kiiiiinda crazy that you can have someone blocked because they stole character ideas & aesthetic ideas from several oc creators and they somehow manage to steal your oc masterlist format despite the fact you have them blocked. i know it’s because they thought i’d never see it because i 1) have them blocked and 2) am pretty well inactive, but that certainly doesn’t change the fact that they clearly never learned and never gave a shit in the first place.
To be clear this ^ also extends to the OC community. Like come on guys, forgiveness and restorative justice are real things that I’m 100% behind, but what is restorative about letting them get away with the same things all over again? Where is the remorse? Where are the amends? We should hold members of our community to higher standards and not allow this human-AI continue to do this.
Edited to add: I thought it was clear but am now worried it wasn’t: this message I sn’t for everyone but for the people who continue to support this behavior rather than call it out or disengage with it.
Braxton feeling the need to practice talking, manically strip down to just his underwear, scream at himself in the mirror, and pace around carrying a gun to prepare for and then make a stressful phone call is so deeply relatable.
SUMMARY: Robert Floyd's first assignment as a reporter is to cover high society gossip. Harriet Spencer is an almost engaged socialite who really isn't as vapid as she appears to be. They could not be more different, and yet there is a magnetic pull between them that soon becomes impossible to ignore...
WARNINGS: set in the mid 1930s, class difference, smoking, forced proximity, pining, angst, one vague masturbation reference. strictly 18+/minors dni
WORD COUNT: 1.2k (i think i blacked out)
A/N: Lew looked so good at the Thunderbolts* premiere tonight. Did y'all see his hair? His suit? That's the reason this exists. Thank you @attapullman for always raving about Lew with me. Enjoy!
“Those things will kill you, you know.”
He’d know that voice anywhere. In a crowded room where he can barely hear himself think. Whispered in the dark, with miles between them. A laugh across the street. Hushed breaths haunting his dreams. It’s a voice that draws you in much like the woman it belongs to.
He hums, blowing out smoke until a pale grey cloud rises to the sky, becoming one with the nighttime clouds.
“I didn’t take you for a smoker, Mr. Floyd.” She’s closer now, her voice a sweet melody in his ears. He wants to wrap it around him like a cloak and carry it home. At least then he’ll have some part of her to cling to.
He’ll still see her—an unfortunate circumstance of the job—but she will truly be out of reach. She was never his, but once that ring is on her finger, she’s lost to him, and seeing her being paraded around that stuffy ballroom made him crave something. Anything to settle the sinking feeling in his stomach. The aching sensation of a loss he has no business feeling.
She stops next to him, slight and elegant hands resting against the cold concrete railing. She’s stunning. The dress, a silvery waterfall of fabric and gemstones, fits her like the gloves she’s long since discarded. She hates the feeling of them on her skin. Her mother hates that she can’t keep them on for longer than an hour, but has long since given up trying to get her to keep them on.
“It’s a special occasion,” he says finally. His voice is even and eerily calm. He betrays none of the turmoil raging inside his head, the blood pulsing in his veins, or the cold sweat at the back of his neck.
She quirks her head to the side, a crinkle between her brows he longs to smooth out with his thumb.
“Oh, yeah?” He nods. “What is it?”
He shrugs. The sound from the party is as loud as ever. Even behind the mostly closed doors, he can hear glasses clinking and meaningless chatter. He can hear it, but the only thing that matters is the sound of her breathing. Right next to him. So close he can almost taste her.
She hums and he can practically hear the mischief woven into that single note. When he finally looks at her, she’s grinning at him and her eyes are gleaming with scheming. “Miss Spencer.” It’s a warning, but she ignores him. Of course she does.
“Let’s play a game,” she suggests and adjusts the pearls around her neck. “I’ll be the reporter and find out why you’re out here being grumpy while smoking.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re not a reporter.”
“I am now,” she says, snatching his notepad and pen from his front breast pocket. “Now, tell me why you’re out here sulking.”
“Miss Spencer, give those back.” He stubs the cigarette, letting the bud sit on the railing to throw out after this supposed game is over.
She puts the end of the pen to her lips with a contemplative look on her face that he should not find as erotic as he does. Paying attention to her pretty pink mouth has only ever gotten him in trouble. Mostly that trouble has to do with his right hand and hard cock, but he’s really trying to not think about that right now.
Her hazel eyes focus on his face, and he can’t help but hold her gaze. A tug at the corner of his mouth has him schooling his features back to neutral. She steps closer. The heat of her overtakes him and his head starts spinning. She’s intoxicating.
“What is going on in the big bad reporter’s brain? Was your editor mean to you?” She pauses. Considers. “Did he scold you for being too honest? Told you not to write anything unfavorable in case it upsets the elite.” She looks at him, assessing. His editor had in fact said something similar, but he’s not about to tell Harriet Spencer that.
She hums again, more inquisitively this time. She steps closer and their shoes are now touching. He can feel her breath on his face. He licks his lips without meaning to. “No, that’s not it either,” she concludes.
“Please,” he says, like it’s painful. Because it is. “Give those back.”
She smirks, leaning forward. He doesn’t flinch.
“Tell me why you’re grumpy and I will.”
He can’t breathe. “I’m not grumpy.”
“Sure, you are. I’ve never seen you smoke. You actively avoid the people who do, which is everyone, I might add, and that can only mean you’re grumpy about something.” She smiles, clearly proud of her deduction. “I know you, Mr. Floyd. Like it or not.” I like it, he thinks. I like it more than I should.
He takes a long steadying breath, then meets her eyes. “There’s this woman,” he begins.
Her eyes light up before he can say anything else. “Mr. Floyd, you’ve been holding out on me,” she scolds him, but there’s no harshness in her tone. “I can’t believe you have a special lady out there and didn’t tell me.”
He doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t quite know how to convey everything going through this mind and body without sounding like a madman and scaring her off. “She’s special alright,” he tells. “But she’s not mine.”
Her face drops, a pout forming on those kissable lips.
“Why not?”
The sigh that escapes him is long and heavy, pained. “She’s about to be engaged to someone else.”
Her frown deepens. “How do you know?”
“Everyone knows.”
“Does she know how you feel?”
He shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “No.” He scrubs with chin, letting the feeling of his prickly stubble calm him a little. “No, but it doesn’t matter. We can never be together.”
“That’s absurd.” She seems truly horrified and completely oblivious. “If you love her, you should be together.” She’s so incredulous that he finds it hard not to smile. She’s the one who’s going to marry a man her parents picked for her, even though there isn’t an ounce of love between them.
“Yeah.” He forces himself not to lean his forehead against hers. “Yeah, we should.”
She’s quiet for so long, he almost cups her cheeks to check she’s still breathing, but then she holds the notepad and pen out to him. “I don’t think I want to play reporter anymore.” He takes them and places them back in his breast pocket. “This wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be.”
“You thought stealing my work tools would be fun?”
She grins then. “Yes,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But I’ve decided you’re allowed to be grumpy. It hurts when we can’t have the person we want the most.”
His heart stops. He might be dying.
She kisses his cheek, lips lingering closer to his mouth than what is appropriate by any standard. “I think you’re pretty special,” she whispers against his skin and pulls back, smoothing out the skirt of her dress. “Goodnight, Mr. Floyd.”
He’s not sure how long he stands there in the middle of the balcony grinning like a fool. Honestly, he doesn’t really care.
likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are golden
TAGGING PEOPLE WHO SHOWED INTEREST: @lewmagoo, @phoenix-rising-starbird-one, @nerdgirljen, @floydsmuse, @mustaaarrd, @ryebecca, @sio-ina-bottle, @sebsxphia, @anxious-alto, @withahappyrefrain, @codelew, @joaquinwhorres
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SUMMARY ››››› When Joaquín texts, you know what he wants. And you also know that despite your better judgement and all of the other things you should be doing, you're going to give it to him.
PAIRING ››››› Fuckboy!Joaquín Torres x Female!Reader (written in 3rd person so you can pretend it's an OC like I do) Read the OC version here.
WORD COUNT ››››› 3,928
WARNINGS ››››› Joaquín's pretty out of character because my angel would never. oh yeah, and smut
A/N ››››› This idea has taken over the entirety of my thoughts. It has consumed all of my free time, so I figured I should try to wrangle some of the vibes and vague ideas into an actual story. So, here is this little imagine which is v smut heavy and v plot light. But, I am thinking of turning this into a fake dating/redemption fic, so lemme know what you think! Divider from firefly-graphics (not tagging because this is a work of smut).
A single notification flashed across her screen.
U up?
Y/N reached over, clicking the screen dark. She was up. But not for him. Instead, she turned back to her textbook and the packets of printed out notes strewn across the desk in front of her. The only men who would be getting her attention tonight were the esteemed scholars Sedra and Smith. And maybe Dr. Barnaby if she got around to reading her lecture notes over. He would have to find someone else. And there would be someone else. There was always someone else for him. She just had to hold out long enough for him to move on and go find them.
Her screen lit up again.
Or has circuits put u to sleep? 🥱
This time she rolled her eyes as she dismissed the notification, a small smile playing at her lips despite herself. Of course he knew exactly what she was doing. Even if he never acknowledged her, he still sat in the same lecture hall as her and dealt with the same lectures and exams.
