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queers-gambit · 5 months

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Love What You've Done with the Place

song by Rascal Flatts

prompt: he's never been a man built for relationships, until you come into his life. now, the house feels like a home.

pairing: Tangerine x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 1.8k+

warnings: more brain rot rambles, probably cursing, NOT edited, very docile, fluff, romance, hardened men being simps.

It started with clothes. Just a few, here and there; left behind, forgotten, purposefully stuffed in his dresser for when you stayed the nights. He didn't mind, in fact, Tangerine encouraged you to bring whatever you felt comfortable with leaving since he hated how early you'd leave in the mornings to get ready for work. He found his mornings were peaceful when you were around; neither rushed, both content, starting your days on high notes with each other.

So, he made the decision and found an old sitting-vanity for you. He put it in his bedroom simply because he was fascinated with the hair and make-up process; thinking it was incredible that women had such skill. When he came home about 3 months ago, he noticed your vanity when he first got home from a particularly difficult mission. Your chair was draped in an old university tee shirt, and he smiled.

It was like watching your comfort grow and it warmed something deep in Tangerine's heart. Your make-up wasn't always in a neat array, sometimes just left from a quick touch-up; making the house feel more like a home.

Tangerine also bought a strainer for the shower's drain to catch your hair. He didn't get angry like previous boyfriends did when he found strands of your hair left behind - not on purpose or by some gross standard, but it was natural that hair shed in a shower and not every single strand could be picked up. So, to make life easier, he just quietly bought the hair trap, placed it, removed whatever empty bottles from the shower, and went about his day. But then he started to notice your hair left other places.

His counters, his sink, the floor, your vanity, his bed sheets and pillows.

Tangerine had his issues with possessiveness in the past, but this wasn't remotely similar. No, Tangerine found himself smiling when he would find your hair in his clothes; thinking it was funny, almost like a mark or badge of honor to designate him as yours. It was a brief thought, but Tangerine actually felt giddy by the idea of people just knowing he was off the market 'cause his lady's hair was clung to his suit jackets.

He liked it. He really did. He'd not admit it aloud, but he liked it.

Tangerine wasn't the most humble man in the world, but he certainly liked to flash what was his. Golden jewelry, expensive, tailored suits, shining Italian leather shoes. And now, you, the woman who invaded his heart and head - and now his home. He adored showing you off, feeling affirmed and invigorated by the longing glances men threw your way, and while he expected jealousy from other women, they seemed more impressed by your beauty and grace as well.

He remembers one night, after a several weeks long mission, he just wanted to hold you. His throat was a little choked up when he called you, knowing you were at home after reading an earlier text. So, you rushed over in the middle of the night and he'd yet to let you go home - three days later.

"You've gonna have to let me out of bed sometime," you smiled playfully. "I have work tomorrow - and no, I'm not calling out again."

"C'mon, love, don't leave me alone," he whispered, looking like a beaten down puppy. The mission was much harder than he'd let on, but Lemon usually always filled you in. He thought it was important for you to know certain details that Tangerine was sure to omit, knowing those were the details that haunted him.

"I'll be back after my shift," you promised, nuzzling his nose with your own. "I also need new panties and clean clothes."

He sighed, "Some in there," he pointed to his closet now.

"What?" You giggled.

"You've left enough behind, got a bit of a collection goin', yeah?" He smiled softly, wrapping you back up in his arms. With a sigh, he relented, "I'll let yah go to work, love, just... Need this a bit longer."

You obliged, but the next day, you were gone before he woke up. With a frown, Tangerine dropped back onto the bed - but inhaled deeply when his nose buried into your pillow. He hummed in pleasure, feeling himself brim with contentment, bringing the fluffy item to his chest and nuzzling it; your perfume left behind to soothe him.

Was Tangerine clingy? Oh, for sure! He didn't think so, but you knew better. The contract killer liked you close, liked his hands on you; even if it was just a hand on your waist or a nose near your neck. He missed you when gone, but he usually held himself back from texting you all day - wanting you to be able to focus on your job.

