His eyes trail, slowly looking down and then back up over your form. He sits closer again, leaning his broad form forwards and resting his hands against his knees.

You know instantly that you’ve probably overstepped, but he was being an asshole too.

“I got suspended from competing for six months.” Sitting so close that every breath you take is the cedarwood, cypress and nutmeg of his cologne, you’ve got a front row seat to how he feels about that.

He doesn’t give much away, but you can tell that he accepts the judgment. He knows that he did something wrong — that’s good, right? — that he knows he screwed up and maybe feels bad about it.

“Then after that, no one would fight me for two months because of what happened before.” He doesn’t have to reach far to be touching you, his arm barely stretches before his hand is tucked around your knee, stroking at the curve of the joint with his thumb.

You keep your eyes on him, studying his features, looking for a crack in that exterior for just a moment.

“What did you do to get suspended?” You shift closer with him, his fingertips smoothing against your skin, staying below the thigh, near the knee.

His lips quirk softly. It’s clear that he’s not going to answer you from the get go.

“You ask a lot of questions.” He comments.

“This is an interview.” You quip. His eyes roll as he throws himself back against the couch, chuckling dryly — bested again. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling softly.

You probably wouldn’t be if he told you what he had done. With the way you’re looking at him, he debates not keeping it from you. His thumb strokes softly over your bare skin, eyes on yours.

He thinks he’s got you right where he wants you, you can see it in that mischievous look In his eye. You reach out and rest your hand against his knee.

This time, instead of looking at each other, you both watch your fingers move along his skin. At first, tracing small patterns on his knee, similar to what he’s doing to you. Innocent enough.

His eyes dart up to your face, then back down, as your fingertips smooth along his skin, brushing well past his knee and dangerously close to the hem of his shorts. His brows scrunch softly.

Kissing him down by the marina two days ago, that was one thing — he doesn’t think that you’re bold enough to do this. So, he calls your bluff. He parts his knees further and sits back comfortably against the couch.

Rooster is an attractive guy and he knows it. More attractive than Jett was, undeniably. Tanned skin, broad shoulders — but a soft smirk on his face that just makes you want to prove him wrong.

“Everyone else knows why you were suspended?” You ask, raising your brows at him as your nails skim along the inside of his thigh. Rooster watches your fingers move, feeling the delicate touch on his warm skin.

“Sure, but I didn’t tell them.” He answers calmly. It would be easy enough to tell you the full truth right now, it’s just a couple of words. I beat the shit out of a guy who wouldn’t shut his mouth. But, your ex-boyfriend was a violent prick and Bradley doesn’t want you to look at him like that.

The others were all at the fight that night, Rooster doesn’t really have a choice about them knowing or not knowing. You’re different.

You tilt your head just slightly. He looks at you again. You pout your lips in consideration, watching your fingers breach under the grey confines of the left leg of his shorts. Bradley glances down and then back up.

“Is this the first time you’ve been suspended?” The question seems to come out of nowhere, and Bradley almost winces when you ask it because he knows that his chances are getting lower and lower. He sighs softly and shakes his head.

“No, not the first time.” He replies calmly.

You lift your gaze to look at him through your lashes, fingers stilling against his skin. “Then, I think I should probably know what you did. Right?”

“Broke the rules,” He shrugs his shoulders softly, hoping that you’ll accept that answer but knowing that you won’t. Your lips purse, hinting at a slight frown. “It’s a long story, but my last fight kind of turned into a real fight instead of a boxing match, it was a mess. That’s all.”

“Did you hurt him?” You ask.

Rooster’s hand skims from your knee to the edge of the coffee table that you’re sitting on, fingers curling around the underside of it. “Yeah.”

“Badly?”

He shrugs his shoulders once more, “He recovered, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Why?” You press.

“If you ask Nat, she’ll tell you it’s because I was dropped on my head too much as a baby.” Bradley tries to spin this back, make it light hearted again. The meekness in your voice worries him.