Y/N returned back to the textbook example problem, fingers sliding under her glasses to rub at her eyes. She withdrew her hands, fixing her glasses before picking up her pen once more. She needed to stay focused. This test was going to be thirty percent of her grade. If she wanted to pass, she needed to learn how to apply input resistance to both Example 6.11 and her own life.
Oh god. She was broken.
Shaking off the thought of her mental deterioration, Y/N pressed her pencil to her notebook paper, copying down the problem in front of her. Just one more section and a skim through of her lecture notes after this. If she powered through, she could probably finish before three and get a solid five and a half hours of sleep before the exam. Yet, as Y/N worked her way through the problem, her eyes continued to slip over to her phone and the dark glass screen that reflected her desk light back up at her.
Circuits.
Not dick.
Circuits.
Not–
Her phone lit up again.
It didn't kill u did it??? 😱🪦
She snorted a laugh through her nose as she picked up her phone, thumb swiping to unlock it. As she began to type out a reply, the white auto suggestion box popped up.
Not today Satan.
She exed out of her roommate's attempt at a safeguard, as if on autopilot.
Not yet but I am slowly dying.
The three dots in response were instantaneous.
Sounds like you need to take a break. 😉
The auto suggestion box popped up once more as she typed, this suggestion an indictment of both her idiocy and predictability. She clicked on it.
Come over.
Very little studying was accomplished in the time between Y/N sending her text off and receiving the text that he'd arrived. The promise of a break seemed too much for her brain to withstand, and she'd only managed to work out an answer for the RIN before she finally gave in and took off her glasses. After that, she'd only had time to shove her dirty clothes in the closet and straighten her sheets up from where they hung off the bed before her phone buzzed.
Y/N put her phone back down, slipping out of her chair and padding across the still apartment towards the door. Pulling it open revealed Joaquín dressed in a maroon ASU hoodie and dark grey sweatpants. His hair was ruffled, and his own glasses were on.
Evidently he'd been studying for Circuits too.
The corner of his mouth quirked up into a soft smile—the same one that he'd given her last fall when they met eyes across the crowded frat. She had known even then exactly what she'd be getting herself into if she smiled back. But there was something about the genuine delight in his smile–the fact that he looked almost awed–that had her lips curving into a smile almost on their own accord. Much like now.
"Hey," he whispered.
Y/N leaned against the partially open door "Hey."
"Is it cool that I parked in the lot?" he asked with raised eyebrows, and she nodded.
"Yeah, they don't usually check for tags at 3 am."
Joaquín breathed out a laugh, hanging his head and shaking it as his own stupidity as Y/N smiled at him. "Yeah, I probably should have guessed that." He looked back up at her with a small smirk, and it was Y/Ns turn to shake her own head before motioning with it that he should come in. He obliged, stepping into the small dark apartment and waiting for her to lock up behind him.
He probably could have made his way back to her room without her, but instead he remained, eyes roaming over the dark living room and kitchenette as if it were his first time there and he was taking it all in. She took this as an act of kindness–a preservation of the little dignity she had left when it came to Joaquín Torres.
So, Y/N quietly led the way back to her room, ushering him in and closing the door as softly as possible behind them to avoid waking her roommate.
When she turned back to him, she found Joaquín bent over her notes, curls falling into his face. He looked intently at what she had written, his eyes following along each line of her solution before he shook his head. "That problem's been kicking my ass for the last hour," he said, tilting his head to look up at her. "Think you could walk me through it tomorrow?"
The sheepish grin he gave her made her stomach flip, and she really should have kicked herself for it. Because there was no way he didn't know exactly what he was doing when he looked at her like that. And he knew that she knew what he was doing whenever he flashed his dimples too. And yet she still couldn't find it in herself to tell him to go to hell.
"Depends how much sleep I get," she said with a shrug, attempting to fix her face into something more smirklike than smiley and feeling like an utter failure at it.
His eyes gleamed mischievously as he straightened up and turned to face her. "How much sleep is enough?"
She shrugged as she walked past him and over to the foot of her bed, setting herself down to sit on the edge and leaning back on her hands. "I don't know, three hours? Four?"
"What if it's two and a half, but I buy you coffee," he bargained, leaning back against her pushed-in chair with his arms crossed across his chest.
"It'd need to be really good coffee."
"Starbucks counts as really good coffee, right?"
She scoffed, and Joaquín laughed softly, his head tipping back as the amusement lit his face up. When he faced her again, it was with an expression of warm amusement. "What if it's Starbucks, but I make sure you thoroughly enjoy all of the time you're not sleeping tonight?" he asked, eyebrows raising up over his glasses as he took a step towards her.
A tingle shot through Y/N as she followed his slow, purposeful movements towards her, and she fought the urge to press her legs together. "I guess that would depend on how thorough is 'thoroughly'." Somehow her voice managed to keep its teasing playfulness even as the look in Joaquín's eyes became more focused, more intense, more hungry.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that the fabric of his sweatpants brushed against her bare knees and she had to tilt her head up just to see his face. She raised an eyebrow at him, and while she had intended for it to be questioning–a prompt for an answer–she couldn't keep the smirk from playing at the corners of her lips, turning the look into almost a challenge.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a hand, brushing her hair back behind her ear, his fingers trailing down her neck and along her shoulder until they reached the strap of her cropped cami. His pointer finger hooked under the strap and he pulled her towards him by the thin piece of silk, until her head was tipped all the way back just to see his face.
Joaquín leaned towards her, his breath warm and promising more than his words could ever deliver on. "Thorough," he murmured, letting the word kiss across her skin, setting her nerves alight with anticipation before he closed the space and kissed her himself.
It was easy to get drunk off of Joaquín's kisses. She wondered if this was simply a paired stimuli given the nature of their first encounters. If the dizzying effects his kisses had on her was her body remembering the weightlessness of too much Jungle Juice and a cute boy's attention. If the way she seemed to melt into him was a conditioned response from him pulling her close to him so easily even when her limbs felt heavy from Jell-O Shots.
But maybe it wasn't classical conditioning or muscle memory. Maybe it was just the natural biological response to the way his hand took hold of her waist, squeezing at the bare skin there as he deepened the kiss and stepped forward, between her legs. Maybe it was just a natural reaction to feel lightheaded when an attractive boy slid his hand up under your crop top and moved his lips along your collarbone with each kiss like a whispered promise.
Her head lolled to the side, allowing him more room to work, and he took advantage of the newly exposed stretch of skin, placing hot, open mouthed kisses there. Y/N sank her teeth into her lip, biting down into it to keep herself from making any of the embarrassing sounds threatening to spill from her just from a bit of kissing. It was a pointless measure though, for as if inspired by her action, Joaquín's teeth caught at the tender skin on her neck and pulled it into his mouth, sucking harshly. Her fingers curled into his shoulders, dragging him closer to her as he moved up her neck, picking a new spot to nip. A gasping noise escaped her as his tongue swiped over the spot, sounding far too much like a whimper for her own comfort.
Joaquín dragged his lips further up her neck to just under her ear. "Fuck you make the most beautiful sounds," he praised, pressing a kiss below her ear. "Drives me crazy." He kissed her again before taking a hold of her ear with his teeth.
Another noise, much like the first escaped her, and her fingers reached up into the hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the strands and then tugging him backwards and away from her so she could see his face. His glasses had slid down a bit on his nose, and his pupils were blown wide and dark, and she knew, she knew, that whatever happened next, it would be thorough enough.
"Did you come here to compliment me or to fuck me?"
He grinned. "Por qué no los dos?"
She leaned closer so that her lips almost brushed his as she demanded, "Cógeme."
Joaquín practically tore his sweatshirt and shirt from his body, his glasses catching in the material and flying off somewhere with the clothes to a corner of her room. Her own arms were crossed across her middle to pull off her top, but she didn't get a chance before his hands wrapped under her knees and yanked her forward so her back fell onto the bed. He knelt before her, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her pajama shorts and dragging them down her legs.
His eyes snapped to hers as he pulled the silky fabric free of her legs. "Impatient, aren't you?"
Y/N reached down, flicking the side of his head. "It's how I sleep."
"Mhmm," he hummed, disbelievingly as his eyes focused back to her parted legs and her center that was completely bare to him, not a scrap of lace or satin or cotton or anything to shield it from his hungry gaze. He lifted her leg over his shoulder, pausing to press a kiss to the inside of her knee and then trailing a line of kisses and nips up to the top of her inner thigh. Y/N squirmed, and he chuckled, moving his other hand to her hip to hold her in place. "I haven't even gotten to the good part."
"I'm sensitive," Y/N breathed out,
"I know," Joaquín grinned, leaning forward to lick a large stripe through her folds, sending her arching off the bed with a gasping moan. "Qué buena estás."
And then he dove back in.
There were a lot of reasons why allowing Joaquín into her bed at three in the morning was a bad idea.
For one thing, she really should have used the time to study for the test that would make up a solid third of her grade in a class that took many people two tries to pass. There was also the inevitable exhaustion that would probably affect her performance on that test.
Then there was the fact that if they woke up her roommate, she would have to deal with side eyed glances, reproving sighs, and little comments for at least a week. Not to mention the fact that her roommate would probably tell the rest of their friends, and then she'd be getting it from all angles.