But that day? He was inept, just wanting you; wondering if he paid you the same salary, if you'd consider just staying home. So, he texted you several times.

This obviously threw you off a little, knowing him better than himself most days. But he just missed you, so, you sent a selfie - promising you missed him too and would be home right after work.

He saved the photo and tried not to dwell on how you said you'd "be home" and not "come to his place". He had to take a few moments to calm down, feeling his heart zing with unfamiliarity - but not being afraid of it like he had been when you first started dating. He could recognize he was happy, that he was excited to see you everyday, and that the idea of coming home to you was far too appealing to ignore any longer.

It seemed neither of you needed to actually have an official conversation about living together. Lemon didn't mind, in fact, he was the one who insisted you have your own key; adoring you and whatever affect you had on his emotionally constipated brother. So, some mornings, Tangerine wasn't surprised to find a slightly damp towel left hanging in the bathroom, nor by the make-up on his counter - you using that mirror because of the fluorescent lighting. He never put it back, he didn't move it - he liked seeing it. It meant you were still here, and the idea of it being gone made his stomach knot with anxiety. He also wasn't surprised when he went to use the shampoo you insisted would help his curls flourish (you were right), only to find it damn-near empty. His shower gel, too.

When you came home that evening, you had Target bags in hand; replacing whatever was empty, making Tangerine grin to himself by how in-sync he felt with you. He'd never had a connection such as this, only ever feeling close enough to Lemon, but you changed everything for them both.

How Tangerine ended up with someone courteous was truly beyond either of them. Someone kind, caring, adventurous, sweeter than pie - someone definitely out of Tangerine's league, something he never let himself forget. He adored you to your core - thinking someone such as you should never have gotten tangled up in someone like him, but he knew, if the time ever came, he'd never be able to let you go. In fact, most days, he had to convince himself not to just pick you up and carry you around while he did chores or ran errands.

The very idea of losing you sent his heart into his stomach; hallowing his chest in a harrowing fashion that made it hard to breathe. Just a week or two ago, Lemon found Tangerine in the kitchen, hand to his chest as if he couldn't catch his breath, heaving for air; his worry spiking, but quickly realizing what was wrong.

"Bruv, you've gotta breathe - calm down," he tried to coax. "You're having a panic attack, you've gotta just focus on breathing."

"Fuck off with that!"

"Seriously, man," Lemon insisted, catching Tangerine in a vulnerable state enough that he actually listened without much of a fight. When Tan seemed a little more under control of his own emotions, Lemon asked, "What the hell happened?"

Tangerine shook his head, "Nothing t'worry 'bout - "

"Bullshit," Lemon snapped. "I've never seen yah like that, mate, the fuck happened?"

It was embarrassing, but Tangerine managed to answer, "Just... Just started thinking that if she ever left me, I'd fucking crumble, mate."

This made Lemon frown, "She's not gonna leave you, man. You know that. The girl's madly in love with you, yeah? Like madly in love - like to a degree it makes her stupid in the head, all right? Obviously, you too," he chuckled, shaking his head as he affectionately ran a hand over the back of Tan's head. "You're workin' yourself up, 's all right. You don't have to think about that - ever - 'cause she's it for you, mate. Yeah? Hear me? She ain't goin' nowhere, not without you."

Tangerine needed the assurance. Being alone after having a taste of your love felt impossible to Tan now, something he was never bothered by before. Seriously, why give a fuck about a relationship when he had his brother? Someone who loved him unconditionally and wouldn't leave? And then he met you and understood why people gave fucks about relationships.

It was as if every room you ever entered was brightened up simply by your smile. Your laugh wasn't always the most ladylike, but it was genuine and true and always made Tangerine smile to himself. During any public outing, Tan was always close - we've established this - but he liked to play a small game. One of your love languages was physical touch, so, you liked kissing him if even just for a single second. He was aware of your lipstick, feeling the tacky substance stain his cheek, but he wouldn't wipe it off. His game was to see how long it'd take before someone would point it out; his reputation didn't always warrant others to feel secure enough to speak up. Some nights, Lemon would motion to his cheek, and other nights, you'd return home, remove your make-up, and swipe make-up remover over his cheek to clear the color away.

