Summary: You finally work up the courage to admit your feelings to Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw but things don’t go your way.
AN: ANOTHER FICCCCCC, I wrote this around midnight... I just had this idea because I need more angsty Bradley Bradshaw fics. That man is f*cking hot as hell. I hope you all enjoy!
Warnings: Angst, fluffy ending, no use of Y/N (call sign is Spades), no smut. Not beta read so there's probably grammar errors
The Hard Deck.
That’s where you knew everyone was going to be tonight. Everyone including your biggest crush, Bradley Bradshaw. After weeks of talking with Natasha and Bob, both have finally convinced you to admit your feelings for the aviator.
“C’mon Spades, everyone sees the way you look at Rooster. They’re starting to catch on.” Natasha muttered to you during your in-flight training last week.
Bob was beside the both when he joined into the conversation, “Everyone ‘cept Rooster, of course,” He replied, pushing his round glasses up from the tip of his nose to ensure they didn’t fall. “We see the way he looks at you too y’know? Just get it over with and talk to him already.”
Easier said than done. You were crushing on your squadron mate longer than you could’ve imagined, a little more than a year since joining Top Gun. It wasn’t until six months ago where your hidden feelings started to manifest to lingering touches, longing stares, and flirtatious memories with the handsome brunette. Yet, neither of you chose to make any moves on one another for fears that military relations weren’t permitted amongst one another and your worst fear: Bradley didn’t actually like you in that way. But that was going to have to change.
So flash forward to this morning when you texted the group chat with Natasha and Bob that you were going to confess tonight. The two of them were very excited and supportive, making sure you wouldn’t try and back out from how nervous you were feeling. Though, you figured you could no longer keep up with the mutual pinning. You would rather learn where you and Bradley stood in your friendship and if something more serious could occur.
As night time rolled in, Natasha and Bob picked you up from your apartment before heading to the bar. “How are you feeling?” Bob questioned, looking back at you in the rear view mirror of his car.
“Honestly, really nervous.” You replied, playing with your hair in agreement with how you felt. You typically had a habit of twirling the strands around your fingers which Bradley found cute when he first noticed it back while you both took the final assessment to score into Top Gun. Additionally, the heart beating in your chest picked up quickly upon pulling into the lot of Hard Deck. Yet, you somehow felt calm without any second thoughts entering your mind, if anything you actually felt ready.
“Don’t be nervous, Spades. We got your six.” Natasha answered reassuringly. All three of you managed to exit the car before heading up the steps to Hard Deck. You knew at this hour it would be packed and all three of you would make a beeline for the bar before gathering with the rest of the crew.
Upon reaching the bar and grabbing beers from Penny, the bartender and owner of the establishment, you take a swig while scanning your surroundings in the crowd for that familiar face. “Hmm, he probably isn’t here yet.” You mumble to yourself, then follow behind your friends as they make their way towards the pool tables where Jake, Mickey, Reuben, and Javy stood, playing a round with their own drinks in hand.
“Hey! You guys made it!” Jake exclaims, giving a pat on Bob’s back, a little too rough for his liking, but nevertheless, Bob enjoyed the greeting. He then hugged both you and Natasha, you noticing the smell of alcohol on him.
“Welcome welcome,” Mickey greeted too, handing over a pool stick in your direction. “We just started, we can do three ‘v four.” He suggested, and you followed through, lining yourself up to make a shot for the green stripes into the pocket.
“We’re solids!” Reuben calls out, taking his own stick and going for solids. The game continues on with each of you taking turns, half-paying attention to the game. The juke box played its classic hits throughout the bar and the shared conversation between all of you occupied your attention the most.
“Where’s Bradley?” You manage to pipe up at the squadron, finishing up the rest of your beer. “Is he coming tonight?”
Jake smirked at you, knowing what this was about. “Yeah he should be. Probably running a bit late. Are you finally going to talk to him about your crush on the Rooster?” He teased you towards the group. You rolled your eyes, ignoring him when all of a sudden you heard your call sign being called out.
“Uhhh Spades,” Natasha clears her throat. You turned to her, watching her gaze over by where she looked past the bar, her brows raised at something. It was Bradley… and he seemed to be… making out with a blonde?
You felt your stomach churn from the sight. “Oh—“ You let out a gasp. Embarrassed, you immediately felt a wave of nausea wash over you and the air grew thick almost like you couldn’t breathe clearly. “I-uh guess that’s my answer.” You mumbled. You felt trapped and with sad eyes staring at you from your crew, you wanted nothing more than to escape the bar as soon as you could. Without skipping a beat you start making your way towards the exit, Natasha attempting to follow close behind.
“Spades… wait up!” She calls aloud, but you lost her fairly quickly in the crowd.
Bradley pulled away from the blonde chick he was with, licking his lips at the taste of cherry lip gloss. He wasn’t too fond of the artificial taste but just as he was about to offer her to buy a drink, he saw you pushing past the crowd towards the exit. “Spades?” He called out loud, unsure if you could hear him over the noises.
You finally were able to push the door open, the crisp night air hitting your face while you took a deep breath. You were almost positive you heard Bradley call out your name but you couldn’t look back, not with tears forming in your eyes, burning as you held them back.
“Spades, babes I’m so sorry.” Natasha finally reached you, wrapping her arms around you in a hug, “Let’s go somewhere. I have Bob’s keys.” She spoke softly, trying to cheer you up. You take her offer, quickly jumping into the car and taking off. When you glance in the side-view mirror, you notice a figure growing smaller as you head farther away: Bradley Bradshaw, a lost look in his eyes.
Bradley cursed at himself. He entered back into Hard Deck, finally making his way towards the squadron, not acknowledging them when he walked up towards Jake. “Hangman, what’s up with Spades?” He questioned, eyes glaring in wonder if Jake or anyone had said something to you that made you sad.
“Rooster-man! Good to see you! And my guess is that Spades saw your ‘lil show with that blonde over there, tell us, what’s her name?” He replied sassily, eyeing over to where the abandoned chick was now talking to another Navy shipman.
“What do you mean?” Bradley answered, confusion building up on his face. “What the fuck does that mean?” He repeated, now looking back towards his crew, their faces looking anywhere else but at Bradley and he knew that something was up that they didn’t want to admit.
Mickey decided to pipe up, “Well umm… it’s just that, Spades and you, we thought-” His matter of stumbling caused Bob to take over.
Bob cleared his throat, “Bradley, Spades was going to ask out tonight, she’s been wanting to for a while now actually.”
“What?” Bradley’s eyes grew wide from Bob’s confession. You had feelings… for him? He groaned at that, running his hands over his face as he realized his own fuck-up. “Fuckkkk.” He groaned aloud, the rest of the crew nodding with lips pursed now that they had cleared the air. “Well, do you know where she and Natasha went?”
They rest shrugged, with some ‘I don’t know’s’ before Bob spoke up once more. “I’m not entirely sure but I know Phoenix and Spades have an ice cream spot around here they like to go to, close to Spades’ apartment. My guess might be they went there.” Bradley knew exactly where that was. The two of you celebrated being accepted at Top Gun there, it was the same time where Bradley knew he had feelings for you, but he suppressed his feelings, not wanting to make your friendship complicated.
Without saying goodbye, Bradley made his way outside the bar, hearing his friends cheer as he went to go and talk to you, wanting to amend things and hopefully, talk about taking the next step. But first, Bradley needed to find you. He ran towards his Bronco, the engine roaring to life as his own mind was racing with thoughts into what he would say when he finally sees you. He pulls out of the lot, driving at a semi-dangerous speed like his life depended on it, which he felt it did.
Just as he saw the ice cream parlor’s glowing sign come into view, Bob’s suspicions were right when he noticed Bob’s car parked outside. Parking sloppily, Bradley wasted no time in jumping out the car before making his way inside, eyes darting towards the two of you in the same corner booth that you and Bradley were in just a year before. “Spades? Phoenix?” The both of you looked up over your shared banana split, your teared eyes slightly red from rubbing away the tears on your sleeves.
“Rooster? Why are you-what are you doing here?” Natasha questioned. “You shouldn’t be here.” Her voice dripped slyly in anger.
“I wanted to talk to Spades. I-I wanted to apologize.” Your own gaze makes your way up towards his face. Even as mad and sad you were, you couldn’t deny that Bradley was the most handsome man you’ve ever met. His own sad eyes met yours and it panged him with guilt in his heart that he was the reason you were crying, yet, you still were beautiful in his eyes. “Spades, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just thought that between you and I, we were always friends and nothing more. Someone as beautiful and intelligent as you would be out of my league and I’ve had to hide my own feelings for my own good because I know that if given the chance, I would take it immediately for my own good because you mean so much to me," You nod slowly, but Bradley keeps going. “Tonight, I brought someone else because I needed to take my mind off of you but when I spoke with Jake and Bob after seeing you run out of the bar, they told me that you wanted to ask me out and in that moment, I felt like I was going to be insane. I never thought I would hear those words that you, Spades, would be into a silly guy like me. I always thought that our dynamic was just platonic, but I should’ve been the one to make a move on you, except that I was too scared of ruining our friendship.”
“But I know now that isn’t the case, so I was just wondering Spades if you could give me another chance-” Cutting him off, you pull down the lapel of his aviator jacket and pull him in for a kiss, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and your other hand caressing his cheek. Bradley’s lips were soft, his mustache tickling along the upper lip of your own, yet the two of you were passionate as he scooted in towards your booth seat, neither of you letting go for the fear it may ruin the sacred moment.
“Alright you two, get a room!” Natasha exclaimed, finally watching how you both separated, resting foreheads on one another. You hand still caressed his cheek while Bradley moves to press a deep kiss on your forehead.
“Have dinner with me? Tomorrow?” Bradley whispers. You pull away, a soft smile appearing as you nod.
“Okay Rooster.” Suddenly, you both felt your phones ping. Bradley grabs it to take a look, showing the screen towards you.
Natasha: These two lovebirds finally talked it out
Underneath it was an attached picture of the two of you kissing. Immediately more messages flooded in.
Authors note; This was a rough draft I decided to post so if there is misspelling or anything like that let me know! This is my first Time writing for Bradley so please let me know how I did!
Summary: He was pulling away but you kept pushing closer even when you knew love shouldn't hurt like that
The rim of the beer bottle was cool against your lips, each sip dulling the ache you felt. Once you heard someone say “Heartbreak is a terrible terrible thing. Mourning someone who is still living, what a cruel thing to endure.” Never did you think that you would understand it in the ways you now did.
Everything was so good, perfect even but slowly things started to fall apart. The cracks were small barely even noticeable but it seemed as if Bradley was dead set on pulling those cracks apart until they made crevices.
The tv was playing lowly in the background as you cooked with Bradley-telling him about everything he has missed while deployed. “What did everyone think about the care package from the kids?” Your question was light filled with anticipation to hear about what the dagger squad thought about the box your class had sent them. “Huh?” Bradley slowly peels his eyes away from where they pinned the backslash to the wall. Furrowing your brows you repeat the question. “The care package? From the kids?” Confusion tainted your words, after all the idea had been his. “Right yeah sorry. Um everyone loved it, it was a hit.” He shakes his head as if trying to convince himself of what he was saying. Raking your eyes over him you try to find something amiss but he looked like he always did, just a little bit tired. Giving a noncommittal hum you return back to cooking once you completed your once over of your boyfriend.