But the biggest reason this was a bad idea, the reason with the most inevitable consequences, was the fact that he'd leave behind an ache that chased her throughout her morning, reminding her of how stupid she was for doing this.
But as she gripped onto Joaquín's head like her life depended on it, hips chasing a release on his tongue, it was difficult to really think about any of that. It was difficult to think at all. All she could manage were small bits of breathy praise spurring him on.
"Fuck. Fuck yes, right–ah!" She threw her head back into the bed as he sucked harder around her clit. One hand freed itself from his curls, clawing at the sheets to give herself more purchase as words left her in favor of high pitched, gasping noises that sounded vaguely like his name. And then, finally, she could hardly get out any sound as a wave of pleasure coursed through her causing her whole body to go taut as Joaquín replaced his tongue with his fingers to help her ride out the high.
"I've got you. I got you," he reassured, coming back up her body to place kisses along her jaw as she slowly came down, chest heaving. Y/N pulled in deep breath as his lips continued to rove around her chest and collarbone, neck and face, always whispering bits of praise before gracing her skin with a kiss. One hand slid across her bare stomach, taking hold of her waist as he gave one last kiss before looking up into her face.
"And?" he asked with a small smirk.
"And?" she repeated in question, the word coming out more as an exhale.
"How am I doing so far? Thorough enough?" he asked, his hand inching up under her top to take hold of a breast. The pad of his thumb ran over the nipple there, and for a moment, Y/N's mind went hazy. "Or is there something I'm forgetting to pay attention to?"
"I think you already know." Despite the words themselves, her voice came out needy and airy, and it elicited a low chuckle from Joaquín whose hand retreated back to the edge of her top, teasing her with the promise of taking it off.
"I want you to tell me."
"Stop teasing me, and put that mouth to better use," Y/N snapped, and he grinned this time.
"Close enough," he said, pulling her top up and over her head, flinging it away from them.
His mouth was truly a gift from God, but his hands, and the way they massaged her breast, twisted her nipple, worked her in ways that were positively sinful, they could only have been given that skill through a deal with the devil. So, she lay there, fingernails scratching at his shoulder blades as he worshiped her chest, switching between the breasts and from mouth to hands in ways that made her feel holy. Holy but aching.
"Joaquín," she mumbled, hand sliding from his shoulder to his bicep, pressing her away from him. He lifted himself from her skin, eyes meeting hers. "Flip over," she commanded. His face lit up, and he complied so quickly and eagerly that Y/N laughed.
Joaquín tucked his hands under his head, watching intently as Y/N moved to straddle him. "We can't be too loud," she whispered, placing a finger against his lips. "Ok?"
"Got it," he said, biting her finger playfully. She withdrew her finger from between his lips, running her hands down his muscled chest. It was almost criminal, the fact that he always wore loose fitting t-shirts instead of something that showed off the hard work ROTC had him put into his body.
She leaned down, allowing her tongue to explore the planes of his chest, dipping low to swirl around his belly button and lower to the center of his v line. Joaquín groaned, and Y/N hooked her fingers in the waistline of his boxers, dragging both the underwear and sweatpants down his legs and off his body. When she looked up at him, she found Joaquín's gaze fixated on her. There was a quiet desperation to his look, not as needy as she was sure her own faces were, but almost like he was a second away from an answer, and she was the only one who could help him get it.
Y/N crawled back up his body, taking his cock in her hand and teasing it with long, slow strokes. Under her, Joaquín's eyes had closed, a grunt passing through his lips as he managed to lift a hand to take hold of her hip. Her thumb passed over the head, spreading the precum along his hardened length, her hand twisting around him before she dipped down and kissed the head of his cock. His hips jerked up from the bed, as if chasing her as she pulled away. Joaquín opened his eyes, casting her a look of confused desperation.
"I'm not the one who made promises," she said with a tilt of her head and a smirk. He let out a gasping laugh, pinching her hip, and she rolled over him leaving the boy groaning underneath her.
"Hold on," she said, pressing a hand to his chest and leaning up over him to reach into her side table. She fumbled around, fingers slipping over the contents of her drawer until at last the smooth feeling of the condom packet greeted her fingertips. She snatched it up, not even bothering to shove the drawer closed as she withdrew to her position over Joaquín's hips, tearing open the package with her teeth.
She probably could have been more sensual about it–moved a bit slower with teasing touches and seductive glances–but instead she tossed the empty wrapper and immediately went about rolling the condom over Joaquín's waiting cock. Because while she probably could have withstood a little bit more anticipation, a little bit more build up until this moment why should she have to when she could have him now?
Y/N raised herself a little higher, Joaquín's hands coming to her hips and slowly guiding her down onto his waiting cock. He hissed as she lowered herself even further until he filled her completely. Y/N paused, hands flat against Joaquín's chest to allow herself a moment to adjust to his size. "You good?" Joaquín asked, gently squeezing her side, and she nodded.
"Yeah," Y/N breathed. "Yeah, I'm ready."
There was a reason she always seemed to cave whenever Joaquín texted her. A reason she never told him to go fuck himself or any of the other things her roommate and friends suggested she say. A reason she snuck him in and out of her bedroom late at night or times when most people were at class.
And it wasn't because she was stupid enough to have feelings for him again.
It was because he knew exactly what to do to make her body feel electric. It didn't matter if he was letting her ride him slow, fucking her fast from behind, or clutching her close to him as he stroked hard and deep–he knew exactly what her body craved and he gave it to her. He gave it to her with murmured bits of Spanish and breathless cursing and moans that made her chest constrict. He gave it to her with fingers that circled her clit and twisted her nipples and pulled her hair at all the right times. He gave it to her with hot, hard, and fierce kisses.
And as much as he gave, it was never enough.
Even after her second orgasm left her feeling close to overstimulated and boneless, she still clutched at him. While she hardly had enough energy to raise her hips to meet his thrust, she locked her legs around him and pulled him closer as he buried his face in her shoulder. She stayed with him as his hips stuttered and strokes got sloppy and it became clear that he was going to come.
Admittedly, Joaquín's orgasm face was rather dumb, ridiculous even, with his mouth hanging open and only a grunting sound coming out. But she kept her eyes trained on his face, not to remind her that this god in bed was a mere mortal who made stupid faces too, but because after he finished, when his face relaxed, he was nothing short of angelic. The corners of his mouth turned up just barely into a light smile and his eyes fluttered open and looked at her like she really was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Joaquín placed a kiss on her shoulder as he helped to lower her legs back down to the bed, finally withdrawing from her to dispose of the condom in the trash by her bedside. It was all Y/N could do to catch her breath, her body hot and sweaty from the activity. Yet as Joaquín climbed back into the bed, she allowed him to pull her in close to him, arms wrapping around her, and chin resting on her shoulder. Because this was part of the deal with Joaquín and something that had almost made her doubt her initial assessment of him back when his body was brand new and she was still discovering all of the things it could do—after sex, he always stayed. Not necessarily the night, but long enough to hold and cuddle her and talk about things that didn't matter.
"Better than studying?" he asked, and she let out a snort and nodded.
"Yeah."
"Good enough for Starbucks?" he asked, tilting his head to try to look at her face, and this time she gave a full laugh.
I may not post the whole of Mr. Fix-It today but I’m at least posting a Part 1 that’s edited and ready to go because I can’t wait any longer on sharing this.
I may not post the whole of Mr. Fix-It today but I’m at least posting a Part 1 that’s edited and ready to go because I can’t wait any longer on sharing this.
summary: "Don’t pick up the phone, he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone. Don’t let him in, you’ll have to kick him out again. Don’t be his friend, you know he’s going to wake up in your bed in the morning. If you’re under him, you’re sure as hell not getting over him."
rating: explicit (18+ mdni)
pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!reader
word count: 8.5k (this got away from me sorry y'all)
warnings: angst (lack of communication!), idiots pining, PiV (unprotected), oral (f receiving), hangman x phoenix (blink and u will miss it), no use of y/n.
notes: thank you to @waklman for letting me bounce ideas off you! im very nervous abt this one, i feel like its dif from my other stuff so pls pls let me know what u think! my other works are here
Friends with benefits is maybe an inaccurate way to describe what’s going on between you and Bradley. Friends? Sure, since he asked you if you were using that bench at the beach and then he’d introduced himself. With benefits? You’re not sure if they really could be classified that way.
Bradley’s almost always a perfect gentleman.
He doesn’t ignore you in the daylight, but the two of you never talk about the way he finds himself in your bed most nights rather than not, drunk or sober.
It had started one night when you’d turned down an invitation to go to the Hard Deck, instead choosing to do a night of self care. You’d spent too long doing your eyebrows and managed to get a sheet mask to fully cover your face for once. You lost count of how much time you spent in the shower as an indulgence, and threw on the comfiest clothing you owned. Then, you sat yourself down in front of your TV to numb your mind with some perfectly trashy reality television.
Around 11:30, your phone had rang. Picking it up and squinting at the brightness, you saw Bradley’s face grinning back at you, the picture from one of your many beach days since you’d met.
Despite your best instincts you’d picked up. What if he was stranded? What if something had happened? You’d steeled yourself for the worst.
Instead, Bradley had just opened with a simple, “Hey.”