However, it wasn't often you ventured in public due to Tangerine's innate introverted nature. You went if The Agency made it mandatory or if you were feeling stir crazy, but majority nights, Lemon would find you both lounged on the couch in various positions.

Sometimes, you'd be watching a movie together or binging a show. Other times, you were reading a book while Tangerine poured over paperwork. And once or twice, Lemon's come home to find you belly laughing and playfully scolding Tangerine as he tried to paint your toe nails. It was a homey sight to Lemon: seeing his brother so in love and at ease, hearing your laughter, the entire flat filled with warm smells of burning candles and homemade meals.

It wasn't evident at first, but with you laying in Tangerine's arms, clothes left on the floor, bellies full of whatever meal you had prepared that evening, favorite show playing on the bedroom TV, he realized that he loved what you had done with the place.

requesting rules and masterlist

Bullet Train masterlist

#tangerine #tangerine bullet train #bullet train tangerine #tangerine imagine #tangerine oneshot #tangerine x you #tangerine x reader #tangerine x fem!reader #tangerine x f!reader #tangerine x female!reader #bullet train #bullet train movie #bullet train 2022 #tangerine atj #atj tangerine #atj #atj character

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ghouljams · 7 months

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I saw this artwork and immediately thought of your knight! ghost and princess work!

it’s “the meeting on the turret stairs” by frederic william burton which was inspired by the danish story of princess who falls in love with her personal body guard.

Ugh I think of this painting so often I think it's tattooed onto my brain. The way she can't look at him, can't do more than let him hold onto her arm. Her hand doesn't even grasp at him but you can see her desperation. The flower discarded on the stair, perhaps indicative of another lost flower. The absolute devotion on the knight's face. The yearning. God. More stairwell stuff with knight!Ghost and his princess.

You don't know quite where you're going, you only know you had to get out of there. Had to get away from that horrible dinner, that horrible man who looked at you with cold callous indifference. Away from the half-baked praises your mother was singing, trying to court a man who had less interest in you than he would a flea. Everything is going terribly wrong and you have nothing to fall back on but empty, broken, promises.

You run up the turret stairs, determined to find a space for yourself away from all of this. Anywhere you think would be the last place for your maids to look. Besides, the knights stationed up there won't say anything if you cry. Their gossip hardly ever reaches the maids.

You press close to the wall to make way for the knight coming down, but he's quick to grab you instead. Gentle hands hold you steady as he moves a few steps lower to let you meet his warm gaze, one you recognize even(perhaps especially) through the watery tears gathering on your lashes. Your Ghost.

"My lady," His hand reaches to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away the stray tear that escapes you, "I can't leave you alone for a second."

You hardly give your positions a seconds thought before you collapse onto him. He's strong enough to take it, hardly wavering as you cling to him. His arms circle your waist, tight to hold you close as you press your face to his armored shoulder. You feel his nose against your neck, his breath as tense as his body. This is improper, but you don't care. You hate seeing him without your colors, you hate it.

Ghost sighs and loosens his grip on you, letting you go. You wrap your arms tighter around him, as if that could stop it. He tuts, as if it's such an imposition, and reaches for your arms to pry you off of him.

When you're set right on the stair again he keeps hold of your hands, a warning not to try grabbing him again. Still, his thumbs stroke the backs of your hands, warm leather soothing against your skin. You love him all the worse for pushing you away, for doing his duty.

"Let's get you back where you're supposed to be," He tells you. You swallow and nod, unable to look at him past that. Back into the maws of wolves, you think. Ghost walks you back to the dining room, offers you a handkerchief to dry your tears. His duty ends there, but he enters with you.

When the table stands to welcome you, you hear the creak of his glove as he clenches his fist. You feel the guard he raises for you like the warmth of a fire, safe from the dangers of the night. Your eyes are trained on the foreign king on one end of the table, the way he stares down his nose at you, the darkness of his eyes behind his mask. You've never seen a blue look so hostile, so black with malice. As if he isn't waiting just for you to leave again, but for you to die.