Your face doesn’t soften. “I’m asking you.”

“He said some stuff that I didn’t like and I got angry.” Bradley says quietly. You sit back, straightening your spine and crossing your ankles. It’s not quite a recoil, it’s something much more low-key than that, but it has the same effect.

Bradley’s brows knit together as he opens his mouth to defend himself.

“Okay — it’s deeper than him just saying something I didn’t like, I want you to know that,” Bradley rushes out, he can tell that the suddenness of it surprises you. There it is, the gap in that hard exterior. He wants you to like him.

He rubs a hand over his jaw, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “There’s kind of a history with this place, y’know, some stuff that went down between my dad and Mav and some of the guys in the circuit. People giving me a hard time for stuff that happened before I was born. It’s — just, complicated.”

“Did it make you feel better after you hurt him?” You ask softly, fingertips coming to life on his skin. He glances down as you trail your fingers back along the curve of his knee.

It takes him a moment to consider what you have asked. At a base level, yes, it felt good to make that asshole finally stop running his mouth. He definitely didn’t like the consequences that came after, but that’s not what you’re asking him. Did he feel better after he beat that guy up? — No.

He remembers the bruising around his knuckles. He sees it every day in the way that Mav looks at him know — Mav has barely spoken to him since it happened.

“No. Didn’t solve anything, really.” Bradley mumbles.

Just like with the first question you had asked him, there were good and bad answers to this question. The answer he gave is satisfying enough.

He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forwards, head hung slightly to watch your fingers on his thigh. You sit forwards slowly, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to his warm cheek.

He looks up, you’ve surprised him again. He was sure you were going to ask him to leave.

You kiss his lips. He rushes, reaching for your skin, ready to pull you against him. Instead, you stay where you are, both perched on the edges of your seat, leaning forwards to kiss. Fingers smoothing softly over the scar on his cheek, you hum gently against his lips, contented.

Impatient, fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. He’s pulling you forwards, urging you closer until you’re on the couch, straddling his hips. Knees on either side of his clothed torso, you match his energy, curling your fists into his shirt and pulling him into you. Deepening the kiss, his hands in your hair, your tongue running rampant against his own.

The taste of mint passes between the two of you. His is spearmint, yours is peppermint. It’s a quick and shocking revelation that you had both been planning for this kiss to happen.

His fingers curl around your hips, tugging you forwards, grinding himself up against your core. The second that the bulge in his shorts touched you, you stiffen. It’s hard to miss.

“You alright?” Rooster murmurs, pulling back brows scrunching in slight concern. You look over his features, then nod hurriedly. His brows scrunch tighter together as you push yourself up and away from his lap.

There’s a calm silence as you settle between his legs, pressing your plush lips to the inside of his knee. His tongue darts out to wet his lips with his tongue as he settles back against the couch. You just keep on surprising him.

Surprise after surprise as you tease your mouth along the inside of his thighs until he’s rock hard and straining against the inside of his gym shorts. Even after that, when his shorts are down by his ankles and his eyes are closed in anticipation, you don’t give him what he wants.

Instead, your nails rake softly along his sensitive skin, followed by your lips. Open-mouthed, gentle kisses onto the most tender parts of his skin.

When you finally work up the confidence to curl your fingers into the sides of his boxers and pull them down, your breathing shudders. So relieved that his sigh almost becomes a whine, he readily lifts his hips for you to guide his boxers down. Both his boxers and his shorts pool around his ankles as he tugs his shirt up and over his head.

He’s so hard it seems painful, the head of his dick flushed the same way that his cheeks do when he gets embarrassed.

You’ve talked a lot with your girl friends, and you had known that Jett was around average — nothing special, but Bradley is. Before now, you’ve never seen a dick that looks heavy in the same way his does.

Admittedly, you’ve thought about this a couple of times since you had come across Bradley on the floor of your apartment in those damn near sheer white boxers of his.