“Bradley? Is everything okay?” You could hear the noise of the Hard Deck in the background, but it had been yelling and there weren’t any sirens.
“Yeah,” His sigh had come over extra loud through the speakers, “Just uh, was just thinking about you.”
“Okay,” What the hell? You remember mouthing the words to yourself as someone on screen had thrown a drink in someone else’s face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He hadn’t responded to your question, instead he’d just said, “Are you at your apartment?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Bradley is everything–”
“I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he’d hung up with a definitive click.
You’d stared at the dimming screen of your phone for probably almost five minutes. Surely he couldn’t have been that drunk–god, was he planning on driving? Calling him during that was probably a bad idea.
Great, leave it to Bradley to stress you the fuck out on a Friday evening when you’d been aiming for peace. You’d tried to refocus on your show, but you weren’t even paying attention to the words.
No more than five minutes later, there had been a knock at your door. You’d stood slowly, not sure that this was actually happening.
You’d opened the door to a Bradley with flushed cheeks and a glint in his eye, leaning against the railing outside your apartment. It was only after a moment of silence that you realized you were wearing an old Navy shirt of his, loaned to you at the beach a few weeks ago. You could feel the way his eyes started at your legs and dragged up your frame, taking everything in.
“Bradley?”
He’d pushed off the railing and backed you into your apartment, letting the door swing shut behind the two of you. You’d backed into the living room til your back hit a wall, your heart in your throat. You couldn’t look away from him, not with the way he’d been crowding into your space, leaning into you.
“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was a tone he’d never used on you before, and you remember the way your heart had hammered in your chest.
He’d been so warm and so close, setting all of your nerve endings on fire. It wasn’t that you hadn’t realized that Bradley was attractive–the man’s whole job was to stay in shape and be clean cut. He was beautiful. But you’d kept that to yourself, afraid of crossing that line, afraid that you’d ruin something that was turning out to be one of the strongest friendships you’d had in years.
You still feel that fear, despite all the lines that have been crossed since that moment.
The way he’d kissed you had wiped every thought from your head. His hands had slid up your thighs to grip at your waist under his shirt hanging loosely on you. His mouth had moved smoothly against yours, making you sigh and wrap your arms around his shoulders.
By the time the two of you had made your way into your bedroom, he’d lost every piece of clothing but his briefs and his dog tags. They’d dug into your sternum as you’d pressed yourself against him, the cool metal warming quickly between the two of you.
The way your blood had been rushing in your ears from adrenaline had drowned out the way he’d murmured to himself as he’d kissed down your body. He never did pull his shirt off you. He’d simply maintained his grip on your hips, lifting your thighs over his shoulders as he’d pulled your panties down and licked desperately into you.
Your hands had gone to his hair out of reflex. He had been rocking you steadily and you think you’ll always remember how you felt when you’d realized it was because he was grinding his hips against the bedframe, so turned on from getting his mouth on you.
He’d eaten you out like a man starved, his nose bumping into your clit as his tongue fucked you. It had been messy and loud but you hadn’t cared about the neighbors or your dignity, not with the way his fingers had finally curled into you.
“Bradley,” You’d gasped when you finally came, back arching and fingers tightening in his hair to the point where your knuckles ached.
He’d held you through it, had let you rock your hips against his face and not complained at all. In fact, he’d seemed delighted by the way you’d let yourself just feel, pleasure wracking your body and consuming your mind in a haze.
Kissing his way up your body, he’d slid his hands under the shirt and groped you gently. You remember the way your mind had stayed cloudy and you’d floated, tethered only to the real world by the way his thumbs flicked gently at your nipples.
“I’m here, I’m here,” He’d panted into your mouth as you whined when he’d sat back slightly to kick off his briefs and hitch your thighs over his waist, “I’ve got you.”
The first time Bradley had ever slid his cock into you, you knew you’d never be the same, that you’d never be able to go back. Not when he’d kept himself hovering over you just barely, propped up on his elbow, with his lips still brushing yours and his dog tags catching in the sheen of sweat along your sternum. Not when he rocked into you inch by inch, making the world around you blur into nothingness.
You’d let yourself fall apart under him, let yourself sink into the mattress and just take whatever he was willing to give you. He’d fucked you deeper and more gently than anyone before–to this day, you’re not even sure you can classify it as ‘fucking’, that always felt too vulgar for the way he’d brushed his lips over your cheekbones and murmured sweet nothings.
But saying Bradley had, and still does, made love to you means trying to find something from nothing, means discerning some sort of level of connection he’s never made clear. You’re not trying to break your own heart more than you already are.
In spite of that, you can’t forget the way he’d held you like you were precious, like you were everything to him. He’d cum inside you with a guttural moan, a punched out gasp at the way you’d clenched around him. It had made you realize that was all you’d ever wanted, Bradley warm around you and inside you, him making you feel complete in a way you hadn’t known you weren’t whole before.
He’d been a perfect gentleman when you’d both come down, easing out of you so he could clean up. He’d massaged your thighs and hips where you were sure you would’ve been aching the next morning if he hadn’t, had apologized under his breath at the fingerprints now dotying your hips. He’d thumbed at the collar of the Navy shirt where it had stayed on your frame the entire time, looking pensive but never saying anything.
You’d woken up alone the next morning, a sticky note on the bedside table reading–Had to run for work. Thanks for having me over. A messy heart and a hastily scrawled Bradley closing off the message.
And so it went. So it goes.
During the day, you and Bradley are the paragon of good friendship–he’ll send you memes when he gets access to his phone in between flights and lessons, you’ll pick him up after work to go to the beach. The two of you don’t talk about it–because what is there to talk about?
No words are ever exchanged about the way that Bradley clears out a drawer for you at his place, you just find a few of the things you’d left at his place in there one day. You never give back his Navy shirt, not when you find yourself wearing it more often than not. Nothing is said about how you start picking up his favorite flavors of ice cream and his preferred brand of coffee creamer, you just make a habit of throwing them into your cart when you go to the store.
And everything is fine. It really is. You disregard the side glances from Phoenix and Bob as they see you leave with Bradley on Friday and Saturday nights, you ignore the way Hangman wiggles his eyebrows at you when Bradley insists on paying for your drinks. Just friends, is all. Just friends.
They can make their assumptions, whisper while you’re out of ear shot, but they don’t see the quiet, comfortable domesticity that you and Bradley engage in when the two of you are alone. You go back to his after beach afternoons since it’s closer to your favorite spot, and the two of you will shower (separately) and make dinner together. Sometimes you’ll sleep over if you’re working remote the next day, sometimes you’ll go home.
On weekends, Bradley picks you up in the morning, trunk holding a cooler full of drinks and snacks, and you two will go to the beach again or go on a hike. Sometimes Phoenix or Bob or the whole crew will come along, sometimes they won’t.
Just friends. And it’s fine.
Until everything isn’t fine.
Bradley and you have been at this for a few months now, and you can feel yourself cracking. You’re reaching out to kiss him when you do wake up together, before your brain is awake enough to stop you, reminding you that that’s not what you two do. On an outing to a boardwalk teeming with life and populated by those games you can win stuffed animals at, you resist the urge to press him against the railing of the pier and lick the taste of your shared gelato cone out of his mouth.
When the dam finally breaks, it begins like any other night. You have a margarita and a half in you, some concoction that Phoenix insisted you try that’s actually good. Bradley’s already done a rendition of My Way at Penny’s request, but for now the jukebox is blaring some 80s hit Hangman picked out.
You can feel yourself swaying to the beat, just letting the warmth of the moment sink in as you’re surrounded by your friends, the people you love.
“Hi,” Bradley breathes into your ear as he sidles up next to you, his arms coming to settle around your waist. You can feel his warmth through the flimsy fabric of the dress you’ve got on.
“Hi Brad,” He hates it when people call him that–lets you get away with it though. “What’cha doin’?”
“Waitin’ for you.” He leans his entire body weight against you, making you slump against the table you’re standing next to.
“Ah! Bradley, stop it.” You try to stand, but the way he’s laughing makes it hard to shake yourself from his grip, “What do you mean you’re waiting for me? I’m waiting for you.”
The grin he shoots you is electric, and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, right here in the middle of the Hard Deck, with all your friends around and in Penny and Mav’s line of sight. That thought makes your heart skip a beat.
“Come home with me?” He whispers, just barely letting his voice rise above the background noise, and when you don’t respond immediately, “Or let me take you home?”
That’s all it takes, really, for you to agree. The way he’s so willing, so malleable, for you. You’re leading him out by the hand without responding to his questions, making your way to the Bronco that’s parked in the back corner of the lot.
Bradley keeps the foolish grin on his face the entire time he drives back to your apartment. The warmth radiating from him doesn’t abate when he licks into your mouth once the two of you are inside. One of his palms rests against your heart, the other working its way up your thigh and inside your panties that are already damp.
“You’re so good to me,” He murmurs, dipping his fingers below your waistband and brushing through your curls, feeling just how slick you are.
All you can do is whine as he picks you up and makes his way to your bedroom. For once, he doesn’t trip or stub his toe on anything, and it somehow heightens the intensity. Normally, you and Bradley seek comedic relief of some sort, something to cut the tension and keep it from making your chest tighten in a way that feels like a warning. This time, you aren’t granted any such reprieve.