"Sir Riley," Your father's tone is light, but unquestionably harsh, "You are off the princess's service, are you not?"

"My duty is to the royal family, which my lady is apart of. I'm doing my job and escorting her," Ghost challenges. Your father grits his teeth, determined not to make a scene for a potential ally. You've never known your knight to call the king like this. It's a dangerous game, one with consequences you don't want Ghost playing against.

"Ghost," You turn away from the hateful gaze of the German king to speak to your knight. He drops his eyes from the king to yours, soft and coppery, and affectionate.

"Princess," He hardly hides his preference for your authority. You're sure your father is seething.

"I'm alright," You tell him softly, "you're dismissed."

He stalls a moment, eyes searching yours. You know he'd jump if you only asked, you never saw a problem in that until now. Some things you need to be able to handle on your own. Things like diplomatic incidents. He nods, bows shortly, and leaves. Your eyes follow him as he goes, your heart leaving with him. You turn back to your audience.

"My apologies," You address both kings, "my emotions got the better of me, it won't happen again."

"I should hope not," Your father tells you. König tips his head, studying you.

"Pathetic," The voice barely fits the man, but you hadn't heard him speak all evening. König rolls his shoulders back and gestures for your maid and your new knight. "I was getting tired of this dance anyway," when he turns his eyes back to you they hold the trace of a smile, though you hesitate to call it that, "Princess, I think a walk would do us both some good."

"Of course," You try to smile, though all you can feel is a deep unease. Perhaps you should have kept Ghost by your side, politics be damned.

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davestone13-blog · 1 month

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RIOC: No, We Won't Help on the Worst Transit Day All Year

Last evening, RIOC made it clear. They will not try anything new that might help residents on the worst transit day of the year. Appeals have been made, pleas about Roosevelt Island’s most vulnerable, but no, we’re still stuck in Rosenthal/Haynes mode. Is anyone listening? by David Stone The Roosevelt Island Daily News Worst Transit Day for Roosevelt Island It probably couldn’t happen on a…

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#Cherry Blossoms #Easter #F Train #RIOC Negligence #Roosevelt Island Tram #Roosevelt Islanders #Tram to Roosevelt Island

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moonlight-prose · 3 months

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✧ SECRETS HELD IN THE HEART ✧

a/n: let's pretend that it's still october and i'm still on my shit. cause no way is it january when i'm finishing this. anyways i got stuck in the rut of 'my writing is the worst thing to grace this planet' and managed to drag my horny ass out of it. you can thank me ovulating for this. now onto angsty bradley!

day twenty-seven - strip tease | kinktober 2023

summary: "he would happily let you overtake his entire life; the part of him that longed for connection—for permanency—now called out to you. whispering a soft question against the curve of your heart. all in the hopes that you’d say yes."

word count: 3.8k (we're so back)

pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, angst, the dangers of truth or dare, alcohol consumption, strip tease, p in v sex, bradley is a boob guy, longing between two idiots, very little editing done.

You lost the bet.

Really it wasn’t your fault that you lost. You simply had gotten distracted the second your eyes locked with his, a crooked smile spread on his lips as you sipped at your chaser. The beer in front of you now clasped tightly in your hand while you waited for the alcohol to turn you warm. The condensation turned your skin cold as he reached for your hand. You could see the way the hair on his forearm stood up slightly, a chill no doubt raking its way through his body.

The rules with him were simple. Down four shots before the person beside you and you get to be in command for the rest of the night.

You wanted to say that it was some sort of ploy to push you two together when Hangman shoved Rooster forward. Fanboy accidentally bumped into you until your waist was pressed to the edge of the bartop and you were staring down apprehensively at the clear liquid.

Tequila was your strong suit. That much you were sure of. You just hadn’t expected him to fucking cheat.

Brown eyes slid down the length of your body as he tipped his head back to down the third shot, and that was it. You were utterly distracted as a rush of warmth slipped down your spine, curling at the base until you could feel it in the tips of your fingers. You were quickly reaching for your last shot once you were snapped back into reality, only to hear him slam the small glass down beside you.