Today was a holiday, a holiday that you didn’t have to do in-service for. You loved your kiddos but you needed a break from school as much as they did. With the free day you decided to make the dagger squad lunch, knowing how little they ate a balanced meal. After packing away all the food and remembering to pack enough for seconds and even leftovers you made you way down to the base. While you had the clearance to be let on the base you didn’t have the clearance to walk around unattended which led you to requesting the help of your boyfriends god father. You had just pulled into a parking spot when Maverick came into sight. “What are you doing here?” He wrapped you in a gentle hug rocking side to side before releasing you. Opening the passenger door your gesture to the seat filled with various boxes and bags. “Bringing everyone lunch.” Maverick gives a tiny fist bump into the air before moving to help grab some bags. Giggling at his antics you follow him with the rest of the food into the large building.
It wasn’t often that you visited Bradley at work but you had visited enough times to know that you were at the front of the hanger in the more “Professional” space. Following Maverick down hallway after hallway you finally are blessed with him shouldering open a door and holding it for you with the tip of his boot. “Look at what the cat dragged in.” The captains voice broke up the different conversations that were going on before you entered.
“Well what do we have here?” Jake eyed the different bags in your arms before grabbing some to help relieve you of the weight. Pulling the one bag Jake hadn’t grabbed you lift it for everyone to see. “I brought lunch.” Unanimously everyone lets out an appreciative groan at the news. Everyone but Bradley. He sat next to Phoenix unblinking. Suddenly the ac was working a little bit too well sending goosebumps along every exposed inch of your body. Moving to help both men unpack the food you can’t help but to cast a puzzled look at your boyfriend. Usually he would jump out of his seat and push the other members out of his way to greet you. This time he sat unmoving, unblinking and unbothered.
After everyone had filled their plates and spread out across the room you found yourself seated next to the one and only Bradley Bradshaw. Bumping your shoulder into his you take in his side profile. Brown hair messy from the wind that had been whipping around all day but bringing no relief from the scorching heat. The bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks where lightly burnt from what you assumed was spending time working out in the sun. He was still as beauty as ever but something has changed, as if his beauty was no longer for you to observe. “Everything ok?” Two simple words but yet they filled you with anxiety causing you to shove your hands under your legs in order to stop from fiddling with them. Slowly he pulls his attention away from the room and onto you. “Yeah why?” His gaze was hard, as if you had disturbed him. “Usually you are the first to greet me when I visit…” Your words trail off as you do another inventory check of his features. The sigh that leaves his lips is heavy and full of down played annoyance. “ ‘M fine. Just been a long day.” Nodding at his words he turns back to his food while you blink back tears burning in your waterline.
With lunch coming to a close you began packing everything back up. Bradley would normally help with condensing the number of things you had to bring back to your car but yet again he remained where he was. “Everything ok over there?” Jake motions with the tilt of his head to who he was referring to. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him. “He’s just tired, said you guys have had a long day.” Even you could hear how unconvincing your words were as you waved your hand around trying to dispel the lump forming in your throat. Hangman gives a unconvinced hum in response before helping pack everything away.
“Me and Miss history are going to take everything back to this new car of hers, since everyone but me has gotten to see it. You gonna say goodbye to your girl Rooster?” The blondes words pull Bradley out of his stupor and forcing his hand. Reluctantly he pushes himself off of the couch and over to you. “I’ll see you at home.” His words feel hollow against your forehead where he placed a feather light kiss. Somewhere deep down you knew you just hugged him for the last time.
“Love shouldn’t be this hard.” The mantra repeated in your head day and night. “It should not be this hard.” Words softly fell from your lips more often then anything else. Each day you would come home and he wouldn’t be there and when he was an argument always ensued. And each time you never knew what it was about but you would be damned if you let him talk to you that way, so you fought back. Another night of an endless onslaught of words you couldn’t follow. No matter how much he said you could not find the origin point and it was driving you crazy. “I don’t know what you are talking about!” Your sudden outburst caught both of you off guard. Those golden eyes you loved so dearly narrowed on you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He thrusted a finger in your direction but the cold calloused tone of his voice hurt more than his accusation. Swiftly spinning on his heel he takes off to the bedroom slamming the door shut causing the rattle to echo through the now quiet space. Opening and closing your mouth you run both hands through your hair in frustration while glancing around the room as if the furniture could provide you the answers you were so desperately seeking.
With each passing day the tension keep rising. The apartment was beginning to run out of room for anything other than Bradley’s anger. He refused to even acknowledge your presence since he accused you of knowing what you were doing. Your breaking point came after a night out at the hard deck with the whole squad. All night he would move to be on opposite sides of the room if you dared to approach him, leaving you to sit by yourself. Yes you were with the squad, yes you were technically surrounded by people but you were so alone. These were his friends not yours. They accepted you as an extension of Bradley. You were always an outsider to the group and now more then ever before.
They could tell something was wrong but no one dared to push the subject if fear of what it would do to their own relationship with the fighter pilot. So they played clueless as your boyfriend ignored you in favor of pretending you didn’t exist. His behavior stung in ways you could not even began to put words to. The old Bradley would have never treated you this way and even frowned upon those who treated the women in their lives with nothing but the upmost respect. Oh how the tide has changed.
After the night had come to and end and you had escorted a tipsy Bradley into the apartment he mumbled under his breath pushing you away from him. “What?” Your tone was sharp, cutthroat even. “I’m not doing this right now.” Irritation dripped from his words coating the air in insufferable silence. A beat of silence passed before either of you said a word. The window you had left cracked open did nothing to cool of the simmering anger between the two of you. Soft lighting from the lamp did nothing to dampen his face twisted in frustration. “No you are going to do this now because I’m am tired of walking around on eggshells around you Bradley. What the fuck is going on?”
A humorless laugh rang out sending a shiver down your spine. You could feel your back straitening and steeling itself as if in attempt at preparing you to withstand the inevitable blow you were about to endure. “You wanna know what the fuck is going on? Whats going on is that I gave up on you a long time ago. I gave up on you, on this relationship, and everything in between months ago but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you because I knew how you would react.” He gestures to your face where it was frozen in shock. “That is exactly what I am talking about. I am done. I am done with you. I’ll give you a week to figure out where you are going to live, I’ll stay somewhere else but I expect you to be gone by the end of the week.” He left no room for an argument. Shouldering past you he throws himself back out of the door he had entered mere minutes ago.
Three months had passed since you last seen Bradley but the wound of heartbreak was still as fresh as ever. Every morning you woke up feeling nauseous, eye blood shot and overall sickly looking. The person looking back at you in the mirror no longer looked like you. You couldn’t even recognize the person before you. Bradley’s shirt hung off your shoulders, now with the rapid weight loss it almost swallowed you whole.
Every time you opened your eyes you had to remind yourself that your relationship was really over. And every time you broke your heart. Bradley had been everything you knew from the moment you met in high school to the moment he blew up your relationship. You followed him everywhere he went, always offering support, cheering him on and giving him a shoulder to lean on. You thought he was the one. Never in a million years did you think he would be the one to shatter your heart, trust and soul into a dust so finely milled you had to spot at putting it back together.
Your new apartment was silent. There wasn’t any tv noise playing in the background from one of Bradley’s shows, the noise of him scrolling through social media with the volume turned half way up wasn’t there, his under the breath humming was gone. He was gone. Part of you hoped that he would come knocking at your door begging for forgiveness but the resounding knock never came. And you couldn’t help but to think that if you did something different none of this would have never happened, you could of been forgiven for whatever it was that you did.
But none of your wishes mattered because Bradley made his decision and now it was time to make yours. A car stuffed full of boxes was waiting for you in the parking lot but for now you held the rim of the beer bottle to your lips hoping it would wash away the taste of heartbreak but it never did. The hard deck was empty on that Wednesday night. Penny looked at you. Shifting uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze you take another swig. “What are you thinkin’ about?” Looking through the wide panes of window you take in the endless open ocean. “Mourning someone who is still alive is a cruel and unusual punishment, but more then that- love shouldn’t hurt like this.”
Can u please do smut or fluff of this with rooster or hangman:
Y/n: hey can you zip me up?
R or H: Sure!
...
Y/n: I said zip me up not down
Ooh thank you for this sweet request, I had so much fun with this one!!
The Zipper Incident
Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Fem!Reader
Summary: You're running late and need some help zipping up your dress. After recovering from the initial shock of seeing you all dolled up, Rooster is more than happy to assist.
CW: Fluff, angst, swearing, a pinch of smut. You stand up your date, which is shitty of you, but it's probably worth it.
I’d like to think that this little drabble could be a prelude to this fic but it’s absolutely not a necessity to read it first. I just had this particular dynamic in mind while writing this.
You rush out of the locker room in a panic, whipping your head around to see if anyone is still around. Your date is imminent – t-minus twenty minutes and counting – and you’ve spent the last forty-five on your hair and makeup only to suffer a devastating wardrobe malfunction at zero hour.
You’re sure that everyone is long gone but you nonetheless shuffle over to the guys’ locker room on the off chance that perhaps somebody might still be in the building.
Just as you’re coming up on the door, Bradley walks out and you nearly collide with him in your haste.
“Woah!” he yells, holding his arms out in case you wouldn’t be able to stop in time.
“Oh my god, Rooster! Thank god!” you shriek.
Now that he’s had a moment to process the situation, Bradley is blinking at you oddly, his eyes slipping briefly to glance at your dress before reverting to your face.
While you’re flattered that your outfit has rendered him speechless – the guy’s never seen you in anything but a uniform – you hardly have time for this kind of delay. “Rooster, can you do me a favor, please? Can you zip me up?” You turn your back to him promptly and twist your arm behind you to point to the zipper that’s gotten stuck halfway up.
“Uh.” Bradley stalls and you look over your shoulder to see his gaze trailing down your bare back as he tentatively lifts his hands.
“Bradshaw, today!” you urge, bouncing slightly on the spot while you hold up the front of your strapless dress.
You feel his fingers graze your back as he pulls gently on the zipper. “It’s jammed,” he says a little hoarsely.
You let out an exasperated sigh. “No shit,” you reply. “Look, I’ve got a date in” – you close your eyes and whimper desperately – “fifteen minutes. Could you maybe put those big, strong muscles to good use?” You throw him a deriding look before glancing pointedly at the arm that's taking up approximately half of your field of view. His bicep is even more pronounced than usual in the tight, black t-shirt he’s wearing.
Rooster exhales slowly, tugging more deliberately on the zipper. “I don’t want to break it,” he says.
This statement gives you pause and you spin around sharply, nearly taking Bradley’s hands with you. “You can’t break it!” you exclaim. “I have nothing else to wear!”
Bradley watches you steadily. “Well,” he says with a small smirk. “Don’t rush me, then.”
You eye him warily before turning back around. “Okay,” you say. “But you don’t have all day,” you mutter when he starts to fiddle with the zipper once more.
His hands stop moving and he clears his throat. “We had a deal.”
You sigh, starting to tap your foot, when your feel his hands close around your shoulders.
“You’re wiggling,” he says.