He undresses you slowly and deliberately, letting his fingertips drag lightly up your sides and over your shoulders. He shrugs his Hawaiian shirt off easily, and lets you yank his wife beater over his head without complaint.
Then, the two of you are just staring at each other, both panting lightly. You’re propped up on your elbows, staring up at him only in your panties. Bradley’s got one hand about to pop the button of his jeans, but he’s frozen. You feel like you can’t move but also like something might be changing.
You don’t want it to change, you don’t want to lose Bradley in more ways than one. If this is what he’s willing to give you, you don’t want this to change.
He nearly falls over when his foot gets stuck in his jeans, and even that doesn’t break the tension. Once he’s climbing over you, enveloping you, kissing up your stomach and neck, you forget all about decorum and keeping up appearances.
The whine that echoes around the room is pathetic and high pitched, but it’s the only way you think to communicate to Bradley how bad you need him in that moment. His hips are rocking gently against yours and you want the layers gone, you need to feel him.
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” And his hands are around your hips, dragging your underwear off you unceremoniously.
Although he makes a good attempt at going down on you, you don’t let him. You dig your fingers into his shoulder and yank at his hair to keep his face level with yours and kiss him desperately.
“I want to eat you out, please?” The depth of his voice sends a shiver through you.
Normally he wouldn’t even have to ask, but you don’t want that right now. You just want to feel him inside you.
“Need you in me, please,” You take a heaving breath before the pleading spills out of you, “Pleasepleasepleaseplease–”
He shushes you as you scrunch your face up, not knowing how else to convey your desires in that moment, “Okay. I’ve got you, it’s okay.”
You almost wail in protest when his fingers slide into you. You can’t figure out why you feel like you’re burning up from the inside out, why you feel so fucking needy.
“Sweetheart you gotta let me prep you somehow, just–”
You feel like the embarrassment might kill you when you keen at the feeling of his fingers inside you. The way you’re trying to be good, you really are, because he does have a point. Plus, you have to be fair to Bradley, this isn’t just about you.
So you hold still, let him work his fingers in and out of you as you pant and clutch at his shoulders like a lifeline. His mouth presses against yours, works its way over your cheeks and down your throat. He sucks a mark gently into your collarbone, and you ignore the way your brain reminds you about having to cover that up for work.
He doesn’t shut up the entire time, just keeps telling you how good you’re doing for him, how good you feel, how he’s been thinking about this all night. The world seems to go right-side up again when he pushes into you.
You whimper at the way he rocks his hips ever so gently before pulling out. He kisses you again and again, only letting his lips leave yours so he can kiss your forehead or cheeks. The motion of his hips is a steady tempo, he keeps time with your breaths that turn into moans when you start feeling that telltale coil in your stomach.
He runs his tongue along your teeth and you’re done for. You clench down on him and dig your nails into his skin, bucking your hips up as your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave.
Bradley fucks you through it like every other time, yes, but this time there’s something about the way he stutters out a moan and his hips match the faltering rhythm as he finishes right after you. The shallow rocking of his hips continues and you try to ignore the prickling of tears at the corners of your eyes.
Something tells you that this time, you shouldn’t have let Bradley take you home. When he pulls his face back from yours and he rolls the two of you onto your sides without pulling out, he’s got this look on his face that screams unspoken words. He cups your face and strokes your cheekbone with his thumb without saying anything.
The two of you are quiet as he cleans you up, as you dress yourself in another one of his shirts.
When you wake up the next morning, Bradley isn’t there. It doesn’t shock you necessarily, sometimes he stays, sometimes he has to leave to be on time for work.
What does send a terrible feeling trickling down your throat and into your stomach is the post-it, all four square inches covered in sloppy hearts. Bradley had signed his name in the bottom left corner, characteristic chicken scratch labeling it as him even if the name wasn’t enough.
This has to end.
Don’t pick up the phone, he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone.
You last about three rings before you cave in, waiting for the sound of his voice to echo around the apartment. You’re holding your breath.
“I knocked.” Is all he says before you’re on your feet, making your way to the door.
There he is, and although you know he isn’t really drunk, you know he’s got a beer or two in him from the way he doesn’t try to hide how he looks at you. You hate the way you’re weak for him.
You’ve been caving to him more than once a week since that first night, since Bradley had knocked your world off kilter. Though you’re in bed together almost every night, whether at his place or yours, you don’t have sex nearly every time. Part of you thinks that might make it worse. It really had been fine at first, but the first morning you’d cried at the sight of that sticky note covered in hearts, you’d known you had to try and put an end to this.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” He tries, a crooked grin splitting his face as he walks toward you, but you know he doesn’t mean his words at all.
“Bradshaw, have you been drinking?” You want to not want this, want to not want the way his gaze pins you down, the way the length of his body against yours just feel so right.
Let him being drunk and you being sober be the excuse, you beg silently. You can’t manage to force out that maybe he should go home, sleep this off in his own bed. You can’t find it in yourself to tell him to leave, to reject his advances. Watching as if outside your own body, he shuts the door behind him and walks up to you.
Your chest aches with unconfessed feelings when he takes your face in his hands and lets his forehead rest against yours. His lips are soft and warm against yours, his mustache tickling you lightly when it brushes against your face. The whine you let out matches his soft groan, and the two of you stand there making out for a few minutes, almost as if you’re both content to just drink each other in without further motives.
“I’ve got you sweetheart, I’ve got you,” And he’s picking you up.
You yelp at the way you’re suddenly lifted from the ground and you bury your face in his neck. You hate heights, your feet off the ground anything more than a few inches sends you spiraling in short order. But it’s Bradley who’s holding you, and some part of you knows he’d never let you fall, never let you crash into the ground.
The way you two fall into your bed is too natural, it makes your stomach churn. His fingers find their place on your hips, around your thighs. It’s all too easy. You wish it would be a bit more awkward, that the chemistry could be imagined or false–instead you’re confronted by the way your bodies flow with one another’s all too easily.
Again, somehow, you’re in nothing but his Navy shirt.
Maybe I should give it back, the thought flits through your mind and you feel guilty immediately. Bradley always seems to take a special sort of pleasure from fucking you in his shirt, and you selfishly want to keep that bargaining chip, to have something that tethers him to you. If he won’t come back to press you into your sheets, then maybe he’ll come back one last time to get his shirt when this inevitably unravels.
“Sweetheart,” He groans softly when his fingers reach the way you’re embarrassingly wet between your legs.
It takes everything in you not to jerk back from his touch–you still don’t know how to confront the way you’re so responsive to his touch. His mere presence.
“I missed you.”
It slips out before you can stop yourself, your lips part and you breathe the words before you can do anything about it. He chooses that exact moment to dip a fingertip into your fluttering, but empty, hole, and you arch your back and moan. Instead of responding, he kisses you hungrily, all pretense gone.
This isn’t something entirely tender, not anymore. He’s searching for something, a certain reaction, with the way he adds and then curls his fingers inside of you. He finds it when you jerk underneath him at the way he pets at that spot inside you you can never seem to reach on your own.
He mumbles against your lips, “There you go,” As you squirm under him, the press of his fingers inside you relentless.
He works his fingers in and out of you, not taking anything in return. It’s all you can do to hold on to him and whine pitifully. Every sensation feels amplified, feels electric because it’s him.
The two of you settle into a familiar rhythm for as long as it takes for Bradley to make you cum the first time. You’re rocking against him through the aftershocks and you can feel the way he’s hard against you through his clothes.
He’s still dressed. The realization sends a bolt of shame through you, but it doesn’t linger long.
He’s shoving his jeans down his legs, not bothering with wiping his hand clean and you shiver at the thought that he’ll have to put them on again, you streaked across them. He makes quick work of his boxers too, and it occurs to you that he must’ve lost his shirt somewhere along the way when he presses his bare chest against your still clothed one.
“Bradley, Bradley,” You chant, “Take off my shirt.”
It’s the most demanding you’ve probably ever been with him, but he laughs at you anyways. There’s a glint in his eye as he sits up, his hard cock bobbing between his thighs. The sight of his naked form between your spread legs makes you swallow hard and your mouth water.
“I like you in my shirt.” There’s something unsaid there, something about claims and ownership that isn’t truly possession, but a reminder of who belongs to whom regardless.
You pull it off your head in protest, and grab his wrist to drag him back down to you. You let yourself indulge in trailing a hand down the firm planes of his body down to where he’s smearing precum against your thigh. He’s heavy and pulsing in your hand and a light hiss rushes through his clenched teeth when you grip him tightly and twist with your wrist.
“Fuck, fuck, not gonna last if you–” Bradley cuts himself off with a groan as you swipe your thumb over his head.
It’s your turn to laugh, “You just got here.”
“Well, have you ever had sex with yourself? It’s tough out here–give a guy a break.”
The both of you dissolve into giggles at that, as you try to imagine how you would look sprawled under yourself. You can’t picture it, but the image of Bradley under or over you makes you think you might understand.
He lines his hips up with yours once you’re both done making fools of yourself at the thought of you having sex with yourself (it reminds you of a drunk hypothetical you’d spent thirty minutes on with Hangman once–would you have sex with a clone of yourself?).