The raucous cheers of everyone around you confirmed what you already knew. That you were now staring head on at the winner of the bet—your fate now clutched tightly in his hands. While Hangman made a show of pulling Rooster’s arm up as if he’d just won a WWE championship, his eyes were fixed on you. A smile formed on his lips, and you could practically see something churning in the back of his mind.

He had plans for you.

“Better luck next time Fox!”

You grumbled under your breath, drinking your beer until you could no longer fathom the taste anymore. Meanwhile Rooster acted exactly like his name. Proudly puffing up his chest with a grin that would normally have you shambles.

You glared at him instead.

Unable to catch the sight of him being caught off guard, you maneuvered your way through the crowd and headed straight for the back booth. At least there you felt safe. There you could wait out the crowd of testosterone that nearly choked the very breath from your lungs. There Rooster would find you two beers in, humming along to the Eagles, and fully intent on complying with his every word.

Or at least that’s what he believed.

He slipped in beside you with ease, arm propped up around your shoulders, lips by your ear. “Rules are rules Fox.”

Turning slightly, you angled your face close to his—eyes focusing on the plush bottom lip he currently had trapped between his teeth. Fuck, you wanted to take it in your mouth. Taste the remnants of the tequila that still permeated his tongue. You wanted to make him breathless in the way he did to you—holding permanently onto his lungs so tight he feared he may never breathe again.

“They’re stupid rules.”

He chuckled. “No one said Hangman was smart.”

Try as you might, you couldn’t stop the smile from forming on your lips. The jab at Hangman caused the both of you to fall back into your familiar friendship. Something you held so near and dear to your heart. Rooster had always been someone you turned to when things got tough; the one person who could see right down to your soul, as if you were made of nothing but transparent glass.

“So…Rooster.” You shifted, eyes catching his in the soft light of the lamp above. “What’s your plan?”

“Who said I had a plan?”

“Don’t bullshit me.” With a soft tug on his shirt you brought his lips closer, until the warmth of his breath washed across your cheek. “I invented that game.”

He smiled—eyes alight and eager. “Do you want to go back to my place?”

“So you do have a plan.”

A small shrug of his shoulder told you enough to understand that Rooster had been thinking about this far longer than you originally thought. He wasn’t planning on a whim that this would happen eventually. He was hoping that you would lose. If only to move along this unbearable ache that neither of you—try as you might—could put a name to.

“Yes,” you said with a sly grin. “I’ll hold up my end of the deal.”

There it was again. That all too familiar flicker of want he battled with whenever you were near. The small feeling that threatened to swallow him whole if he wasn’t careful. But that was the thing…he didn’t want to be careful. He would happily let you overtake his entire life; the part of him that longed for connection—for permanency—now called out to you.

Whispering a soft question against the curve of your heart. All in the hopes that you’d say yes.

You followed him out of the bar to the boisterous calls of the team across the bar. Each of them chanted Rooster’s name as if he was some sort of hero to them. But the both of you knew that he hadn’t won your affection tonight. He simply lucked out in being the only guy on this side of Fightertown that you actually wanted.

His car sat near the door, parked at an angle that told you he simply swerved in and stopped. Even you had to admit that was unlike him. A measured man who held onto his actions with a tight leash, but he couldn’t say the same was done for his emotions. He was intense in a way that made your heart burn, your insides screaming at you to give into him.

To stop playing this game of fucking chicken.

You flipped through the radio stations as he drove, the rumble of the engine a soothing echo in the background of that irritable humming beneath your skin. As if you would vibrate right out of your skin if he looked at you one more time. All big brown eyes and pouty lips and a heart that would break you if you weren’t careful.

“Truth or dare Rooster.”

He clearly didn’t expect that to come out of your mouth. But as always, his lips curved into that smirk you longed to kiss off his face.

“Truth,” he said, shifting in his seat. You couldn’t see it, but he’d been sporting a hard on since you looked at him that way in the booth.

You snorted. “Of course.”

“D’you want me to pick dare?”

“No.” You smiled, leaning into the seat. “I just figured you would pick truth. It’s the safe answer.”

