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purelyfiction · 7 months

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miami vice || rhett abbott

Rhett Abbott x F!Reader

Word Count: 3,015 words

Summary: tailgates and trucker hats and drinky decisions. that's all.

Content Warning: HEY!! THIS HAS SMUT!! So if you’re under 18 pleaseeee go away. (brother's best friend, f fingering, choking, oral f receiving, missionary, safe sex, CNC because drunk, strangers to lovers, possession kink if you squint?)

Author Note: hey bitches i'm not dead - jk ily all sorry. if you can't tell i'm self indulgent and needed to put this horny energy somewhere other than my head. enjoy.

"HEADS UP!" You barely register the sound before a sand filled bag clocks you right across the top of your eye, making you curse and drop your beer, hand flying up to your eye. The voice has traveled from the other side of the tent to land in front of you, a large hand taking your shoulder. "shit, i'm so sorry 'bout that."

Finally blinking away the pain in your eyelid, you can open both of your eyes to reveal the jackass who'd struck you - a jackass in a black sleeveless tank with a backward trucker hat. Your chin drops as you look him in very blue eyes, which are flooded with clouded concern. "You good? C'mere," his hand moves from your shoulder to behind your back as he moves to your side, carefully tucking under the tailgate tent. The male moves to one of what had to be a dozen blue coolers tucked under folding tables, pulling it open and carefully pushing the cold can to the affected eye. You've not said a damn word as he carefully settles the drink to your forehead, eyes still trained on him. "Real sorry, again I- my buddy's got shit aim."

"It's fine, I'll just go back to my place looking like I got jumped. " Your quick retort has him chuckling as he guides your hand to take the can and hold it. After he's sure you won't drop it, he's grabbing another two cans, large hands able to handle them with ease, extending one to you as he polishes off the other he'd carried over with him.

"You can actually drink that one." This time, its you laughing at you watch him crush the now empty can and toss it in a nearby hanging trash bag, clicking the tab to open it, foam coming to the top. Instinctually, you're dropping down to catch it with your lips before it can overflow onto his hand, the aluminum still in his grip. Withdrawing, you carefully navigate it from his hands.

"Thanks. You always treat the victims your sloppy shooter assaults?"

"Nah, only if they're stupidly hot." The forwardness leaves your eyebrows to pop up, the pain dully reminding you how you got here in the first place. The nameless cornhole vigilante reaches up to the tent frame, gripping to the accordion metal and leaning in. "I don't think I recognize you? Are you bummin' booze off these guys?"

"First you hit me with a sandbag and then have the nerve to question if I'm crashing a tailgate that isn't mine?" No Name points to your with an index finger while the remaining fingers keep curled around his Miller Lite.

"Good point. Name's Rhett." Nodding in response, you're carefully moving back to the cooler to toss a somewhat warm can back to the cooler, and return to your spot. Sorta. The brunette somehow seems closer - at least his face seems that way. You introduce yourself in response, and he laughs. "Dane's sister?"

"That's the one. This is all him. The RV, the parking pass - the booze I'm 'bumming' from him." Another sip of his beer blocks the view of his devilish grin. It almost matches the flames of the shirt he's wearing. "Where's the accent from? Definitely doesn't sound like it's from here."

He would proceed to explain that he's originally from Wyoming, and had come down to compete in the National Rodeo Circuit finalist events. That made him a cowboy cornhole viglinate. Rhett had insane stories from his events - like how he fucked up his shoulder on one of his best runs and rode again the very next day. When he ran out of stories - two beers later - he was happy to attempt to get revenge on his former cornhole partner for smacking you across the face.

"You're absolutely ass at this!" He laughs, watching the bag splat against the concrete. Bouncing along to a nearby speaker you turn to him when the other two start collecting bags.

"I gotta admit - I've never played."

"You-" His face fills with surprise and disdain, shaking his head, "How have you never- damn it, we're teaching you."

On the next turn, Rhett keeps the bags to himself, and feeds one into your hand. Before you can throw it however, his larger hand comes under yours, fingers skating along your forearm before getting comfortable under your grip. His chest is flush against your back, his scruff brushing against your ear as he leans in. Thick drawl gives you instructions about the power you want to put behind the throw, moving your arm along with it. Guiding your toss, the orange bag goes flying through the air, lands on the board and slides right into the hole. "Atta girl."

You end up losing the game, mainly because Rhett's cheating by continuing to tug you backward by the belt loop every time you take a shot to the board. Each time you looked over at him with a scowl, he would sip at his drink, mumbling 'don't look at me'.