The first push of him inside you cuts through the lighthearted mood immediately. It always shocks you how perfectly he fits inside you despite his size, how incredibly full you feel when his hips meet yours. The gentle friction of the neat curls at the base of his cock against your clit always provides a stimulation that makes your brain go fuzzy.
The snap of his hips against yours is more intense this time, a sort of rhythm that makes you briefly think about the way the headboard might start knocking against the wall. But all thoughts, really, fly out of your head when Bradley brings a hand up to your nipples, the steady stroke of his fingers over the swell of your breasts as practiced and knowing as everything else he’s doing to you.
All you can do is run your hands down his back, scratch your nails against his skin ever so often when he brushes against something so sweet and perfect inside you. You clench around him just to see the reaction it’ll get, and you’re rewarded with a broken groan.
“You’re not fighting fair,” He gasps, and he hitches one of your thighs up so he can press more insistently into you.
You have a clever comeback somewhere in you–something about how you weren’t aware that the two of you were fighting, but it’s swallowed as he presses his lips into yours again. He seems absolutely intent on showing you exactly how you make him feel because the sensations of pleasure become overwhelming.
“Fuck sweetheart, you feel perfect, god you’re so wet for me,” He’s rambling mindlessly, but you let it happen, clinging to any expression of emotion, any sliver of dedication in his tone that you can hold on to til the next time you find yourself in this position.
You know he’s close when his grip on your thigh tightens forcefully and the strokes go from long and deep to slightly shorter and stunted. He’s grunting and gasping, but it’s all the best thing you’ve ever heard.
“Come for me Bradley, I want to feel you,” And at that, he follows your orders, listens to you for once in his life.
Everything is hazy as he keeps himself hovering over you and continues to rock his hips. You start to try and tell him he can pull out before his fingers find your clit and he dives back in to kiss you passionately.
Bradley is a perfectionist at heart, an overachiever. You suppose it isn’t entirely ridiculous that that extends to his performance in the bedroom–he’s insistent you finish every time, and always more than him. Feeling the way he’s still warm and heavy inside you, his lips firm against yours, brings you over the edge more quickly than you’d like to admit.
Still, you heave a shuddering gasp and let the pleasure wash over you. It’s overwhelming and all consuming, but he’s there through all of it til you feel yourself come back into your own body.
You think he might be writing something on your skin, the way his finger loops and dips softly over your hip bone as he kisses you gently. He’s softening inside you and you can feel the mess the two of you made under your hips, except he isn’t moving, not yet at least, to rectify that situation.
For once, you don’t push him to go clean up or scold him for another set of ruined sheets, you just let yourself bask in the moment as you imagine a world where the two of you will talk about this in the morning. You think of a timeline where this is where you end up because it’s where you’re meant to be, not because it’s something you’re choosing despite how it hurts you every time. You think of a place where Bradley is yours and you are his, wholly and completely.
Don’t let him in, you’ll have to kick him out again.
“Didn’t you have a date tonight?” You breathe into his mouth.
Bradley just hums in response, brushing his lips over yours, down your jawline and your throat. His breath comes in warm puffs over your collarbones before he pulls back.
Hands pinned above your head, you squirm under his gaze. There’s something so intense about the way he’s looking at you, but you can’t bring yourself to squeeze your eyes shut to avoid it. Both of you lost your clothes somewhere on your way to the bedroom, and you’re thinking about how to persuade him to be the one to pick it all up when this is inevitably over.
He smells like expensive cologne, and he’s got some product in his hair that made it difficult for you to brush your hands through it earlier. Plus, Phoenix had been dropping unsubtle hints earlier in the week (Hangman had affectionately called her out, a little sigh following— “You’re being such a shit stirrer.”)
“Bradley,” You try again, this time with a slight whine.
Did he seriously ditch some girl that’s probably been waiting on their date all week for this?
He responds by whispering your name back to you, the same tone undercutting the way he says it, “That doesn’t matter, I’m here now.”
The urge to keep complaining rises in you but he preempts your worries by licking into your mouth when you open it.
He presses you into the mattress, weighing you down as he kisses you languidly, as if he’s trying to taste every part of you, as if he’s trying to memorize the sounds that escape you when he does. The warmth of his body makes your mind fog, and for the time being, everything else but this goes quiet.
Distantly, you know that in the morning, he’ll have to leave. At the very least, he’ll have to go back to his to grab his stuff for the beach, a change of clothes. It isn’t kicking him out, but watching him leave again and again has started to build this pit at the bottom of your stomach.
It would be different, you think, if the two of you were together. Because then, him leaving wouldn’t mean much where there would be an implicit promise and understanding that he was going to come back. Every time he closed the door behind him, you swallowed the fear that that would be your final memory of him.
You’re selfish though. And you want to focus on the feeling of his touch instead of thinking about how you may never get to have this again.
He makes it easy. Bradley pulls his shirt off and his dog tags make a gentle clinking sound as they hit each other and then finally come to rest on his chest. He looks like a god, backlit by the setting sun coming through your windows.
This is how you want to remember him. Smiling down at you as he dives back in to kiss you breathless, twitching when you skim your fingertips up his sides because he’s ticklish.
He makes short work of your shirt and sleep shorts, then his jeans are discarded. He stops briefly when his fingers reach the waistband of your underwear, a silent question that you answer by lifting your hips and letting him pull them off you.
Every time he’s between your legs, he has this reverent look on his face, and it makes your chest twist at the fact that this time is no different. He holds your thighs open gently but firmly, and he presses his face into your pussy. Then, his tongue is darting out and licking up your core, flat and wide.
You’d asked him once, if he likes going down on you. With a gleam in his eye, Bradley had said it was second only to being inside of you. You think of that as he eats you out enthusiastically, as you bury your hands in his hair and pull.
He slides his tongue in and out of you, curls it around your clit and sucks in a way that makes your back arch and your thighs clenched around his head. Then, he’s slipping a finger inside and fucking you slowly with it. It makes you shiver as you realize how close you are.
“Sweetheart, fuck, you taste incredible,” He murmurs, more to himself than anything else, pulling back briefly to make eye contact and you feel the way your breath quickens at the intensity of his gaze.
It only takes a few more minutes of him licking into you, tonguing at your clit, and adding another finger before you feel that familiar swooping in your stomach, before you’re choking out his name. Your back arches so much it aches, but it’s all you can do as the pleasure is all consuming. Bradley works you through it like every other time, holding you and letting you take what you need from him.
Then, he’s on you in an instant, kissing you furiously and sliding his hardness up and down you, covering himself in your slick. It’s filthy and sloppy but neither of you seem to mind. He lets himself rut against you til you’re hooking your legs around him and digging one of your heels into his back.
“Alright, alright,” He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but you know he’s more affected than his light tone lets on.
The first push into you is always the most intense, but you suck in a deep breath that you force out through your teeth.
“I know, I know,” He croons, pressing little kisses all over your face as you adjust to him.
Bradley inches into you slowly, inch by inch. The initial stretch subsides til it’s replaced by the sweetest feeling of fullness, the way you can feel all of him.
If there’s one thing the Navy’s good for, it’s the sheer strength Bradley possesses and has to maintain. You feel it in the way he fucks you, his back muscles rippling as you hold on for dear life. You feel it in the way his hips press into yours, shunting you slightly up the mattress.
For a while, the only sounds in the room are his hips meeting yours and the slick between the two of you. Momentarily, he pulls away from kissing you to look down to where he’s disappearing inside of you, that ring of you collecting at the base of his cock. His groan is guttural and broken.
“Fuck, Bradley, it feels so good.”
He leans down again to kiss you sloppily, and the simple action of him burying a hand in your hair and twisting his wrist makes your heart skip a beat. He always knows exactly what you need when you need it.
“C’mon, come for me, sweetheart, let me feel you.”
And because you’ve never been able to deny him anything, there you are, hurtling over the edge again. He’s everywhere around you, inside you, and his tongue in your mouth is the last thing you need to feel that wave crest inside of you. Bradley’s moan is deep as he feels you bare down on him and he follows you shortly after.
The moments after, when the glow is still settling and your mind is still hazy, are your favorite. Your mind is too foggy to focus on the fact that you know he’ll be leaving, but present enough to feel the way he doesn’t stop pressing kisses to your lips. You’re cognizant of how he cleans you up tenderly and presses his fingers into the skin of your thighs and hips just to watch it dimple.
In those precious few minutes, that’s all that exists to you.
Don’t be his friend, you know he’s going to wake up in your bed in the morning. If you’re under him, you’re sure as hell not getting over him.
You’re trying to ignore him, you really are. You start going to the beach an hour earlier than you usually do, hoping that he’s maintaining his schedule. Every tall brunette jogging across the sand sends your heart into overdrive.
You still see Bradley when you go to the Hard Deck for a drink, but you keep a respectable distance between the two of you. If Phoenix mentions a round of pool, you jump at the chance, while asking Bob and Payback if they’d like to be the opposing team. You ignore the way your heart jumps into your throat when you can feel his eyes on you.
Every note of Great Big Balls of Fire feels like a stab in the chest, and you hold back tears of frustration when you see some girl wrap her arms around his neck and rock along with him as he belts out the lyrics. You’re a fool.