“I’m anxious,” you retort sourly.
Bradley steps closer until his chest is brushing lightly against your back, and leads you out into the center of the corridor. “I need more light,” he says.
You close your eyes. “It’s a fucking zipper, Bradshaw. You operate a fifteen tonne, seventy-million-dollar government vehicle fifty thousand feet off the ground but this is somehow a struggle?”
Bradley’s hands stop moving. “That fifteen tonne vehicle came with an instruction manual and five years of training.”
“Oh, hang on,” you say. “Let me just pull out my zipper manual. I don’t go anywhere without that thing.”
Bradley snorts. “You’re distracting me,” he says, yanking slightly on the zipper and, in the process, pulling you closer.
You hang your head defeatedly, trying to stay still while he works to fix your dress.
After several moments of silence, Bradley speaks again. “You have a date, huh?”
You stare at the space where the floor meets the wall, taken aback by his question. You and Bradley have but a smidge of history; you met a few months ago when you were brought in for a mission together, and have since been assigned to the same squadron. You’ve flirted here and there, exchanged a few meaningful glances, but nothing more than the occasional tease has ever come to pass. You’re both professionals and, as such, are amply aware that any sort of romantic entanglement would quickly dissolve into a logistical nightmare fraught with more paperwork than either of you would care to complete. And yet, the insinuation in his tone, paired with the intermittent brush of his hands along your back sends a quiet thrill through your body, resulting in a soft blush that heats your cheeks and creeps down your neck. You nervously pat down your hair, making sure it obscures your reddening face before you respond with a casual, “Mm-hm.”
“Anyone I know?” he asks, his thumb sweeping over your shoulder blade as he takes a break from wrestling with the zipper.
Suddenly you’re extremely aware of how short your dress is and how very loosely it hangs around your sides as you clutch it to your chest. “I doubt it,” you say quickly, wondering how you hadn’t noticed the obvious draft coming from the vent overhead until right now while firmly pressing the material of your dress against your rapidly hardening nipples.
“Well, you look nice,” he says, his voice a little rough as he resumes his efforts with the zipper.
You bite down hard on your lip, trying to suppress the shiver triggered by his words. “Would be nicer if I were fully dressed,” you respond flatly.
“Debatable,” Rooster counters.
You swallow uneasily as Bradley continues jerking at your dress. He’s flirting with you now? Ten minutes till go time? After weeks of avoiding every instance of physical contact, including that time you sprained your ankle and he called Phoenix over to help you get to medical instead of taking you himself?
Suddenly, you feel the waist of your dress release as the zipper gives. You gasp, pressing the fabric against your body as it starts to glide.
“Bradshaw!” you yelp. “I said ‘zip me up!’”
“Sorry!” Bradley fumbles with the dress. “It slipped.”
“Sure,” you say with a note of cynicism in your tone.
Bradley chuckles, sliding the zipper back up. “I promise, it was unintentional.” He pauses for a moment, his fingers still holding the clasp even after having completed the task you’ve given him. He runs his palms along your shoulders before they come to rest on your upper arms. “You’ve got a nice back,” he says quietly.
You freeze, trying to come up with an adequate response to the most unexpected of compliments, but you can’t bring yourself to face him because you’re blushing anew. You take a second to gather your thoughts, close your eyes to savour the moment. You’ve completely forgotten about the time and how much of it you might have left because all your concentration is devoted entirely to the gentle sweep of Bradley’s fingers as they slide down your arms.
“First date?” he asks.
You’re furious. You’re livid. Where was all this attention four weeks ago when all that glorious flirting amounted to absolutely nothing. “Second,” you respond curtly.
“Getting serious,” he says wryly, his hands trailing all the way down to your fingertips before they finally fall to his sides.
You chuckle and, although it’s becoming increasingly difficult to restrain yourself from turning to face him, you mutter a quick, “Thanks, Rooster,” while smoothing out the wrinkles on the front of your dress.
Bradley walks around to take a look at you from the front and now you have no choice but to meet his gaze. You give him a tight smile and do a little curtsy and he laughs, shaking his head.
“That’s a hell of a dress,” he says.
You give him a serious look. “It’s not the dress, Bradshaw. It’s the model.”
He grins at you in amusement. “Can’t argue with that.”
You nod slowly, slightly lost in his eyes, when you suddenly remember that you’re running late. “Shit! What’s the time?” You lunge forward to grab his forearm so that you could check his wristwatch. “Fuck! I have to run!”
You drop Bradley’s hand, glancing up at him sharply. He’s watching you with a bewildered expression, as though he wasn’t expecting you to actually leave. “Okay,” he says. “Have a good time.”
You nod and start to draw back, finally turning and escaping down the hall and into the women’s changeroom. Once the door is closed behind you, you sink down on a bench, bringing a hand to your unsettled stomach. The interaction with Bradley has resulted in a revival of that ridiculous crush you had on him when you first arrived on base. You’ve been fairly successful at quashing those feelings, right up until ten minutes ago when Bradley was able to effectively resuscitate them with a vengeance.
You let out a frustrated sigh and start putting away your belongings. You step into your heels and sit back down to do up the straps. Walking over to the mirror, you fix your hair and take a moment to admire your makeup. No wonder Bradley was flabbergasted. He’s never even seen you wear lipstick.
You pick up your purse after shoving your backpack into a locker and head for the door but, when you walk out, Bradley is still there, waiting for you.
You waver on the spot upon seeing him while he hesitates slightly before approaching you. His eyes rake over your figure before finally resting on your face. “I can’t let you go on that date,” he says, his rasp more pronounced somehow, perhaps because he’s trying to keep his voice down.
You gulp nervously, blinking up at him as your cheeks flush. “Why not?” you ask quietly.
Bradley bites into his bottom lip as the corner of his mouth curls upward mischievously. “Because even thinking about you on a date with someone else is making me angry.”
You let out a shallow breath as his eyes focus briefly on your lips. “Why?” you whisper.
You feel Bradley’s hand cup your waist, pressing you gently into the wall at your back while he takes another step forward. He lowers his head and you lift your gaze as he towers over you, as he places the palm of his other hand on the wall behind your head. His breathing is heavier than usual but he comes closer still, caging you in. “Because it should be me,” he says hoarsely.
You lower your gaze but soon feel his fingers under your chin, lifting your face to look at him. “You didn’t ask me,” you manage to say despite the distracting pounding in your temples. “Are you only interested because I’m unavailable?”
Bradley slowly shakes his head, bringing his forehead to rest on yours. The hand that’s been leaning against the wall slips down to your shoulder as he takes another step closer and his body brushes yours. “You know that’s not true,” he says.
You put a hand on his abdomen, pushing him away half-heartedly. “I know that you’ve had plenty of opportunities to make this happen and chose not to.”
Bradley brings his hand down on top of yours on his stomach. “Maybe I was intimidated,” he mutters with a grin.
You roll your eyes. “Am I less intimidating in a dress?”
He shakes his head, his smile widening. “More.” His fingers close around yours, still pressed against his rock-hard abs. “But you left me no choice. I had to just bite the bullet and go for it.”
You glance up at him reproachfully. “I’m late,” you say.
Bradley pulls his lips into a frown as his eyebrows crease. “Stay,” he pleads.
You scoff, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, Bradley,” you say. “You’re late too.” You start to peel your back from the wall, forcing him to back away from you.
He takes several steps backward, the disappointment evident on his face. “You don’t want to go,” he says quietly.
You raise your eyebrows. “How the fuck do you know what I want?” you ask, offended.
He watches you piercingly. “I can tell you want to stay.”
“If you can tell, then why didn’t you ask me out before?” you say angrily.
“Because I’m an idiot!” he responds heatedly.
“Well, at least we agree on that,” you say.
Bradley sucks in his cheeks, nodding contemptuously. “Now what?” he asks. “Ball’s in your court.”
You stare at him crossly. “Now nothing, Bradley,” you say. “You didn’t start anything because you knew that it would be a conflict of interest. That, if anybody found out, one of us would end up being reassigned.”
“Who has to find out?”
You close your eyes briefly before giving him a withering look. “Well, now we know where your head’s at.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just want to fuck,” you say matter-of-factly.
Bradley stares at you, speechless for a moment. “What are you talking about?”
“Sorry, Bradshaw,” you say. “That’s not my style.”
But when you turn to leave, Bradley springs after you, grabbing your arm and pulling you back around. “You’ve got it wrong,” he says. “I promise you.”
You eye his fingers, still wrapped firmly around your arm. “Come on, ‘Nobody has to know?’” You glance up at him disdainfully. “You obviously don’t see a future here.” You regret the words the moment they leave your mouth, recognizing how unreasonable it is to expect him to see much of anything with someone he hardly knows. But his words have caused quite a sting which, in turn, has made you slightly irrational. “You know this is a bad idea,” you say finally, reluctantly.
Bradley takes a step forward, simultaneously pulling you closer. He takes a moment to study your features before speaking. “I know that if you go on your date right now, I’m going to lose my fucking mind,” he says with a small chuckle.
You watch him carefully as he brings a hand up to brush some hair away from your eyes. “I’m really late,” you whisper, your hands moving of their own accord to rest on his hips.
Bradley brings his face down to meet yours, his nose brushing along your cheek. “I really want you to stay,” he says in a low voice, his grip loosening on your arm and his fingers gliding gently up to your shoulder.
You lift your face slightly to let him brush his lips with yours. After an excruciating pause during which his mouth hovers tantalisingly over yours, Bradley finally bridges the gap, confidently capturing your lips in his. His fingertips dig into your shoulders as he presses his body against yours, directing you backward into the wall. He leans into you eagerly, his kiss overriding each of your senses as you adapt to its unpredictable rhythm. Slow and deep, then soft and sweeping, evolving with your every movement. His hands twist rabidly into your hair, rough but restrained as he paces himself while you breathe unevenly against his mouth.
He's warm; swathed around you almost possessively; protectively. You aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. You pant when he finally releases your lips, struggling to steady your heartrate.
Bradley lowers himself slightly to diffuse kisses along your jawline, the pressure of his lips on your skin quickly escalating as the two of you sink into one another. You open your mouth to sigh against his ear when his hand slips underneath the hem of your dress. “Bradley,” you whine as his finger drifts along the line of your panties.
“Yeah baby?” he breathes, his finger tracing circles into the already saturated lace.
“This is a terrible idea,” you whimper as the most torturous desire pulsates through your body.
“Yeah, baby,” Bradley agrees, continuing the gentle strokes of his finger over your soaking panties.
You bite your lip trying to suppress a moan, fevered and nearly shaking, sweating and breathless, unsteady in your heels. You feel transported but unsettled, euphoric but wanting. You nip at Bradley’s earlobe in response to which Bradley presses his mouth into the crook of your neck and releases a muffled groan. You continue sucking on his ear and kissing his neck and the hand that’s been hovering between your legs suddenly grips into your thigh. You let out a soft cry and Bradley stifles it with a passionate kiss. His hand coasts upward, cupping your ass cheek as he presses himself against you, pinning you to the wall. “Bradshaw,” you murmur against his lips. “Can you do me a favor?”
Bradley’s teeth catch your bottom lip before he starts gently pecking your swollen lips. “Anything,” he responds in his grating rasp.