The closer and closer to game time that you got, the thinner and thinner the tailgate group got. Dane had started cleaning up, his friends helping him put things inside the RV and his friend's pickups. Rhett still clings to you like tipsy velcro, his hand stuck in your back pocket as you try to help pack things away.

"Here, I'll dump out the cooler."

"Rhett there's still-"

"Oh there's still beer in here. Would be a shame to let it go to waste." Tossing one to you - which you somehow catch - he's snagging Dane's keys from a nearby table, pushing the first key blade he can find into the bottom of the can, duplicating the hole in your can that he's guided to the horizontal position. Dropping the keys to his feet, he looks at you. "Do I gotta teach this shit to you too?"

"You gonna cheat at this too?"

"Who said this was a race?" He asks.

"This is always a race. Three, two-" Both tabs crack open as you push the cans to your mouths, shotgunning commencing without a final count. As you tilt the can properly, you realize that Rhett has already finished his can, dropping it to the pavement. How the fuck- you obviously can't ask as you continue to chug, your throat working as you keep downing the liquid. Rhett's hand, coated in beer, carefully tucks under your chin, pushing your head further back, back and back.

"You can take it." If you weren't so determined to show him up - you would've sputtered foamy wheat water everywhere. You nearly choke thanks to the new pace, but make a smooth recovery. Dropping the can, you gasp for air, throwing your head back as you let the beverage settle in your stomach. Looking at Rhett, he's got a stupidly large grin on his face, upper lip covered in beer foam. You're about to say something when Dane comes out of the RV, calling your name.

"You don't have tickets right?" Nodding, the cowboy looks at Dane and then at you.

"You're not going?"

"Unless you're tucking me into your purse, Rhett - no." Dane slaps the taller male's shoulder before reaching down for the keys on the ground and pushing them into your hand.

"These are yours 'til we get back," Turning to Rhett, he nods toward the stadium. "Ready to start walking?" The mid-west male starts patting at his jeans, all the way down to his boots. Popping up to his full height, he grips your brother's shoulder much like he had yours earlier.

"I can't find my phone or my wallet. Let me go check the RV - I'll just meet you at the seats." Dane nods, and moves to the rest of the group, starting the trek to the metal building. When they're out of earshot, Rhett's hand tucks back into your pocket again. "You wanna give me the tour?"

In the most hasty fashion, you clamber into your brother's RV, showing off the kitchenette/living area, before leading him to the bunk areas, where you'd be sleeping tonight. Rhett's hand hasn't left your pocket at this point. As you show off the tiny space, he laughs. "What's so funny?"

"It's cute y'think both of us are gonna fit in there." Like a tipsy cocker spaniel, your head tilts at him. Fingers move to grip your ass through your jeans, before he spots the pocket door to the owner's bedroom of the mobile home. He's easily pushing the door open, a larger queen sized bed waiting on the other side of the door. "That's more like it." Before you can argue with him, his lips are latching to yours, hands gripping your hips enough to tug you flush against his own.

Rhett is efficient in pulling the jersey you were roasting in off your shoulders. The cowboy is about to let it hit the floor when you pull back. “Be smart about this.” You warn. Before you can blink, he’s thrown it to a side table and you back onto the bed.

“Or. You be smart and leave the commands to me.” A hand slides up from your lower back, up along your spine, soft finger tips electrifying the skin under them as he finds the strap of your bra. His lips busy themselves along your neck, wet and sloppy open mouthed kisses are soft and smooth compared to the sharp and coarseness of his stubble. The clasps are disengaged in quick time, and he pulls away from your skin to switch to the other side of your neck. Your bra- unlike the jersey- is discarded to the floor, leaving you in jeans that hugged you well, and sweat slick bare skin.

He carefully cups your breast, gripping onto it, a thumb rolling over the peak as your head cranes back. His kisses are getting shorter and closer and closer to your chest, until the warm and wet feeling blooms along your other boob, his tongue forming many shapes in the process. Your hands are eager to tug the backwards hat off his head, fingers carding through his hair, tugging with teeth teasingly scraping your skin a moan lifts from you. “Oh did my girl like that?” He taunts, moving to switch sides.