You’ve been ignoring his calls about Saturday morning beach runs and the memes he sends during the day go unanswered except for the little reactions iPhones let you send. You suppose it’s only fair that he gets to ignore you a little bit too.
Your little charade doesn’t last long, not truly in the grand scheme of things. Bradley doesn’t put up with you skirting his advances for long–he knows what he wants and he’ll be relentless til he gets it. And right now, he’s trying to corner you.
And you’re weak for him. You should’ve known from the start that you wouldn’t be able to resist him. You can’t even now, even when you’re only getting him in pieces.
It’s not exactly your bravest moment to be hiding slightly behind Phoenix so he can’t see you (if you can’t see him, he can’t see you, right?) while she stares at you with an endlessly amused expression in her eyes. She doesn’t move to expose you, though.
“What’cha doin’?” Her tone is light, but you can tell she means business.
The two of you are friends yes, but she’s known Bradley for a million times longer. There’s some girl-girl solidarity, but if you were in her shoes, you might have a few bones to pick about potentially throwing Bradley to the wolves on this one. You wonder for a moment if he’s been talking to her about all this, but again, is there even anything to talk about?
“Just uh, trying to see where Hangman’s at?” You sound like you’re asking her a question, and she quirks an eyebrow.
She stretches the syllables of her next word out, letting it hang in the air, “Right. Even I don’t look at Hangman with that sort of intensity.”
That’s not entirely true, but you don’t really feel like getting into a competition with Phoenix of all people, over who’s looking at whom how.
“Sweetheart? Can we talk?”
You’d let Phoenix distract you for just a split second, and there he is, in all his glory. Bradley is beautiful, yes, but he looks tired. His sunny’s are hanging haphazardly from a floral button down that looks like it’s maybe seen better days, and he’s got dark circles marring the perfect tone of his tanned skin.
This time, Phoenix just side-steps you and lets Bradley into your space.
His presence is just as affecting there, in the middle of the Hard Deck, as it was the first time you saw him on the beach. Even with how tired he looks, he’s still glowing just slightly in the evening sun.
“Hi, Bradley,” You breathe, not daring to speak louder, as if that would make the moment real.
You can feel Phoenix’s eyes on you, the way that Bob and Payback are starting to let their attention drift to from the game of pool. This, you don’t want anyone else to be witness to. This is something between just the two of you. You don’t really need the whole world to witness your imminent heartbreak.
“I don’t want to do this here, is my place okay?” He looks so nervous, as if you’re going to push him away. It’s funny really, what you know is about to happen, and yet he still looks like this is about to break him entirely.
Nodding, you let him lead you out of the bar. It feels like deja vu, how however many weeks ago you were tracing these exact steps but making your way towards a very different fate.
The two of you are silent in the Bronco, and Bradley doesn’t bother turning the radio up to belt along to the 80s classic on the radio. Everything feels like you’re underwater, like the world is out of focus. You think you might start crying, but you try and swallow it down, be an adult.
Pulling into the driveway, it’s silent in the car when he turns the engine off. Neither of you go to get out, but you know you can’t sit here forever. This had to happen at some point, had to come to a close. That doesn’t make getting out of the car and waiting for Bradley to unlock the door any easier, though.
You toe off your shoes and let him get you a glass of water. Then, you’re standing on opposite sides of his kitchen, the pristine shine of the countertops and appliances making him feel a thousand miles away. You two are usually tumbling in, mouths locked together, or walking in with groceries, prepared to spend a comfortable evening cooking and watching a movie. This is everything coming apart at the seams.
“Bradley,” You start, not really knowing where you’re going, but just wanting to break the silence.
He looks distraught and your stomach drops with guilt.
This is your fault.
He says your name once as he settles back against a countertop, and it hangs in the air between the two of you, til he starts speaking again, “I’ve been trying to figure out where I went wrong, what lines I crossed, and I guess at some point I realized it was all of them. I shouldn't have pushed you, I shouldn’t have–”
“I thought that that was all I could have of you, so I was selfish and I took it.” You say, the words tumbling out of you before you can stop yourself from interrupting him, but still unable to tear your eyes away from him, “But I was hurting you. I still am, and god, Bradley, I’ll make it up to you somehow, I’m so sorry.”
It’s almost funny, really, the way you’ll look back on this moment a year from now and laugh at the way the two of you are talking past each other, unwilling to acknowledge that your deepest desires could be attainable. But for now, all you can feel is the guilt in your veins, your heartbeat pounding your chest.
“What?” He’d looked at the floor for a moment, but when you finish speaking he’s looking at you intently. “What did you say?”
Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself and start from the beginning, “I thought that you coming to me, like that, was the only way I could have you. And, and maybe it was me taking advantage because you were sometimes not super sober, but I would never–”
“I was always sober. Every time. I would never do that to you. What do you mean that was the only way you thought you could have me?” Bradley’s standing fully now, not leaning.
“I thought you drank before, to, y’know, make it tolerable.” You regret the words as soon as you say them, “Sorry, that’s–you’re not that kind of person.”
He smiles ruefully, “I’m still focused on the part about that being the only way you could have me.”
Here it is.
“I love you, Bradley. And not just as a friend, but more. But I didn’t want to push that on you, and so I thought–”
“You love me?”
A beat.
“Yes.”
Then, he’s laughing in that hysterical way when people are so overcome, the only way it’ll escape them is if they double over in giggles. But he’s trying to compose himself as quickly as he started.
“I tried to tell you so many times how I felt, I left you all those post-it notes, god, I thought you were seeing them and just didn’t feel the same.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“The hearts. That’s how I,” He heaves a shuddering breath, his voice thick with unshed tears, “That’s how I told my parents I loved them before I could really write. I was saying it to you every time I left.”
“You love me?” You’re crying now, and he squeezes his eyes shut til tears run down his cheeks too.
His laugh is bitter but you know that’s not directed at you, “Was the sticky note covered in hearts not clear enough?”
You feel the way your cheeks warm and your stomach churns as you try and defend yourself, “You were thanking me for letting you sleep over?”
At that, he laughs, genuine this time, breaking the sadness that has been building in the air. Finally, he makes his way across the room to you and crowds into your space, wrapping you in his arms and pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes are closed.
“Sweetheart.” It’s a warning, a plea, and a prayer all in one. “I meant every heart, every I love you, from the very first one I left.”
“I kept them all. In my bedside table.”
Then his lips are on yours. The kiss is salty, reminding you of all the emotion that’s been building for the past few months, every moment you didn’t confess, every moment you assumed the worst, it’s all there. But you don’t want to dwell on that now, now that you’ve heard him say something plucked from your wildest dreams.
“Say it again,” You whisper when his lips leave yours ever so briefly as the two of you are stumbling to the bedroom.
And he does. As he’s undressing you, he says it. He mumbles it against your lips and into your mouth.
He says it against your bare skin as he presses you into his bed, the sheets smelling like him before he puts on cologne. It’s muffled momentarily by the way he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, but you feel the way his jaw works anyways as you cup his face. You let your legs fall open around him and feel the way he slides his fingers into you.
When he’s pressing into you, he’s saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you.
In those moments between start and finish, when the world falls away and all you know is the warmth of his body against yours, the slight slick of sweat on your skin, that’s when you think you realize that he means it. The motion of his hips is deep and insistent, as if to try and leave a permanent reminder that he was there.
You’re crying, you realize. And he’s kissing the tears away like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pressing his forehead to yours as his lips keep forming the words. At some point, you’ve started saying them back to him too, choking them out despite everything so that you know that he knows that you love him.
When you finish, it feels like a supernova exploding inside of you. It starts in the center of your body and pushes its way to your fingertips til you’re gasping for air and he fucks you through it. Bradley cums moments later, filling you with his warmth in a way that’s both familiar and still thrilling.
He rolls gently off you, and you hiss as he slips out. That’ll be a mess to clean up.
But he’s looking at you, brushing your sweaty hair from your face, and his eyes are shining so brightly that it feels like looking at the sun. You want to look away, but you think that losing your vision in return for staring at the way his eyes crinkle in genuine happiness is well worth the price.
I love you, he mouths. And you believe him.
You whisper it back.
tagging: @sebsxphia @roosterbruiser @bradshawburner @gretagerwigsmuse @sometimesanalice @joaquinwhorres @roosterbruiser @roosterforme @bradshawsbitch @seresinsweetie @notroosterbradshaw @genius2050 @peachystenbrough @rhettabbotts @theharddeck - tagging ppl either by request or whom i feel like are horny for bradley soooo pls let me know if you'd like to be added/removed
This fic always gets to me. I've read read it a million times, and every single one, it makes me feel emotional and just overwhelmed with how much I want them to be together. What a masterpiece.
You swept stray wisps of hair back into place, as you stared down into the drum of your washing machine. Your gaze drifted to the tupperware container in your hand and then back to the soapy water.
It'd been fifteen minutes since you started bailing out water with the largest container you had, but the drum was still half-way full. At this pace, you'd be running between the machine and bathroom until three in the morning.
"Motherfucker," you swore, throwing the tupperware at the washer. The hard plastic clanged loudly against the metal side before clattering to the ground.
It wasn't as satisfying of a tantrum as you'd hoped. Not when this was the sixth time in four months that laundry day had turned into a complete disaster.