You let out a shallow breath. “Can you unzip me?”
Bradley’s mouth curls into a smile against your lips as his hand glides down your back. “I’ve got you, baby,” he says softly, pulling on the zipper. “I’m an expert.” You chuckle as your dress comes loose but, a moment later, Bradley mutters, “Fuck,” right into your open mouth.
You pull back to stare at him mutely as he gives the zipper a few more tugs. “Don’t tell me,” you say in disbelief.
“What is it with this thing?” Bradley says in exasperation, spinning you around to inspect the contraption. You giggle, resting your forehead on the wall resignedly but, the next moment, Bradley grabs you by the waist and pulls you in. “Fuck it,” he says, lifting the skirt of your dress. “I can work around it.”
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and the songbirds are singing like they know the score - part ii.
"It changed the way she thought about their relationship. It had always been her and him – Quincy and Bradley, Duckie and Rooster, his baby and her daddy." or Quincy Bradshaw picks the fight of all fights with her dad.
a/n: not gonna lie guys, i've majorly lost inspiration for writing but recently had an urge to write angst. hopefully this is sufficient enough.
The smell of black coffee could never be any less appealing when paired with the immediate second whiff of stagnant acidity from a metal popcorn tin full of vomit, and the harsh smell of outdoors.
Quincy Bradshaw wrinkles her nose and immediately rubs her eyes.
A rectangle of light cast from the kitchen windows paints opaque radiance onto the living room floor. The sound of the kitchen cabinet slamming shut pairs with the dull hum of the ancient coffee maker that had been around since before she had even been a thought.
Her eyes open only a quarter of the way – partly because her eyelashes are threaded together from slept in mascara, halfway because of the fact her contact lenses are living in the corners furthest away from her pupils, and entirely because of the fact she’ll puke again if the light hits her all at once.
The Leemore naval base sweatshirt she doesn’t remember putting on feels like a straitjacket, and the seams of the jeans she does remember putting on cut into her legs in strange places.
Her head doesn’t pound, but she doesn’t feel amazing either. The throbbing rocks back and forth and forward and backward. She subconsciously feels herself mimicking the motion of the dull ache in her temples.
Another slam of a cabinet closing startles her. Her eyes shoot open despite the natural effort her body has exerted to keep them closed. An immediate flux of nausea comes over her as her eyes open completely. She leans over to search for the metal popcorn bucket she knows is full of her vomit from last night.
A sputtering cough and a dry heave fill the space, and she’s throwing up what seems to be everything she had consumed in the last twenty-four hours to join what stomach contents already reside in the bucket.
Quincy’s diaphragm is out of sync with her lungs, and she would be in hysterics by now if this were normal. She hates throwing up. Loathes it. Would possibly rather die than ever throw up, but this isn’t normal, and she isn’t sick with the flu or food poisoning or some mysterious stomach virus.
This is her throwing up because she fucked up and got caught.
She takes a stuttering breath before gagging again. The glasses in the kitchen cupboard subtly shake as footsteps approach her. She hears a sigh of disappointment over the strangled sound of her puking.
Fuck my life. Fuck my life. Fuck my life. Fuck my life. Fuck my life. Fuck my life!
Another item on the list of things she would rather die than encounter happens to be the rage of her father. Nothing can compare to how horrible that feeling is.
She finally finishes, sitting up straight and wiping the acidity from her mouth onto the sleeve of the sweatshirt that’s swallowing her whole. Bradley stands before her. One of his hands holds a bottle of sugar-free Gatorade and a piece of toast wrapped in a paper towel. The other holds a chipped mug that has her Kindergarten handprint stamped upside down in green to make a plant on it. The whiff of black coffee almost makes her gag again. The vomit rises, but she swallows it down.
Once is enough this morning.
She stares down at the popcorn bucket and sees a color she can’t even describe. The contents of it make her anxious the longer she stares, but she would rather look at what she assumes to be the result of mixing copious amounts of alcohol (a Four Locko Sour, a mango Beatbox, a few shots of tequila, and whatever fuck ass shooters her friends pulled from their bras that were bought illegally from the gas station three blocks from her house, if she recalls correctly) than look her father in the eyes. Especially not when she knows that the party she had gone to was off limits, she doesn’t entirely recall how she had gotten home, and the fact that she had snuck out right under his nose on a school night.
Not to mention, this is the first time they’ve looked at each other since January after her principal called the house and revealed she had stopped going to school beyond second period after the start of October. But if you asked Quincy, the deterioration of their relationship began long before she started ditching school and roaming the city during the day.
It was subtle at first. Her dad not remembering their conversations when he used to hang onto every word she said with such permanence and accuracy, it was as if the thought came from his own mind. Sometimes he would work late and would miss her soccer games. Then he stopped asking her to tag along with him to surf early on the weekends. Then he just kind of... stopped talking to her altogether.
She doesn’t remember exactly when that pinprick of doubt kicked in. It lingered in the shadows, she assumes. It stained every moment she had when he wasn’t there. When he didn’t call or didn’t text or didn’t remember anything she had said. It changed the way she thought about their relationship. It had always been her and him – Quincy and Bradley, Duckie and Rooster, his baby and her daddy.
But now it seemed like it was just that.
Her. And then him.
Two separate people whose lives are parallel and never touch each other.
And then she thought maybe they were just one because she wasn’t her own person then. She was an extension of her dad; a person, but a person who didn’t have their own thoughts and feelings and just existed as a shadow.
It starts with a letdown and ends with abandonment. It sure does fucking feel like it when your parents announce they’re having another baby your Senior year of high school.
Then that doubt doesn’t seem so far-fetched anymore.
After the phone call to the house, there was a silence that ensued. There were no theatrics. No screaming match. No dramatic, “I fucking hate you!” screeched at the top of anyone’s lungs. There had just been a sigh of disappointment from her dad paired with his hand reaching across the kitchen table, palm up, gesturing for her keys to go in his hand. She doesn’t even think he said the words, “You’re grounded,” but he didn’t have to for her to get the message.
The same way he didn’t have to for her to know that he didn’t care anymore.
She can’t even remember why she’s afraid because even if the capability of her father’s rage has always frightened her, he doesn’t seem to give enough of a damn to summon it. Part of her knows that it probably won’t even happen at all, and a pang of hurt causes her heart to shrink in on itself.
I just want you to care. I want you to care. I want you to care.
“School. It’s a quarter till seven.”
She peers up at her father. His hand extends the bread and the beverage to her, but she doesn’t move. He stands in front of her, the same eyes and nose and mustache that he had always had. He looks like her dad, but he doesn’t seem like he’s her dad.
At least not anymore.
“You need to get going,” he says plainly. His gaze falls to his watch you and her had gotten him this past Father’s Day.
Quincy rolls her eyes. Her body buzzes with annoyance at the fact that she had done anything nice for him at all. He doesn’t give a fuck about her. Why should she give a damn about making sure he knows she cares? That he gets a gift for Father’s Day. That she says “I love you” before hanging up the phone. That she tells him about her friends at school or the yearbook, or even the fact that she had gotten into UC Berkeley and had already paid the seat deposit on her own.
Her dad didn’t care that she was her own person. Why should she care that he’s his own person, too?
Quincy’s anger starts to flourish in her chest, and she starts to shake. She tries to calm herself; her eyes catching on the spindles in the staircase he had just fixed this past weekend, even though they’d been loose since her ninth birthday.
Following the news that you were pregnant, you had gone on a two-month-long nesting cleaning spree, and to cope, her dad had started hyperfixating on every “handyman” project he could get his hands on. He had never given a fuck about the waterstain on the laundry room ceiling before, but now the task seems to plague his mind constantly. Her dad doesn’t know how to redo tile, but his Saturday afternoon trips to Lowe’s to look for grout say otherwise.
Both your brains are occupied with thoughts that aren’t her and she knows your hearts are growing in size to accommodate for someone she certainly isn’t. Now, as she’s being stoned with annoyance and disappointment from the “caring” adults in her life, the red-hot anger boils until it starts to burn.
Fuck them for being pissed at me. Fuck them for not understanding. Fuck them for not seeing me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Fuck!
She can feel it in her chest before she can recognize that she’s even angry and is showing it. The curse word doesn’t even feel like a curse word anymore. Her brain can’t even make it sound like a real word, nonetheless.
Her lips chase after her frustration’s consonants and vowels; the anger so rambunctious she can’t hear herself think over it.
“Fuck off,” she manages to mutter, teeth clenched and cheeks pink with irritation.
Quincy’s eyes find her dad’s face. She can see the usual terracotta flush on his cheeks spread down his neck. His face contorts into an expression equal parts angry and awful. His eyebrows are furrowed. The lines in his forehead are pinched. His chest is heaving.
Bradley’s eyes practically saws her in half on the spot.
The little five-year-old inside of her, who would rather die than make her dad angry, screeches at her, tells her to say sorry and that she’s a bad person for behaving this way. She screams that Quincy is being unreasonable. Quincy screams back that he doesn’t care anyway.
Go be with your new kid. I don’t fucking matter anyway.
“Wh-what? What did you just say to me, young lady?” Bradley asks, half in shock and half enraged.
He’s positive he heard her correctly, but also not sure if he’s dreaming or not. Quincy has never openly rebelled like this, nor has she ever spoken to any adult in her life in that way. Not his girl. Not his sweet, precious, precocious baby girl.
She rolls her eyes and moves herself to sit upright. Bradley can see her attempt to conceal a gag at her sudden change of position, but he knows she’s too stubborn to let him see what effect it has on her. She’s like that and he’s like that too, he supposes.
“Fuck. Off.” Her voice drips with certainty and cruelty.
She surprises herself with how hateful it comes out. Bradley’s hands move from his hips to apply pressure on his temples.
“Are you being serious right now?” he snaps.
The sound of the groaning floorboard outside the door of the master bedroom announces itself, and both their heads snap up to glance at the staircase. They know you’re listening to their conversation.
How could you not be? Curse words and tension don’t exactly knock on your household’s door before 8 AM.
“Would I fucking repeat it if I wasn’t?” she snaps back. Her head tilts to the side and her eyebrows scrunch on her face in disgust.
Bradley feels the challenge she’s trying to present; equal parts pissed off at her from last night’s incident, pissed from her earlier comment, and looking to be pissed off at whatever else she’s gearing up to say.
“You’ve got,” he looks down at his watch before fixing his gaze on his teenage daughter, “Thirty seconds to lose your attitude and turn this shit around or I’m getting on your ass and you’ll wish you never grew the balls to go to that party.”
She rolls her eyes with such fervent dismissiveness before stomping her feet on the ground and grabbing the metal popcorn bucket on the floor. Her feet stomp away upstairs to her bedroom. She makes a point to brush past her dad with force and agility; making sure he knows her fury and hoping the pungent odor of her vomit finds its way to his nostrils.
Quincy stomps so loudly that the newly repaired spindles in the staircase vibrate with each step. Bradley stands in a state of dissociation before his brain catches up with the events unfolding in front of him. His conscience removes itself from his body as he embarks on what he feels will be the most catastrophic parenting moment he’ll ever have.
“Hey! We’re not done talking!” he yells. He spins on his heel, not daring to reach out and grab her before she can fully ascend up the stairs, but his voice is loud and alarming enough to make her stop and turn around to face him.