As he keeps mouthing at your tits, his hands busy themselves with your belt and button of your pants. It’s damn near expert execution, jeans swiftly thudding to the floor, no awkward entanglement to be found. His maneuvers leave you with only your panties left to hide yourself from him, but even then, a curious index finger runs along your pussy lips through the skimpy material. Slowly, he pulls the elastic free from your skin, running along it in a pacing line, smirking up at you as he moves to the edge of the bed. "This is such a treat, cause I know that stadium doesn't serve tacos." Adjusting to sit on your forearms, you stare him down as his lips start leaving wet spots along your inner thighs, a slight sound leaving you. "Did you just call my pussy a taco?"

An idiotic and drunken smirk floods his face as rough hands slide under the sides of your underwear. "Depends. Am I gonna starve, or are you gonna let me eat it?"

The surprise on your face speaks for itself as his hands free the material from your hips. His hands come to your calves, guiding your legs to prop up and spread apart. "Let me just set my plate here- that's just perfect." It takes mere seconds for his tongue to slide between your folds, the sensation making you somewhat melt along the duvet under you. He doesn't continue in his stripe patterns but in zig-zags, waves - patterns that tease you and just barely hit your clit. Rhett keeps this behaviour up until you're grinding up against him, his hands grabbing your hips. The hold is tight, and sharp blue eyes glare up at you, darkening as you whine.

"You're gonna stay right where I put ya. Y'hear?"

"But-" He snaps up back onto his feet, hovering over you again, his finger tips gliding along your skin and delicately wrapping around your throat.

"Wanna try that again?" It's punctuated with the slightest squeeze, the revelation that he was truly in control. You shake your head, and he smirks, his eyes locking you and your attention in as he catches you off guard, his other hand pushing a finger into you, thoroughly soaked from his toying. "Good girl. You just sit there and look all pretty while I take care'a you." His hand at your lower half begin to pump in and out, his other hand still decorating your body in the form of a necklace. "You are just the damndest thing I ever did see, know that baby?"

Rhett's thumb comes from the side of your neck, tracing along your jawline and chin before it taps your bottom lip. "Open up, my girl." You do as you're told as he dips his thumb past your lips, instinctively closing around him. Your cheeks hollow out as you suck intently - the digit stifling the moan that vibrates through you as he gets another finger into you. "God you are so fuckin' beautiful." It's muttered as his hand picks up a pace, your body relaxing and holding onto him tightly in two separate places. The faster his hand rocks into you, the more distracted your tongue becomes, he can tell. Which is why his hand pulls back, using the slick from your lips to begin rubbing circles against your clit, the feeling making you sigh in contentment. His lips trap yours momentarily, his tongue running along your teeth as his hands blindly work against you.

"Fuck, you are so wet for me, aren't you?" Rhett pulls back, the both of you catching your breath as pushes - in, out, in out. Your jaw slacks, trying to get an answer out. A particularly rough thrust of his hand drives his question again. "Aren't you?"

Eagerly, you nod, a gasping answer sneaking out. "Yes, god, I'm so wet, so wet for you, Rhett."

His hands retreat, moments from letting you finish with just his fingers. The male is rapidly undoing his belt buckle, slithering a hand into his back pocket, fishing out a condom from it. He sticks it between his teeth as he barely manages to get his hard on free from his boxers.

Part of you wants to ask him to let you put it on, let you admire the length that has sprung free from his jeans, but you know he's working against a running clock. Someone is going to notice he's taking too long. He didn't want to run that risk it seems.

The wrapper disappears somewhere. You're sure it remains somewhere in the RV floorboards, but as he's entering you, there's no fucking way you care where the evidence went.

Rhett presses into you, inch by inch, his lips playing with a spot on your neck. He stretches you so well, a hiss coming from you that times well with how he sucks a bite mark onto your skin. "My girl's so tight for me. Fuckin' so goddamn tight." His voice is low, gruff and right in your ear.

The smell of his body wash hovers over you, mixing with the newly formed scent of sex in the air as he pulls back, only to move forward again. "Sweetheart, you want me to move?"

"Yes, yes I want you to move-"

"Ask me nicely, baby." He freezes above you, staring you down, piercing blue eyes drinking you in like this. Sweat slick from the stale air of an RV and the Miami heat, tucked under him, captive.

"Please move, baby. Please, I just wanna come." The expression he makes strokes your ego in ways it likely shouldn't.

"Oh you're gonna come, I'll promise you that- you're gonna come." His hips begin rutting into you as he stands up a little further, hands coming up under your knees. Propping your legs up slightly, not fully extended but providing an angle to get even deeper into you, a sound escapes you, pinpointing exactly when he does. As his thrusts move quicker and quicker, your legs seem to slip from his hands, leaving him to reach up on the bed, snagging the nearest pillow.