Sitting nestled between strong legs, warm, tanned skin. He rests his arm along the back of the couch, letting you look as much as you’d like. It’s been a long time since he was insecure about his body.

You sit forwards and look up at him. Rooster considers for a moment whether he should stop you or not. The second your fingers curl around the base of his cock, his mind is made up.

Your warm tongue tracing his dick up and down, eyes on him for reassurance as his thumb strokes in time against your cheek. Your lips wrap expertly around the tip, sucking on it like a lollipop, the tip of your tongue tracing over the slit.

His breathing quietens, brows furrowing as he watches you. It’s good, it feels good — he’s had better, but he probably shouldn’t have been expecting too much from a meek little mouse like you anyway.

Rooster hums softly in approval when you lick a stripe up the underside of his shaft. Testing the waters, you skim your hand along his thigh. His head rests back against the couch as your main focus shifts to his balls.

Your tongue lingers on the head, darting over his slit to collect the precum that had seeped out. It makes him dizzy, the needy way you lick at his cock, the experienced way that you touch him.

Everything after becomes less about what you should be doing, and more about his response to it. He pants hard when you pull back and pepper kisses along his shaft. He groans loudly when your nose brushes his pelvis and you’re looking up at uk with those doe-eyes, all brimming with tears. He jolts when your nose presses into his thigh as you tease open-mouthed kisses along his balls.

It’s good. So fucking good. He’s lost track of what he’s saying in his head and what he’s saying out loud, unsure of if he should slide a hand into your hair. He doesn’t need to, somehow you’re right where he needs you, right when he needs it.

Rooster shudders, fingers curling into the couch cushion as he involuntarily bucks his hips, feeling your throat squeeze around him. “Shit, fuck —- I’m gonna cum, I’m — I’m—“

You look up at him, drool-soaked lips quirking at the corners. He’s pretty when he’s right on the edge like this. Knuckles whitening, muscles shaking under the intensity. Head thrown back, lips parted, deep groans spilling from his lips.

His body jolts, fists curling hard into the sheets. Every aching muscle in his body contracts, tightening and trembling as his orgasm tears through his nerves. He comes with a strained groan. His dick twitches against your tongue before releasing his load down your throat, leaving you with little choice but to swallow. Luckily for him, that was the plan anyway.

You guide him through his high, not stopping until he’s a trembling wreck under your fingertips. Rooster grunts, mouth hanging open, brows furrowed tightly as the aftershocks of his orgasm tear through his nerves.

Finally, you sit back on your knees and wipe the spit from your chin with the back of your hand.

He swallows, taking in a shaking breath and pushing the base of his palm into his eye socket, trying to make those white splotches in his vision go away. You wipe the smudged mascara from under your eyes.

His legs are still shaking as he pulls his shorts and boxers back up in one move, draping an arm over his eyes. “Fuck, where did you learn how to do that?” — it’s a stupid question, but he just can’t imagine that this kind of expertise came from your ex.

“I read about it.” You answer softly, smoothing your fingers tenderly along the hair on his thighs. His brows furrow as he feels you move to sit down beside him.

He turns his head. Every line on his face deepens as he scrunches his features up, lost. “You… read about it? — Like in a book?”

“Something like that,” You answer him, trailing your fingers over the ridges in his bicep. Your gaze flickers up to meet his. “Was it okay?”

Rooster’s brows lift. He chuckles breathlessly and pulls the covers up over his waist, then brings his hand up to rub at his eye. “Okay? — It was — that… Wow.”

You smile softly at him. “Can I ask you for a favour?”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I’m going to take care of you. Just, let my hands stop shaking.” Rooster breathes out, still recovering as he squeezes your knee. You press your knees together and shift back.

“Oh, no, not that. I’d prefer it if we left it at that today.”

He turns his head and frowns — Bradley has never not reciprocated in his life, and he doesn’t intend to start now. “But…”

“You can make it up to me another time, just not today… if that’s okay.” There she is again. That meek little mouse. As if you didn’t just give him the most earth-shattering blowjob. He shakes his head and sits up.