“I walked away, Dad. I don’t wanna talk.”
Bradley rolls his eyes, leaning his back on the wall near the bottom of the staircase. If you had asked him seventeen years ago on that fateful November night, he would have never considered being in this position. His new baby, nine pounds of sweetness and a head full of dark hair, would never ever make him feel this way – angry and frustrated beyond belief.
Now, seventeen years later on a random Friday morning in May, he feels like an idiot for thinking he could survive the years of teenage terror.
“That’s not an option. This isn’t a choice. We’re talking because you’re being disrespectful and this is my house,” he winces internally as he says it (partly because he sounds like his mom way back when, but mostly because he knows he sounds like Maverick), “And you don’t get to talk to me or treat anyone like that ever.”
She puts the bucket down on the stairs in front of her and crosses her arms to sit on her chest.
“Insane that you’re saying “this house” as if you give a fuck about anything I do ever,” Quincy snides, “You can’t only care about me whenever it makes you look bad.”
Something about that sends an arrow straight through Bradley’s heart. Instead of recognizing the ache, instead of realizing that it hurts for a reason, he does the opposite and pulls it right back out.
His rage knows no allies. The exception used to be his daughter, but now he’s not so sure.
“Yeah, you’re right, kid,” his hand comes up to wipe at his face before he completely comes unglued, “You’re right because how would it look if you got arrested at that party? If you drove home and got a DUI? If your little dumbass friends got you in that car and you ended up with a fucking stop sign through your neck and dead because you’re so desperate for friends?”
“What happened to the girl I raised? Huh? To having some fucking common sense?” he sighs, finally coming down from his rage-induced rant, “You’re so fucking smart but so fucking stupid sometimes.”
Bradley knows he shouldn’t; he knows this will kill her alone, but the monster of fury in his chest forces it out of him before he can resume thinking. “I’m so damn embarrassed to be your dad right now that it makes me fucking sick, Quince.”
The veil of apathy falls, and she can feel the fire in her throat and the flames licking her tear ducts; tempting her with how amazing it would feel to cry. She’s feeling something that she’s never been made to feel before. She knows it’s not embarrassment, but rather something different.
It’s more humiliating. It’s more disheartening. It’s more saddening.
She’s feeling ashamed.
But she can’t show weakness now. Bradley can recognize the look of fury in her eyes and kicks himself for it. She is her father’s child and she not only inherited Bradley’s huffiness, but also his need to have the last word.
“Why does it fucking matter if you’re gonna go have a new kid anyway? You get to be a dad to someone who doesn’t make you fucking sick in a few weeks so don’t waste your precious time pretending like you care about me or that you give a damn about anything I say or do.”
“Quincy –” he tries to interrupt her, but she shakes her head and continues to rattle on anyway.
“I got into Berkeley, Dad. I got into fucking Berkeley and you didn’t even fucking care enough to hear about it.”
His jaw drops open in shock. He didn’t even know that she applied. The last he had heard about college decisions, she was headed up the road to UC San Diego in September. He’s not prepared to send her eight hours away at the end of the summer. He doesn’t even know how he could have missed something as amazing and exciting as her getting into the school of her dreams. His heart begins to splinter on the spot.
Quincy is hurting and he didn’t even open his eyes wide enough to notice.
“Babe –”
“No! No, you don’t get to try and get me to shut the fuck up,” she shrieks. She begins her descent down the stairs with her finger pointing into her father’s chest accusingly. “You don’t care about me, Dad. That’s what this new baby is, right? You’re trading me for something shiny and new and for something that fits whatever fucked up idea of a family you have in your head because yours got totally fucked by the “War on Terrorism” or some other military propagandist bullshit.”
He backs up from her knowing that she’s doing exactly what he does – poking the bear until it bites that person’s head off.
If she knew what was good for her (and she seems to not know that, as of late) she would back off. But Bradley knows that pride is her Achilles' Heel.
Fuck, it seems to be for every seventeen year old. He can’t wait for her to grow out of it.
“Go to your room. Now,” he says. Quincy screams and slaps the wall; truly unlocking a different kind of anger she had never reached before.
“No!” she bellows, “You’re being a coward. Tell me you don’t love me! Tell me that you should’ve given me up! Tell me you should’ve made my mom get an abortion!”
Bradley grabs her arms, holding her still in front of him. “That’s enough!”
She laughs cruelly in his face, wrangling her arms out of his hold and stomping up the stairs until she reaches the top. “That’s just your solution for everything, isn’t it? To ignore me? To make me go away when I say something you don’t like?”
Bradley rolls his eyes, trying not to entertain her goading because he knows nothing good can come from it.
“You just gonna ice me out like you did Papa Mav because – because I’m not letting you live out some fantasy you have about how your life should be?”
He walks away and paces around the living room. He can feel his heart thumping in his chest and his mouth itching to say the magic words he knows will shut her up. He hopes and prays that Quincy decides to give it a rest, but he knows that she won’t. He doesn’t know if he should call it father’s intuition or looking in a mirror.
“I hope you fuck up this baby as much as you’ve fucked me up so you’ll finally see that you’re the problem,” she says, half hoping for a response but half craving for more of a fight.
She hears her dad return to the bottom step of the stairs and prepares herself for the satisfactory feeling of knowing she won the verbal battle she just put up.
He looks up at her with a look that she has never seen before and the calmness in his demeanor shoots her down.
“I can’t believe I raised someone as fucked up as you,” he says, the casual cruelness slitting the throat of any ounce of hope she had left.
Bradley can’t bear to witness the pain she wears on her face and returns to the kitchen to grab himself a glass of water; begging and praying that the ice-cold gulps he takes will help him wake up from the nightmare he just experienced.
The slamming of her bedroom door vibrating the house and the pained sobs echoing trap him in the deepest circle of hell he can feasibly imagine.
Bradley thinks Hell might be more pleasant than this.
Do you ever think that early-mid twenties Bradley Bradshaw abruptly had the thought that he's now as old as his dad was when he took him in, like he's early-mid twenties, he's nearly older than his papa Goose ever was and he's now the age his Mavdad was when he became Bradley's dad officially.
He was as old as Bradley is now and taking care of him, looking after food and clothes and school and working and minding Bradley and meanwhile Bradley goes out clubbing every other day, he's messing around with friends, he's in uni and living his best life (apart from the missing pieces) and sometimes it hits him.
Hes as old as his dad was. And older yet.
Would he have done it? Was it out of guilt? (Maybe that was why..........)
Could Bradley have made the same choice and dropped his life more or less to care for a small whiny half-orphan, soon to be an orphan (not really, he had Mav, he always had his Mav....) Wonders if Mav back to living his own best life without an arguing angsty teen in the way, if he regrets it, ((does he miss me????)).
And most importantly, could Bradley do it? Could Bradley have done it? Could he have taken in his deceased best friends kid, given him a second dad and done everything that Mav had?? Taught him and raised him and loved him??
In his quietest reflections, Bradley doesn't think he'd have done it. That he would have been able to do it. Maybe that doesn't make him better, maybe that makes him human.
➪the one where bradley hasn’t won a match since you left him, and he finally decides to break his promise to himself.
Warnings: boxer bradley, mentions of blood, mentions of injuries, descriptions of injuries, mentions of fighting, swearing, bradley is kind of a dick in this ngl, angst all the way, could have another part if i get inspired (just watched bleed for this and i need an outlet), probably the quickest piece i have ever written, so sorry if it sucks
Word Count: 2k
Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine ♡
“Six time champ, Bradley Bradshaw, faces his fifth loss since getting back into the ring,”
That single sentence played on repeat in Bradley’s head as he sat on the couch of his living room.
His best friend rushed around him as she tried her best to patch up the mess his opponent made of his face an hour or so ago. Her hands held multiple blood stained towels and her face was twisted up in concern, but he didn’t pay her any attention as he watched himself get the shit beaten out of him on the TV screen.
“You shouldn’t be watching that right now,” she muttered as she wiped away a fresh stream of blood rather roughly. He winced, his mind instantly comparing her harshness to the way you used to clean him up much more gently. And now he was thinking about you again, and how fucking disappointed he made you. “You might have a concussion, and the screen will fuck with your eyes.”
He grunted as she stuck a white bandaid on his left temple. “Enough, Nat,” he grunted, gently pushing her hands away from his face. “I’m fine.”
She glared at him as she stood to her full height. “You’re fine? Bradley, you haven’t been fine since Y/n left. You haven’t won a match in months. And you think you’re fine?”
He narrowed his eyes at her, a scoff leaving his mouth afterwards. “Whatever, mom,”
Nat laughed humorlessly as she tossed the towels onto the coffee table in front of him. “Okay,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and bending down to press a harsh kiss to the bruise that formed on his cheek. “Let me know when you locate the guy who isn’t a grumpy prick. That’s the version of you we all miss. I’ll text you tomorrow, if I feel like it.” They both knew she would, whether she felt like it or not.
And then she left and Bradley was refraining from throwing the remote directly at the TV screen. His face ached beyond belief, and he knew the trash talking he did in between punches did not help his case as that guy really did a number on him.
In a way, he felt like he deserved to feel more pain than he did right now. He knew this was nothing compared to the amount of pain he put you through, and he wanted himself to hurt just as bad.
He watched himself take the final punch of the night that had him down on the mat within seconds, and how Hansen Carpenter lifted his hand in victory and grinned as if he won the lottery.
Congrats, man. You beat Bradley Bradshaw. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last, so take a fucking chill pill.
Bradley scoffed again and turned the TV off, tossing the remote aside and leaning back against the couch. As he sat in the quiet house, his mind betrayed him as he began to think about you again.
How he had managed to fuck up the best thing in his life, he’d never know.
You really were the only thing he had going for him other than his career and title, and he let you go without a fight. It was his fucking job to fight, yet he couldn’t even do it for you.
The house felt empty, even though you had only been living with him - officially - for about three months before he broke up with you. Despite being with you for nearly five years, you hadn’t decided to move in together until around half a year ago.
You practically lived with him, anyway, but it was official for only a few months before he let himself get too caught up in his own head, which later resulted in him taking it out on you.
Really, he was a coward. He never jumped at the countless opportunities he had with you, and instead put all his focus on boxing.
Oh, there was a high chance he could win within the first five rounds? Sign him up.
Someone was betting half a million dollars on him? Tell him a time and place.
You wanted to take the next step and put a downpayment on a house together? Maybe sometime within the next few years or so.
He really didn’t deserve you, and it was a wonder how you put up with him for half a decade.
Bradley looked down at his phone that was on the couch beside him, and without thinking much of it, he grabbed it and held it between his sore fingers. He didn’t need to scroll far to find your number since he hadn’t changed you from his top contact yet, and he probably never would.
When you walked out and left him in this exact room all those months ago, Bradley promised himself that he wouldn’t call you or try to win you back. If you couldn’t understand him and his career choice, then you clearly weren’t the right girl for him.
But he knew you were. You are the right girl for him, but he was too hung up on his own ego to actually try to get you back. And now he feared he was too late.
He was already feeling embarrassed, so why not go all the way?
He clicked on the call button and brought his phone up to his ear, waiting what felt like a lifetime before he was forwarded to your inbox.