"Hips up, sweetheart." A pant leaves him as he aids you to pop up, sliding the cushion under you. Upon the next thrust, and each one after, Rhett continues to hit the exact same spot, earning himself a rhythm of moans that time with his hips. "Oh honey, if they didn't know, they sure do now."

His hand drops between where the two of you meet, his thumb returning to do paces, sending you careening off the edge and into a blazing white haze, your body shuddering from the sensation.

Your cowboy continues his pace, no faster, no slower - continuing to ride out until you're nodding, encouraging him along. His pace picks up, his lips snagging onto yours as the sound of a cell phone comes from the floor. It only serves as encouragement for him, until he's finishing, his upper body hovering over yours as sloppy kisses and whimpers from him fill the soundscape.

His phone stops ringing, and when he pulls out, you remain trapped under him. Rhett gives you one more slow kiss before he moves to pull off the condom, cleaning himself up. "I think that big brother of yours is lookin' for me." He charms, pulling his pants back up, zipping himself up.

"Seems like it does." You offer, squirming on the bed, not ready to get up yet. Rhett pulls his phone from his pocket, nodding and confirming that's who'd called.

This time, your phone starts going off.

Simultaneously, his does too.

Then there's a pounding coming from the RV door.

#rhett abbot x reader #rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott x reader smut #rhett abbott outerrange #outer range #lewis pullman #lewis pullman characters

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joelswritingmistress · 6 months

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Last Halloween: Chapter 3

Summary: After a tragedy involving Joel happened on Halloween one year prior, the town now shuns him while ignoring the details of the now closed case. You are seemingly the only one to offer empathy to a man the town is making out to be a monster.

Warning: Angst, mild language

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

"He's coming?" Your friend Jessie asked, practically letting her jaw drop to the floor as she adjusted her cowboy hat in the mirror.

"Shh." You put a finger to your lips and pulled on a pair of black spandex for your cat costume. "I don't want to tell Winnie or Chris." You knew they would give you a hard time, but Jessie was a little more open minded.

"Okay, okay." She pretended to zip her lip. "I won't say anything."

"Thank you." You tossed on a black shirt with lacy sleeves before grabbing the cat mask. After Jessie checked herself out once more in the bathroom mirror, you reached for your keys. "Let's boogie," you whispered.

The ride over was focused on Joel talk, and you didn't particularly mind. You were kind of itching to talk about him.

"Are you into him?" Jessie asked.

You weren't a good liar so you were honest, despite the potential backlash. After that motorcycle ride it was like a switch had been flipped inside of you.

"Yeah. I mean, I think so."

"Wow." She giggled, "It's so.. random. Not judging. I just.. wow. Why?"

"Why?" You shrugged as you drove. "He gave me a ride on his motorcycle earlier and-"

"Wait, what?" She grabbed your forearm without even realizing it.

You laughed. "We rode around town and then he drove me back to pick up my car at the junkyard. That's why I was so late getting home."

"How old is he?"

"I'm not sure."

"He's a least ten years older than us. Probably more."

You shrugged again. "I'm just feeling things out. I really just want him to have a friend." You turned to look at Jessie for a quick second. "Ya know?"

"Oh, I know." She chuckled. "A friend with benefits."

You laughed and swatted at her. "Cut it out."

"Just let me know what color bridesmaid dress I should wear."

You rolled your eyes with a grin and the two of you had another laugh.

The sign for the tavern came into view by the road side and you pulled into the parking lot, allowing your car to merge in with all the others. You both reached for your purses in the back seat and then headed toward the door that led inside.

On your walk up you heard someone call out your name and turned to see the man in the plastic scarecrow mask. Joel. Seeing him there alleviated any anxiety that lingered on the chance of him not showing up. He *had* showed up, and you knew how big of a step that was for him.

"Hey!" You greeted him with a hug and he partially lifted the mask as your roommate began to introduce herself. A moment later, the three of you were walking inside, welcomed by the beat of the old time seasonal song, Midnight Monsters Hop.

"I'm gunna go get a drink," Chrissy shouted, using her thumb to motion toward the bar that was overflowing with ghouls, ghosts and everything in between.

"Okay." You gave a thumbs up and looked to Joel. "Want a drink?"

He nodded, "Yeah, sure."

You reached back behind you for his hand and felt that similar electricity from before when he took it.

Up at the bar you flagged down the bartender.

"I'll do a vodka soda and.."