“So what’s the favour?” He asks calmly.

“I want to do a fight like you guys do. Like a real one.”

….

Blow by Blow | 0.5 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big. Boxing au.

Warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, no warnings in particular for this one

…

“Okay, um — no, no,” Natasha winces, shaking her head at you. She grabs your knee and pushes it back down. “No legs — no kicking.”

Jake snorts at the other side of the gym, leaning his head back, then remembering he’s supposed to be spotting Javy, who’s failing out of a bench press. “Oh shit.”

He catches the bar and helps his friend lift it back onto the rack.

“But… I saw on TV—“

“Different sport, kid.” Payback chuckles from the side of the ring, leaning against the ropes. Your lips part slightly, confused. Bradley leans against the doorframe to the office, arms folded over his chest.

You nod slowly as Natasha guides you back into the correct stance. You squint at the heavy bag, readying yourself to go again.

In the month since you’ve moved in, you’ve gotten better at this — but there’s still a lot you don’t know. Still, Natasha has enjoyed seeing you come out of your shell.

Interviewing each of the staff members for the website really helped. Sitting down with each of them for a couple of hours and doing a video interview with them to post on the About section of the website, just a friendly Q&A to make people feel more comfortable coming in and meeting the team.

If it helped you warm up to the idea of training here, then it would help others too.

Bradley is the only one that you haven’t managed to pin down for an interview yet, but he has been busy — he has the most clients around here because he’s been around the longest

Maverick has been loving your ideas so far. He thinks you’re a tech genius for some basic website design and creative ideas.

This entire month has been like a dream that you’re just waiting to wake up from. Even that evening, after hours spent at a local bar — you’re on cloud nine.

Maybe a couple too many drinks, maybe it’s just because you’re so happy, but you’ve been laughing all night.

“You sure you don’t want me to drop you off at home? — It’s on my way.” Payback offers, dangling his keys from his index finger. He’s got a fight coming up and he has cut out all alcohol, but he just has a tiny little sports car that won’t fit everyone. Bradley lives closest.

“Well, yeah — I’m not going to let her walk home on her own,” Bradley answers as he shoots a quick look over to you, grinning with Bob and Mickey as the three of you make plans for the weekend coming. “Besides, it’s not that far out of my way.”

Jake nods his head and pats Bradley’s shoulder, taking Bradley’s spot in that tiny little sports car, “Alright, we’ll see you tomorrow then. Don’t forget you agreed to take care of my eight a.m. session.”

Bradley calls out an agreement and waves the two of them off as he walks over to you.

“You ready?” He asks gently.

“Oh — yeah. Okay, bye guys, I’ll see you both tomorrow.” You stick your arms out and they hug a side of you each, then call out their goodnights to the each of you.

“What did you guys end up deciding to do this weekend?” Bradley asks, reaching past you and curling his fingers around the empty glass in your hand. He takes it and sets it onto the table beside you, then catches hold of your hand and turns you towards the door.

You comply wordlessly, letting him steer you towards the exit. He drops your hand and lets you walk ahead of him.

“Bob knows this hiking trail that has some really great views, and I’ve never been on a real hike, so we’re all going to take Tank with us.”

He hums behind you to show that he’s listening, stepping outside into the night right behind you. “Sounds like fun.”

“Do you want to come?” You offer, turning your head to look at him, your features soft and expectant. Not quite hopeful. Rooster shakes his head.

“Can’t, I’m working this weekend.” Bradley answers. It’s not a lie, he should be working this weekend, but he’s also kind of the boss and hasn’t ever taken notice of the hours that he’s supposed to be working.

You inhale softly, not bothering to argue with him about it. You kind of don’t want him there, anyway. Being all brooding and weird — it would be more fun without him there. That feels mean. It’s not that you don’t like Bradley, it’s just that he’s kind of a dick sometimes.