Of course he got your voicemail. He wasn’t expecting you to actually answer him, so he wasn’t super disappointed that he was met with your sweet voice asking him to leave you a message.
And, God, was your voice sweet. It was probably the sweetest sound he had ever heard in his entire life, and it matched well with your overall personality. You were far too kind for your own good, and had been way too understanding with him throughout your relationship.
Though he really wanted to, he couldn’t blame you for leaving, especially since he practically forced you out the door.
Bradley looked ahead at his beaten and bruised face through the screen of the TV, and he felt as pathetic and worn out as he looked. “Y/n,” he mumbled after he heard the obnoxious beep that indicated he should probably start talking before the call hung up itself. What did he have to lose? “I miss you, babygirl.”
He had no right to be calling you right now, nor did he have the right to be saying that he misses you when he’s the reason you’re gone.
But he was selfish. He always had been when it came to you.
He wanted you to support him and didn’t care much for your concerns about his well being. He wanted you there and in his corner at every single match and wasn’t fazed by the way you cowered away every time he took a punch. He wanted you all to himself, but never gave you the time of day when he really needed to get his act together and progress his relationship with you.
Bradley was selfish before you, while he was with you, and now after you.
You were right. He will never change.
“I fucked up tonight, again,” he muttered as he looked down at the blood stained towels in front of him. His mouth tasted like metal and he could smell the rustic scent of copper every time he inhaled, and he truly could not believe how much of a mess he is. “I really thought I could win this one, but you know how I talk out of my ass whenever I’m in that ring, and I did it tonight.”
He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to get out of this, but the thought of you maybe listening to it was what had him continuing this embarrassing show of emotions.
“I told this Hansen guy that he fights like my old man, and how he’s dead, and then I got my ass handed to me,” he grunted, rubbing his sore nose and wincing at the sharp pain he felt because of it. “It was going fine before that. I went eight rounds straight with the guy before he fucking floored me, and all it took was me thinking about you.”
He felt like a complete loser for admitting this, but it also felt easier to be open with himself when it came to you. It had always been like that, and he was fucking stupid for thinking he could find someone better than you.
Truly, there was no one else he wanted other than you, and he’s known that pretty much since the day he met you, so why couldn’t he swallow his pride and fight for you instead of with you was another thing he’d never know.
“One single thought about you and I got too into my own head to realize what was going on around me,” he shamelessly informed you of the hold you still had, and probably will always have, over him. “I think about you all the time, baby. All the fucking time. You should’ve been there tonight. You should’ve been there last time. You should be here right now. But I know why you’re not.”
His face burned from both the impacts of Hansen’s gloves and from the way he was getting caught up in the thought of you.
Everything reminded him of you. Even this exact couch held far too many memories with you to count. The amount of nights he spent with you on these very cushions had him shifting uncomfortably as he tried to push away those thoughts.
He didn’t even deserve to be talking to you right now, let alone thinking about all the ways he’s gotten you off on this old and worn out piece of furniture. “I know it’s my own fucking fault, I know that, but it still fucking hurts,” he laughed and pressed his arm against his abs that were just as sore as his face. “The amount of fights I’ve been in, the amount of hits I’ve taken, none of them compare to how much it hurt to lose you. How much it still hurts.”
While he wasn’t one to cry at all, Bradley felt his eyes beginning to burn as he replayed the exact moment you left him, as well as the exact words he said to you.
“I know what I told you, okay? I know what I said. I was wrong, babygirl,” he rasped, curling in on himself as he tried to find the right words to say. “I didn’t mean it. I should have never told you to leave. I should have never yelled at you. I feel so bad, baby, all the time.”
He moved to lay on his side, his cheek pressing against the armrest a bit uncomfortably, but he didn’t care. This was the first time he allowed himself to really get it all out since breaking up with you, and he hated how he couldn’t find the courage to actually say all of this to you in person. Not that you’d let him, anyway.
“I want you back, Y/n,” he finally admitted to what he’s been too full of himself to say out loud. “I want you so bad. You were my girl, baby. You were so good to me, and I fucked it up. I miss you so much, and I promise you I’ll do better. I’ll be better for you, I swear, just please…come back to me.”
He ended the call after that and tossed his phone onto the table next to the towels he would definitely have to throw out since no amount of cold water and bleach could save them.
Bradley felt beyond pathetic now, but it was nothing compared to the feeling that took over his body when he woke up the next morning, still on the couch, and with a single notification on his phone.
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Thick Thighs Save Lives - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader x Jake 'Hangman' Seresin
Summary: Being the only aviator with meat on your bones is tough. It's even more tough when you're stuck showering with two of your teammates.
Contents/Warnings: smut (minors dni), double penetration, fingering (vaginal and anal, f receiving), oral (m receiving), dirty talk, shower sex, protected sex, spit kink, body insecurities, mid/plus!sized reader, self-deprecation, arguing, angst with a fluffy/smutty ending
WC: 5.5K / navi
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
If there’s anything you don’t want to hear during a not-so-friendly game of beach football, it’s ‘shit!’. The exclamation comes from Coyote who’s branched off to your towels on the sand, fingers curled around his watch, “We’re late.”
“How late?” Phoenix is already adjusting her ponytail, as it’s frazzled from the action. She’s squinting in the sun and remedies it by knocking her sunglasses down off of her head and onto her nose. It’s smooth, and she knows it by the soft smirk that curls at her lips.
“We have twenty minutes to get on the road.”
“Shit,” Rooster parrots, dropping the ball where he stands, which is how you know he’s panicked too, “We all need showers. Penny’s gonna kill us if we stink up the restaurant.”
“We can go in teams,” Fanboy decides, already sprinting over to his towel, “We don’t have time for individual ones.”
Before you can get a word in edgewise Coyote and Phoenix are rushing to join him, Bob hot on their trail. The showers are spacious, sure, but you wouldn’t exactly volunteer to share them with anyone.
With a terrible sinking feeling in your stomach you realize that the only three left are you, Rooster, and Hangman. That means the only way you’ll get to Penny and Maverick’s engagement party is if you shower together.
They’re already at their towels, scrubbing sand out of their hair and strapping their watches back on. Hangman’s is a thick, black leather band, and you can see flecks of sand marring the sleek strap from where it laid on the towel. Rooster’s is thinner, brown in color and gold around the rim. His is clean, but he puts it on his sweaty, sandy wrist. It won’t be for long.
Both men are shirtless, too-tight jean shorts squeezing their waists. You make a point not to stare as you trek back to your towel, already picking up on their competitive banter before you’ve even stood beside them.
“-probably use all my shampoo,” Hangman scoffs, clenching his towel tight in his fist, “You always steal my shit, Bradshaw.”
“I think it’s only fair seeing as you steal my gel!” Rooster quips back, gesturing to Hangman’s stiff, shiny hair, untouched even after your game, “Isn’t it fucking weird, Y/L/N? How much he uses?”
Rooster looks back at you for confirmation, someone on his side. But you’re too disheartened to respond, dreading your impending doom. All you offer is a meager, “Yeah.”, that curls a frown under Rooster’s mustache.
“You hurt yourself or something?” Hangman raises an eyebrow, stunned by your lack of teasing, “I think we need to call the doctor, you didn’t just insult me.”
“I’m fine.” You grumble, towel held around your waist despite the presence of your rash guard, “Just tired from football.”
“Well get ready,” Rooster warns you, “Mav’s gonna have to tell us all about how he and Penny met, and I’m really hoping he withholds the details on the little rendezvous that got him in trouble with her dad, but I know he won’t.”
You shudder for a moment, if only to please him, to throw him off your scent. You’re tired, there’s not any other reason you’re in a funk. You’re tired.
You are tired. You’re tired of caring, of constantly thinking about it. You’re tired of wearing a rash guard to the beach instead of a swimsuit, because everyone else is smaller than you. You’re tired of watching people’s eyes, tracking them to make sure that if they ever dip below your chest there’s something in front of your stomach to block it from their view. You’re tired of adjusting your uniform to make it looser, you’re tired of leaning against the bar instead of sitting at it, you’re just tired.
You are tired. You’re tired of caring, of constantly thinking about it. You’re tired of wearing a rash guard to the beach instead of a swimsuit, because everyone else is smaller than you. You’re tired of watching people’s eyes, tracking them to make sure that if they ever dip below your chest there’s something in front of your stomach to block it from their view. You’re tired of adjusting your uniform to make it looser, you’re tired of leaning against the bar instead of sitting at it, you’re just tired.
“Hey,” Hangman’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, admittedly less grating and irritating than it normally is “You sure you’re okay?”
You blink and they’re staring at you, brows furrowed and limbs frozen in place. You wish that the waves lapping gently at the sand would crash onto shore and swallow you whole, sweep you up in a tidal wave of salt water and seaweed so that you wouldn’t have to answer.
“I’m fine,” You grit, slipping your feet into your shoes and rushing to stand outside the showers, “C’mon, we’ll be late.”
--
You had hoped that they’d get too busy bickering with each other to ever find you. But here they come, not five minutes later, just as Phoenix steps out of the steamy bathroom. A towel is wrapped around her torso and Hangman exaggerates his ogling of her, only turning your stomach further.
“Perfect timing,” He drawls, and she rolls her eyes.
Bob steps out next, taking one look at her face and stepping in front of her, “Your turn, Bagman. Try not to use all the gel.”
“See?” Rooster nudges you, his elbow against your arm as Bob and Phoenix walk away, “I told you! It’s absurd, he slathers it on like cement.”
“He’s gotta,” Coyote drawls, reaching over to knock on Jake’s head, “Otherwise his head’d sound as empty as it is.”
The two engage in a good-natured shoving match, but it’s one that nearly sends Coyote’s towel cascading to the ground, and you keep your eyes firmly on the tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner that you’d brought. You read over the ingredients, as if sodium laureth sulfate and glycol distearate will keep your mind off of your humiliation.
“You said you’re fine,” Bradley murmurs from beside you, “But if it’s something you just don’t wanna say around Hangman, he’s not listening.”
Part of you is less embarrassed to be honest and exposed to Rooster than Hangman. But he’s still a man, an incredibly fit one at that, and you’re not sure you’d ever want to reveal it to either of them.
“I’m just nervous,” You tell him the only part of the truth you’re willing to admit. I’ve never... showered with a- a boy before. A man.”
You cringe at your misstep, but if Bradley’s amused by it, he doesn’t show it. Instead he hums, sympathetically so, “We’ll turn around, honey. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“You’ll turn around,” You mutter, “I think it’ll just egg Jake on further.”
“What’s this I hear about eggin’ me on?” A familiar southern twang makes you tense as the man it’s coming from appears by your side, bumping his hip into yours, “You ready for our steam session, sweets?”
“Leave her alone, Hangman,” Rooster groans, feet slapping against the tiles as he goes to adjust the water. He shoves at Hangman’s back as he passes, and you stifle a giggle as the man nearly falls over.
“Hey, she’s the one that chose to shower with us,” Jake insists, and Bradley’s scoff is enough for you not to fight back, “And I would, too, if I were you, darlin’. Do you know how many ladies are lined up to see how hung Hangman is?”
You force a gag, “The only lady I see here is myself, and I’d rather smear wet sand in my eyes.”