"A Bud Lite," Joel added, reaching into his wallet. Like his habit at the coffee shop, he paid with cash despite your attempts to try to pay for the round.

You looked at one another and without saying a word, you tapped your glasses together and then took a sip from your drinks. Joel hesitantly lifted his mask partway. You felt so bad for his inability to be free.

When another old Halloween song came on by The Dead Kennedys, you pulled Joel with you into a crowd of people who had begun to dance along to the rock music.

The beat was fast and upbeat. Without thinking you shoved Joel playfully with a grin with one hand to his chest and then closed the gap again and began to dance right next to him.

A moment later he was following your lead. He was having fun. You were having fun. The dim lighting in the bar was intersected by strobes of oranges, greens and purples, highlighting your every move.

When Joel really began to relax you could see it in his body language. He was dancing around, grabbing your hand to twirl you and being less cautious about lifting his mask to take a sip from his beer.

The rock music never seemed to let up. You needed a break from dancing as sweat began to make your face glisten. You eyed an old photobooth in the back corner of the bar and reached for Joel's free hand again, towing him with you.

When you pushed your way through a pale, white curtain you pulled him down into a seated position beside you and inserted a five dollar bill into the money slot beneath the camera screen.

With the first 3-2-1 countdown on the screen, you both kept your masks on and you stuck out your tongue. For the second photo, Joel lifted his mask so it sat on the top of his head and he managed a half smile. For picture number three, Jessie came out of nowhere, leaping into the booth for a photobomb and then exiting just as quickly.

You were laughing. Joel was laughing. You were both genuinely enjoying the night. Seconds later, the pictures developed and you took a copy while handing one over to Joel.

He kept his mask up as you pulled him back out into the bar where you resumed dancing. The energy was fiery. You loved every minute of it. More so, you loved seeing Joel at ease and having fun. Prior to recently you had never even seen him smile.

That night, in the freaky, flashing strobe lights, things felt perfect - as perfect as they had felt on the back of Joel's bike a few hours earlier. You knew this was manifesting into one of those nights - the type of night you looked back on that was on the border of magical, at least the type of magical that existed in real life.

It was everything. The music, the lighting, the look on Joel's face as his eyes found yours and never left. You were two giddy children that night and it felt so damn good. Never in a million years did you think you'd be able to get him out of his shell.

A break in the song left the two of you breathing heavy with smiles.

"Want another drink?" He shouted.

"Sure." You smiled, and a ringing stuck in your ears with the brief absence of loud music. The next song quickly picked up and Joel smiled, squeezed your hand and then made his way through the crowd.

"Another round, please," you heard him order.

Your eyes were on him as he stood there by the bar. You still smiled. He was contagious; perhaps the definition of a diamond in the rough. Joel Miller was.. dreamy.

"Hey killer." A voice interrupted your temporary euphoria. It wasn't directed at you. It was directed at Joel. Your daydream was suddenly interrupted when you saw a man approach him as he waited for your drinks. "You're in here dancing and having a good time. Where's Johnny? Hmm?" The guy shoved him now and you ran to Joel's defense.

"Enough!" The bartender scolded but the guy went on.

"You kill a local legend and you think you can just move on?" The guy shouted.

"Stop!" You intervened, standing with Joel as others began to turn in your direction.

"Oh, you even got a girl, that's great," mocked the stranger. "You know what Johnny's girl does on and off every week? She cries. Because you killed him!"

Joel tossed a twenty on the bar, left the drinks and stormed out of the establishment. You chased after him, bursting outside and shouted his name when a car whizzed by and almost hit him on the Main Street road.

"Joel!" You shouted and hurried the rest of the way to him. "Joel, stop!"

"I can't do this!" He shouted, "You just don't get it!"

"I know." You shook your head. "Joel, I'm sorry."

"I'm not your little fucking project," Joel went on.

"I know that, Joel." You shook your head, feeling the first sting of tears in your eyes. "I just.. I like you. I was having fun with you."

"I don't belong here. Not in this town. Not anymore! Nothing is going to change that."

"It's not fair," you went on, "I know-"

"You don't know anything!" He waved his hands wildly to the sides. "You don't know how I feel every single day."

"I know I don't," you agreed, "But I want to be here for you. I want to help you. Be your friend."

"What and relive this shit show of a night almost daily with me?" He made a face and shook his head.