“You alright? — you’ve gone all quiet, all of a sudden.” Bradley nudges his hand into the back of your bicep as you walk ahead of him. You turn and look over your shoulder once more.

Maybe it’s all the fresh air, but you feel a thousand times more buzzed out here than you had in there.

“Could we walk back along the marina?” You slow down so that you’re at his side. Bradley nods his head, it’ll only add an extra ten minutes to the walk, and sometimes it’s nice down there at night time.

You walk ahead as he pushes his hands into his pockets and watches you. Bradley trained with Jett for a couple of years, he had known from the first session that Jett was an asshole — he just hadn’t realised that it went further than that. Maybe he could have done something earlier.

Your skin cools quickly with the ocean air, goosebumps rising on your skin from the sudden change in temperature.

Finally, you round the path and grow close enough to see the boats, the lights of the city and right out over the bay. You slow down to take notice of it.

“So, do you live near here?” You ask Bradley without looking back to him, gaze turned out over the water. Bradley watches you walk in front of him, his eyes on your legs as you narrowly miss each crack in the pavement. Inches from stumbling, somehow staying on your feet.

“Near Little Italy.” He answers you.

You scrunch your brows and turn quickly towards him, walking backwards without slowing. His features tighten, eyes on your heels — there’s a rock on the path, your shoe lands centimetres from it and you escape breaking your ankle.

“This is out of your way, then.” You realise.

Bradley lifts his gaze, looking at you with the faintest hint of amusement on his face. He nods slowly. “Yeah. But it’s alright.”

“I didn’t say thank you.” You remind him, lips quirking up into a playful smile. His mouth toys at a smirk. He likes it when you forget yourself around him, leave all of that worrying and quietness behind. He can see why the others like you so much when you’re like this.

He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and nods again. He smirks back at you, “That’s alright too.”

You laugh and roll your eyes at him. “If I keep training with Nat, pretty soon you’ll be asking me to walk you home.”

He chuckles lowly. “Is that right?”

You nod your head and slow down, letting him catch up to you. He slows, standing in front of you, brows scrunching. He opens his mouth to question your motives, then stops as you turn your head and look out over the water.

Salty sea air, fuzzy bright lights around the harbour, warm skin as you lean forwards into him. It’s a half-intentional move, you want to be closer but you’re also just tipsy and not that steady on your feet.

Bradley’s hands find your waist, unfazed as you tip your chin to look at him. Maybe it’s the liquid courage, but you aren’t in the slightest bit bashful about staring at him.

He lets you, glancing down at the patterned florals on your dress as his fingers lay still over the material. As his eyes meet yours again, they’re especially dark in this light, almost black. Nothing like the golden hue from this evening’s sunset.

He inhales slowly. Pomegranate, vanilla violet, mahogany wood and amber. His fingers smooth softly over your waist, eyes not faltering from yours.

You press closer into him, palm splayed out open on his chest, warm muscle under your fingertips. He stares at you, for a second questioning whether or not you’re about to do what he thinks you’re going to do. He leans into your touch, letting your lips press softly into his.

His breath stops in his airways. You mouth on his, just for a moment. As you go to pull back, his lips chase yours. You hum softly into him, meeting him with another gentle kiss. His bottom lip slotted between yours as his fingers curl into the fabric of your dress.

Pulling back slowly, you look up at him through your lashes and take one step back. Bradley loosens his hold on you, then drops his arms back to his sides.

You turn away from him and continue ahead.

“What was that for?” Bradley’s brows scrunch. You take a deep breath and sigh contentedly as you continue along the path, walking ahead of him once again.

“I just thought it would be a good spot for a first kiss.”

Your cheeks are warm, your hands cold as you trail along the path at the side of the marina. Bradley walks just a pace behind you, his hands pushed deep into the front pockets of his jeans.

Just when he thinks he’s got you figured out, you’re off ahead of him again. He shakes his head softly. A good spot for a first kiss.