“That’s what I’m gonna do to you if you don’t turn around and shut up,” Bradley speaks through the roar of the shower water, steam already rising from its fall, “Just drop your pants and wash your ass, so Y/L/N can shower to herself.”
“Well, well, well,” Jake smirks, towel cinched around his waist in only one hand as he stalks for the showers, “Looks like one of the ladies lined up is Bradshaw himself. Wanna see it, Rooster? Here it is.”
Jake drops his towel ceremoniously, and Bradley’s face morphs into a grimace as he turns away hastily.
“My fucking eyes,” He laments, and you pause in gathering your toilettries to laugh, while also trying very hard not to stare at Jake, “Oh my god, Y/N, you won’t have to worry about me seeing you. I’m going to pour shampoo into my eyes until I go blind.”
Jake realizes you’re taking a little too long getting ready, cocking a hip as he leans his head back to stare down his nose at you, “So what, you gonna ditch dinner, Y/L/N? Whatcha waitin’ for?”
“She’s waiting for you to stop being a perv and turn around,” Bradley comes to your rescue once again, and thankfully, Jake seems to realize it’s a real issue, pivoting until he’s facing the shower wall.
“I think she just wants a nice view of our asses,” Jake theorizes, standing with his clear on display, “Which is better, Y/N? Mine or Chicken’s?”
“Chicken,” Rooster grumbles under his breath, and if you were brave enough to actually declare a winner, you’d give it to him just for that. But, Hangman’s form is rather impressive, all tight curves and tan skin and-
And you shouldn’t be looking. You clear your throat awkwardly, peeling off your rash guard as Jake sponges his side down. There’s sand running thick down the drain and you hope it doesn’t back up, something you’d feel terrible for Penny to have to clean up.
“Uh,” Bradley stills in his place, “Shit, I think I left my shampoo over there. Y/N, could you…?”
“I got it,” You hum, reaching over for the blue bottle and tucking it in his carefully, blindly outstretched hand, “Thanks for, um- here.”
“Yep,” He nods, smearing a dot of the substance on his palm and lathering it through his hair.
“Oh no,” Jake mimics Bradley’s previous predicament, dropping the bottle in his hand so that it rests between his legs, “Y/N, could you-”
“Ass,” You drawl, reaching forwards to butt your palm against his back. He stumbles forward with a laugh, catching himself on the railing. He bends down to reach for it and you’re nervous he’ll peek at your body from between his legs, but he stays respectful, something you know he is at his core even if he pretends differently.
You find yourself relaxing against the tiled floor of the shower, feet firmly planted instead of poised to run. As much as you know neither of the men in front of you would make any rude comments about your body or your weight, there’s still the nauseating fear that they might think differently of you having seen you completely unobscured. So you’re thankful for the privacy, that lasts… well, until it doesn’t.
The snap of your conditioner cap catches the skin of your pointed finger in its jaws and a gasp clutches tight at your lungs.
“Son of a bitch!” You cry, waves of pain flowing through your finger and out towards the rest of them. On cue each man turns, eyes wide and fear-stricken, without thinking.
You know they didn’t do it on purpose. You know they instinctively thought you were hurt, and wanted to help. You know they didn’t mean to look at you. But the withering feeling in your guts knows no logic, only fear.
They’re looking, it hisses, They’re looking at everything. The way your stomach pudges into a roll at the base. The way your breasts sag. The way your thighs stretch, marks littering their stems, and present no gap.
“You’re bleeding.” Bradley observes, eyes trained faithfully on your finger, “I’ll get a bandaid.”
He rushes for the cabinets outside the shower, dripping water over the floor. Jake stands, staring, but you’re too humiliated to glance at his face and notice the soft pinky blush on his cheeks that’s spreading to his ears.
“Here,” Bradley speaks from behind you, though he molds himself to your side when you’re still frozen in fear. He brushes a towel over your cut, the turquoise material staining red. He then undoes the waxy paper wrapping from the bandaid, sticking it tight to your skin.
“It’ll get wet,” He reminds you, “But it’ll stop soap from stinging it.”
You don’t even thank him. At your prolonged silence he glances up at Hangman, intent on giving him a concerned glance, but he sees the man’s eyes rove over your form and snaps.
“Dude,” Bradley utters gruffly, “Don’t be a perv. Come on, turn around.”
When Jake stays just as still as you, he reaches for him, shoving hard, “I said turn around!:
“Please, Jake,” You whimper, tears brimming in your eyes, “Turn around.”
“You’re crying.” Jake snaps out of his trance to frown up at you, and Bradley keeps pushing, an insistent thorn in his side, “Why are you crying?”
“Because you’re-!” You gush, lip wobbling, “You’re looking at me, and- and judging me, and-”
“Judging you,” He scoffs, eyes nearly bugging out of his head, “Best body I’ve ever seen. Case closed. Court dismissed.”
“Shut up,” You seethe, tears finally dripping down your cheeks, “Just shut up! You think this is fucking funny? You don’t think there’s a reason I didn’t want to shower with you?”
“You’re private, I get that.” He scoffs. “But if you think I’m judgin’ any part’a that, then you’re stupid, too.”
“Not the compliment you think it is,” Bradley mutters, hands still prying at Jake’s shoulder, “She told you to turn around, just do it.”
“No,” Jake doubles down, pushing Bradley away and stalking towards you, “I wanna know why you think so goddamn low of me. You really think I’d rope a woman into a shower and then pick apart what she looks like? You think that low of me?”
“It’s not about you,” You gush, hands at your sides in frustration, “It's about me! And my fucking body, okay? I’m not calling you a dick for judging me, I’m calling myself-”
“What?” Jake’s head tilts to the side, eyes glinting dangerously, “What are you calling yourself?”
“....Gross.” You finish lamely, the fire in your chest extinguishing with the poof of a sigh that escapes your lips.
He’s grabbing your hand without thinking about it, gentle but firm. You stare at him, anxiety-riddled.
“Listen here, girly. I’ve let you get away with sayin’ a lotta things about yourself. Dumbass I agree with, especially considering these circumstances. I’ve heard clumsy and stubborn, those I don’t have an issue with either. But don’t look me in my fuckin’ face and tell me you’re gross, ‘cause it’s an insult to me and my tastes.”
He squeezes your hand once before releasing it, and it feels more now like a heartfelt gesture than a threatening one. You’re breathing heavy, lungs cut short from the adrenaline of the moment, Even though Bradley isn’t pushing him anymore, standing on the sidelines waiting, watching, Hangman turns around without another word. He scrubs aggressively through his scalp and you’re almost surprised nothing bleeds, your mouth hung slightly open and your tongue leaden over your teeth.
“I’m not your type.” You finally manage to mutter, voice taut.
“Yes you are,” Jake scoffs, “How would you know?”
“I saw you eyeing up Phoenix earlier.” You roll your eyes, and if Bradley hadn’t turned around again you’d have flashed him an exasperated look.
“So? A man can like several shapes,” Jake boasts, voice losing venom, “Plus I ogle Phoenix just to piss her off.”
“It works.” Bradley cuts in, and you snort.
“Point is,” Jake drawls, and you’re sure if Bradley was in his line of sight he’d have been the victim of a very withering stare, “Don’t discredit yourself. You’ve got sexy ass thighs, woman.”
“Jesus, Jake,” Bradley sighs, “Can you just hurry up, already? I’m sure there’s nothing more Y/L/N wants than to get rid of you.”
“Oh, shut up, lapdog,” Jake deadpans, “You can’t tell me you don’t agree.”
Bradley’s silent for a moment, and your gut churns.
“Whether I do or don’t is irrelevant,” He chooses his words carefully, “Let’s just leave Y/N alone.”
“Like you weren’t blushing!” Bradley scoffs, “I looked up at you and thought you’d been temporarily replaced with a baboon’s ass.”
“Oh, that’s funny,” Jake drawls, “That’s what I think every time I see you, porn stache. Then I remember it’s just your natural charm.”
The crisis has been averted enough for you to let out a shaky laugh at their insults, and the sound catches both men’s attention.
“Listen, Y/L/N,” Jake starts, voice much kinder and softer now, “The point of this isn’t me telling Bradshaw he’s got the face of an ass. The point is to get it through your thick fuckin’ skull; you’re pretty damn sexy, y’hear?”
You snort at his callous nature, “No one’s ever told me anything like that before.”
“Yeah?’ He pauses,towel in hand that he nimbly swings over his shoulder, “Well, pardon me for lookin’, and even more for touchin’, but everyone else is fuckin’ insane.”
Before you can process his words he reaches down to palm at your thigh, a hefty squeeze that sends your flesh spilling against his palm. You stiffen, even though he stays politely away from your ass, encroaching only on territory he could also grab while you’re clothed. The feeling of his touch, no matter how chaste, elicits a noise from your throat that you wish you could pass off for a scream.
It’s not.
It’s a moan.
He stops where he’d begun pulling away, eyes sharpening slightly. You don’t dare look at Bradley, but if you did, you’d see his cock twitch.
“Did I hurt you?” Jake asks, voice low.
All you can do is shake your head, teeth digging into your lower lip helplessly.
“Did you like it?” He tries again, but this time he doesn’t accept body language as an answer/ Still hunched, he ignores your nodding and reaches up with his free hand to tug your bottom lip out from under your teeth.
“I asked you a question,” Jake croons, voice smooth and soft, “Did you like it?”
All you can whimper is a meager ‘Yes’.
Do you want me to do it again?”
“Yes.” Stronger, this time.
His hand plants itself firmly back over your thigh, thumb stretching towards the curve of your ass this time. It’s a little more suggestive, and a lot more alluring.
“Jesus,” Jake groans, kneading the soft flesh of your doughy thigh between his fingers, “Bradshaw, c’mere for a second.”
He hesitates, “Do you want me there, Y/N?”
“Yes,” You nod once more, legs stiffening and thigh tensing against Jake’s palm, “I- I do.”
“You take front,” Jake instructs, falling into place behind you with his hands now greedily prying at your ass, “And I’ll take back.”
The smile that Bradley offers you when he steps in front of you is nothing short of dreamy. It’s enough to make you blush, and he lets out a soft, breathy laugh at how forward Hangman is being while he stands giddily in front of you.
“If you say hi,” Jake drawls, hooking his chin over your shoulder and reaching around your front to grip at the seams of your inner thighs while glaring at Bradley suspiciously, “I’m going to slap you.”
“I wasn’t going to say hi,” Bradley scoffs, and you can tell by his blush that he totally was.
“Jesus, enough yammering,” Jake scoffs, turning his head to press his dewy lips into your neck, “We’re gonna be late for dinner.”
You worry, for a moment, that he’ll let go. That he’ll walk away, get dressed for the restaurant, and pretend nothing ever happened. But that’s not what he does, of course. Instead, you feel the hard press of his cock against your ass.
“I’ll be gentle,” Jake croons, feeling you tense as his hands smooth over the dip of your ass, “We’ll go slow, okay?”
“Real slow,” Bradley murmurs, and it catches your attention, reeling it back to him. You realize he’s standing much closer to you now than he had been before, lips nearly brushing yours.