"This night hasn't been a shit show," you argued. "Up until two seconds ago this was one of the enjoyable nights I can remember. It started back at the junk yard and on the bike-"

"Well, I'm glad I could give you a thrill ride," Joel said in a snarky fashion that cut you a little deep.

"Joel.." you shook your head. "I enjoy your company." You extended both of your arms in his direction with your palms up.

He looked at them but distanced himself further back a few steps. "Just.. go back to your normal life and stay away from me."

He scoffed turned away from you, storming off into the darkness as you still held your arms out in front of you. Despite having just formally met him, a single tear left each of your eyes.

"Joel!" You called. "Joel, please.."

He didn't turn back around. It broke off a piece of your heart when he disappeared around the corner of the building without so much as looking back.

CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER 4

@untamedheart81 @amy172

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callsigncloudnine · 2 years

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karaoke night at the hard deck

Part One | Part Two (Coming Soon)

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Female Reader

Summary: You’re Penny’s newest bartender at The Hard Deck. It’s your first day on the job and the bar’s first karaoke night - what better way to make your debut? But you’ve caught at least one man’s eye before you even hit the stage.

Warnings: No major warnings. My first post! My first fic. I don’t know if there will be more but this certainly feels like it has potential. A fluffy, feel-good, meet-cute.

Word Count: 2.4k

The warm, salty air blows in through your windows and swirls through your hair as you speed up the road. It clings to your skin like your own personal perfume. You pull open the door of the bar to see one patron, seemingly unbothered by the thumping sound was coming from the door to the storeroom.

THUD.

“Shit!” Penny pushes the door open with her foot from her seated position on the floor. “A little help? Wheel fell off the dolly again.” You lean down to give her a hand. She thanks you as she dusts off her jeans.

“You said ‘again’. Does that happen a lot?” you ask, holding the dolly up for Penny to wiggle the wheel into place under the keg of Miller Lite.

“Third time this week!” calls a voice from the end of the bar.

“Don’t help, Bill!” Penny shouts back. He smirks and takes a swig from his glass. “Don’t mind him. Spends too much time here, always has running commentary, but helps wash some glasses when I get behind and tips well.” Bill tips his hat.

“Well, hopefully he won’t have to anymore, since you’ve got me,” you chime. “Thanks, again, for taking me in like this. I have a feeling this will be good for me. A change of pace.” Slinging beers can’t be as hard as being an executive assistant to a smarmy corporate asshole, right? You shocked the hell out of your family when you said you didn’t know where you were going or when you’d be back. You promised to call though - you know how your dad worries. This place seemed as good as any and Penny had given you a free beer when you told her this was the nearest sign of life when your tank switched to fumes.

“Don’t sweat it, sweetie. You’re actually helping me a ton. Hey, can you plug in that speaker?” Penny asks. “I hope this goes over well.”

A buzz and bit of feedback come from the speaker. “Check, one, two. Sounds good,” you say. “I can’t believe you’ve never done karaoke here. Seems like a very standard bar thing.”

“Does this seem like a standard bar?” Penny nods up at all of the naval accoutrements and photos on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. “Anyway, if nothing else, I’m sure we’ll all get some good laughs if any of the guys get up there. What about you? I know it’s your first night and all, but it might be the best time to put yourself out there.”

“Fair point. I do love karaoke. Can I see the song list?” you ask. Penny points to a red binder on top of the speaker. You flip it open and run your fingertips down the lines of titles and artists until you’ve found the right one. You write your first name at the top of the sign-up sheet and your song’s code. You help Penny tap the keg and wipe down the counters, hopeful that tonight will a perfect debut for a new you, in a new place. No one knows you here, but they’re about to.

Patrons steadily pour in, filling seats and conversing at all volumes. You take note of the looks that say who’s the new girl? But thankfully, so far they are matched by smiles, good tips, and a few comments about how well you pour beer. Just then, the crack of a cue ball draws your attention away from the tap. The scattering of striped and solid balls across green felt holds your attention for a moment too long and you are pulled back to reality by the rush of cold beer spilling over your hand. “Ah, shit,” you mutter, grabbing a towel.

“Honey, don’t get too entranced. Military men and women are a different breed. Keep your wits about you. Trust me,” she says through a half smile.

“Aw, come on now, Penny,” a man behind her says. He’s leaning on the bar, looking to her with shining green eyes peering over the top of his aviator sunglasses. “We’re not all bad, are we?”

“No, not all of you. I like Natasha,” Penny shoots back with a grin. “Mav, this is my new bartender.” You extend your hand and introduce yourself.