“I disagree.”

“Oh?”

He chanced a look at you and wished he hadn’t. Your legs were spread slightly, head lolling to the side with a grin on your face that taunted him to look. To see you like this—waiting for him to fuck you seven ways to Sunday. He subtly pressed his foot harder on the gas.

“Truth makes you expose a part of yourself. Dare lets you escape that.”

Without knowing Rooster had hit a piece of yourself that made you sit up a bit straighter. You wanted to push it back down. Conceal it from any prying eyes that might want to pull it closer—inspect what it was. Except he’d already latched onto it and proceeded to yank it out of you with intent.

As if to say I’m here. I’ll be here until you say otherwise.

And you couldn’t deny that it terrified you.

“Alright philosopher Bradley,” you teased in an effort to save face. He chuckled and let you move on. “Tell me a secret you’ve never told me before.”

He stiffened, fingers clutching at the wheel just a bit harder.

“Are you sure you want that?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” you replied, fingers picking at your denim jeans.

“Alright.” He sucked in a breath, shifting in his seat as if he was ready to jump out of the moving car. You wouldn’t be surprised if he did. That’s where Bradley and you were exactly the fucking same.

You hated talking about your emotions.

He coughed, eyes flicking back to you briefly. Thankfully it was too dark for you to see the red stain spread along his cheeks—the heat of your stare burning a hole in the side of his head.

“I—uh—I think I’m in love with you.”

For a moment you remained silent, your heart seizing in your chest and mind going a mile a minute. Words would have been good at this time. A small indication that you in fact felt the same. But he stopped your entire being with that truth—blowing a hole in your impenetrable wall, only to watch as you bled out on the awful leather of his car.

“Fox?”

You jolted, snapping to attention. “What do you mean you think?” He stuttered, mouth falling open. “Don’t you know?”

“I—”

“I know. Why don’t you?”

He had stopped the car five minutes ago in front of his small bungalow. The steady hum of the engine gave way to the awkward tension that now choked the life out of you. Bradley’s eyes locked with yours, darkening slightly at the quick rise and fall of your chest. How you kept your resistant stance even as he tried to pour his emotions out for you.

“What do you mean you know?”

And that was the thing about Bradley fucking Bradshaw. You never knew when he was going to catch you off guard.

For a moment you were in midair, floundering for words to say. But he was way ahead of you.

Popping open his door, he got out of the car and rounded to your side, opening it with a swift motion and helping you out with another. His arm looped around your waist, pulling you up the steps with him, his lips dangerously close to your neck. He didn’t need words for this part, neither of you did.

You’d been to his place before. Often for a barbecue he hosts on a weekend when everyone is back in town for a mission. But you’d never been here like this. Alone, with your heart racing, and knees weak. As he finally and firmly pressed his lips to the back of your neck, his hands gripping your hips tightly while he shut the door with his foot.

The silence felt different here. It pressed and pressed and pressed until you could feel the desire claw at your chest, begging you to give in.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

A breath escaped you—short and shuddering. “I didn’t pick truth.”

“The fuck you didn’t,” he mumbled, his fingers gripping the back of your neck as he leaned his back against the door.

“Rooster—” His teeth sunk into your skin, pain piercing the flesh until it spread through your body.

“You know?”

Your eyes fluttered shut, fingers scrabbling to grip at any part of him you could reach. “Yes.”

“You know what?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Except you knew he would. You knew he’d make you repeat the words until you no longer had a voice, because he was greedy. He wanted more than you could give, but devoured it all the same. If Bradley had his way, he’d have said these words three fucking years ago when you had beat him in a game of pool—eyes bright from the single beer you downed. You were sunlight in human form and he wanted to soak in your rays.

“I’m gonna,” he breathed, fingers tracing down your stomach to the belt on your waistband. “Because I love you.”

Your eyes flew open, a gasp ripping from your chest. “Bradley…”

“There she is.”