The second your lips meet his in a kiss, Hangman smooths his hand between the globes of your ass. You squirm at the sensitive feeling, foreign as his fingertip brushes against your hole. But he doesn’t let up, and neither does Bradley.
Rooster’s tongue slides against your bottom lip, warm and wet. At the same time Hangman’s hands squeeze your ass, pulling apart each side and smoothing down the skin between. It sends a shiver up your spine that escapes in a puff of air between your lips, one that Bradley eagerly swallows.
Bradley’s hands grab your cheeks, thumbs brushing near your eyes and yanking you closer. You can feel Jake’s fingers carefully prodding and pressing at the tight ring of your asshole, a hitch in your breath causing you to bite down on Bradley’s lip.
“Fuck,” He hisses, coming away with a red lip and a guttural groan, “Jake, just- let up. Me first, she’s obviously sensitive.”
“She’s just tight,” Jake murmurs, lips pressing to the expanse of your shoulder, “Nothin’ I can’t fix.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to fix it,” Bradley grumbles, tearing a condom open with his teeth that he’d snagged from his wallet, “‘Cause I’m going in first, and you- shit!”
His fingers, slippery from the water and probably excess soap, drop the condom. The way that you’re arched into Hangman’s touch means that your thighs are squeezed together and bent slightly, and there’s no better way to catch a condom than between your thighs.
The foil wrapper sticks between your legs, making it easy for Bradley to pluck it out and toss the wrapper aside. Penny will find it tomorrow, because you’re sure as hell not gonna remember to get it.
“Well, whaddya know,” Jake drawls, grinning against the skin of your neck so hard you can feel it, “What they say is true. Thick thighs save lives.”
You face-plant into the water-dropped skin of Bradley’s neck, ignoring the way Hangman snickers.
“Actually, I think they just stopped a life from being conceived,” Bradley reasons, only a few sloppy strokes of his cock needed to easily slip the condom on, “But that probably saved my life, ‘cause if I got you pregnant in Penny’s bathroom, she’d slit my throat.”
The tip of Bradley’s hardened dick presses to your inner thigh, skin seldom touched and sensitive. You lean into it, but Hangman’s fingers follow, gently stroking over the rim of your ass. It’s starting to feel less foreign and more pleasurable, a twinge of something sweet licking at the underside of your belly like a rogue flame.
Bradley gently presses two fingers against your slit, ever-considerate in making sure you’re sufficiently prepped, but his eyes widen at how much slick he’s greeted with just past your folds.
“Holy shit,” He breathes, nose nudging yours as his lips brush with your own, “You’re wet.”
“Duh,” Hangman scoffs, and one of his hands abandons your ass to slip between your folds, collecting slick on their tips and dragging it back to your ass, “I’ve been touchin’ up on her for a while now.”
“Pardon me for thinking that’d work like an umbrella on a rainy day,” Bradley bitches, but you cut him off with a kiss before he can spout any other mildly insulting metaphors for how bad he thinks Hangman is in bed. You’ll vouch if you have to, he knows what he’s doing.
With each slow circle that his fingers trace around your rim, you bend back into him. Until you can feel his cock pressed stiff to your backside,just as Bradley presses his tip flush with your clit.
“Oh-,” You gasp, clit sending a shockwave of electric lust reverberating throughout your body, “Bradley, I- Inside, please, now!”
“I’m coming, sweetheart,” He croons, speaking in a velvety soft hum against your lips, “Don’t worry.”
He holds to his promise, sliding his dick down from where it’s pressed to your clit and easing it between your folds. You heave a blissful sigh at the feeling of being full, and it makes you rock backwards into Hangman’s fingers.
One breaches your hole, slipping inside with an agonizingly pleasurable burn. The stretch feels heavenly, especially because your cunt is already stretched to accommodate Bradley’s cock that slowly bottoms out inside of you.
“Good,” Jake praises, kissing beneath your ear, “I knew you could do it.”
Rooster lets out a groan at the feeling of your involuntary clench around him, eyes screwed shut. His forehead is braced against yours and you take the liberty of engaging him in another kiss, letting the pleasure of Jake’s fingers at your hole compel you to lick into Bradley’s mouth.
Being pleasured from both sides is too overwhelming. You feel yourself already rising to a climax, pressed on by both Bradley’s thick cock grating against your insides and Jake’s fingers.
You smooth your tongue over Bradley’s, gripping his shoulder when he increases his pace to be steadily fast. He’s not speeding through anything, but he’s not slow either, and it makes your insides burn.
The feeling of his cock ramming over and over and over against that spongy spot deep within you is too much, especially when Hangman slides a single, thick finger into your ass. You can’t help it, your orgasm hits you like a freight train (or perhaps a fighter jet), and you clench sporadically around Bradley’s thick, hard cock.
You whine relentlessly into his mouth, fingers clawing and prying at his damp skin as your knees go weak. You’re surprised you stay standing at all, but you funnel all of your orgasmic vigor into the kiss that Bradley eagerly licks out of you, and clutching his shoulders is enough.
Coming down from your high is jarring, especially when you realize that the steady pressure against your clit had been Bradley’s thumb the entire time. The pleasurable sensation is starting to sour with the unpleasant sting of overstimulation, and you tear his hand away eagerly, “Too much.”
“Sorry,” Bradley grunts into the kiss, the bristles of his mustache grating at your lip.
Bradley pulls out of you, still hard and red-tipped.
Jake takes one look down, his free hand sliding up your back while his other stays firm at your ass, “Those were pretty sounds. Look’t what they did to Bradshaw. See that, honey?”
You nod, breathless as you stare at Bradley’s impressive length.
“I think you should return the favor,” Jake muses, putting pressure against your back so that you bend in half, “Suck him off, darlin’.”
You land at eye-level with Bradley’s covered cock, and you can’t get the condom off fast enough. You drag your tongue along the underside of Bradley’s hard dick, taking the heated length into your hands and squeezing fondly at his balls. He swears low and gruff under his breath, watching your tongue snake against his slit.
Your lips curl around the head of Bradley’s cock, and the way that Jake adds a second finger to your ass makes you suck hard. You feel Bradley’s cock twitch on your tongue, and you scrape your teeth feather-light along him as you take more of him into your mouth.
He tries to keep himself still, tries not to face-fuck you, but he’s hopeless. His hips jolt forwards and you gag at the feeling of his dick hitting the back of your throat. It makes him groan, fists clenched at his side.
You bob and suckle along every inch of Bradley’s dick, licking up the vein that runs along the side and hollowing your cheeks while Jake fingers you open. When there are suddenly no fingers in your ass anymore at all, you whimper, taking Bradley’s cockhead into your fist while you try craning your neck to look back at Hangman.
“Keep going,” Jake directs you, nodding his head towards your fist, “He’s not done, and neither am I.”
You slip the hand that’s curled around Rooster’s dick and slide it up his length, rubbing gently at the base while you kitten lick the head. He pants and groans, bucking into your fist and subsequently your throat. The feeling of Jake’s dick pressed tight to your stretched hole makes you jolt forwards, and you face-fuck yourself on Bradley’s dick.
“Jesus,” He hisses, “You’re- you’re good at this, baby. C’mon, a- a little more, now.”
You let out a scream muffled by Bradley’s cock as Jake slides himself into your ass, dick grating delightfully tight against your rim. Once he bottoms out he sets a merciless pace, giving you no time to adjust before you’re being hammered into like he’s a feral animal.
“See that, Bradshaw?” Jake boasts, sending a hefty slap to your ass, “Told you she could do it. Perfect ass.”
“I see,” Bradley pants, hands tangled in your hair while you bob on his cock, “I- I’m gonna cum, honey.”
There’s barely any warning before the sight of Jake’s cock ramming into your ass gets to be too much for Bradley, but you don’t need it. You’re perfectly content to welcome his warm seed down your throat, letting it paint the inside of your mouth as you tongue him dry.
You don’t realize you’re using Bradley’s cock as a pacifier until he pushes at your forehead, hissing in oversensitivity, “Okay, okay! It’s too much,” He soothes you by sticking two of his slick-stained, thick fingers between your lips instead, “Here, honey. There y’go.”
Drool gathers at the seam of your lips and Bradley smears it away from your mouth, gathering it on his palm and licking it away. He groans at the taste, his own seed permeating your saliva, “Messy girl.”
Jake isn’t satisfied with his lack of action. Apparently, jackhammering into your ass isn’t quite enough for the guy, and he fists a hand in your hair to yank you upright with a grunt.
Bradley’s fingers slip from your lips with a pop and you cry out as Hangman manhandles you, pleasurable pain flooding your senses from the hair-pulling that start waves of a second orgasm swelling below your belly.
“Open,” Jake commands, keeping your neck bent backwards so that his face hovers over yours. You open your mouth without hesitation, and he spits inside.
Warm saliva, cooling quickly the more you stick your tongue out, pools by your throat. You eagerly swallow without being told,drool now seeping backwards down your face and towards your eyes. Jake licks it off with a broad, wet swipe of his tongue, and smears it against your lips.
The kiss is messy, upside-down and drooly, but it’s hot. Jake’s tongue licks against yours and his teeth nip at your bottom lip, a real spider-man style porno.
Your spine aches from being bent like a curly-q, but the ecstasy bleeding into your core is enough to push it to the back of your mind. You reach down to finger your clit, a whimper bleeding into Jake’s mouth at the action.
His southern drawl is stronger when he’s fucking, you note. It’s attractive.
“Not nothing,” Bradley volunteers, sticking his spit-soaked fingers up into your gaping cunt, “Cum, baby.”
You’re very good at following orders.
Your second orgasm hurts, in the best way. It tears you apart from the inside out, cunt clenching tight at Bradley’s fingers as he curls them inside of you. Jake bites hard at your lip as you ride out your second orgasm, and his dick twitches inside of you once, twice, three times before he’s letting himself go in tandem.
He fills you with warm cum, the substance gushing out of your gaped hole and oozing out around his own cock.
“Jesus fuck,” He snaps, the words an unintelligible grunt against your lips, “So tight, and so sexy.”
Bradley’s free hand braces itself on your stomach, and the touch doesn’t make you recoil like it normally would. It’s lewd, but being splattered with their cum really makes you believe that they’re not going to judge your body.
Instead you lean into the touch, letting Bradley embrace you as you come down from your high a moaning pile of mush.
“Slow,” You warn Jake, who’s never heard the word a day in his life. He follows directions, though, easing his dick out of you and making sure it doesn’t burn.
“We need another shower,” Bradley pants after a moment of fucked-out silence.
You nod, brain foggy, “Yeah. We- we can’t show up to the restaurant smelling like sex. They’ll know.”
--
As it turns out, you don’t need to smell like sex for everyone to know you’ve just had it. You show up forty-five minutes late, sweaty-faced and rosy-lipped, all slightly out of breath. Your dress is rumpled, and Bradley’s tie is haphazardly secured.
“Oh,” Phoenix grimaces, nose scrunching in disgust, “Gross, guys.”
“In my bathroom?” Penny looks aghast, “You better not have clogged the shower drain.”
“Easy,” Maverick throws a hand out over her own, “We’ve done it in there one too many times to judge.”
“Gross!” Payback rears away from the older pilot sitting next to him, “Everybody needs to stop getting laid, but if you do, don’t tell me about it!”