“Pete Mitchell, pleasure to meet you,” he says, shaking your hand. He turns back to Penny briefly to say, “You have a point, Natasha is likable. I mean look at her.” Natasha, or ‘Phoenix’ as the others seem to call her, sinks a two-ball combo with ease.

“Mav?” you ask.

“Callsign: Maverick,” he clarifies. “Either is fine.” The dark-haired man thanks Penny as she slides him a full glass. Before he can say anything else, a blue pool chalk cube lands in his beer, splashing his face.

“Mav, get over here! You’re up!” a man with short, wavy hair and broad shoulders hollers from the pool table. You look past Pete, realizing what Penny thought had stolen your attention from the tap. A group of young Navy pilots crowd the pool table. The younger man looks past Pete to meet your eyes for a moment, and you return your attention to the bar. Another tally in the ‘who are you?’ look column, you think.

“Dammit, Rooster,” Mav says, wiping the droplets from his face.

Rooster, huh?

You duck out from behind the bar and sneak into the storeroom to prepare for your performance. You’re a bit shaky, balancing to yank on your black cowboy boots you dug out from your temporary car-closet. Little do you know, across the room in the squad of naval aviators…

Rooster stamps the bottom of his pool cue onto the foot of the blond pilot beside him. “You ever see her before, Hangman?” Hangman says nothing, looks up and moves to step forward, but trips over a held out pool cue. “Not so fast, man. I saw her first so I’m going to talk to her first.”

“Aw, come on, Rooster. No need to ruffle your mustache, man. We both know I’d beat you to her even if the floor was quicksand my shoes were made of concrete,” Hangman fist bumps another pilot.

“That so? Alright, then. 9-ball, rack ‘em,” Rooster antes. “And leave my facial hair out of this.”

“Nah, man. You tripped me, we play my game,” he counters, moving to pull the darts from the cork board on the wall.

“Fellas, you’re making this too complicated,” Hangman’s pool partner interjects. “What do you say we take this old school? Settle this like men.”

“What are you getting at, Coyote? I’m way more manly than him,” Hangman chuckles, narrowing his eyes.

“Arm-wrestle. You both pull the same reps in the weight room, so let’s see it. Who’s the strongest?” Both men agree and Coyote pulls over two chairs to the small side table holding pool chalk and rack. The men anchor in and grasp hands. Another pilot, Bob, is deemed the most fair by the group and gets the chore of officiating this ridiculous competition. Bob finds these constant pissing matches annoying, but thinks the resulting excuses and pouting are hilarious. Phoenix stands next to him, puts on her best announcer voice, and holds her bottle of beer like a microphone.

“Ladies and gentleman, this evening’s match-up is one for the ages…but I give it two days before we have to settle this again. In this corner, standing 6-foot-one and owner of the world’s largest Hawaiian shirt collection, Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw! And in this corner, standing 6-feet and the world-champion toothpick chewer, Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin!”

Bob begins to count back from five. At the call of one, Rooster and Hangman’s muscles fully engage. They grit their teeth and break into a sweat. The group of pilots crowd around, whooping and hollering. The competition takes 5 minutes and 13 seconds. According to Hangman, his arm cramped and the table was slippery, but the others roll their eyes at the excuses. Rooster is declared the winner as he slams Hangman’s hand into the table.

“Thanks for playing, bud. We’ll invite you to the wedding,” Rooster jokes, clicking his tongue and pointing finger guns as he strolls back to the bar. He scans the old, wooden island but looks confused when he doesn’t see you.

“Same ol’ Rooster. You make moves slower than you fly, bud,” Hangman laughs, slapping a hand on Rooster’s shoulder. “Better luck next time.”

“Why the long face, Bradshaw?” Penny asks.

“Nothing,” he sighs, swirling the last swallow of his beer in his glass.

“Well, stick around. I’m trying something new tonight and I think it might be up your alley. But no unplugging my electronics tonight!” she scowls. “Alright, everyone, it’s karaoke night at The Hard Deck!” Penny presses play.

A strong country beat pumps through the speakers. You use your booted foot to push open the storeroom door and call out, “Let’s go girls!”

You sing Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” sauntering across the stage, hardly looking at the crowd. In your head, you’re thirteen again, holding your hairbrush in the mirror and dreaming of life as a music star. To your surprise, the crowd is clapping in rhythm with the song while you sing. Your confidence grows so you amp up your stage presence. You shimmy and dance to the lyrics, even turn the mic out to the crowd for the oh, oh, ohs.