Heat spilled over from your chest, sliding down your body as if you had just ingested a warm drink. He longed to pick you open and see what was inside. To know your emotions as well as you knew his. It should have infuriated you, made you want to rip at his clothes and shut him up entirely. But the feeling from earlier rose up again, silencing your need to run away. It gave you a leg to stand on.

Turning in his hold, you pressed your lips to his, giving into the blinding ache that nearly killed you. He sagged against your body with a defeated groan, his hands pulling and tugging as if he could wrap you around him again and again. He was so far gone for you that even when you began to step back, he followed—refusing to break the kiss.

His tongue swept into your mouth, fingers digging into your ass, and it made you feel weak. Dizzy almost.

“Go sit on the couch.”

He shook his head, licking into your open mouth. “‘M busy.”

Fighting the smile was no use this time around. Tugging sharply at his hair you felt yourself clench around nothing when he moaned, his eyes rolling slightly and mouth falling open. You stored that knowledge away for later.

“Sit on the couch for me baby,” you purred.

The high that entered your brain at the sight of him shivering just from one word was unlike anything you’d ever felt. No amount of flying in dangerous jets could bring you that emotion. Because it wasn’t adrenaline. It was power.

Simply the knowledge that you could get him to do anything sent you reeling; your body now at a temperature that was surely destructive. He pulled away reluctantly, stumbling back until his ass was planted firmly on the couch cushions, legs spread wide and cock pressing against the seam of his too tight jeans.

Fuck you wanted to ruin him.

“What do you want me to do?”

His eyes widened slightly, hands pressing down into his thighs. “What…”

“You won the bet.” Stepping closer, you watched his pupils dilate as he sucked in enough air to not pass out. You leaned closer, hands pressing over his and teeth pulling at his bottom lip. “So tell me what you want.”

“Strip for me,” he blurted out without control, the stain on his cheeks turning a few shades darker. A blooming crimson.

You grinned, nudging your nose with his. “As you wish.”

The old nearly broken record player sat on a weathered table in the corner of his room. Records stacked haphazardly beside it and you considered going through each one. If not to find the perfect song, then to sneak a peek into what type of man he was, but he was sitting impatiently on the couch as you flipped a record onto the turntable. The needle fell with the smooth ease of being used over and over again, scratching slightly until the echo of a sensual modern song began.

“I pegged you for an oldies only kind of guy,” you smirked over your shoulder, catching sight of his body twitching.

He blew out a breath. “Not always.”

“Hm.” You turned, fingers toying with the hem of the tight top Phoenix bought you a week ago. She claimed it was for going out purposes. You knew she meant Rooster. “Good to know.”

He expected you to strip quickly and fall into his lap. Which proved why he was surprised to see you pad over to him slowly. Hips swaying in time with the song, hands sliding along your body as if you wanted it to be him touching you instead. Oh how he wanted to fucking touch you. Bradley felt his mouth dry when you pulled at the buckle of your belt, undoing the button and zipper—only to leave it that way.

“Baby,” he panted, anxiously shifting on the couch, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he swore you could hear it.

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to…” He felt his mouth fall open as your shirt slid up your torso, sliding off entirely and leaving you in a lacy very see-through bra. “Oh fuck.”

“Thought you said you wanted me to strip?”

“I do. Fuck I do.” He was going to die. You were going to kill him. And you hadn’t even touched him yet.

You turned, arms raising as you lowered yourself into his lap, biting back a giggle when he audibly groaned. He sounded like you punched him right in the chest, shoving the sound out and forcing it to echo in the room. Bradley’s hands grasped at your sides, marveling at how soft you were, but your hips shifting to sway with the song did him in.

“You’re supposed to only watch,” you teased, eyes falling shut at his warm touch.

“Forget stripping.” He helped your hips move, eyes stuck on the peek of the lacy underwear you wore peeking from the opening of your pants. “I’ll have you like this.”

“But the bet—”

“Fuck the bet.”

He cupped your chin in his hand, lips sliding messy and wet along yours with a desperation you’d never felt before from anyone. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was trying to imprint himself in your tastebuds. Stain you with his flavor until you would be unable to forget him. It sunk into your chest, crawling through your veins, and for a moment you felt yourself forget what you were doing.