"Mother-fucking-piece-of shit!" You kicked at the machine between each word, drops of water flying off your rain boot as the echo of each hit reverberated through your apartment.
This outburst felt a little better.
With a heavy sigh, your shoulders drooped and you stared back at your washer, the panel still completely dark. "Why won't you work?" you whined, bending down to embrace the appliance. "Just turn on please," you whispered into the drum. "I promise I'll be nice if you just turn back on this once. I'll never use you again. I'll go to a laundromat and you can retire if you want. I'll even let you stay here–"
There was a knock at your door.
You screwed your eyes shut, lightly banging your head against the washer. Of course. You gave yourself until the next knock to wallow in misery before straightening up and heading for the door.
Naturally, as you moved towards the door, your foot slipped out for the second time today (despite the rainboots you'd put on to prevent it from happening again), and you slid across the floor, finding your footing for a second only to stumble forward as your body continued over your stopped foot, crashing right into the door.
"Are you ok?" the person on the other side called through, and you exhaled through your nose all of the frustration and despair you felt in the moment, plastering on what had to be the most artificial smile you'd ever given.
"I'm fine!" you called back, undoing the locks to pull open the door.
There, standing before you, was an incredibly attractive man.
Because of course there was when you were wearing soaked laundry day sweats tucked into your rainboots, your hair all over the place, cheeks flushed from running the length of the apartment between the washer and tub.
"Hey," his brow furrowed in concern as he took in each part of your frazzled presence. "I'm Joaquín--your downstairs neighbor. I heard some banging and just wanted to make sure everything was ok."
"I'm so sorry," you shook your head. "My washer's broken, so I've been trying to fix it, and I just got a little frustrated. I'll make sure to keep it down."
"No!" he said quickly, waving his hands in front of him. "No, I didn't mean--the noise is fine. I hardly ever hear you which is what made me think to come up. Your washer's broken?" He threw in the last question as if he'd just realized he was rambling and needed to find a way to stop himself.
"Yeah, it won't turn on."
"And you texted Jim?"
You nodded. "He said his guy's on vacation til next Monday, so it'll be Monday or Tuesday at the soonest." As if you hadn't waited until you were completely out of clean underwear to do laundry and could make it five days. Mentally, you added Go to Target to your to-do list.
Joaquin nodded, seeming to mull over the information. "Do you want me to take a look at it?"
You shook your head tiredly. "It's fine. I'm probably about to give it up. I just couldn't go down without a fight."
He grinned at this, and you had to admit, it made you feel the tiniest bit better. "You sure? Fixing machines is kind of my thing." A thought seemed to strike him as he looked a bit horrified for a second and added. "Then again, if you don't want to let a guy you just met into your apartment, I totally understand."
"I mean at this point I'm open to being murdered, so by all means," you stepped back from the door, gesturing for him to come in, and he did so, laughing.
"Sorry, murdering isn't really my thing."
"And I was just starting to like you, Joaquin," you said, dryly, shutting the door behind him.
Proof that I am working on this, and I think it’ll be out this weekend:
"Thanks for coming," you said, earnestly, and he shook his head before you could even finish the last word.
"You don't have to keep thanking me. Or apologizing," he added.
You shrugged, looking down into your tea and watching the steam curl off the top. "I just know it's kinda silly that I'm a grown adult who can't sleep alone."
"Hey," he prompted, causing you to raise your eyes to meet his. "I get it. When I come back from deployment, I always tell everyone that what I'm most looking forward to is having more than ten seconds alone. But at night--it's weird. It just feels extra lonely."
"Is there anything that makes it easier?"
"A noise machine helps a little," he offered, tilting his head from side to side. "But mostly it just takes time to adjust."
"That's...not what I wanted to hear."
He laughed. "Yeah, well, you have me. I'll sleep out on the couch as long as it takes."
An overwhelming thankfulness bubbled up in your chest. “I'm really lucky to have you."
You swept stray wisps of hair back into place, as you stared down into the drum of your washing machine. Your gaze drifted to the tupperware container in your hand and then back to the soapy water.
It'd been fifteen minutes since you started bailing out water with the largest container you had, but the drum was still half-way full. At this pace, you'd be running between the machine and bathroom until three in the morning.
"Motherfucker," you swore, throwing the tupperware at the washer. The hard plastic clanged loudly against the metal side before clattering to the ground.
It wasn't as satisfying of a tantrum as you'd hoped. Not when this was the sixth time in four months that laundry day had turned into a complete disaster.
"Mother-fucking-piece-of shit!" You kicked at the machine between each word, drops of water flying off your rain boot as the echo of each hit reverberated through your apartment.
This outburst felt a little better.
With a heavy sigh, your shoulders drooped and you stared back at your washer, the panel still completely dark. "Why won't you work?" you whined, bending down to embrace the appliance. "Just turn on please," you whispered into the drum. "I promise I'll be nice if you just turn back on this once. I'll never use you again. I'll go to a laundromat and you can retire if you want. I'll even let you stay here–"
There was a knock at your door.
You screwed your eyes shut, lightly banging your head against the washer. Of course. You gave yourself until the next knock to wallow in misery before straightening up and heading for the door.
Naturally, as you moved towards the door, your foot slipped out for the second time today (despite the rainboots you'd put on to prevent it from happening again), and you slid across the floor, finding your footing for a second only to stumble forward as your body continued over your stopped foot, crashing right into the door.
"Are you ok?" the person on the other side called through, and you exhaled through your nose all of the frustration and despair you felt in the moment, plastering on what had to be the most artificial smile you'd ever given.
"I'm fine!" you called back, undoing the locks to pull open the door.
There, standing before you, was an incredibly attractive man.
Because of course there was when you were wearing soaked laundry day sweats tucked into your rainboots, your hair all over the place, cheeks flushed from running the length of the apartment between the washer and tub.
"Hey," his brow furrowed in concern as he took in each part of your frazzled presence. "I'm Joaquín--your downstairs neighbor. I heard some banging and just wanted to make sure everything was ok."
"I'm so sorry," you shook your head. "My washer's broken, so I've been trying to fix it, and I just got a little frustrated. I'll make sure to keep it down."
"No!" he said quickly, waving his hands in front of him. "No, I didn't mean--the noise is fine. I hardly ever hear you which is what made me think to come up. Your washer's broken?" He threw in the last question as if he'd just realized he was rambling and needed to find a way to stop himself.
"Yeah, it won't turn on."
"And you texted Jim?"
You nodded. "He said his guy's on vacation til next Monday, so it'll be Monday or Tuesday at the soonest." As if you hadn't waited until you were completely out of clean underwear to do laundry and could make it five days. Mentally, you added Go to Target to your to-do list.
Joaquin nodded, seeming to mull over the information. "Do you want me to take a look at it?"
You shook your head tiredly. "It's fine. I'm probably about to give it up. I just couldn't go down without a fight."
He grinned at this, and you had to admit, it made you feel the tiniest bit better. "You sure? Fixing machines is kind of my thing." A thought seemed to strike him as he looked a bit horrified for a second and added. "Then again, if you don't want to let a guy you just met into your apartment, I totally understand."
"I mean at this point I'm open to being murdered, so by all means," you stepped back from the door, gesturing for him to come in, and he did so, laughing.
"Sorry, murdering isn't really my thing."
"And I was just starting to like you, Joaquin," you said, dryly, shutting the door behind him.
Proof that I am working on this, and I think it’ll be out this weekend:
"Thanks for coming," you said, earnestly, and he shook his head before you could even finish the last word.
"You don't have to keep thanking me. Or apologizing," he added.
You shrugged, looking down into your tea and watching the steam curl off the top. "I just know it's kinda silly that I'm a grown adult who can't sleep alone."
"Hey," he prompted, causing you to raise your eyes to meet his. "I get it. When I come back from deployment, I always tell everyone that what I'm most looking forward to is having more than ten seconds alone. But at night--it's weird. It just feels extra lonely."
"Is there anything that makes it easier?"
"A noise machine helps a little," he offered, tilting his head from side to side. "But mostly it just takes time to adjust."
"That's...not what I wanted to hear."
He laughed. "Yeah, well, you have me. I'll sleep out on the couch as long as it takes."
An overwhelming thankfulness bubbled up in your chest. “I'm really lucky to have you."
MHM we’re definitely gonna need a full fic of this 😭 and i just KNOW both of them get flustered easily…… let’s just say there’s gonna be a plenty of cold showers in joaquín’s near future
You are SO right.
Also please come off anon and be my friend so we can discuss ideas. 💙
I fear we may have moved on from this too quickly. Like just imagine the aftermath of that? Just going out with Joaquín to the gym and him panting out your name after a particularly taxing exercise, and you just immediately turning red because it reminds you of a certain accidental phone call……….
I can’t and won’t get this out of my head.
Because he definitely notices how you suddenly won’t make eye contact with him. And when he stretches a bit and lets out a small groan, you suddenly seem very tense.
When he thinks over your weird reactions, he considers these maybe you did hear part of his call the other night but didn’t want to say anything.
So even though it’s embarrassing and the absolute last thing Joaquin Torres wants to do, he decides to ask you about it again—this time face to face so you can fully talk it out.
And he was going to do it. He really was.
Until he heard you from the other side of your door.
areudirty
titsay
romaincrisis
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