“Rooster? Hello? Earth to Bradshaw!” Penny snaps in front of his face. His mouth is agape, the corners curling into a slight smile, revealing his dimples.

“Sorry, Penny,” he says without turning his head. He ducks from under Hangman’s hand and cuts through the crowd, worming his way to the front of the stage. Penny throws her hands in the air in frustration. You belt the final verse, take a small bow, and the bar erupts with applause. You can’t believe you just did that, but you feel exhilarated. Penny whistles from behind the bar and Mav raises his drink in your direction. A hand reaches out from the crowd. “Can I give you a hand?”

Rooster offers a smile along with the extended hand. You’re suddenly very aware of the state of your nails. Bitten, torn, rough edges topped with chipped metallic purple polish. Hopefully manicures will last longer here. Nothing annoyed you more than relaxing in your nail tech’s chair every three weeks only to absentmindedly pick at your fingers, destroying their work, waiting for your boss to reply to your emails. You maintain eye contact, assuredly hopping from the stage to a chair, and finally the floor.

“Why thank you, sir,” you smile.

“No ‘sirs’ necessary off-base or outside the bedroom,” he replies with a wink. You roll your eyes but can’t fight the flush in your cheeks. “You were really great up there. I’m Bradley.”

“Thank you, Bradley. I was really nervous. It didn’t show?” you ask and introduce yourself.

“Not a bit. I’ve never seen you before, though. Since when do you work at The Hard Deck?”

“Just started today, actually. I got into town last night just before Penny put up the last barstool. I offered to help clean up, she offered me a job,” you explain. Rooster buys a round and the two of you get acquainted between customers. He names the rest of the pilots and their callsigns, and invites you to an after party so he can introduce you to everyone. When he gets to Hangman though, you realize he’s already staring moodily right at the two of you. He quickly averts his eyes, but you feel his gaze return when you turn back to Bradley. “What’s his deal?”

“Ah, Jake’s just a little salty tonight,” he dismisses, peeking back to the corner table where Hangman fiddles with his toothpick. A tiny, victorious grin sneaks across Rooster’s face.

“What? Couldn’t find his karaoke jam on the list?”

“I wouldn’t know it,” Rooster says raising his brows. “He’s oddly protective of his phone when it comes to music”

“Oh,” Penny says, trying to hide a smirk.

“Oh what? You know it! What is it, Penny?!” Rooster pushes. “It must be embarrassing. Justin Bieber? Spice Girls? The Jonas Brothers?”

“It’s way classier than any of that garbage,” Hangman smugly butts in from behind. “I appreciate real music, unlike you, Rooster.” Penny looks away, stifling a giggle and covering her mouth with her hand.

“Penny…” Hangman warns.

Penny takes a step back but says nothing. Instead she reaches under the bar, looking just past Hangman. She tosses the microphone to one of the others that Rooster pointed out, Mickey - callsign Fanboy. Mickey snatches the microphone midair and belts out “I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BAAAALL!” He straddles a barstool and spins around, mimicking the music video and the group bursts into laughter.

“It is an emotional ballad, a musical masterpiece, and I will not apologize for loving it,” Hangman distinguishes, holding a finger in the air, face flushing all the same. “How the hell did you even know that, Fanboy?”

“You were having a shower concert when you thought you had no witnesses. Bob’s not the only stealth pilot around here,” he snickers.

“Weapons systems officer,” Bob clarifies, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses.

The next two hours are filled with an entertaining array of karaoke performances, from silly to impressive to drunkenly indistinguishable. The crowd thins and Penny tells you to punch out and to go make some friends. She puts a little too much emphasis on the last word and throws in a wink.

Rooster holds the door for you and you walk to his Bronco as close as possible without brushing elbows. The evening breeze is refreshing, but cool enough to bring goosebumps to the surface of your skin. Rooster reaches into the truck and produces a well-loved brown, leather jacket, which he drapes around your shoulders before helping you up into the passenger seat. The Bronco roars to life and Def Leppard’s “Hysteria” plays through the speakers. You watch out the window as the lights in the bar extinguish and let out a small sigh.

“You alright? Got something on your mind?” Rooster asks.

“Not really. I was just thinking that I think I’m going to really like it here,” you say contently.

“I sure hope so,” he grins back, guiding the truck out of the lot and up the road.

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x female reader #top gun maverick #rooster x you #bradley bradshaw fanfiction

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theshopshop · 5 months

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hipposfashion · 6 months

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ahihistyle · 7 months

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