Pulling away with a gasp, he reached for your jeans, pulling them down to bare your ass to him. He moaned raggedly, forehead falling to your shoulder at the sight.

“Fuck. You’re perfect everywhere,” he breathed, tugging your underwear to the side, catching how it clung to the slick that practically poured out of you.

You sighed all sweet and soft and Bradley felt his cock jolt in his jeans. He wasn’t going to last more than ten minutes. He’d be fucking lucky to get inside you first. But with the way you squirmed under his touch, you seemed to be right there with him. He matched your breath with one of his own before he undid his pants, pulling himself out swiftly with very little touching.

Anything more and he’d lose it.

“Can I…” Nerves jumped under his chest, making him rethink everything for a brief moment. A horrible habit he had even up in the air.

“Bradley.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “Yeah?”

“If you don’t fuck me I’m leaving,” you whispered.

It was meant to be a joke to jolt him out of his stupor. You knew that you couldn’t leave even if you tried. You were stuck to him—a part of him.

But your words seemed to spur him on. He lined himself up with shaky hands, his breaths coming in just the same, and with a small push he began to sink into you. Bradley had his fair share of sex in his life. It was an act of relief half of the time. But this? He wasn’t prepared for the sheer amount of bliss that would slam into him, a choked grunt tearing from his throat.

“Fuck, fuck—” He clamped an arm around your waist to keep you still. “I’m not gonna—fucking god.”

You felt the breath punch from your lungs, a shaky breath escaping you as he finally pushed the final inch into you, stilling completely at the feeling. Full. That’s what you had been missing when you did this. The fullness that left you gasping for air, the emotions that spilled over like blood from a wound.

You needed him to move, but knew he was trying to keep himself on a tight leash. His stability and sense went out the window the second you looked at him. It deteriorated on the way here, and finally…he could see the final fragments begin to fade. Turn to ash right before his eyes as burning paper would. Was he on fire? He felt like he was.

“Baby,” you whined, the pitch so high and perfect he could feel his heart swell in his chest.

He loved you.

Fuck…he loved you.

But he wasn’t going to last. He determined that he’d make it up to you on the first thrust; that he’d spend all night between your plush thighs making you scream his name. Because he was four thrusts in and his balls were already drawing up.

If only he focused long enough to see how your mouth hung open in a silent moan. Your fingernails dug into his arm, drawing blood to the surface, and you’d apologize later. You’d kiss it better once this was all over, because your body was pulling taut above his. He shoved into you with a stunted grind of his hips, nudging against bliss—drawing you even higher. You severely underestimated how on the edge you were.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll—fuck—I’ll make you come sweetheart. ‘M gonna make you come.”

His hand pushed beneath your pants that weren’t even off entirely, fingers sliding through your slick until the rough pads nudged roughly against your clit. You arched into the touch and cried out raggedly, electricity shooting down your spine.

“Not gonna last.” He bit into your shoulder with a groan, his hips slamming up into you one last time as he fell to pieces. Only for you to follow immediately. His name was a breathless shout on your lips; a sound he wanted burned into his mind.

You didn’t understand the babble of words that spilled out as you came down, your body wracked with jolts of pleasure. And his hands became a warm soothing balm along your skin. Something to bring you back to yourself. Even if it did take a moment.

“I love you.” He grinded into you slowly, sluggishly. Without a care in the world other than those words. “I do, I love you.”

He wished you could see the smile on his face, but something told him you knew it was there. His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs running along your clothed nipple. Simply to watch you shudder. To see your body melt into his touch again. If he wasn’t addicted before. He was now.

“I know,” he said.

You scoffed, a flare of what you knew was adoration but faked as irritation crawled up your chest. “Shut up.”

Nudging his chest with your elbow, you felt his body shake as he laughed. Heat blooming beneath the skin of your cheeks. He could be the worst person alive. But you couldn’t deny what you already knew. What you’d known for a long time.

#back on the angsty smut train #toot toot #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x f!reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x y/n #bradley rooster bradshaw #kinktober 2023 #my writing

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