hangman/rooster - not!fic + anxiety + intimacy + ace!bradley if you squint (and I am squinting)
thinking about a rooster who leaves active duty. settles into civilian life and finally starts getting treatment for the anxiety he’s been riddled with since he was a kid. holds his hands together on his lap in the psychiatrist’s waiting room to hide the way they’re trembling.
thinking about how he decides that the therapy is fine, sure — they aren’t making connections for him that he hasn’t already made himself, though.
(it’s never been about a lack of knowledge, but more a lack of drive spurred by anything other than rage and spite. he knows, logically, why his mind operates the way that it does. he also knows, logically, why it doesn’t matter when he’s self-righteous and managing just fine on his own.)
thinking about how the meds are what really help. he’s been on the receiving end of short term anxiolytics before. the miracle mission was hardly his first close call with death. but this is long-term. this is a daily dose, a rewriring of his exhausted mind, and holy fuck.
(people live like this? people aren’t constantly planning for the next awful thing? there can be peace? why didn’t anyone tell him sooner?)
thinking about how his shoulders no longer feel like they’re constantly level with his ears. how he starts to recognize that the catastrophizing isn’t his first instinct anymore.
thinking about rooster finally making a move and kissing hangman the way he’s wanted to since the day they met, only slowing down when they’re falling into bed together to explain that sometimes the meds have side effects.
thinking about how for their first time, hangman takes it as a personal challenge. pulls all his best moves in an attempt to help rooster come. tries to apologize for coming multiple times himself when he couldn’t even get rooster there once. how rooster laughs and says, “you’ve never apologized to me in your life, seresin. don’t you fuckin’ start now.”
thinking about how there’s a line deepening between jake’s brows as he replays the entire evening in his mind. trying to figure out why he didn’t manage it, what move he has that he didn’t try. how rooster smooths away the wrinkle with his thumb and pulls jake into a kiss.
(“stop, jake. sex is a way to be close, yeah? we can be close without having to come. I wanna be with you. I actually like being with you, god help us all.” “mm, well. according to my parents, he stopped helping guys like us a long time ago.” “oof. don’t let my god-fearing momma hear you say that.” “… Isn’t your mom dead?”)
thinking about rooster settling down with hangman when they finally agree to make a real go of it. buying a place together. holding a drunken funeral ceremony for the box of condoms gathering dust in the bedside table. rooster playing the role of dutiful boyfriend/underpaid lyft driver at the airport after hangman’s latest deployment. waiting in the arrivals terminal with a sign that reads ‘america’s next golden bachelor’ because hangman hasn’t stopped talking about the patch of gray hair on his own head that he’s bravely decided to stop coloring.
thinking about rooster staring up at jake as they move together in their bed, in their home, sweat-slicked and so fucking quiet. jake taking all the time in the world just to help bradley feel good for as long as he wants. not pushing them toward that rush of endorphins anymore — just a steady, constant thrum of pleasure. staying close. drawing it out.
thinking about jake leaning down to kiss him and slowing the roll of his hips until he stops, their bodies pressed together from head to toe.
thinking about jake brushing their noses together. nudging his cock the slightest bit deeper into bradley’s body. breathless and lazy as he rasps, “this close enough for you, rooster?”
thinking about bradley coming so hard he trembles.