He squints at the back of your head — that implies that there will be more kisses to come, is he meant to kiss you again?

Your heels clack across the parking lot, around the side of the building. As you near the base of the metal steps up to your apartment, you turn back around to say goodnight.

His hands press into your hips, curling into the fabric of your dress as he walks you back — your breath hitches in your throat — a soft sound is knocked from you as your back hits into the red brick of Bradshaw’s exterior.

Rooster takes a second, looking you over, searching your features for a sign of doubt before he leans forwards and presses his weight into you. You swallow softly.

He lifts one hand, curling it around your jaw, turning your chin upwards and pressing his lips against yours. It’s soft at first, tender like yours had been. Then, he presses himself harder into you, sliding his hand around to the back of your neck, pulling you harder into him.

A surprised hum slips out against Bradley’s mouth, but as he urges his tongue past your lips, the sound is followed by a delightfully contented moan.

Your hands slide up his chest, coming to rest against his ribs, almost like you’re going to push him off. You’ve got no intentions of stopping this just yet. Bradley pushes himself forwards, needing to be closer.

Bradley uses his height against you, crowding you against the wall, pressing the entire length of his body into yours and slotting his thick, denim-clad thigh between your legs. Your dress bunches up out of his way, not hindering his access in the slightest.

He squeezes your hip and slides his arm around your back, grinding himself forwards into you. You’re supposed to be shy, always so quiet. Now, you rock yourself onto his thigh, fingers curling into his t-shirt.

Lifting your leg to graze it against his thigh, your heel knocks gently into the bottom step. He presses you harder into the wall, caressing his tongue into yours. The ding of your heel against the metal step is soft enough to have not disturbed you. The loud bark that comes from upstairs following that gentle ding, though — that makes you flinch.

You pull apart, lips parted. Staring up at him, breathing heavily. Your skin burns as you realise who you’re with and what just happened — and where you are.

“Um… I should,” You breathe out, blinking at him, “I should go and let him out.”

Bradley nods his head. It’s a couple of seconds before his brain catches up and he finally lets you go, stepping back and freeing you from being trapped against the wall.

“Okay.” He nods, wetting his lips with his tongue. He thinks back to the conversation he had with Natasha. Whatever happened between you and Jett. It was probably a bad idea to—

“Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, lips quirking up at the sides. He exhales softly, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Sure.”

You aren’t even sure why you asked him, it seems like a bad idea before you’ve even said it — it seems like an even worse idea when he’s headed up the steps behind you.

“You have to stay here and let Tank sniff you or he’s going to freak out.”

Rooster nods his head. It can’t be that bad, he has learnt his lesson from last time. He waits outside whilst you go in and calm Tank down, clipping him into his leash to let him out.

Once Tank has sniffed him, you allow Rooster to wait inside while you get Tank settled. He’s waiting by the counter with his arms folded over his chest by the time you’re done. It doesn’t feel the same.

Maybe the moment has passed. You swallow softly, shifting uncomfortably as Tank settles down into his spot on the couch. Glancing across, you open your mouth to comment on how Tank is finally warming up to him. Tank growls lowly, a warning for Bradley to stay where he is.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek and hums, “Maybe I should go.”

“But…” You start out softly.

He steps towards you and Tank growls again. You swallow softly and shoot a look to your dog. Bradley takes one more step towards you, and Tank is silent. The second that Bradley reaches out for you, he growls again.

This has got to be some kind of divine intervention from Natasha. He shouldn’t be here, doing this.

“Alright, Bambi — I’m going to head home. I’ll see you in the morning.” He breathes out, shaking his head softly. You open your mouth to protest. He pats your shoulder platonically and heads for the door. You close it again quickly.

You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough. This really hot guy, who you have to see every day, who just rejected you. You close your eyes for a second and sigh. You let him leave without a word.

…

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"

happy 30th birthday lewis james pullman !!